by Meg Carter
‘Actually,’ she grins, taking his hand. ‘I was wondering if we might go back to yours.’
* * *
Alma wakes to the sound of Pete busying himself in the kitchenette whisking eggs, slicing bread. She breathes in air infused with coffee, with creamy top notes from butter softly melting in the pan. Rolling onto her front, she slips his pillow onto hers then props herself on top to watch.
Dressed only in yesterday’s jeans, his feet are bare. But though his face still looks crumpled from sleep, the attention he is paying to every detail of his preparations is intense.
‘Hello,’ she calls, hungry for his attention.
‘French toast, all right?’ he grins. ‘Freshly squeezed orange, or just coffee?’
‘No kippers? Smoked salmon?’ Alma teases, for she has discovered fish is one of his pet hates. ‘Never mind!’ She kicks her legs free from the cotton sheet knotted around them. With the windows thrown open to release the steam from the pans, a pulse of early morning air makes her naked skin tingle. She sighs. ‘I’ve must say, Pete, your hotel offers the best room service in town.’
‘And from where I’m standing—’ he quickly counters, ‘—I’d say I’ve got the best view.’
Alma lets the sheet slip onto the floor. ‘Really? How about now?’
‘Don’t go there,’ he begs. ‘These eggs are almost done.’
Rolling onto her back, Alma slowly runs the palm of her hand across the flatness of her belly, just above her pubic hairline. ‘Or now?’
Quickly removing the pan from the stove, Pete snatches the Polaroid camera sitting on the kitchen worktop. With just a couple of strides he is standing over her, taking a picture.
‘Definitely now,’ he chuckles, relishing the look of shock on her face the instant before she springs towards him, her right hand grasping at where the photographic paper will soon appear at the camera’s base. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he teases, ripping the picture free then holding it beyond her reach as the image slowly forms. ‘You’re going to have to be a good girl if you’re going to convince me you should have this.’
‘Bully,’ Alma pouts, half-heartedly, as she heads towards the bathroom to shower.
‘Naughty,’ Pete calls with a grin, ‘but nice.’
Once the water is warm enough, Alma washes. Slipping out the cap Viola had helped her get from Marie Stopes, she rinses it under the running water. Better safe than sorry, her friend had winked, taking her by the hand as they’d walked back down the clinic’s front steps. And I should know.
It had happened the spring before she started at the Conservatoire. Viola had fallen pregnant following an encounter with the eldest son of one of her father’s friends. It had taken her almost three months to realise it but when she had, thankfully, he’d known just what to do and had made all the arrangements. He waited outside for her, in the car, during the procedure. Which had hurt like hell at the time. After, for the first few hours, she’d bled like mad. But then it was over, done.
Not something you’d wish on your worst enemy, Viola had shuddered. Let alone your best friend.
Alma had commiserated, hoping sympathy would mask not just her shock but also her disapproval. For how could it be right, whatever the circumstances, to wilfully kill an unborn child, so tiny and defenceless? If the unforeseen were to happen, well, you’d just get on with it and cope as best you could. And one day she will have one, she thinks, but when the time is right.
Dressed in Pete’s shirt from the day before, Alma eats breakfast perched on the edge of the bed by his side, with her plate balanced across her thighs. The French toast is creamy and rich and all the better for being made by him.
Pete has cooked Alma many meals in the weeks since that first date, and each time he’s done so she’s been impressed by the novelty not just of a man who cooks but one who takes pleasure in doing so.
He has challenged her palate, too, with their first dates following an eclectic itinerary of intimate restaurants where the food was as unfamiliar as their locations. Bengali down Brick Lane. Turkish on Newington Green. French Algerian in Kentish Town. Which is why Alma thought he was joking when over a home-cooked coq au vin he’d ruefully admitted to never having travelled beyond the south coast of England.
But as they have got to know each other better she has come to understand the pleasure he takes in exploring the unknown. The kick he gets from hunting down unusual ingredients. His hunger for life. How different he is to anyone she’s ever met before, she thinks, watching him wipe the buttery juices from the plate with his final corner of bread.
‘You look happy.’ He puts her empty plate on his then places both on the floor.
‘Because I am,’ she smiles, curling up against his chest. Positioned like this, his heart pounds against her ear.
‘Good.’ He places his arm around her shoulder. ‘Not like before.’
‘Before?’ she murmurs.
‘You know, before – when we first met?’ Alma frowns, unsure what he meant. ‘With your ex?’
Her chest tightens. ‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. Only, I just wondered if he made you happy.’
Leonard, he must mean Leonard, Alma thinks, wondering what little detail she’s inadvertently let slip about her recent past. Because how can Leonard be an ex when they never went out, not in the normal way?
Pete’s expression, though serious, is hard to read. What does he want her to say, she wonders. How else should – could – she answer? She is fearful of saying the wrong thing. With Viola spending more and more time with Geoff and her parents distracted by their own affairs, her world’s axis is tilting towards Pete. And that feels tantalising and exciting.
Don’t blow this, cautions a voice insider her. Not now, just as life is opening up before you like a treasure map.
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Is it? Sorry. It’s just I…’ He looks away. ‘Forget it, it doesn’t matter.’
Alma touches his arm. Maybe she should try to explain. Then again, maybe not. The thought that he might think she’d let it happen, been complicit, was just too awful. And even if he didn’t, it would surely make him see her in a different, darker light. Besides, he should respect her privacy. Everyone is entitled to their secrets. Now, surely, with Leonard Parmenter finally gone she’s entitled to start again with a fresh slate?
What a curious contradiction Pete is, she thinks. So self-assured and single-minded, yet at times tentative and insecure.
‘Hey, you,’ she murmurs.
‘Forget it,’ he quickly shoots back. Shifting position suddenly, he looks about to pull himself to his feet.
’No,’ Alma declares, firmly enclosing his hand in hers.
Pete turns towards her.
‘My ex? He didn’t make me happy,’ she begins. ‘It was nothing. Nothing at all, compared to being with you. But it was complicated. And one day I’ll explain, I promise. Not now, though. Now’s about more important things. You make me happy – happier than I ever thought I could be. And I hope I make you happy too. What’s most important is us, and staying us.’
‘You’re right.’ He nods. ‘Best not to tempt fate.’
15
Camden, February 2016
Zeb’s gaze drifts beyond Sam’s shoulder. The darkness outside has turned the windowpane into a mirror and the sight of the pair of them, alone in the spotlit flat, makes her feel vulnerable. She crosses the room to draw the curtains. On the street below a silver taxi waits with its engine running. Distracted, she shakes her head. So she’d set out to see a friend of Dad’s, someone in Scotland. But she can’t think who that would be.
When she was little she’d wanted to go to Scotland but for some reason Dad would never take her. Too much history, apparently, though what he meant by this he wouldn’t say. So she had to settle on north Wales, instead, with its slick slate roofs and purple skies.
West is almost as good as north of the border but with sea you can actually swim in, he’d smiled.
Keep paddling. Faster, Daddy, faster. Please! Don’t stop.
‘So did you find them, your dad’s friend?’
With a weary smile, Zeb turns back towards her friend. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says. ‘To be honest, I’m not—’
‘Maybe something will turn up through the solicitor.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Whoever’s handling his affairs. You know, the will? I guess that will take the pressure off you having to find another job for a little while. Give you some space to get things together for you and Matty, too, as soon as he’s back from Richard’s.’ Sam raises her hand to her mouth as she sees Zeb frown. ‘Oh God, there I go again. Sorry, I really shouldn’t have said that—‘
‘No, you shouldn’t.’
You shouldn’t have mentioned anything to do with what Dad may or may not have left me, she thinks, crossly. Because it is way too soon and none of your business. Sam’s expression takes the edge off her anger. Reluctant to say something she will regret, Zeb bites her lip. Because she’s only trying to help, of course. To make her feel better. The same reason she brought the wine. Which is ironic, really, because in the end it never does.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just still so… raw. Was there anything else – you know, that I said, before I left for Scotland?’
‘Nothing I can think of, no.’ Sam frowns. ‘What about you, what can you remember?’
Zeb sighs. ‘That’s the thing. Nothing. Until I was found in the middle of nowhere by a local woman taking her son to school.’ Her friend’s eyes widen. ‘Although images of certain scenes keep coming back to me – like flashbacks to a film I’ve seen.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Waiting in a strange house while someone made tea.’
Zeb shudders as another memory surfaces.
Angel. The man called it Angel. A strange name for a dog. Especially for a beast that size. Some kind of mastiff, short-haired and that shade of grey that’s more like smoky blue. It yapped like a puppy when its master opened the kitchen door but when it sensed her presence, it snarled. Faster than a toddler throwing a tantrum, the creature’s demeanour transformed as muscles tensed and nostrils flared. Then as its eyes locked onto hers, its vocal chords began to thrum.
The dog had taunted her in her weakness, challenging her to move away. Which was when her attention was drawn to the counter opposite and a large kitchen knife at rest on its wooden chopping block.
Her hand starts to shake. With a swift gulp, she finishes her wine.
‘Zeb?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m OK.’ Unless you’re not, a voice inside her cautions. Take it easy. Don’t tempt fate. She shakes her head. ‘Actually, I’m not. Mrs Duffy who owned the house left me alone with her son while she popped out for some milk. Only her son was… odd. Eccentric, to put it mildly. And how he behaved, the way he looked at me, was frightening.’ She puts down her glass. ‘I hid in the downstairs loo. He was banging on the door.’ Her fists clench. ‘It was awful, there was no place to hide…’
‘Go on,’ Sam urges.
Zeb remembers how the steel tip scored the empty air as she waved the blade. Like the mark of Zorro, she thinks. She closes her eyes.
‘I decided to bluff my way out. So I opened the door. Only by then he’d let the dog in. It was a huge creature, standing between me and the front door.’ Her face tenses. ‘The son was in the sitting room by that point, so I couldn’t get my coat or bag. I ran into the kitchen to find the back door.’ Now, her whole body clenches. ‘But it was fast, bounding towards me along the corridor. Too fast for me to shut it out. And when it stopped, just a foot from where I stood, the sound it was making from the back of its throat…’
Angel, he’d cried, dropping to his knees in the pool of blood. My Angel.
‘What happened next?’
‘I… I don’t know.’ Because there is nothing. Just blackness where whatever happened next has been self-redacted.
Sam slips her arm around her shoulders. ’Sssh,’ she soothes. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. I’m sure it will come back, in time.’
‘But that’s not the point,’ Zeb mumbles, tears now burning her cheeks. ’I don’t think I want to know.’
‘Hey, this is pretty.’ In a desperate attempt to change the subject, Sam has reached for the chain around her friend’s neck. Now she is lifting the silver piano with the tip of her forefinger.
Piano girl, Zeb thinks, suddenly seeing herself inside her neighbour’s flat. That’s what the newspaper cutting I saw at Mrs Allitt’s called me. And then, in the same moment, she sees the handwritten letter. Dear Elizabeth… it began. I am so very sorry to have upset you yesterday by coming unannounced. To the funeral. The woman came unannounced to the funeral, for the letter was dated the day after.
Now she remembers, though the name still means nothing to her. Cynthia Purnell. Is that who she’d gone to Scotland to see?
Hurriedly, she explains this to her friend.
‘You’re kidding!’ Sam yelps when Zeb is done.
‘She had a whole folder on me, actually. Including a letter I didn’t recognise sent by an old friend of Dad’s, I think.’ Zeb’s voice trails away. ‘Only I can’t remember the name.’
‘Well you must get it back, all of it,’ Sam declares with such force that Zeb can’t help but smile. How she values her friend’s fierce sense of justice. ‘I mean, the stuff she’s stolen – it belongs to you. Demand she returns it and if she won’t, take it somehow. Maybe I could try. You could distract her on the landing while I nip round behind her. Maybe we could pretend your cat slipped inside and we could ask ourselves in to find him.’
‘Well that’s certainly an idea.’ Zeb smiles, stretching for the remaining bottle of wine and pouring another glass.
* * *
‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ Sam is standing in the doorway of the sitting room where Zeb has spent the night, holding two mugs of tea. ‘Though I can’t believe you slept at all in here. Honestly, I thought you said you’d snuggle up with Matty so I could have your bed. I’d have caught a cab home if I’d known.’
Zeb yawns. ‘It’s fine. I was going to share with him, but he was restless and I thought we’d both be better off if I camped out in here.’ Shifting position, she pulls herself upright, swings her feet down, then pats the cushion. Sam takes up position cross-legged beside her.
‘He’s up, you know,’ her friend says. ‘In your room, watching TV. I got him some warm milk while the kettle boiled, I hope that’s OK.’
’I’m sorry if he woke you—’
‘Well I’ll have to start getting used to it some time, won’t I? I mean, if me and Marcus… You know?’
‘You’re not!’
Sam grins. ‘No, but we have talked about it. I just hope if and when we do he or she turns out as good as Matty.’
‘Trust me, he has his moments,’ Zeb chuckles, indulgently.
‘I know, they all do. But you know what I mean. How’s school going? I know you said he’s been having an up and down time recently; are things OK now?’
’Bloody Richard,’ Zeb replies, her mood darkening. ‘He wants to hire a tutor, you know. Already. For the exams to get into St Paul’s. Which is ridiculous, of course, because Matty’s only one term into Year 3. But according to the font of all knowledge it pays to start early, even though he’s at prep school. I mean honestly, Sam, what the hell does he think he pays school fees for?’
‘Of course Matty will get into somewhere good in a couple of years’ time,‘Sam soothes. ’He is my godson, after all!’
‘But it’s too soon to start cramming,’ Zeb objects, her throat tightening. ‘And on top of that, Richard’s signed him up for one-o
n-one music tuition – just in case, he says. He’s even bought a piano…’ Her eyes fill at the thought of the soon-to-be second Mrs Latham, Helene, who plays the cello. And sings in a choir, too. ‘I mean honestly, Sam, how the fuck can I compete?’
Am I a bad mother? Zeb wonders. And if I am, is that my fault?
How do you become a good one if you never had a mother of your own to learn from? Another advantage Helene was born with, she notes, recalling how on the one occasion the two women had met her ex’s new partner had let slip that she and her own mother were so close they were just like best friends. Is that normal? Is she somehow diminished for having missed out? Though when she considers all the girl friends she’s had over the years who’ve talked of rowing like cat and dog with their mothers, she guesses Helene’s experience must be an exception.
Zeb sniffs. What is growing up if it isn’t growing apart and then away?
’You don’t have to compete with Helene because you’re Matty’s mum,’ Sam replies, taking Zeb’s hand and squeezing it, firmly. ‘It’s been a shit few months but things will settle down. It will get better – everything will be OK.’
‘Aside from Dad, of course. Walking out of my job. Drinking too much. Oh, and losing access to my son—’
‘That’s not going to happen. Obviously, you can’t change what’s happened with your dad, but everything else is within your control. You can get things back on track, I know you can. Don’t give up, for Christ’s sake – and I don’t just mean on Matty, I mean on you. You’re better than all this. You’re a great mum. A good friend. You’ve got to believe in yourself. You can get through this, you are strong.’
Strong like Dad, Zeb thinks. He coped and so can – will – I. For Matty’s sake, and my own. She wonders briefly what her mum would have done. With no memory of her let alone a clear image to play with, it’s impossible to say. Wendy, then. But as she tries to think she sees herself not by her stepmother’s side but in Mrs Allitt’s flat, flicking through the stolen letters which she knows she must now get back. A distant church bell chimes nine o’clock, which gives Zeb an idea.