by Jo Verity
She slapped the door with the flat of her hand. ‘Why won’t you open this door?’
‘Why won’t you fuck off?’
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ she shouted.
Hand shaking, she cleaned her teeth, scrubbing violently until her frothy spit was speckled with blood. Then she took herself off to the spare room, slamming the door, making sure to shake the whole house. She got into bed and lay there, conscious of the rapid thud, thud, thud of her heart, feeling the tightness in her throat.
She and Sam had regularly fallen out but they’d always been good at talking and listening. Unravelling their differences. Bearing no grudges. There had been none of that today. The man who claimed to be her soulmate had shunned her, drunk himself senseless then shunned her for a second time. She wiped her tears on the corner of the pillowcase. The first time she came to this house, they’d made love in this bed. Afterwards she’d lain awake, fretting that her parents would, once more, make her choose between them. But they’d confounded her by welcoming him, pretending they’d played no part in what had taken place forty-odd years ago. Poor Mum. Poor Dad. At least they were beyond being hurt.
Callum had urged her to tell Bing. But no, she’d known better. Now her cowardice – that’s what it was – had caught up with her. Could she have played it differently this morning? How? He hadn’t given her a chance. Dashing off to Frankie’s had been a mistake, too. She should have stuck it out. Held her ground. Made him listen. Now he was camped on the moral high ground, waiting for her to get it wrong again. He was punishing her for having done something he didn’t like. Something that didn’t chime with his vision of her.
The envelope was in the tallboy, tucked beneath papers relating to her parents’ estate. She slid it out, running her finger across the embossed logo. What secrets did Paul Crosby’s past hold? Ammunition for a counter-attack? She hesitated. This mustn’t escalate into a tit-for-tat battle. On the other hand, she couldn’t simply stand here, taking whatever he cared to chuck at her. Sliding her finger under the flap, she opened the envelope and removed the sheet of notepaper, the crease in it as sharp as the day it was folded.
What…? It was blank on both sides. Not a single word. Not even a declaration of love. Without stopping to think, she was across the landing, pounding and kicking the door, screaming his name.
He opened the door. ‘What the hell’s got into you?’
‘This has got into me. This.’ She flung the sheet of paper in his face. ‘You have the nerve to accuse me of being secretive.’
He squinted into the light. ‘You told me you’d lost it.’
‘Well hard luck because I’ve found it again. What were you playing at?’
‘If you really want to know I thought your “let’s confess what we did in the past” was a duff idea but you were dead set on it. If I’d refused it would have spoiled our weekend.’
‘It had nothing to do with confessing. It was about honesty. Openness. When you agree to something, you don’t get to pick and choose whether you’ll do it or not. You don’t get to call the shots. Do we have a future, you and I? From where I’m standing, it’s not looking good.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why shouldn’t I? It’s the truth. I have no idea what’s going on in your head. Unless you tell me, we don’t stand a chance.’
‘Okay. Okay.’ He dragged his palms across his face. ‘Siskin was bad enough but at least he’s dead. I know that’s a rotten thing to say but you asked for the truth. Now there’s this Moat. I can’t stop thinking of him. Ogling you. Touching your breasts—’
‘Bing. You’re going to drive yourself mad.’ She laid her hand on his chest. ‘We’ve got ourselves in a terrible mess but there’s no point in trying to unravel it now. We’re both shattered. Overwrought.’
She led him towards the bed. They were good at love-making. From that first time in the Crosby’s garden, they had been able to satisfy each other. But sex now would offer no more than a quick and temporary fix. He seemed to understand that and they lay, hand in hand, her head on his shoulder. Before long he was asleep, his breathing slow and regular, his hand heavy in hers, but each time she drifted towards nothingness, events of the day dragged her back. Two days ago they were planning a wedding. Tonight it was touch and go. Today’s revelation had come as shock. All the same Bing’s conduct had been intolerable. His accusations – his outbursts – unwarranted. She doubted he’d ever approve of what she’d done but no one had died. No one had disappeared.
At breakfast time, they were excessively polite to each other, treading warily, assessing the damage. ‘We need to start talking,’ she said, ‘and listening too.’
‘Message received,’ he said.
‘You look under-slept,’ Hazel said as they were sipping their first coffee of the morning.
Miriam yawned. ‘The dawn chorus woke me at some ungodly hour.’
‘Bastard birds.’
To Miriam’s relief, Hazel made no reference to the painting or Bing’s reaction to it. None of her acquaintances or ex-colleagues contacted her. If she and Bing could resolve things, perhaps it was a matter of sitting tight and letting the whole thing blow over.
With stock to unpack, orders to dispatch and a steady flow of customers, the day raced away. She barely had time to think about their quarrel and when she did, it had miraculously shrunk to no more than a spat. But it was clearly a case of distance lending enchantment and, by the time she was unlocking the front door, her stomach was roiling. She took a pack of mince from the fridge. Bolognese or chilli? Hard to enthuse about either.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Bing said when he got in. ‘All these sick people kept turning up, demanding attention.’ He leaned over and took an olive from the dish. ‘Mmmm. Something smells good.’
‘It’s only bolognese.’
‘Perfect. I’ll dig out a bottle of red.’
She was tempted to remind him where yesterday’s drinking had led. To suggest they keep clear heads. ‘I’ll stick to water,’ she said, hoping he would take the hint.
Humming to himself, he took a bottle from the wine rack, pulled the cork and poured himself a generous glass. ‘Cheers. How was your day?’
‘Busy,’ she said. ‘We had a big delivery to sort and… Look, we agreed to talk.’
‘We will. I promise. But can we eat first? I’m ravenous.’
She faltered before she was halfway through her plate of food, her appetite doused by what lay head. He seemed not to notice and downed a second helping and two more glasses of wine. When they’d finished, he began clearing the table. ‘Can you leave that for a minute?’ she said.
He followed her into the living room and she sat in the armchair, indicating he take the one opposite.
‘I feel like a naughty schoolboy,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Six of the best please, Miss.’
‘Don’t make a joke out of this. It’s too important.’
‘Sorry. You’re right.’ He cleared his throat. ‘About yesterday. I was out of order. I should have listened to what you had to say.’ He pushed himself forward in the chair. ‘But you have to look at this from my point of view, Mim.’
‘Do I? Why?’
‘Come on. What if my private parts had been splashed all over the newspaper? How would you feel?’
‘What-ifs aren’t terribly helpful,’ she said.
‘So what would be helpful?’
‘Your keeping calm. Allowing me to explain.’
She was as objective as she could be whilst doing her best to convey her emotional state, her dread of the future, when she’d met Callum Robertson. Once or twice Bing went to interrupt but she silenced him with a raised hand. Throughout, she tried to maintain eye contact, but he kept glancing away, looking out of the window or at the blank TV screen, as if what she was saying had nothing to do with him.
When she’d finished, he said, ‘So basically you did this… this thing because you enjoyed doing it?’
‘For G
od’s sake, you’re making it sound like some repulsive self-indulgence. Were you not listening? For six months I worked as a life model. I met interesting people. I learned a lot about myself and a bit about art. I felt alive for the first time since my husband died. I’m glad that I did it. Proud that I did it. My only regret is that it’s causing you such unhappiness.’
‘Then why keep it to yourself if it was so… so fucking life-affirming?’
‘Why? I was scared to tell you in case you rejected me. And please don’t shout at me.’
‘Why go on doing it if you were so sure I’d disapprove?’
Disapprove?
‘Because I’d said I would.’ She paused. ‘And, to be honest, I liked knowing I was needed – not for my childcare or cleaning skills, but for being myself.
‘Good God, Mim, I need you. Isn’t that enough?’
‘But what d’you need me for? To keep in a cabinet like some kind of trophy? And that envelope-burning stunt – what was that all about? At the time I persuaded myself you wanted to prove you loved me, no matter what. The truth is, you couldn’t stomach the fact I’d had a life without you. You won’t want to hear this but it was a nice life too. I lost sight of that for a while.’ She tugged at a tail of cotton dangling from the cushion cover. ‘As for your blank sheet of paper – what am I to make of that? Are you saying I shouldn’t give a hoot what you’ve been up to for the past forty years? Surely that’s for me to decide. Believe it or not, you don’t have the monopoly on approval.’
‘So this is my fault?’ he said.
‘No. We’re supposed to be fixing things, not apportioning blame. I don’t know what more to say. How to convince you I’ve done nothing wrong. Or why I should have to convince you – although it’s vital you believe it. Would it help if you talked to Moat?’
‘I’d kill him.’ He looked up, his face flushed. ‘And you’re right. The thought of your nice life with anyone else is intolerable.’
‘You’d prefer I’d been unhappy all those years?’
‘Of course I would. I was.’
His admission astounded her. ‘But Eloise? And your children? Everything you shared. Does that count for nothing?’
‘I never shared much with them. No point. I was marking time.’
She shivered. ‘That’s a shocking thing to say. And it’s so sad for your children.’
‘They’ll survive,’ he said and held out his arms. ‘Come here. We’re going to get through this, you and I.’
His change of mood caught her off guard and, out of habit, she went to him. He rocked her gently from side to side, as if she were a child seeking consolation. ‘Promise you’ll never contact that Moat person again. Or any of his arty friends.’ He stroked her hair. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Mim. I see that now. You were ill. You weren’t thinking straight. Those men took advantage of you. I’ll tell you what. Let’s pretend none of it happened. In a couple of months, we’ll be married. From then on, it’ll be just us. You and me. That’s what we want, isn’t it?’
‘WHAT’S THE TIME?’
‘Getting on for twelve-thirty.’ Moat peers at her over his canvas. ‘Why? Am I boring you?’
She smiles. ‘Never.’
Flexing her neck, she settles back in the chair. It is warm up here, the sky – the little she can see of it – marbled with fair-weather cloud.
Today would have been Sam’s seventy-second birthday. Sam. She likes to think he’d forgive her for what she did. He’d probably laugh and say he’d always wanted his ashes to be scattered on water. And the rest of it? Would he applaud her willpower? Her determination to stay true to herself, no matter how painful that proved to be? He’d certainly be proud of his grandchildren. Rosa, channelling her stroppiness into campaigning for green energy, and showing a real aptitude for maths. Max, growing up too quickly for her liking, a sweet boy with more than a touch of his – Sam’s – patience and good humour.
Moat sets down his brushes. ‘That’ll do for today.’
She takes off the elbow-length gloves, slips on her robe and goes to check progress. This painting – the fourth in his ‘Invisible Woman’ sequence – is in its early stages, yet already she can see how it will complement the others.
‘Remind me,’ he says, ‘when’s our next session?’
‘Thursday. And may I ask a favour? Can I bring someone with me?’
‘Are you out of your mind, woman? I’m not some… some street artist.’
She tells him who it is, pressing him gently – ‘I’ll bring chocolate éclairs’ – until he surrenders with a gruff, ‘If you must’.
She plants a kiss on his cheek. ‘Cut that out,’ he says, failing to conceal his pleasure. ‘Has Callum been in touch about this party of his?’
‘Yes. Are you going?’
‘Good God, no.’ He shudders theatrically. ‘All those arty types talking bollocks.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, I’ll give you a lift.’
The fresh-paint-and-new-carpet smell which lingered for months, has surrendered to the smell of home. Her home. When she was searching for a place to buy, several properties fitted the bill. The wisteria festooning the wall at the end of the garden clinched it. The house isn’t dissimilar to Moat’s – three-storeyed, terraced, late Victorian. A little smaller perhaps but with the same shabby homeliness. (‘It’s “tired”,’ the surveyor said, ‘but it’ll see us all out.’) She has commandeered the box room as a writing room but there’s still plenty of space for her grandchildren when they need to escape from their parents. And for Pearl whenever she feels like making the trek from San Diego.
She straightens the bedspread and takes a final look around. Towels. Tissues. A bowl of fruit. And, on the table next to the bed, half-a-dozen black-and-white snaps. She came across them the other day, sandwiched between her father’s old ledgers. She riffles through them. They are on a beach. Danny must be around Max’s age, his crinkle-edged teeth too big for his face. She is a gawky little thing in a shapeless bathing costume. Aunt Bea is there too, cigarette in hand, and her parents are laughing and waving at the camera. She returns to the photograph of Danny. Wherever he is, he must be happy that she and his daughter are becoming close friends.
A cup of tea and then off to the station. If last time is anything to go by, Pearl will be shattered after her flight. It wouldn’t do to keep her waiting.
No man steps twice into the same river,
for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.
Heraclitus : 535 – 475 BCE
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First published in 2018 by Honno Press, ‘Ailsa Craig’, Heol y Cawl, Dinas Powys, Vale of Glamorgan, Wales, CF64 4AH
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Copyright: Jo Verity © 2018
The right of Jo Verity to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988.
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The Author would like to stress that this is a work of fiction and no resemblance to any actual individual or institution is intended or implied.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Published with the financial support of the Welsh Books Council.
ISBN 978-1-909983-76-2 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-909983-77-9 (ebook)
Cover design: Graham Preston
Cover image: © Rebekka Ivacson/Shutterstock Inc.
Text design: Elaine Sharples