by Dawson, H A
‘No, not at all.’
‘Good, because I don’t want to get off on the wrong footing. I can see we will make fantastic business partners. You have all the talents we need. I couldn’t believe my luck when you said you were into crafts. We need someone sharp-minded like you.’
They headed back into the bank and sat on some soft chairs near the entrance. Just as Geoff retrieved the contract from his case, his phone rang. He handed her the document and pointed to the spaces for signatures. Whilst he was chatting, she stared at the text, her mind a haze.
‘I’m sorry about that, but there’s a bit of a problem at the office. It’s to do with another property I’m dealing with. I don’t want to rush you, but can we make this swift?’
She looked at the contract.
‘If you want to take it home, that’s fine. I’m not trying to rush you.’
‘No.’ She put pen to paper. ‘I’ll do it now. Like you said, the contract will be safer here.’
‘Excellent.’
Within minutes, they had placed the contract in the vault and were heading out of the bank. The gentle autumn breeze swept across her face, and she felt alive and energised. Whilst she had many questions regarding the business, she was also aware of his pressing behaviour and held back. It would all happen in good time. She needed to be patient.
‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to dash.’ He reached for her hand and gave it a firm shake. ‘We’ll speak soon.’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Thank you, Leanne,’ he said and hurried away.
She stood for a moment, watching him hurry along the main street, and settled her excitement. Just as he disappeared from view, she remembered the vault and a momentary panic rose through her body: she had forgotten to change the ownership.
‘Leanne?’
She spun around. It was Steven.
‘What you doing here?’ she said.
‘I’ve just dropped Teresa off for some shopping.’
Creases formed on her forehead. ‘Her arm . . . of course, she can’t drive.’
‘She wanted to drop some bags off to a charity shop. What about you?’
She grinned. ‘I’ve just signed the contracts with Geoff.’
‘That’s fantastic news.’
‘I can’t believe it! I have my own craft business!’
‘You’ve made a wise decision. When is it all going to happen?’
‘Soon I hope. A few things need to be finalised.’
‘We should celebrate. Are you busy?’
Leanne clutched her handbag and looked at the floor. ‘I should make some business plans.’
‘Can’t it wait an hour?’
‘Not really.’
‘Okay.’ He puffed out. ‘Have it your way.’
He started to walk away, but then abruptly stopped and turned around. ‘Where do I stand Leanne?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t play the innocent. You’re forever running hot and cold.’
‘I thought you liked me,’ she said weakly.
He frowned. ‘I didn’t think my feelings were in doubt.’
‘But I saw you with someone else.’
‘What?’
‘A few days ago . . . Queenie.’
‘How do you know about that?’
She scowled. ‘You looked cosy.’
‘And you think . . .’ His face tightened and his eyes bulged. ‘I don’t believe this.’ He strode away, weaving past shoppers and workers, and headed along the street.
She followed in his shadow. He refused to stop. She grew breathless.
‘She had her arm around you,’ she said, ‘you can’t deny it.’
‘You were spying on us?’
‘No.’ She gulped. ‘I was passing by.’
‘You think I would do something like that.’ He waited. He stared. ‘Well, do you?’
‘I know what I saw.’
‘You know nothing. I thought you were different . . . wouldn’t jump to conclusions. But apparently not.’
‘I . . .’ she wiped her moist brow, retracting her plea of innocence. ‘So what were you doing?’
‘What’s it matter? If you don’t trust me now, you never will.’
He was walking away again, striding out and making such headway that caused Leanne to trot. ‘I do trust you.’
He stopped and glared. ‘It sounds like it. If you must know, she was asking about you.’
She caught her breath and narrowed her eyes.
‘She suggested we go out and I agreed. I thought it might give me a chance to interrogate her. I wanted to help you, Leanne.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She asked what you were like.’
She held her breath. ‘And?’
‘Never you mind!’
‘Does she know where Karen is?’
‘She said not. She asked me if I thought you were the forgiving kind.’
‘And?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you were.’
‘And I am.’
Gazing questioningly, he placed his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. The wait went on forever, with neither of them willing to speak.
Steven was the first to force out tormented words. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for a relationship. I’m sorry.’
Her world shattered and her panic surged. ‘I made an innocent mistake.’
‘Andrea was always accusing me of cheating. I would never . . .’ His voice trailed and his eyes became misty. ‘It turned out she was the one who had been having an affair . . . for years. She said it started because she saw me with another woman. Yet I never . . .’ he averted his gaze and shook his head. ‘There isn’t a relationship without trust. I’m sorry.’
Tongue-tied, she let him depart. He did not turn around and did not hesitate with his steps but strode with a sense of purpose and determination. Once he had disappeared from view, she turned around and dragged herself through the streets and back to her car. Her desire to plan her new business venture had faded; her motivation was lacking, her steps were heavy, and she no longer had a sense that the future was promising. What was the point of having money without having anyone to share it with? What was the point of anything?
Chapter 27
Queenie staggered into the living room, slumped onto the sofa, and leaned over the edge to reach for her bottle. Her arm swayed, the floor blurry. Uncertainly, she edged towards it, knocked it with her knuckles, and fumbled for her grip. Uncoordinated, she tapped it against the sofa as she raised it to her lips. There, she took a pleasing swig.
Before her, set upon the low table, were newspaper cuttings. Queenie could just about make out the headlines. The first one that caught her eye was the death of a man. After a few moments of vague pondering, she remembered it was Leanne’s husband. It was a shocking accident, but Queenie had little sympathy. The article had depicted a perfect life. He had been a father, a husband, and a manager of a large furniture company, and was generous and popular with all who met him. It irritated and grated.
Mourners often described the dead as faultless, speaking of many endearing qualities. She longed for the honest and brave and considered a more appealing speech. ‘He was a liar and a cheat, intolerant, conceited, and belligerent. Very few liked him.’ She smiled. Now that would be refreshing.
Queenie took another swig of lager and nurtured the moment of beauty; the full flavour of the alcohol soaked her mouth, the effervescence bounced around the soft tissues, and her nose twitched with delight. She continued her solemn ponderings.
Who would be at her funeral? Who would tell the world of the loss? Would anyone receive condolences? It was more realistic that her passing would go unnoticed. Worse still, it might even be appreciated. Cards and flowers would not be left at her gravestone and family and friends would not shed tears. Burdened with the realisation, she reached for her phone and dialled Kyle’s number.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
&nbs
p; ‘That’s no way to greet me. I wanted to speak to my darling boy.’
‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘Only the one.’
‘Likely story. You’ve probably been at it all day.’
She took a sip. ‘It’s my only pleasure.’
‘Then do something about it . . . quit.’
‘I tried, you kicked me out, remember?’
‘You didn’t try at all. You never do.’
‘Come on, that’s not fair.’
‘We’ve a baby to consider now. We don’t want you around her in that state.’
‘You’re too good for me now?’
‘Stop sounding so pathetic. You threw up on Madison.’
‘I couldn’t help it. It was something I had eaten.’
‘No, it wasn’t, and you know it.’
She absorbed his ferocity and considered a moment from the past. ‘You used to be sick on me. I’ve never held it against you.’
Kyle puffed out. ‘It’s hardly the same. I was a baby.’
‘It is the same. If you love someone, you forgive them.’
‘And we have, over and over again, but you never change. All we’ve asked is that you turn up sober and don’t drink when you’re with us.’
‘I did as you asked.’
‘I saw the bottle inside your jacket.’
‘I never-’
‘And you took some from our cabinet.’
‘Madison was crying.’
‘She’s a baby. Handle it.’
‘It was just a dribble, and it worked. She had a beautiful sleep.’
‘What?’
Queenie’s pride emerged. ‘I put it onto her gums.’
‘You gave it her?’
Silence.
‘I can’t believe you’d do something like that. Stay away from us. We don’t need your help. We don’t need you.’
‘Darling . . . you don’t mean that.’
‘Clean up your act Mum.’
The buzz reverberated through her ear. She flung the handset onto the sofa, gulped down the remainder of the drink, and staggered into the kitchen. The fridge door swung open. For a moment, with the coolness settling upon her skin, she stared at the four-pack, searching for willpower to avoid it. It was a big request, and one that she believed she could do in a flash if it solved the problem, but it wouldn’t. Kyle’s offer had been shallow. His stuck-up bitch of a girlfriend had turned him against her, and no matter what Queenie tried, it would never be sufficient. She reached for the four bottles, elbowed shut the door, and padded back to the living room.
The newspaper cuttings glared. She dropped the bottles onto the sofa and in one swift sweeping motion, scattered the papers onto the floor. Everyone was against her; no one listened, no one cared. Scowling, she chewed upon her lip and cracked open another bottle and inhaled the sweet scent.
A photograph upon the mantelpiece caught her eye. It was Rusty with her now deceased husband on their wedding day many years before. She was just the same as she had been; there was the red hair, the slender figure, and the mole on her neck. Life had aged her well and removed the harshness from her personality. She was no longer the belligerent teenager, wilful and obstinate, and she was no longer searching for the morally wrong. Rusty had grown up, guided by a man she had met during their years perusing the bars and nightclubs, and in spite of all predictions, she had remained forever faithful to him. In comparison, Queenie had failed in every respect. It was difficult to accept how they could have both started from the same spot yet finished up at opposite ends of the spectrum.
A tad of jealousy rumbled. How had Rusty managed it? During their younger days, their personalities were so similar they could have been mistaken as one person. It should have been her. Where was her loving husband, her beautiful house, and her caring family? Sorrowfully, she gazed at the liquid in the brown glass.
A nagging ache swelled and her turmoil pounded her veins. ‘Quit,’ her son had ordered. It was a familiar phrase, yet one that he did not understand.
Queenie gripped the bottle, held it closer to her chest, and fought to still her persistent and chilling inner screams. Quaking, she felt her blood drain and her skin turn cold as she imagined the agonizing separation. Kyle would reach for the bottle. There would be pity in his eyes and a complete lack of understanding projected from his heart. He would discard it down the sink. He was heartless, without compassion, and he was asking the impossible. Her body tightened and shuddered.
He did not understand. How could he? The drink numbed. The drink brought about calmness. The drink was her friend. The remaining drops lingered on her tongue. She shut her eyes and prayed for solitude.
A while later Queenie awoke from a fitful doze. First, she noticed the bottles on the sofa, and then she looked to the scattered newspaper cuttings on the floor. She staggered across the room, her movement unstable, and leaned over to pick them up. Her head was heavy and swirling, and her centre of gravity slipped. She stumbled. She fell.
It took a few moments to refocus. She gathered the articles, and then, still feeling queasy, raised herself to her feet and stepped to a nearby drawer. Her body swayed. She bashed her hand against the sharp edge as she dropped them inside, and then, with an unnecessary force, pushed it closed. Rocking in small circular motions, she reached to the corner to gain stability, and step by cautious step headed to the sofa.
For the next few hours, she drank, dozed, and moped. Then, having formulated a plan to distract her destructive mindset, she reached for her phone and dialled Leanne’s number. However, the instant the younger woman’s voice sounded her courage faded.
‘Who is this?’ Leanne asked.
Queenie’s head was swimming, her words wandering from her tongue.
‘Hello, who’s there?’
‘Queenie. I have news about your mother.’
There was excitement in Leanne’s voice. ‘Do you know where she is?’
‘You should come around.’
‘Where are you?’
She gave Leanne her address and dropped the phone onto her lap.
Leanne snatched her bag from the kitchen, and whilst heading to the outer door, snapped open the clasp and fingered through the odds and sods for the house keys. The photograph of her grandmother as a little girl by the house with two other children caught her eye. She plucked it free and reached for her keys. The bag slipped and dropped to the floor, and the contents scattered.
Scrutinising the photo, she searched for similarities between Queenie and the children and wondered if there was a connection. Failing to see any likeness, she crouched down to gather the contents.
Upon the floor were old receipts, a delivery notice, business cards, and a bank statement; there was lipstick, moisturiser, face powder and eyeliner; there were medicines and spare underwear. She needed a clear out but instead crammed it inside, disregarded the clutter, and hurried to the car.
Her expectations were intense. Queenie knew something, and most probably had had recent contact with Karen. She may even be there, preparing for a reunion. Her pulse quickened and her breathing grew short and fast as she attempted to straighten out her muddled mind. What would she say? What was appropriate? She switched on the engine and eased out of the drive, and considered what Karen’s first impression would be.
She was wearing loose-fitting navy blue trousers, a short cream top, and a sloppy v-necked woollen jumper. Her hair was neat, her make-up sparse, and her scent subtle. She looked presentable, but then wondered if she should have changed into something more casual, remembering Queenie’s criticism of her behaviour and attitudes. Slowing down, she gave herself a moment to reconsider.
Leanne decided she did not want to appear too similar to Janet, and should not show any intolerance or snobbery whatsoever. However, it was too late to change her clothes, and it was a little pointless anyway; her body language and speech patterns would determine her upbringing and social standing, also. Karen, if she were in fact with Queenie, would ha
ve to accept her as she was.
Leanne edged into the new estate. Steven’s house was situated close by and her subconscious took control. She indicated right and headed down his street, her pulse quickening and her heart aching as she yearned for a glimpse. The house was still and silent; there was no movement from within, and no sign of Tansy in the garden.
Her disappointment did not last. She weaved through the houses, passing numerous identical dwellings with two small windows on each floor and a rectangular front garden and arrived at Queenie’s house. She stopped the car a little distance away and strode to the door.
Her heart was pounding so hard she felt sure it would be audible. She knocked. She waited. She held her breath. Inside were mumbled voices. She strained to listen. The door swung open.
A woman with short red hair, an aging skin tone, and long, dangling earrings pointed to a room on the left of the hallway, and weaved by, exiting the house and closing the door. It was cool inside. Leanne huddled her arms closer to her body and went into the living room.
Queenie was slouched in a chair. There were empty bottles on the floor, a brimming ashtray on a table, the carpet was gritty, and the sofa was dirty. Leanne forced still her eyes and closed her nostrils.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ Queenie said.
She sat and forced herself to relax. ‘Is Karen here?’
‘I never said she was here.’
‘Where is she then?’
Queenie stretched out and reached for a bottle. ‘Want one?’
She shook her head.
‘Probably best. It’s no good for you.’
‘You said you had news.’
Queenie lifted the bottle to her lips, yet she never removed her eyes from Leanne and stared, scrutinising, searching for something. ‘I like your new man.’
She tightened. ‘He’s not my new man.’
‘Aw, why not? He’s sweet.’
‘We’re just friends.’
‘He’s hot for you . . . told me so.’
Her heart flip-flopped. ‘What were you doing with him?’
‘No need to be feisty. I was just checking him out.’
Her eyes narrowed.
‘It’s what Karen would want.’