Look What You Made Me Do

by Nikki Smith

  I stand rooted to the spot in the doorway as she looks up, sees me, and waves. I fix a smile onto my face and wave back, swallowing a flash of resentment at her apparent familiarity with my dog as she walks over, Buddy following at her feet.

  ‘Hi, Jo. I just popped over to quiz Paul about websites. Andy’s thinking of getting his updated. I didn’t realise you were coming back early.’

  I pat Buddy who is now trying to jump up to get my attention. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh yes, please. Something cold would be great.’ She walks inside with me and sits down on one of the chairs at our kitchen table. I’m tempted to pour us both a glass of wine but it’s only three-thirty and I still have to pick the girls up. I get out two large tumblers, filling them up instead with sparkling water. The ice cubes crack as I add the liquid, a sharp noise that cuts across the silence. I gulp several large mouthfuls, waiting for the coolness to spread through my body.

  ‘Work not busy?’ she asks.

  ‘I just wanted to collect the girls from school today,’ I reply. ‘I’m a bit worried about Grace.’

  Anna stares at her glass. ‘She and your dad were very close, Jo. Give her some time.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I say. ‘But she won’t talk to me. She insists on having Buddy sleep in her room. And Paul has been working so bloody hard I haven’t had a chance to speak to him properly about it.’

  Anna glances out of the patio doors towards his office. ‘Well, I’m always here if you need to chat.’

  I smile. ‘I know, and I’m grateful.’ I daren’t tell her there are some things that I can’t talk about. Things that I should have told Paul and haven’t as I’m scared what he’ll say. ‘I wish he was around more,’ I say. ‘The girls need him. Especially Grace.’

  ‘The girls? Or you?’ Anna reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  ‘All of us.’ I almost give in to the temptation to tell her about the earring I found, wanting to see her reaction, but I stop myself.

  She looks at me. ‘You need a break.’

  I clear my throat, not wanting her to hear the tremble in my voice. ‘Paul says that’s impossible. His business hasn’t had a great year.’

  ‘I’m more than happy to have the girls if you want to get away, or just have some time on your own at home, even if it’s for a weekend. I can get them for you this afternoon, if you’d like.’

  ‘Thanks, but I want to chat to Grace.’

  ‘No worries.’ She leans forward to give me a hug. ‘I often pop over to see if I can give them a lift before I go and collect Jess and Maddie. Saves both of us doing it.’ I don’t tell her that Paul hasn’t told me this, pushing away the niggling doubt that crawls around in my head, wondering if visiting Paul’s office is something she does regularly and how much time she spends with my husband, telling myself in the same breath that I’m being as ridiculous as Grace was this morning – imagining things that are not there.

  Two glasses of wine on an empty stomach make my brain fuzzy but I pour another in an attempt to dull the memories of my meeting at the solicitor’s. Buddy sits beside me on the sofa, his tail thumping against my stomach, my feet on Paul’s lap whilst he reads through the copy of the will that I’ve got out to show him.

  ‘Did you have any idea your dad was going to do this?’ he asks. I shake my head, watching him as he reads carefully through the pages. He’s not usually this interested in anything administrative. I’m the one who deals with all of that.

  ‘I had no idea he’d even changed his will until today.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he says, looking up when he gets to the end. The wine has loosened the control I’m fighting to keep over my emotions and, for a moment, I’m tempted to blurt out what I want to tell him into the silence. To share the burden of guilt. But then he starts talking again and the opportunity passes. ‘What did your mum say?’

  ‘What do you think?’ I reply tightly. ‘She accused me of orchestrating the whole thing.’

  ‘And Caroline?’

  ‘The same. She thinks I asked Dad to do it. You should have seen the way she looked at me.’ The recollection is still painfully raw, like a graze inside my chest. He puts down the copy of the will and stares at me. ‘You know this means that you’ll get most of the proceeds if you sell the business?’

  ‘I’m not going to sell it. It’s not what Dad would have wanted.’

  He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s deciding what to say next. ‘Maybe it’s something you should consider.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The money would come in handy, for a start.’ A feeling of unease rises in my stomach.

  ‘Are you worried about our finances?’ I ask.

  He looks back at the will lying on the table, avoiding my gaze. ‘My main client cancelled their contract today,’ he replies.

  ‘Oh shit, Paul. Why?’

  He shrugs. ‘These things happen. Said they wanted to use another designer who charged a lower rate. I did tell them they wouldn’t get the same level of ongoing support but they decided to move anyway.’

  ‘Did anything come of your meeting this morning?’ I ask. For a moment he looks blank before shaking his head. ‘You’ll get another client,’ I say. ‘It’s not a reason to sell Dad’s business.’

  ‘I’m not telling you what to do, Jo. I just think that you’ve been trying to build bridges with your sister and this is going to cause all kinds of problems. It’s not like you’re going to be able to carry on working together in the same office.’

  ‘I’ll find someone to replace her.’ He raises an eyebrow and I know I’m being petty. I’m still hurt by the fact that Caroline thinks I planned this. That she’s not given me the benefit of the doubt. A memory that I’ve buried for years rises in my head and I block it out.

  ‘What if it had been the other way around?’ he says. ‘What if your dad had left it all to her, how would you feel?’ I don’t answer. ‘I hope he had a good reason for doing this,’ he adds. I want to tell him he did, that leaving me the business doesn’t make up for it, but the words stick in my throat. Paul pushes my feet off his lap. ‘I’m going to bed.’ He looks irritated, as if I’ve done something to annoy him. ‘Are you taking the girls to school in the morning?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I’ll drop them on my way into the office. Are you collecting them?’

  He picks my empty glass up off the table. ‘I always do, don’t I?’ He carries it over to the dishwasher, puts it on top of the counter and walks out of the room, leaving me wondering whether to tell him that I know he’s lying to me.

  WEDNESDAY

  Caroline

  I come downstairs at six-thirty, the heat outside pressing heavily against the kitchen windows. It’s still over twenty degrees, even this late in the day. Rob’s leaning against the counter, trying to get one cuff-link through his shirt, his jacket flung over the back of a chair. He’s been in such a foul mood since he heard what happened at the solicitor’s yesterday that I’m not sure whether he still wants us to go to the function Simon has organised.

  My mother had expected him to be able to perform a miracle, repeating over and over again that there must be something he could do until, finally, he’d walked out of the room, pretending he needed to make a phone call, his jaw so tense I could see the outline of muscle under his skin.

  His irritation at not being able to fasten his shirt spills over into the room as he curses loudly, and I stand quite still, waiting for his anger to dissipate. He holds out his wrist, expecting me to do it. I step forward tentatively, eyeing him like a wounded animal, one who will snap at any moment. He hands me the cuff-link and I push the gold bar easily through the gap in the material, folding it down at the back.

  ‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ he asks, looking at me.

  ‘I – I was going to,’ I reply.

  ‘It’s a bit tight.’

  I don’t say anything as he turns away from me to pick up his jacket, the scent of the aftershave he’s slath
ered himself with clogging my nostrils, making me cough. I walk back upstairs and pick out a navy dress from my wardrobe, holding it up to the light to check it hasn’t got any marks on it.

  ‘Wear that pink one you’ve got. That looks OK.’ His voice sounds muted through the floorboards but I can feel him staring up in my direction as I hang the dress I’ve got out back onto the metal rail and flick through the other items of clothing to find the one I know he’s referring to. Unzipping what I’ve got on, I take it off and step into the pink material before I shut the wardrobe door, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The colour clashes with my red hair. I hate it.

  ‘Hurry up. We need to go,’ he shouts as I walk downstairs. His lips twitch as he looks at me, crushing the last fragment of affection I had for him this evening. ‘You’re not going to be able to walk in those shoes. Wear something flat. I’ve got a pair out for you. Come on, we’re due there at seven.’

  I grab a cardigan for later as he opens the front door. The only lights in our road come from other people’s windows and I stumble in the dimness on the uneven pavement as we walk towards Simon’s house.

  ‘I bet you’re glad I told you to wear flats now, aren’t you?’ he says, a couple of strides ahead of me. I don’t answer, hurrying to keep up. I think about what Adam might be doing tonight. I know Bali is eight hours ahead of us so he’s already in a new day. Separated from me by time and space. The further away the better. I hope he had a fun evening. I want him to enjoy every minute.

  Simon’s house is similar to ours. They all are in this road. This village. And the next. My husband would describe them as detached, character properties with good-sized gardens in a highly desirable area. All with three or four bedrooms, built in the same period, red brick and leaded windows. The kind of place my father had aspired to upgrade to from where he was brought up; rows of flat-fronted identical terrace houses squashed together on either side of a narrow street, where you stepped out of the front door directly onto the pavement. I wonder if he’d realised the problems found inside are all still the same. The buildings around here are just bigger and more spread out, allowing people more privacy to hide their secrets. No one to overhear what’s happening on the other side of a thin partition wall.

  Some of our neighbours have extended, building garden rooms at the back, additional space to spread themselves out into whilst complaining about the cost but Rob has kept ours the same size as when we bought it. I know all the prices they’ve sold for. He makes a point of tracking them, looking through the property details on various websites to see if there’s anything we should copy.

  We walk up the drive, the glow from inside the house spilling out from behind the blinds at the windows, lighting up the gravel. The guests are gathered around the large granite island in the kitchen where Simon is pouring drinks. I smile as he hands me a glass of Prosecco.

  ‘Cheers!’ He raises his glass towards mine and I can tell he’s looking at my dress. I shuffle uncomfortably, feeling a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘All right?’ My husband is standing behind me, staring at Simon, who points at a bottle of beer, raising his eyebrows in a question before opening it and passing it across. Rob’s hand drops from my shoulder down to my waist, his fingers pressing firmly into my side. I go to step away but he digs them in further, smiling as he looks at me. He doesn’t need to say anything. I get the message, staying exactly where I am.

  By a quarter to midnight I’m desperate for the toilet. Rob’s the focus of attention amongst the group, I can see the woman standing next to him listening intently to what he’s saying, just like I used to, but tonight my cheeks ache from holding a smile. He revels in the attention; when he’s being charming, he attracts others with a force as powerful as gravity. I know. Once it was me.

  Simon tops up my glass and I’m conscious I’ve barely eaten anything; Rob has moved me from one conversation to another. I wonder whether anyone else feels that people are speaking a different language at these occasions. I don’t know how they manage to think up things to say, how they throw words around like balls, backwards and forwards to one another, with no hesitation. I can’t relax and join in. Unless I drink too much. And Rob hates it when I do that.

  A teenage girl whose parents are here is waitressing. I can see her at the other end of the kitchen. She’d come around with a plate of beetroot and smoked salmon blinis earlier, but my husband had dropped his as he’d taken one, marking her white shirt. He’d been a bit too eager to clean up the mess with a napkin, letting go of my waist for the first time in hours, and she hasn’t been back since.

  ‘I’m just going to the ladies,’ I say, but he doesn’t hear me, too busy discussing house prices with a man I’ve never met as I walk into the hallway to the cloakroom. I open the door to the smell of air freshener, the artificial fragrance bearing no resemblance to damask rose which is written in gold lettering on the label. I shove the bolt across the door, relishing the moment of privacy and sink down onto the oak seat, my bladder emptying in relief. Simon’s wife must have lit a candle in here as well. Another fragrance to add to the floral mix. A wave of nausea sweeps over me. I’ve had a lot of Prosecco. I stare at my flat shoes, trying to focus, but can’t quite manage it, unable to keep my gaze still for long enough.

  I rip off a few pieces of toilet roll, stuffing them into a thick ball as I wipe myself before pulling up my knickers. I flush the chain, wash my hands, then stick one hand under the tap and use it as a cup to scoop water into my mouth, swallowing until my stomach feels bloated, not allowing myself to breathe until my lungs feel as if they’re going to burst, a way of punishing myself for having drunk too much, for letting my guard down. I splash my face, glance at the damp hand towel draped over a hook on the wall and decide to ignore it, pulling off another long piece of loo roll to dry my hands and mouth, staring at myself in the mirror.

  My reflection gazes back and smiles, her eyes wide. She doesn’t look like me. The wrinkles either side of my eyes and across my forehead are a sign of how much time has passed since I last saw the girl I remember from twenty years ago. The one who’d danced on the table when a band had played in the local pub. The one who’d ridden on the back of a motorbike with no crash-helmet, her face pressed against the leather jacket in front of her. But the physical changes are nothing compared to the ones inside. The ones no one else can see. I close my eyes, gripping the edge of the sink, blocking out the memories. It terrifies me how easily I can travel through time, all those days, hours and minutes compressed into a single second, the vividness of the emotions I felt long ago strengthened a million times until I think they’ll crush me with their force.

  There’s a gentle tap on the door. I need to hurry up. I flick my hair behind my shoulders and take a deep breath as I slide back the lock. Katherine is standing in the hall.

  ‘Everything OK?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I reply. ‘Sorry, were you waiting?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if anyone was in there. The door sticks sometimes.’ She looks at me. Perhaps it’s obvious I’ve drunk too much. ‘You’ve got such lovely hair, you know,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks.’ I tuck it behind my ear self-consciously. ‘It could do with a wash.’

  ‘Rubbish. It looks nice down; you should wear it like that more often. I always see you with it up. Such an unusual colour.’ She hesitates. ‘You’ve had a few people admiring it this evening. Rob should watch out.’ She laughs as I run my hand over my head, her words making my cheeks colour. ‘He’s in the kitchen,’ she continues. ‘He’s got everyone in hysterics telling them stories about nightmare builders.’

  I smile as she walks into the toilet and shuts the door.

  I don’t want to have to go back to join him and am tempted to go and sit on the bottom of the stairs for a few minutes but as I turn around, I see him standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He’s staring at me and I know he’s overheard the entire conversation. He holds out his hand.

  ‘Time to go,
I think,’ he says.

  I glance at the clock in the hallway, trying to ignore the growing feeling of tension in my stomach, like someone pulling an elastic band, wondering how far it’ll stretch before it snaps.

  ‘I’m happy to stay a bit longer if you want,’ I say.

  ‘We need to get back,’ he replies. ‘I’ve got to get up early tomorrow. And I don’t think you need any more admiring glances.’

  ‘Katherine was only joking. Shouldn’t we wait to thank Simon for having us?’ I’m trying to play for time and he knows it. Until recently, Adam would have been there whenever we got home, his presence the one constraint on Rob’s behaviour. But he’s not there any longer, and my husband knows it; I can see it in his eyes.

  ‘No need. I already told him we’re leaving.’ He opens the front door. ‘Now.’ He practically drags me outside, the night air cool against my face.

  ‘Can I have my cardigan?’ I ask. He’s still holding it.

  ‘You don’t need it. It’s not far.’ I look at him, but say nothing. I know when he’s in this kind of mood there’s no point. I walk quickly, glad that I did wear flat shoes in the end, my body beginning to shiver, unaccustomed to the colder night air, any feeling of inebriation eradicated. Our house isn’t far; about three hundred metres, a four-minute walk away, two hundred and forty seconds. I count each one in my head, feeling the goosebumps rise up on my arms as I wrap them around myself in front of me.

  ‘You’re going to have to contest it,’ he says. ‘If you and your mother both say he wasn’t of sound mind, then they’ll have to reconsider.’ It takes me a moment to adjust to the shift in the conversation. I realise he’s been thinking about this all day, and it’s the best solution he can come up with. I don’t contradict him, not now, not tonight. I’ll come off worse if I do, but I know what he’s suggesting is a waste of time. Dad’s will had been signed and witnessed by two solicitors. They’ll both confirm he had been perfectly capable of making a rational decision.