Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  Dan grinned. ‘I knew you were way out of my league, anyway. And then I heard you were seeing some incredibly smooth older man with a pad in South Ken. Knew I was beaten.’

  ‘Michael,’ I said quietly. ‘I married him.’

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I knew that too.’

  How different life could have been, I realized, if I hadn’t. If I hadn’t felt so emotionally scarred. So traumatized. Acted so impulsively after I’d killed Liam. If that terrible night had never happened. I knew I’d never have married Michael. I might have met someone at university. Or I might have come home every weekend from London. Gone to the pub with Helena’s gang. Been chatted up by Dan, who already had his eye on me. The son of friends of my parents. A boy with the same upbringing, same values. I might have gone out with him. I might even have married this kind, intelligent man sitting opposite me. Lived a pleasant, peaceful life in the country. Been friends with other pony club mothers and organized church fêtes. Instead of which, I’d married Michael. I’d fallen for Michael because I felt he’d understood me, and somehow absolved me, for Liam. In later life, I’d come to see that Michael had not been my absolver at all. In fact, he’d been my penance.

  I shook my head. A regrouping gesture. ‘What happened to the party?’ I asked, my interest sparked suddenly.

  ‘Actually, I’m ashamed to say, it carried on. No one knew the boy in question, of course—’

  ‘Liam,’ I put in quickly.

  ‘Liam. And, obviously, everyone was devastated for you. Word spread pretty quickly. But you know what kids are like. Didn’t stop the dancing and snogging.’ He shrugged. ‘Life went on.’

  I gave a wry smile. ‘At least you got to dance and snog.’

  ‘Actually, I went home.’

  I glanced up in surprise. He was looking a bit sheepish again. God, why hadn’t I noticed him?

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on breezily, in the manner of one brushing aside an embarrassment, ‘let’s not dwell on that night. Tell me about the rest of your life. Tell me about your kids.’

  I did, keen to move on too, and this was pretty much my specialist subject. I glowed with pride as I told him how lucky I’d been. Not always, of course. Imo had been a handful in her teens, and Ned had had his moments later, in a different, but perhaps more complicated way, but how lucky I’d been, given their father – although of course I didn’t say that. So incredibly fortunate to have been blessed with two clever, well-balanced, functioning children who’d grown into the nicest possible adults.

  ‘No spouses on the horizon?’ He was digging into a treacle tart now whilst I spooned up some sorbet, my children having taken some time. ‘No wedding bells?’

  ‘No!’ I wailed. ‘And why not? They’re both completely gorgeous, inside and out, even if I do say so myself. So why am I not in Harvey Nicholls looking at hats?’

  He laughed. ‘They all do it much later, these days. Plus, I think they’re more afraid of getting it wrong.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I agreed. ‘Especially after my shining example. Although they both claim it’s not about that. That my mistake hasn’t influenced their seeming inability to choose.’

  ‘So … it was a mistake?’

  ‘Oh God, yes, didn’t I say? Total disaster.’ I should have met you, Dan De Courcy. Kept my eyes on the road, slowed right down at that junction. Spotted the motorbike, and driven on to the Carringtons’. Then had a dance and a snog with you, before settling down with you, some six or seven years later. First in London, in a nice little flat, Clapham perhaps, then later in the country. Instead of having a shotgun wedding with two white-faced, anxious-looking parents. No, of course I didn’t say that. He stopped a passing waitress with a smile and asked her politely for a couple more glasses of wine.

  ‘Actually, I’d better have a coffee,’ I told him. ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course you are. I’m ashamed to say I thought ahead and walked.’

  ‘I must remember that. What is it, ten minutes?’

  ‘If that, from both of us, yes.’

  We were both silent a moment. It felt a bit awkward, as if a plan had been hatched to walk to the pub on a regular basis. I think we both realized things had moved on a bit quickly and spoke at the same time.

  ‘How did you—’

  ‘What will—’

  We laughed.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, go on,’ he said.

  ‘I was just going to ask what you’ll do now Archie’s gone. I mean, if he was your main charge.’

  ‘Oh God, Mum’s not far behind. She may be fairly nimble on her pins, but she’s got galloping arthritis in her hands and wrists. Can’t open a jar. Plus, left to her own devices she’d pretty much live on Walnut Whips and choc ices.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Mum’s diet consisted of marmalade infused cupcakes before I arrived. But you’re in separate houses?’

  ‘Lord, yes. I’m in the coach house, which I share with Archie’s fleet.’

  ‘His fleet?’ I stirred my coffee which had arrived.

  ‘Wheelchairs. Indoor, outdoor and all terrain. Shame he wasn’t in one of them that day he tripped. But of course, he liked to show off when he was out with his mates. Gambol about like a gazelle. Mum’s the same; she’s frightfully competitive with her age group. Scans the deaths in The Times avidly, crowing with delight if someone younger than her has died. Only seventy-six! No age at all!’ he mimicked.

  I laughed. He was sweet. And amusing. Although we did, inevitably, talk about old people a lot. Or children. I asked about his and he beamed. One daughter was married to an accountant, the other about to wed a sex therapist, which he tried, but failed to roll his eyes about.

  I grinned. ‘But she’s happy?’

  ‘Oh God, she seems to be on a permanent high,’ he muttered. Then he grimaced. ‘I really wish I hadn’t said that.’

  I laughed and drank a glass of water for the road as he paid the bill. I’d sort of offered but knew there was no way, and he’d batted away my attempt good-naturedly.

  We stood up to go and he helped me on with my coat. As we walked to the door, Dan said goodnight to the bar staff who seemed to know him well. They watched as they polished glasses distractedly, but with a fair degree of interest, as we left together. It seemed to me we’d just arrived. Time had flown. A good thing, of course.

  The night air was crisp and clear and the sky velvety black and studded with stars as he walked me to my car. Suddenly I wished I was walking down the lanes with a torch, as he was. I’d do that next time, I thought, as he got his out of his coat pocket. Next time, eh, Lucy? Helena would be crowing. I smiled inwardly at the thought of her face. We kissed lightly on both cheeks and said goodnight, and he promised to be in touch again. And why not? We weren’t ancient, but we were old enough for things to move on, if they were going to – why hang about? I waved as he set off with his bright light, raising his hand as he went. No, I thought as I drove off down the lanes in the opposite direction, still smiling. Why not indeed move on?

  18

  The days went by. Two weeks, in fact, during which period I shepherded my parents to their respective minor operations, both one-day procedures, and both gratifyingly successful. Mum’s eyesight was a revelation, talk about the scales falling, and Dad’s hands, after they’d recovered from the post-operative effects, were warmer and much more mobile. His legs were healing nicely too, now that the antibiotics had kicked in, and since I’d insisted on the wearing of compression stockings daily. I’d had an email from Dr Gupta to that effect. When I wasn’t ministering to the aged Ps, I’d watch in awe as the builders made lightning work of renovating the cottage. The work on the roof was completed now, and they were getting to grips internally. As I popped in and out with cups of tea, I’d linger to chat with Jerry and admire their handiwork.

  Together we’d attended Archie’s funeral, which, despite Nancy’s original grandiose plans, had passed off in the local church in a quiet, dignified fashion,
with Curate Leanne at the helm. In retrospect, I wondered if Nancy had been in shock that day with Mum. She certainly looked more upset than I’d ever seen her at the funeral, walking behind the coffin, head bowed, face pale. Dan was obviously there, supporting his mother with his brothers. We’d had another pleasant pub supper too, plus a trip to the local cinema, a sticky carpet joint we remembered of old. And then, all of a sudden, that cosy, comfortable way of life came to an abrupt halt. Because it was suddenly upon us. Something far less pleasant. Michael’s memorial service. In St Luke’s Church, Chelsea. And obviously we went, the children and I. Obviously. How could we not? It would have looked extremely odd not to, the three of us finally decided after some discussion on Zoom. We’d grit our teeth. Pretend there was nothing wrong with commemorating the life of a man like Michael. But I didn’t put my parents through it.

  Mum had had a fall a few days earlier: nothing major, but she’d missed her footing on the York stone terrace outside. Now she had a nasty bump on her head and a huge sticking plaster on her elbow. Plus, she was gabbling a bit: stumbling over her words, which she always did when she was anxious. So Dad and I decided they should stay here.

  ‘Never liked the chap anyway,’ my father remarked as we washed up the breakfast things together, Mum, safely down and breakfasted, but on the sofa with a milky coffee. She was watching Holly Willoughby, whom she adored.

  My head whipped round to him. I knew, of course, but it was the first time he’d said it. ‘Oh, it’s lovely to hear you say that, Dad,’ I breathed. ‘Why didn’t you say so, years ago?’

  ‘I wrote to you, if you recall. Felt that was as far as I could go.’

  He folded his tea towel over the Aga rail and shuffled back to Mum with his own coffee. Enough said. And throughout my marriage he’d never said more; never stepped in despite serious provocation: the ghastly letters, the veiled threats about my safety. Neither of them had ever said a word. For fear, no doubt. Just as I, through fear, had said nothing myself. Which of course perpetuates the circle. Vicious, isn’t it?

  I went up to change and came down wearing a dark green dress and holding a smart jacket and handbag. Dad had joined Mum on the sofa. Her feet were in his lap. They looked cosy. It wasn’t so long ago that Helena and I had beetled down here to separate them as they’d lunged, screeching and flailing at one another, out of control. I liked to think I had something to do with this new dawn.

  I smiled. ‘Bye, you two. Dad, put the lasagne in the bottom oven for half an hour when you’re ready to eat, OK? Just to warm, it’s already cooked.’

  ‘Will do, love. Thank you.’ Then he gave me a steady look. ‘And good luck today.’

  ‘Yes, good luck, darling,’ whispered my mother, her eyes anxious for me.

  It was all they needed to say, and for me to hear. They knew. And I suspect Dad felt guilty about not coming with me, not being by my side. But he knew, too, that he had to stay with Mum, and that actually, if he was honest, the pair of them were more of a hindrance than a help on these sorts of occasions. When did that happen? I wondered, as I took an umbrella from the stand in the hall and went to the car. When would Imo and Ned go from not just looking out for me, caring in a quiet, distant way – which they already did, discussing me over their sweet sibling suppers, which they’d always had, perhaps more than other siblings might, courtesy of their circumstances – but to finding me a bit of a responsibility? To be passed from one to the other. Who’s having Mum today? Who’s checked in with her? Eighty? Ninety, I hoped. As I strode to my car with a straight back and purposefully in my heels, I decided I’d be ninety if I was a day before anyone had to look out for me.

  Helena was waiting for me outside the church, Ant and the girls beside her. My sister’s eyes searched mine as I approached, worried for me.

  ‘Helena didn’t want us to take another day off school, being a tiger mother,’ Tess told me. ‘But we’d already told Mrs Turner so there wasn’t much she could do about it. It was a fait accomplished.’

  ‘Accompli,’ Helena corrected absently. She was looking a bit thin and clenched, albeit elegant in a smart navy coat and taupe silk scarf. She glanced about nervously. ‘Come on, we’ve left it as late as we possibly can. Amanda’s been in there for ages, we have to go in.’

  ‘What about Imo and Ned?’ My eyes darted about for them.

  ‘They had to escort Amanda. She was getting … you know. I said to go on ahead and I’d wait for you.’

  Oh. Right. Typical Amanda. She’d already nicked my children. Helena waited for Ant and the girls to go ahead. She held my arm a moment, then rummaged in her bag and passed me a mint imperial.

  I glanced at her nervously. ‘Can you smell it?’

  ‘A bit.’

  I’d stopped to be sick in the churchyard. Right around the back; no one was looking. It was why I was late. I took the mint gratefully and she squeezed my hand.

  ‘Come on. Soon be over.’

  The organ was playing Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’ as Helena escorted me through the nave of the huge galleried church. I’d previously only been in here to attend a charity carol concert a few years ago. It had been a joyous, celebratory occasion with an orchestra, trumpets, choir and packed pews. A cast of thousands. Today, it was a different story. Most pews were empty. At the front, admittedly, there was a fair sprinkling of congregation; Amanda had done quite well drumming up some support, but heaven only knew who these people were. Her own friends and neighbours, I imagined. She did have some, even if they went fitfully in and out of favour. But I also recognized the Bakers, the Franklins and the Taylors, all couples Michael and I historically had supper with, but with whom I’d lost touch. Nice enough people but social friends, rather than proper ones like Melissa, to whom I told everything, and who I wished was here today. She’d rung me last night from San Francisco, and we’d spoken for about an hour. She’d wished me all the luck in the world – and courage, too, she’d added. You’ll need it. She’d repeated it again in a text this morning, which she must have set her alarm in the middle of the night to send. ‘Courage, mon amie.’

  My other friends had no idea about this event, and if I’m honest, knew nothing of the real Michael. I’d kept up the façade of a decent marriage, although some, like Maggie, my author friend, I’m pretty sure saw through it. Simon and Millie Taylor I’d met through Michael, and they turned as I approached. The Bakers, too, nodded and smiled consolingly. They’d all written to me when he’d died, but I’d contacted none of them since. How the hell had Amanda got hold of them? Then I remembered she’d asked to read my condolence letters: told me people’s kind words helped. I hadn’t asked for them back, I hadn’t wanted them, so of course she had the letterheads. I took a shaky breath. All my senses seemed to be in overload. There were flowers everywhere: on the ends of the pews, two huge pedestals by the altar, on all the stone ledges. Creamy white, overblown displays frothed extravagantly. The lilies, which I hated anyway, with their huge, confrontational heads and yellow staining stamens, were heady and strong. I breathed through my mouth to resist their scent, hoping they wouldn’t make me feel sick again. This must have cost a fortune.

  With my heart beating right at the base of my throat, we paused at the front pew. Helena’s hand was still under my elbow. I didn’t want to catch anyone else’s eye so I kept my head bowed as together we slipped along to where Ned and Imo were sitting either side of Amanda. She was dressed entirely in black with a huge hat and veil, at odds with the rest of the women in the congregation who were more colourful, regarding a memorial service as a celebration of life, rather than a mourning of one. As I tucked my skirt under to sit down, I inadvertently spotted a few of Michael’s Soho friends in the row behind. Pete who ran the pub. Tony, from the neighbouring Italian restaurant. The Greene brothers, Bob and Gerard: the former a reformed gambler, the latter a living and – just about – breathing one. Florid of complexion and with red-veined eyes, wearing a camel hair coat, he looked frail and shaky, as did the rest of his
pals. In the very old days they’d come to the house, to drink and play cards in the kitchen, staying up late. A few awkward smiles were exchanged. I sat down next to Imo who kissed me and tightly squeezed my arm.

  Amanda leaned across, her eyes full of tears. She took my hand. ‘Are you all right?’ she quavered.

  ‘Yes, fine, thank you.’

  Luckily I was fairly sure I looked pretty pale after the puke, and as her eyes scanned my face, I realized she was disappointed. She’d wished me more perky, so she could reprimand me. She wasn’t well, I must remember that, I told myself as we both sat back, and as the vicar cleared his throat and came forward. I mustn’t think of her as a manipulative bitch; she was damaged. She couldn’t help herself. I saw Ned murmur a few words of support to her and I caught his eye gratefully.

  The vicar reminded us that we were here to celebrate the life of a very dear man. I scanned the order of service sheet in my hand. It wasn’t the one Amanda had shown me in the restaurant. Even though I’d only had a brief look before she’d whipped it away, I could see it had changed. And no, of course she hadn’t sent it to me. Hadn’t asked for my advice, or approval. But then again, I’d said I wanted nothing to do with it. I caught my breath in alarm as I read, but the vicar was enjoining us to stand for the first hymn, ‘Praise My Soul the King of Heaven’. After that – and thank heaven for a splendid choir – we had a few prayers. And then Ned made his way to the front to give a reading.

  Having said that he wouldn’t, he’d rung me to say he deemed it better to toe the line, but had insisted on a Bible passage, and not the mawkish poem his aunt had wanted. Amanda had grudgingly suggested the well-known, uncontroversial letter of St Paul to the Corinthians, which he delivered beautifully. The mawkish poem came next, read by a friend of hers, a similarly skinny and expensively dressed woman, with the face of a twenty-year-old and the neck of a fifty-five-year-old. She tried to put as much emotion as she could into the sentimental twaddle Amanda had no doubt spent hours sourcing on the internet, but happily, her taut facial arrangement precluded it. She sat down, no one particularly moved, perhaps too fascinated by the overblown lips delivering it.