by Fiona Gibson
And where did he sleep last night, anyway? At a friend’s place? I haven’t been able to face calling Duncan or Mickey and I can’t think of anyone else he knows well enough around here to stay with. Unless – the thought makes bile rise in my throat – he went to Celeste’s. Did they do it last night? If they did, it’s a little hasty. I mean, we are still married. Hope he bruised himself on her bony arse.
‘That was lovely,’ the woman exclaims. ‘Thank you.’
‘Was it? I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ I hadn’t even realised I’d stopped massaging. My fingers had merely slowed down and stopped, as if their batteries had run out.
‘Even better than Jess’s massage,’ she adds, baring small, rodenty teeth at me, ‘though better not tell her that, eh?’ She laughs loudly. I force a laugh too, which comes out as a kind of croak.
‘You okay?’ Simone mouths as I show my client to her seat.
I nod. ‘Fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’
‘Want to take a break after this?’
‘Honestly, I’m okay.’ She frowns, clearly not convinced. Yet I can’t tell her about Jed leaving me – not here, at work, in the middle of a hectic day. Instead, I keep my head down. Eight clients down, seven to go. I might just make it through the afternoon.
‘Not still going to that Tub Club, are you?’ Simone asks just before I leave to collect the children.
‘No. Decided life’s too short to try out twenty-seven ways with a can of tuna.’ I try for a smirk, but it wobbles.
‘It’s just, you’re looking awfully pale . . . Not on some dumb crank diet, are you? Not doing that water-and-cinnamon thing again?’
I laugh, but only because the truth is, I couldn’t feel less like eating. ‘Just stuff going on at home,’ I murmur. ‘It’s pretty complicated.’
‘What, with Jed?’
‘Um, yes. Sort of . . .’
‘Nothing serious, is it?’
I could tell her, and she’d listen and sit me down with cups of tea. We could go to the kitchen and her next client could wait. But doing that would mean admitting what’s happened; that it’s not just a silly little thing that’ll somehow sort itself out, like all our squabbles before. I shake my head. ‘It was just a stupid argument.’
‘What about?’
‘You’ll never guess,’ I say lightly. ‘It was about butter.’
Simone grins and squeezes my arm. ‘Isn’t it mad, the stuff that causes rows?’
‘I know,’ I say with a forced smile. ‘It’s completely ridiculous.’
*
‘What are these sausages made of?’ Grace asks at dinner.
‘Pork or beef, I can’t remember,’ I say.
Finn flicks his gaze up at me. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘No, love. Like I didn’t know where your trainers were this morning. I don’t know. Call myself a mother . . .’ I grin, trying to make a joke of it. Anything to keep their minds off their father and why he isn’t here, having dinner with us.
In fact I’ve had an idea. Each mealtime, I could present a detailed breakdown of the provenance of their food. These sausages, I’d write, are 97% pork and 3% sinister non-animal protein. They were made in a factory in Warrington by a man called Bert.
‘There’ll be other stuff in them,’ Finn adds darkly.
‘What kind of stuff?’ Grace asks.
‘Hair, eyeballs, that kind of thing . . .’ He flares his nostrils.
‘Ew.’ Grace fishes a lump of chewed sausage from her mouth and deposits it on the table.
‘Finn,’ I sigh, ‘do you really need to go on like this while we’re trying to eat?’
‘Pigs don’t have hair,’ Toby remarks.
‘Yeah they do,’ Finn says. ‘You’ve never seen one up close.’
‘I have! Auntie Kate’s got pigs . . .’
‘The thing is,’ Grace announces, ‘I’m thinking of going vegetarian for a week.’
‘For a week?’ Finn crows. ‘What’s the bloody point of that?’
‘Finn!’ I bark. ‘There’s no need to swear at the table . . .’
‘What’s not the point?’ Grace shoots back.
‘I mean,’ he says loftily, ‘if you have a serious issue with meat, like you object to eating animals or are concerned about how bad it is for the planet with all the farting cows and stuff . . .’
‘Um, I . . .’ Grace furrows her brow and rests her fork on her plate.
‘I mean,’ Finn continues, ‘if it’s not about either of those, and you just want to try it like a kind of experiment, then I can’t see . . .’
‘I just want to see what it’s like!’ Grace thunders. ‘Why are you always horrible to me?’
‘Listen, you two,’ I say in an eerily patient voice, desperately trying not to take sides and incapable of deciding on an appropriate response. ‘It’s an interesting argument, whether it is actually better for the planet, and I suppose, if Grace wants to try it . . .’
‘You mean you’re going to let her?’ Finn crows.
‘Well, I’m not saying that. I mean, it would make things more complicated and we have enough of that, don’t we, with the debates about lunchbox sandwiches and what kind of triangles they should be . . .’ I smile, trying to lift the mood.
‘Can I do it too?’ Toby demands, rapping his knife on the table for emphasis.
‘Can you do what?’ Finn retorts.
‘Er . . . that thing Grace is gonna do.’
‘You don’t even know what we’re talking about!’ Finn’s voice ricochets around the kitchen, causing Grace to flinch and Toby’s deep brown eyes to blink rapidly.
‘That’s enough, Finn,’ I snap. ‘We’re having a discussion, all right? Just like normal families do. So I’d be grateful if you could not shout or pick on your brother and sister and not be so unpleasant . . .’
‘Want Daddy,’ Toby announces. ‘Want Daddy now! Where’s Daddy?’ Fat tears roll slowly down his cheeks.
‘Yeah. Where is Dad?’ Grace asks, scowling, as if only just recalling that she has one.
‘He’s, erm, out,’ I mutter, picking up Toby, plopping him on my knee and noticing that his soft, pale hair is flecked with poster paint.
‘When’s he coming home?’ Toby wants to know.
‘I . . . I don’t know, love. Soon, I hope. He’s really busy, has a lot on his plate right now . . .’ Like me. Their dinners have congealed, barely touched. ‘Now, d’you all want to watch something on TV while I clear up?’ I kiss the top of Toby’s head and lift him off my knee.
Grace nods and slithers off her chair. ‘Mum and Dad had a fight,’ I hear Finn informing them as they all troop through to the living room. ‘That’s why he wasn’t here for dinner.’
‘Where did he have dinner?’ Grace asks. ‘Somewhere better than this,’ Finn replies.
*
Our bed feels enormous. Last night I was too distraught to even notice but it seems to have expanded to ridiculous proportions during the past twenty-four hours. Jed’s pillows are plumped up, with no head indent, and look faintly accusing. I try to sleep with my limbs splayed out, occupying maximum space, and when that doesn’t work I get up at 2.30 a.m. and decide to sort the laundry mountain. I tip it onto one side of the bed – his side – then, overcome by exhaustion, crawl back under the covers. At least sleeping beside a tumble of kids’ T-shirts and pyjamas makes the bed feel marginally less lonely.
Still no Jed next morning, and he hasn’t left a message, begging for reconciliation during the night. Now worried sick, I even try calling my mobile from our house phone to check it’s working. ‘Your phone’s ringing,’ Grace informs me.
‘I know, love. It’s just me, calling myself.’
She scowls. ‘Why?’
‘To check it’s working okay.’ She throws me a despairing look.
All through breakfast, I keep praying that Jed will call and at least let me know he’s all right, that he hasn’t done something crazy or isn’t driving and driving, with no destination
in mind, simply to maximise the distance between us. I feel disgusted now that I kissed Danny. I don’t actually fancy him, not really. Yes, he’s cute, and he lifts me out of the domestic doldrums. When I’m with him, I no longer feel like an insignificant little satellite, orbiting the playgroup biscuit tin. It’s been hugely flattering, too, acquiring a handsome male friend in my female-orientated world. But that’s all it’s been. Is Jed seriously leaving me over this?
Without properly noticing what I’m doing, I distribute packed lunches and lunch money and retrieve Grace’s homework – a road safety poster – from the Lego box. I manage to wipe a milky smear from Toby’s top lip, despite his protests, as I picture Jed having breakfast in Celeste’s bed and her spooning some fancy granola-type cereal topped with blueberries into his gob. Maybe they’ll get giddy on champagne and have more sex. They’ll both call in sick, too lust-filled to care about rumours buzzing around the staff room.
There’s a sharp rap on the front door, and I charge towards it, not caring that I’m still wearing my burnt-sleeved dressing gown. ‘Morning, love.’ It’s the postman, handing me a package.
‘Thanks,’ I say distractedly.
‘Good luck,’ he says with a smirk.
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s your race pack,’ he adds, indicating the logo on a floppy plastic package. ‘Been delivering tons of the things this morning. Half the town must be doing it. Keen runner, are you?’
‘Not really. Just a beginner . . .’ My anxious gaze flickers down the street. Still no sign of Jed.
The postman crooks an eyebrow. ‘Looks like you’re built for it anyway. The running type, I mean. Athletic. You’ll have no trouble.’ He grins flirtatiously.
Thanking him, I step inside, rip open the race pack and shake out my Superfit Challenge T-shirt. It’s in ‘Large’ and is too big for me now. No doubt about it: I’m shrinking. But no longer in a good, healthy way. More in a dumped and abandoned way. I’d always assumed that thin = good, and that my life would blossom with opportunities if only I could shift my quivering muffin top. Now I’m discovering that there’s another kind of thin, which Belinda never mentioned at Tub Club. This kind of thin means pale, hollow-looking and eaten up with worry. It’s a long way from besotted thin – the kind Jed mentioned – when you’re so full of love, there simply isn’t any room for food.
I feel as if I’m drifting on a cloud as Finn heads off to school and I usher Toby and Grace to the front door. As we’re heading towards school, my phone bleeps; I snatch it from my bag, crushed when I see Danny’s name. I read it while walking. DID YR RACE PACK ARRIVE? it says.
YEP, I reply.
FANCY RESUMING TRAINING? he pings back. Doesn’t he understand that I’m busy with three children to attend to, not to mention the wreck of my marriage? SORRY NOT AT MOMENT, I reply, plunging my phone into the depths of my bag.
Among the school gate throng, Grace kisses me and flashes a wide smile, which I take as a good sign. At least there are no outward signs of distress. ‘Mum!’ Finn has drifted towards the railings.
‘Yes, love?’ My stomach lurches as I hurry towards him. Not like him to acknowledge any connection with me whilst on school property.
‘Did you make my hair appointment?’ he asks.
‘No, did you want one?’
‘Yeah. Did you forget?’
‘No, I . . .’ I meet his challenging gaze. ‘Actually, love, you don’t need appointments at that . . . that place, remember? You just turn up. We can head over after school if you like.’ He nods, turns away, and is gone. So my daughter insists on creating her own chaotic bun, and Finn will only allow his hair to be chopped by a malnourished teenager. Fine. Right now, I’m happy to take him wherever he wants. When he’s thinking about hair, so my logic goes, at least he’s not fretting madly about his father and me.
Chapter Forty-One
Hi, sorry I can’t take your call right now, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you . . . ‘Jed,’ I say, striding towards work, ‘it’s me.’ I pause. Will he know who ‘me’ is, or am I scrubbed from his memory already? ‘It’s Laura,’ I add, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘Look, love . . .’ Wish I hadn’t said love. Sounds too pleading. ‘Jed,’ I try again, ‘I’ve left so many messages for you. Why can’t you just call? I need to know you’re okay, and if I don’t hear from you, I’m going to have to call school and see if you’ve shown up . . .’ I stop abruptly. Now it sounds like I’m threatening him. ‘I don’t mean that to sound like a threat,’ I charge on, ‘but you have to understand, I need to know you’re all right and to be able to tell the children where you are, and what’s happening . . .’ I swallow hard. ‘I’d be grateful if you could give me a call,’ I add quickly, now sounding as I’m phoning an elusive delivery man. Where’s our fridge? I’ve been waiting in for it for days . . . ‘I just think we need to sort things out,’ I finish, my voice threatening to crack, ‘because I don’t know what on earth to say to the kids.’
Still gripping my phone, I wonder whether to call Mickey or Duncan, and if I can’t get them on their mobiles – which is likely, since they’ll both be at school – whether I should at least leave them messages at home. They’re the closest thing Jed has to confidants around here. Yet speaking to them will mean admitting that I don’t know where the hell my husband is, and how seriously bad things have become. I haven’t even told Beth yet. Rather inconveniently, she’s spending a few child-free days with her sisters in Devon, having left a fifteen-page dossier on the care and feeding of Kira and Jack. Can’t tell Mum either, as she’d be devastated, and without being judgemental, Kate would be bound to squirrel the truth out of me – that I’m partly, if not wholly, to blame. I think of her and Will, all cuddled up on their sofa and playfully jibing each other, and tears prickle my eyes as I tumble into the salon. ‘Laura?’ A woman leaps up from her seat.
‘Hi,’ I say vaguely.
‘I don’t have an appointment . . .’ She smiles, exposing her small, pointy teeth.
‘Oh, that should be okay . . . I’ll be with you in just a minute.’ I pull off my jacket, hang it up in the alcove and hope my eyes aren’t still wet or scary-looking.
‘I just dropped in on the off-chance,’ she adds. ‘Just a wash and blow dry if you can manage it. I’ve got a big work presentation this afternoon.’
‘That should be fine, no problem.’
‘Great. Do me one of those head massages, would you? Last one you gave me was out of this world.’
Even though Jess is back at work, and throws me a quizzical look, I wash the woman’s hair dutifully, and she closes her eyes as I work my fingers across her scalp. Across the salon, a figure catches my eye. A man has walked in, and for a moment I think it’s Jed, come to see me and say it’s okay, we can fix this. But it’s not. It’s Danny, who acknowledges me with a hesitant smile, and takes a seat on the sofa. ‘That’s great,’ my client mutters. ‘You’re so much better than that junior girl.’
‘Well, I guess everyone has their own way of doing things,’ I say, relieved that Jess has gone to tidy up the stock cupboard.
‘Yeah,’ she says, pausing before adding, ‘Lost weight, haven’t you?’
‘Er, a bit,’ I agree.
‘Thought so. Been on a diet?’
‘No, not really. I’ve never been very good at that. I’ve been doing a bit of running, though. And, to be honest, I’ve sort of stopped thinking about food.’ I glance over at Danny. Despite the fact that he is undeniably cute, with his mussedup dark hair and dimples, and even though Simone’s smiling flirtily every time she strides past, I can’t quite believe I kissed him, passionately, on the mouth.
And it feels as if every internal organ is shrivelling with shame.
‘It works then?’ the woman barks.
‘Er, what does?’
‘Running. Only, I’m thinking I might take it up. You’re a good advert for it, love.’
I force a smile as I blot her hair in one of our pale lilac Shine
Hair Design towels, then comb it out and take her to a seat. ‘Thanks. To be honest, three months ago I couldn’t even run the length of my kids’ school sports field. So if I can do it, anyone can. Um, could you excuse me for a second? I just need to have a quick word with someone.’ With a nod, the woman picks up a celebrity magazine and starts flicking through it.
Danny stands up as I approach, his face brightening. ‘Hope you don’t mind me popping in,’ he says.
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say, wondering if either of us will ever acknowledge that kiss.
He blushes. ‘I . . . I just thought you might like to have a spot of lunch with me. Quick sandwich in the park or something.’ Across the salon, my client shifts impatiently in her chair.
‘Okay, just a quick one. Shall we meet at one by the lake?’
‘Great. I’ll bring lunch.’
Pale sunshine filters into the salon as I watch him leave. Then I go over to attend to my client whose fine hair clings to her scalp. ‘Now,’ she says, prodding a picture in the magazine. ‘I was thinking of something like this. A big, glamorous Catherine Zeta-Jones kinda thing. That all right with you?’
*
Danny is waiting for me by the lake. I stride towards him, relieved to have escaped the heat of the salon, and hoping we’ll manage to skirt around the delicate matter of my debut modelling session and our snog in his doorway and the fact that I am a despicable two-timing monster. He waves, and has brought not only a blanket for us to sit on, but an array of lunchtime treats. ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘This is a cut above my normal lunch.’
‘Well,’ he says as I sit on the rug beside him, ‘after I asked you, I realised I didn’t know what you like.’ He smiles, and those cheek dimples appear. ‘Apart from marble cake, of course.’
‘Haven’t even felt like that lately,’ I tell him.
He frowns. ‘Look, I hope you’re not embarrassed about, you know . . .’
‘No, not at all,’ I bluster, biting on a strawberry. ‘It was my fault. I just misunderstood. I seem to do that a lot actually.’ The strawberry is sweet, juicy and perfectly ripe, yet it tastes of nothing.