by Fiona Gibson
He blinks and moves away from me, and I see his gaze flicker over the hundreds of photos spread out on our carpet, as if one of them might help him to find the right thing to say. Apart from our coffee table, which forms a kind of island, the entire floor is covered in pictures. Anyone glancing in through our window might think we’re up at 1.30 a.m. to arrange them into some kind of art project.
‘Jed?’ I prompt him. ‘What’s happening?’
‘We . . . we did go there,’ he says quietly. ‘Whoever saw us, they were right.’ His tone is flat and neutral, as if there’s no reason on earth why it might seem strange or even vaguely suspicious to take a woman to a pub four miles out of town.
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘If you wanted to go out after work, why didn’t you just go to the Green Dragon?’
‘Because it’s full of teachers.’ I turn to him, amazed that I am managing to hold it together and not get angry. It’s as if all these photos – the hundreds of faces of our friends, parents and children, all the people we’ve loved who have populated our lives – are watching me, making me feel eerily calm.
‘Would that have been a problem?’ I ask. ‘Being with other people, I mean? Or did you and Celeste want to be alone?’
He meets my gaze. ‘She wanted to talk,’ he says, ‘and I suggested that place. We’ve passed it loads of times, haven’t we, on our way to the coast? And we’ve always said how nice it looks.’
‘Yes, nice for us to go to, maybe . . .’ My voice rises a little.
‘Laura, stuff had happened, stuff she wanted to talk about. She drove us out there and we sat and had one drink.’
I blink at him. ‘Just one drink?’
‘Well,’ he mumbles, ‘maybe two. Does it matter?’
‘It does matter,’ I snap, ‘when I’ve put up with you not turning up for your own daughter’s birthday, and on top of all that . . .’ I pause, taking a breath. ‘On top of all that, there are the texts and calls and . . .’
‘Laura,’ he cuts in, stopping me dead. ‘For God’s sake. I’ve never done anything to jeopardise this family. I never would . . .’
‘But you are!’ I insist. ‘It’s always there, simmering away – this worry about what’s really going on with you two, and it affects the way I am with the kids, and at work, everything. So it is jeopardising our family. For one thing, you lied and said a whole group of you were out while the party was going on. And I know it wasn’t a group. It was just you and her. D’you know how I know that? Because I went round to her flat to try and find out the truth . . .’
‘When?’ He looks aghast.
‘A couple of weeks ago. I took her dress back, the one I borrowed at her party . . .’
‘But I could have just given it back to her at school, couldn’t I? What was the point of . . .’
‘I know, but that was just an excuse, don’t you see? And you know what else? There was this weird scene there. This young woman – well, a girl, really – came rushing out of Celeste’s flat, crying, and Celeste was so upset about it . . .’
‘God,’ he whispers.
‘Any idea what that was all about?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. Not at all.’
‘So you see, Jed,’ I say, starting to gather up the photos from the carpet, ‘it is jeopardising our family, whatever you might like to think.’
I’m aware of him watching as I pile up our pictures and place them back in the box, apart from the ones of Dad which I set out on the coffee table for Grace to pick from in the morning. ‘I don’t know what else to say,’ Jed mutters. ‘If you won’t believe me, then I can’t make you.’
Picking up the wooden box, I turn towards him. The carpet seems bare now, without its layer of photos, and Jed looks stranded upon it. ‘I need time to think,’ I tell him firmly, heading for the stairs with the box. ‘And I think, Jed, that I really need some time away from you.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
The following evening, partly to avoid the tense atmosphere at home, I go for a run on my own. It feels good to be out, my feet slapping a steady rhythm on the damp pavement and the faint drizzle misting my face. I feel as if I could run and run, if not forever, for at least forty-five minutes or more. Beth’s tracksuit fits me perfectly now. I can wear jeans which, until recently, hadn’t emerged from the musty recesses of my wardrobe since before I had Toby. And, incredibly, I’m no longer appalled by the sight of my own body in the bath.
Across the street, near the centre of town, a man in overalls wolf-whistles. I glance around to see if some nubile teenager has caught his attention, but no – it seems to be me. And I wonder if Jed might notice a difference in me and perhaps even want to have sex with me again. I once read that, when you haven’t done it for ages, you actually stop thinking about it and forget that the possibility of intimacy with another human being even exists.
I wonder when that will happen to me.
Heading along the riverside, I jog past neat red-brick cottages with pretty front gardens and bird houses. It’s all so safe and ordinary, a world away from being photographed in Danny’s farmhouse with my clothes off. Would he want me resplendent on a chaise longue, or what? I smile as I trot up the steps, picturing the ridiculous situation. That would make Naomi choke on her flapjack.
I speed up a little, enjoying the cool dampness of the evening as I follow the road with its bow-fronted suburban houses around the outskirts of town. My stomach rumbles, perhaps because by now I’ve run further than I have ever managed in my whole life. In fact I’m probably in a negative calorie zone by now. Six weeks ago I could barely jog to the end of our road.
I spot him then, another runner, heading steadily towards me with his iPod on. When he sees me, he slows down to a brisk walk and pulls out his earphones. ‘So,’ he says with a grin, ‘too busy to run these days, are you?’
‘Oh, you know . . .’ I look at Danny. He’s changed too, I realise now, and not just because I snipped his unruly curls into a slightly more manageable style. He looks like a fit, healthy man who, without tipping towards off-putting vanity, clearly takes care of himself. ‘I’ve just needed some thinking time,’ I add lamely. ‘But it’s good to see you. I’ve missed you, you know.’
‘Well, I’ve missed you too, and I worried that I’d offended you or something.’ He touches my arm, and I don’t flinch or move away.
‘It’s just . . . I’ve never told Jed about us running together. And with things being complicated at home, I thought, maybe I’d better have a clear head so I can decide what to do.’ Danny nods. ‘I’m taking the kids to my sister’s house in Scotland at the weekend,’ I add. ‘I think it’ll do us good to be away for a couple of days.’
‘Jed’s not going?’ he asks.
‘No. In fact he doesn’t even know we’re going yet. I only just decided while I was running along by the river.’
‘Well, if you want to call me when you get back . . . I mean, I’ll understand if you don’t,’ he adds quickly. ‘I don’t want to make things difficult for you.’
‘Danny,’ I say firmly, ‘I’m the one who’s making things difficult around here.’ And I hug him then, as any friend would, before turning back and running all the way home.
*
By some organisational miracle, we are ready to leave as soon as we come home from school and nursery on Friday afternoon. I made sure we were all packed, having said goodbye to a cheerily polite Jed this morning; didn’t want him hovering around, not knowing where to put himself, as we all piled into the car. ‘Can we get more photos for my project?’ Grace asks excitedly as we pull away from the house. ‘I need some of Granddad when he was a little boy and I need to interview Grandma about him.’
‘I’m sure that’ll be fine,’ I say, grateful for the barrage of commands and questions to stop me thinking about Jed coming home to an empty house and an empty weekend, without us. Although he didn’t try to persuade me not to go, he clearly wasn’t happy about it. Still, it is only two days. We’ll stop off briefly at Mu
m’s to pick up said photos, then head on towards Scotland.
‘But what if they’re all lost?’ Grace asks dramatically. ‘What if Grandma’s thrown them all away?’
‘Of course she won’t have thrown away pictures of Granddad,’ I say quickly. ‘Anyway, she knows all about your project and said she’ll have the pictures ready for you. We won’t be staying long, though, because I don’t want to arrive too late at Auntie Kate’s.’
Grace nods, as if finally satisfied. ‘How long are we going for?’ Finn mumbles suspiciously.
‘Only two nights. We’ll be back on Sunday evening.’
‘Why are we going?’
‘God, Finn! I want to spend a bit of time with my sister, okay? It’s been months since I’ve seen her. Anyway, you’ve always loved it at her place, playing with the animals and everything . . .’
I tail off, realising that Finn has probably outgrown the playing-with-animals stage, which triggers a wave of sadness. These days, he’d rather lie on the sofa, doing nothing more taxing than deciding which bodily part to idly scratch next. I glimpse him in the rearview mirror, slack-jawed against the back of the seat.
‘Why isn’t Dad coming?’ Grace pipes up.
‘He just fancied a bit of peace and quiet at home, love.’
‘Did you have an argument?’ Finn asks.
‘Of course not. When do you ever hear us argue, Finn?’
He sniffs in response. ‘I want Daddy,’ Toby murmurs.
‘I told you, Toby, you’ll see Daddy on Sunday night. That’s only . . .’
‘Are you staying at Auntie Kate’s too?’ Toby cuts in.
‘Of course I am! We’re all staying, and it’ll be lovely . . .’
The four of us descend into a grim silence. In the rearview mirror I can see that the Peppermint Aero, which I had kindly allowed the children to share, now covers the entire lower half of Toby’s face. This would never have happened if I’d brought a Tupperware container of crudités. ‘Feel sick,’ Toby mutters.
I lower all the windows and pray he’ll hold it together until I can find a safe place to stop. ‘Take deep breaths,’ I instruct him. ‘Look out of the window. Shall we play I spy?’
‘I want Daddy,’ he growls.
My jaw tightens. ‘We’ll-see-Daddy-on-Sunday.’
‘I feel siiiick . . .’
‘Oh Toby, please don’t. Hang on for a second, take deep breaths and I’ll stop . . .’
‘Muuuum . . .’ There’s a loud burp, and the sound of liquid cascading from a small mouth.
‘Ew!’ Grace screams, pressing herself against the side window. ‘Ugh, it stinks in here!’
‘Stop the car,’ Finn commands. ‘Indicate, pull over . . .’
‘I do know how to drive, thank you. But I can’t stop now, there’s a van right behind us . . .’
‘Can I have my story CD on?’ Grace asks.
‘No, Grace. Not now. I’m just trying to find a place to stop.’ I am breathing fast and shallow, and my thighs are gummed together with sweat. An acrid stench, laced with Peppermint Aero, fills the car.
‘It would take my mind off this horrible smell,’ she reasons.
‘Grace, we’ve heard it already.’
‘We’ve heard it twice,’ Finn groans. ‘The bloody BFG . . .’
‘Finn, there’s no need to speak like that . . .’
‘I know it off by heart,’ he crows. ‘“And the BFG got his little pipey-wipe and blew dreams in through ickle Sophie’s window . . .”’
‘Shut up,’ snaps Grace. Toby is waggling the door handle irritably. Thank God for child locks. At least they actually work, unlike the so-called DVD lock which Grace ripped off within minutes, allowing her to seize up its workings by posting in dozens of toast crusts. No wonder the mice came. Jed even got on to the previous owners, from whom we’d just bought the house, asking if they had any tips on eradicating the problem. ‘There were no mice in all of the fifteen years we lived there,’ they told him, suggesting that we’d moved our rodent population in with us.
‘I’ll stop as soon as I can, Toby,’ I explain, ‘then we’ll get you cleaned up and everything will be fine.’ That everything-will-be-fine line, trotted out by mothers every second of the darn day. Do children actually believe it? Mine don’t. At least there are plenty of clean clothes packed in the boot. There must be a public loo on the way, where I can wash and change him. We can’t show up at Mum’s reeking of vomit. For some reason, she seems to think I’m some kind of Supremely Coping Mother, and today’s not the day to shatter that illusion. Spotting a sign I’ve never noticed before, to a place called Gulley Bottom, I indicate left and follow the lane into the village.
I pull up on a grassy verge and open both back doors. Toby flops out, and I mop him down as best as I can with a J-cloth I found in the boot. ‘This is so embarrassing,’ mutters Finn, fiddling with his phone as if it might somehow transport him away from his deranged mother and little brother covered in puke. Toby glares down at his T-shirt and shorts while I search the boot for his bag. ‘Finn,’ I say, ‘you did put that black zip-up bag in the boot, didn’t you? Like I asked you to?’
‘Uh?’ he asks, mouth ajar.
‘That bag. The one with mine and Toby’s clothes in it.’
He shrugs and pokes at his phone.
‘You didn’t, did you?’ I swing round to face him. ‘It’s all I asked you to do, to put it in the boot while I ran around like a nut, getting everything else ready . . .’
‘I dunno.’ He glances around the village, clearly unconcerned that neither I – nor, more crucially, his little brother – have any clean clothes.
‘What were you doing,’ I demand, ‘when I asked you to help me?’
‘Uh, looking for my hair wax.’
‘Oh, right! Well, as long as we’ve got that, we’re all okay. It doesn’t matter that me and Toby don’t have any spare clothes at all for the weekend.’
He nods, apparently taking this literally. Toby whimpers and slides a slimey hand into mine. ‘Where’s my clothes, Mummy?’
‘At home,’ I snap.
‘What’ll I do then?’ he cries.
‘Never mind, love. We’ll just have a look around this village and buy you a lovely new outfit, okay?’ I check my watch. ‘It’s almost five. With any luck, if we hurry up, there’ll still be a shop open.’
He throws me a sour look. ‘I want Daddy.’
‘Yes, I know you do, love.’ Hell, so do I, the philandering swine – if only because bad things don’t happen when he’s in charge. If he were here, no bag would have been forgotten, and no one would be covered in vomit.
‘Where are we?’ Grace asks.
‘In Gulley Bottom.’
‘Is it near Gran’s?’
‘It’s not far at all,’ I say, beaming optimism. ‘Oh, cheer up, you lot. I’m sure we’ll find something here.’
We set off, and at the end of a row of huddled cottages, we find a general store-cum post office. I worry about going inside, in case we’re ejected for smelling awful, but decide to go for it anyway. After all, this is the countryside where people are used to all kinds of bad smells. The post office stocks a small range of stationery, and for one crazy moment I wonder if it might be possible to fashion Toby a padded top and trousers out of jiffy bags.
With the children growing impatient and whiny, we explore the rest of the village. There is, of course, no junior fashion emporium. Why did I think we might find one? Then I spot a tiny shop with a bow-fronted window, filled with children’s knitwear. I march towards it with Finn sniffing and groaning as we go in. It’s bizarre. He never acquires sudden flu-like symptoms if we’re on a trip to York to buy drum kit accessories.
The elderly shop lady nods a greeting from behind the counter, unable to conceal her look of distaste at the sight of Toby’s stained clothes. I smile brazenly at her and scan the rails. Every garment is hand-knitted in chunky wool. This is fine for a sweater, or even bed socks, but is less fine for trous
ers. I examine a pair of chocolate brown knitted flares which are unravelling at the hems. ‘Don’t like them,’ Toby declares.
‘They’re hand knitted,’ the shop lady remarks.
‘They’re lovely,’ I say, ‘but I think they might be a bit, um . . . hot.’
‘They’re fine,’ she insists. ‘They breathe, you see. They’re loosely knitted so there’s plenty of air circulation.’ Just what we need. Living, breathing trousers.
‘I wanna go home,’ Toby announces, causing the shop lady’s lips to pucker. Grace starts giggling, while Finn stands, gaunt-faced, as if trying to spirit himself away.
‘Toby, I think we’re going to have to try them,’ I say gently. ‘There’s nothing else in your size.’
‘No!’ he screams. ‘Don’t want jumper trousers . . .’
‘But everything’s knitted,’ I hiss at him. ‘It’s either the jumper trousers, or you’ll have to go to Gran’s, then all the way up to Auntie Kate’s, in your pants.’
‘I’ll wear pants,’ he bleats as the shop lady fixes me with a glare. What kind of mother transports her young son to see relatives in his pants?
‘I’m closing in a minute,’ she mutters, drumming her fingernails on the wooden counter.
‘We’ll just take this sweater,’ I say quickly, plucking a random one from a shelf. For all the quaint, homespun ambience, it costs an eye-watering amount. As I start the car, the jumper is declared itchy and pulled off in disgust.
The bright afternoon has now slumped into fine rain. At least Finn has stopped complaining, Grace is soothed by another playing of The BFG, and Toby has dozed off in his vest and pants. Mum emerges to greet us, all smiles and hugs, as we pull up in front of her gate. ‘How are you, love?’ she asks.
‘I’m great, Mum,’ I tell her, following her into the house. ‘But I’m afraid Toby was sick and I wondered . . .’