Promise Me: A heartbreaking and unputdownable page-turner

by Jade Beer

  ‘Sorry, no one told me it was this posh.’ Jacob sounds like a petulant teenager, annoyed that he’s had to put the iPad down and come out for dinner.

  ‘Here, have my seat, Jacob. We haven’t ordered yet, so no harm done.’ Dylan takes control and vacates his seat, seeing that Jacob would stand there all night if no one solved the problem for him. ‘Helen, it was charming to meet you.’ He plants a kiss either side of her face. ‘And Nick, please do drop me a line. I’d love you to come and take a look at the office, see what we can do to increase the space a little.’

  ‘Absolutely, expect an email from me by Monday morning.’

  ‘Betsy, I’ll see you next week. Have a lovely weekend, everyone.’ As Dylan turns to walk away from the table, Betsy goes to stand up but he cuts her off, placing a firm hand on both of her shoulders to keep her seated.

  ‘No, no, you don’t need to walk me out. Enjoy dinner with your family.’ Then he’s gone, back across the restaurant and out into the night. Helen feels a hint of disappointment that their charming dinner guest – well, compared to useless Jacob anyway – has had to depart. Perhaps in a different life Dylan would be exactly the kind of man she’d like to see sat around her own dining table for Sunday lunch, hearing how his and Betsy’s week had been.

  Betsy leans in closer to Jacob. She waits until Helen and Nick are ordering, then says spitefully, ‘Don’t you look attractive,’ earning herself a hateful glare in return. It’s barely audible but Helen just catches it.

  They don’t say another word to each other for the rest of the evening. And any attempt by Nick to ask about wedding plans is met with stilted silence and Jacob awkwardly shuffling in his seat. Betsy, notices Helen, doesn’t look in the slightest bit awkward, too distracted by a flurry of incoming text messages, until the waiter reminds her the restaurant is a mobile-free zone.

  When the two of them make their excuses at 9.30 p.m. to catch the late train back to Birmingham, Helen feels thoroughly let down. Not only that, she’s embarrassed that her family has put on such a poor display in front of Nick. After some lukewarm goodbyes, everyone more than aware the evening hasn’t been the jolly get-together that was planned, Helen watches Betsy stride out of the restaurant, three paces ahead of Jacob. The second the two of them disappear through the thick velvet drapes and out into the lobby, she apologises to Nick for them both.

  ‘Think nothing of it, Helen. It’s family.’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway, if you want me to be really honest, I’m happy to have you to myself again.’ And he leans in to kiss her, letting his lips linger softly on hers, his hand cradling the back of her neck, so he can hold her in the kiss a little longer.

  ‘I can’t believe I left seeing you this long. I’ve missed you.’ All Helen wants is to be kissed again by this man. Maybe it’s the surroundings, the spoiling effect of plate after plate of beautifully presented food, the intoxicating headiness of the expensive bottle of Chablis they’ve shared, or every little attention he has paid her tonight, but everything about Nick is addictive.

  ‘Come home with me.’

  He says it so easily, so confidently. But the words make Helen’s lungs fill with air that she suddenly can’t release. She opens her mouth to respond but nothing comes, as the sensible part of her brain does battle with what her heart is telling her to do.

  ‘Don’t overthink it, Helen. Just do what you feel is right. I want to spend the whole evening with you. To fall asleep with you in my arms. I want you to be the first thing I see tomorrow morning.’

  ‘So do I.’ The words whisper out of her, but Helen means every one of them.

  As the two of them curl up in each other’s arms in the back of Nick’s waiting Mercedes, Helen is alive with nerves, but she can’t help herself.

  ‘I have a problem, don’t I? With Betsy?’

  ‘Yes, we do. But I’m sorry, Helen, all I care about tonight is you. We can tackle that one in the morning.’

  And she’s happy with that. Nick is going to help and that’s all she needs to hear for now. The evening has reached its perfect conclusion.

  13

  Jenny

  It’s a hard thing to get your head around – being motherless. All these years on, I’m still trying. She’s gone. Forever. I’m never going to see her again. It’s so final and immoveable and it doesn’t matter how clever I might be, how determined or resourceful I try to be, this is one problem I’ll never fix. She’s never coming back. She exists now only in the pixelating memories my brain chooses to recall; the fading snapshots that turn up in an old shoe box, tucked into the jacket of a favourite book or at the back of an old photo frame. If I’m lucky, sometimes she briefly reappears in the smell of the first day of spring or the sound of the ice-cream van, or Lulu’s sweet, unknowing face.

  What do I miss? The list is endless, it swims away from me every time I think about her, swirling me around in a great tangle of sadness and regret. I’m sad about all the things I’ll never hear from her again: of course you can do it, let me sing to you, how’s my beautiful girl? I’m regretful of everything I never got a chance to say or to share with her, and angry she was denied all those moments she would have been so bloody brilliant at. What can I possibly compare her loss to, in a way someone unfamiliar with death will understand? Is it like someone closing the book, snatching it from you before you can truly understand how brilliant that character is, leaving you empty and unfulfilled? A missed opportunity for greatness that you stuffed up because you overslept that morning and the sliding doors effect saw to it that you failed? That putrid, pit-of-the-stomach ache when you know you’ve done the wrong thing, hurt someone’s feelings, lied your way out of something that will surely now come back to haunt you?

  Yes and no. Yes, because all of these things hurt. No, because they are all so fleeting. They go away, but losing Mum is never-ending for me. A memory of her, lodged deep inside me, resurfaces from time to time, often when I’m not even thinking about her. I was eight and counting down the days to my first big school disco. Golden-haired Tony Hall was going to be there, I had nothing to wear, and I’d thrown a strop about it. Mum took me out and bought me a whole new outfit, not because she bowed to my tantrum, but because she could see how much it meant to me. The blue velvet dungarees that fastened at each shoulder with a shiny silver heart were so much more than an outfit. They were my passport into Tony’s world, those pedal pushers, at least I had built them up to be.

  Then I overheard the argument Mum and Dad had because we couldn’t afford what she’d spent on me. A nonsense waste of money, he called it. I stood behind my bedroom door and listened to them going at each other; he was worried about the family finances, she was determined her daughter was going to walk into that disco feeling confident that I might just be in the game of winning Tony’s heart. And then she said, ‘I’ll take my bike back.’ She’d been saving for it for months. It was cherry red with a wicker basket at the front that she used to collect wildflowers in, the only possession I ever remember her caring about. She’d go out on it some afternoons, filling the basket with ham sandwiches and lemonade, to clear my head, she said, returning hours later, face all rosy and in one of those buoyant moods that usually meant we got whatever we wanted for tea.

  And she was willing to give it up for me. I cried behind the door that day because even at eight, I felt so guilty that I was depriving my mum of something she loved. And that’s it. If it has to boil down to one simple thing, the thing that she gave me that I miss so much now, it was her protection. From my dad’s anger that day. From the school bullies, another. And against the whole world: every time she held my hand to cross a road, every time she made sure my scarf was tucked into my jacket to keep the wind out, every time she gave up an evening to help me with my homework, she was protecting me from harm and judgement.

  Sitting on the sofa, now, with a stinking cold and half-listening to Marianne moan about the pathetic state of her sex life, it’s Mum I need. Because who’s going to protect me now? Marianne wi
ll shout me twenty quid if I’m running short one week. Lulu will make sure I’ve got someone to eat Christmas lunch with. Jean will defend me to management if I make a bad call on the maternity ward. But who will only ever see the good in me? Who will be my safety net, giving me the confidence to try new things, taking the risks because if all else fails, I’ve still got Mum? Her limitless love would always be there, that’s what the naive me always thought.

  ‘Is that rude fucker ever going to call me?’ Marianne is shaking her mobile phone, as if a screw must have come loose inside and is stopping a string of juicy texts from reaching her. ‘I’m not being funny, but I didn’t schlep all the way to Manchester and perform what was undoubtedly the blow job of his life, only to be ignored by him now. Do you know what he asked me to do, Jenny? Just after he ruined my new peep-hole bra? No? Well, I’m going to tell you. He…’

  As Marianne takes the conversation to depths I thought impossible even for her, I write a letter to my mum, charting all the things I should have done – and plenty I shouldn’t.

  * * *

  I’m sorry I never stuck at anything. Brownies, vegetables, the tough conversations.

  I’m sorry all I ever seemed to ask you for was a lift somewhere.

  I’m sorry for all the times I never asked about you.

  I’m sorry my heart isn’t as full of love as yours was.

  I’m sorry I’m so disappointing, only half a daughter.

  I’m sorry I don’t always dream about you.

  I’m sorry for all the times I wished it was someone else’s mum who left in the ambulance that day and never came back.

  I’m sorry for ever thinking you were embarrassing and for never bothering to hide it.

  I’m sorry for all the lies I’ve told and the hundreds more I know I’ll tell.

  I’m sorry I only ever wrote you one letter from my French Exchange trip.

  I’m sorry I don’t love cycling.

  I’m sorry I’ll never place a gurgling grandchild in your arms.

  I’m sorry I didn’t believe you would ever get better.

  I’m sorry I love you more than I love Dad.

  I’m sorry I’ll never get to say ‘I’m her daughter’ ever again.

  I’m sorry the last thing I whispered in your ear was, ‘can I stay up late?’ when it should have been ‘I love you’.

  I’m sorry I opened your letters too soon.

  I’m sorry I couldn’t stop Dad marrying Sylvie.

  I’m sorry you’ll never read this.

  I’m sorry, but I think I need a new mum.

  * * *

  Marianne hasn’t noticed the tears that are silently dropping off my chin and onto the lined paper on my lap. The biro is starting to pool into an inky mess as some of the letters swim into each other, in danger of coming right off the page and onto the cushion.

  I think about Helen, about her warmth, and wonder whether she has a daughter. Something makes me feel she must. She seemed so calm and patient, soft and forgiving, born for motherhood, to shape a small girl into a confident, inspiring young woman. I wonder, probably very irrationally, if she could love someone like me. But her phone call and Lulu’s response to it has surely blown my cover. Maybe I should just call, see what sort of reaction I get?

  ‘What’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever done to a bloke, Jenny? Come on, something really depraved that you’ve never told anyone before.’ Sick of listening to the sound of her own voice, Marianne has suddenly remembered I’m in the room. She’s cross-legged on the sofa opposite me, wearing a pair of gold hot pants that have more arse escaping than contained in them. She has seen fit to team this with a cropped top that has the words ‘It’s Not Going To Suck Itself’ spelt out in diamanté crystals across her tits. Then there are the purple leg-warmers, at least that’s what I think they are, unless she has fashioned them out of an old pair of tights, I can’t work it out. They finish mid-thigh, making her look like something out of one of those cheesy American cheerleader dramas.

  ‘Marianne, there is more to life than shagging, you know.’ I sound like her mum, I know I do, but seriously, does she ever think about anything else?

  ‘Is there? Like what?’ She looks genuinely confused.

  ‘A career, friends… er… the arts!’ That last bit makes her howl like a drunk.

  ‘You are hysterical! Now, what was it? I’m not going to shut up until you tell me.’

  I know why she’s asking me this. Aside from taking her mind off the ‘piece of dick’ that’s so far failed to text her, it’s so she can look colossally disappointed with whatever I say. Like it’s entry-level stuff, probably what she was up to on the other side of the school playing field at the age of twelve. Then she’ll deliver another one of her dispatches from the frontline of depravity to show me how it should be done. Only last week she amused herself for a good half an hour telling me, in her own delightful way, that if I don’t use it more often it’s going to close over. Well, just for once, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction. Sometimes it pays to listen when the filth-ometer goes up in the staffroom.

  ‘OK, since you ask, remember the two guys who came to replace the dishwasher last week? You know, that white thing in the kitchen that miraculously seems to eat all the dishes after a meal and then spits them out again, sparkling clean?’

  ‘Hilarious. Yeah?’ She’s intrigued now. She’s even put her phone down, one of the highest compliments she could bestow on another human being.

  ‘Well, why d’you think it took them so long to do such a simple job? And didn’t you noticed how flushed I was when they eventually left?’

  ‘Are you serious? You shagged the pair of them? In our kitchen?’ I can’t tell yet if she’s proud or affronted that it wasn’t her getting it front and back by a couple of hairy workmen.

  ‘Yep, and I didn’t even spray the work surface with Dettol afterwards. And I can tell you, that fat one was particularly messy. Makes me heave a little just thinking about it, to be honest.’ How I’m keeping a straight face, I don’t know, but she laps it up.

  ‘Well, bugger me. And I’ve been telling everyone you’re a big lesbian!’

  All I can hear is Marianne shrieking her lungs out as I close my bedroom door behind me. When did I become such an excellent bull-shitter?

  I sit on the bed, a rather sad single one with six-year-old bedding from some closing-down sale, and swipe through my recent call list until I find the number I recognise as Helen’s. I really hope she understands. Perhaps if I just explain what actually happened: she assumed I was a bride-to-be and then I felt too embarrassed to say otherwise in front of the customers with her that day. Then, well, it just gathered momentum… Urgh! Just bloody do it, Jenny! Then maybe I can drop by, take her some flowers. Perhaps we might even become friends?

  As soon as I hear her kind voice, I’m reassured she’s going to be nothing but lovely to me.

  ‘Hi Helen, it’s Jenny Archer. You called and spoke to my sister, Lulu, about my next appointment?’ I can hear the nervousness in my voice and wonder if Helen can too.

  ‘Jenny. Yes! My goodness, I have been meaning to call back. What a terrible mix-up.’ She actually sounds more mortified than I do.

  ‘I know and I’m sorry, if I can just explain, Helen. I never meant to cause any trouble.’

  ‘Oh, it’s me who should be apologising, Jenny. What a terrible mistake for me to make and honestly, I’m surprised at myself.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Making assumptions like that. I have to remind myself that not every bride lets her entire family in on her plans, or even that they’ve got engaged. It really was the most terrible error on my part. I should have just asked for you to call me back and not gone into any of the details. I hope I haven’t messed things up for you, spoilt a big surprise or forced you to tell your sister when you didn’t intend to yet?’

  It takes me a moment to think this through. She’s actually apologising to me, isn’t she? She thinks she’s in
the wrong. She’s giving me the out. I no longer need to confess, despite the fact I know I should. I’m trying to will myself to do it anyway but the imperative has gone. God, I am so weak. My determination to come clean evaporates quicker than one of Marianne’s faked orgasms.

  ‘Think nothing of it! Honestly, it’s no problem.’

  ‘Well, I have been thinking about it a lot, actually, and by way of apology, I’d love to offer you a discount on the beautiful Hayley Paige dress you chose. Would that go some way to making it up to you?’

  Poor Helen, she has obviously been agonising about this. ‘You are too kind.’ And I am too much. Seriously, I am. I know I’ve only made things worse for myself now, but – how tragic am I? – it feels like the only way to be sure of seeing her again.

  ‘Well, let’s get you back in, try the dress on again and we can chat through any alterations that might be needed. Your last appointment finished in such a hurry. I’d love to hear more about the day you’re planning, the man you’re marrying, so I can do everything in my power to pull all the styling together beautifully for you.’

  Oh shit! That’s wiped the smile off my face. ‘Perfect. I’ll email you some dates and we can get it sorted.’

  As I hang up, I know I’m now looking at another night in front of Pinterest, stealing all the best bits from other women’s weddings, ready to pass them off as my own. I suppose it won’t hurt to get ahead with this. Jean, Lucy and everyone at work will need to see progress on the wedding front too.