David, oh, David. The thought of Friday night catches her breath again. He accepts her as she is, he doesn’t ask questions, analyse or dig too deep like her former boyfriends. He doesn’t want to control her, thank God. He’s steady and reliable. Isn’t he?
She feels Sophie’s breath on her neck, then a hand on her back and the inevitable flutter somewhere deep in her stomach.
‘I fancy a drink, Toni. Shall we open a bottle?’
Sophie kisses her cheek, then steps away to the glass-fronted wine fridge, crouching down to select a bottle.
‘This looks expensive,’ she says when she stands. ‘Come on, darling, don’t sulk, who knows what might happen?’ She places her chin on Antonia’s shoulder and softly blows a curl from her face. ‘You will be there to hold my hand, won’t you? All the way?’
‘You know I will,’ Antonia replies.
There’s a tremor in David’s large hand which he tries to ignore as he struggles to insert the tiny key into the lock of his bottom desk drawer. He extracts the yellow file and stares at its cover where his secretary has written ‘Indemnity and Claims’ in red marker pen.
He blows out his cheeks. Red for danger.
He glances at his closed office door before taking a deep breath. Then he opens the file quickly, like ripping off a plaster. As though that will make a difference. As though speed will alter the fact that the renewal date for the firm’s insurance has passed, undeniably passed, and he hasn’t done anything about it.
‘Goodness me, the renewal date has passed. The practice has no insurance in place. If there are any claims for poor legal advice or mistakes, the partners will be personally liable! How did that happen?’ He tries feigning surprise to himself, but it doesn’t wash, even in his mildly inebriated state. As the partner in charge of indemnity and claims, he’s always known about the date, roughly known, at least. But he’s put it on the furthermost back burner of his mind. Because. Because he knows.
He’d opened a savings account with a great rate of interest a year back. A deposit account for the firm and for the partners, but with himself as the sole signatory.
‘What shall we call it, David?’ the bank manager had asked over a long lunch.
‘Insurance,’ he replied.
‘But of course!’ the manager laughed.
He paid in the huge premium up front. It was a great plan. There’d be less whingeing about the cost of ever-increasing insurance premiums from the partners when renewal came. A nice little nest egg of interest to put towards the following year’s premium, too. It made sense. Charlie agreed. ‘I knew you were the man for the job, David. Excellent work.’ The other partners concurred and he enjoyed the rare praise.
He stares at the renewal notice in the file and then circles the premium figure with a pencil, whistling softly. Nearly a hundred thousand pounds and it has to be paid now. In a litigious society the firm must be covered for negligence claims. Claims for cock-ups, in short. He nods, his mind racing with thoughts of what to do. Cheque lost in the post? Yes. A backdated letter for the file? Absolutely. But the thing is to get it paid. PDQ. But there’s a problem, a huge heart-thrashing problem. Even though he hasn’t been able to bring himself to look at the ‘insurance account’, he knows without a doubt the money isn’t there.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Manchester rain hammers against the roof of Mike’s car. The traffic is at a standstill, Princess Parkway chock-a-block, with no sign of movement. He looks to his left. The queue at the drive-through McDonald’s is immobile with morose folk seeking their hunger-fix. Once, years ago, he and Olivia vowed their children would never eat junk. They wanted to do nothing but right for their girls. Mike sighs: how time and experience changes everything.
There must have been an accident, he thinks, as he strains to see beyond the line of traffic in front of him. No habitual impulse of a prayer pops into his head, he forced those thoughts out long ago. His Catholicism, drummed in during childhood, had once burned deep, creating a wound he thought would never heal. That profound belief or fear or superstition, or whatever it is, that there is a god. No, not a god, but The God. But that scar has healed; when he needs his faith, he finds it has gone.
He switches from Radio 4, to 2, to Capital, listens for a moment to Rihanna and thinks of his girls dancing, giggling, showing their pretty white teeth. ‘Look, Daddy. Watch us dance!’ It’s a happy thought, he knows this, but he’s lost the feeling of happiness, its sense, its touch.
He turns off the radio and watches the rain splatter and spread against the windscreen. It’s making shapes he’s never noticed before. Interesting, he thinks, but the ruse doesn’t work for long; his bleak thoughts are too dominant, too powerful for Rihanna, or the rain, or even his lovely girls.
Shaking himself, he tries to resurface, to focus on the traffic tailback and the noise of the vehicles happily jam-free on the flyover ahead. He looks at his watch, knowing that he should text Olivia, but wondering what he should say. ‘Stuck in traffic’ is the obvious choice, but he can predict the reply, ‘How long will you be?’
How long will this go on? The gloom, the pestering, dark thoughts. He had them before as a teenager, but they were intermittent then, somehow controlled by the guilt of the priest’s regular Sunday words, ‘There’s always someone worse off.’ But this time it’s been months and he bores himself. It’s truly pathetic. Always the same, it’s the little things that pull him down. He can go for hours without giving it a second thought and then something will happen to make the black dog bound in. Today it was an email circulating around the office inviting the staff to contribute to a present for one of the associates, the newly proud father of a healthy son. An everyday office occurrence, but enough to throw him.
A knock on his window makes him start. His mobile is still in his hand, text unsent.
‘Are you all right, mate? Need a push or has the car just stalled?’
Mike notices the blare of horns behind him and the empty road ahead. It’s still raining.
‘Yeah, just stalled. Sorry.’
As he slips the car into gear, the black dog lurches forward and then settles in for the ride.
‘Get up to your bedroom, now!’ Olivia bellows as Mike walks through the front door of their semi-detached Victorian home. He shakes the rain from his hair and puts his briefcase down in its usual place by the stairs.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks, looking from mother to daughter. It’s unlike Olivia to scream at Rachel. Or at anyone. What is it that she always says when they watch Question Time? ‘He’s shouting. Ha! He’s lost control of the conversation.’
‘I will not have any daughter of mine speak to me like that,’ Olivia replies breathlessly.
Rachel spins round on the stairs, the knuckles of her slim hand white against the stained wood of the banister. ‘Well, it’s true. You tell us to be honest. You’ve been a cow for weeks, Mum. We can’t do anything right. We might as well not exist for all you bloody well care.’
‘Rachel, go to your bedroom,’ he says quietly. ‘Your mum’s right. Don’t you ever speak to her like that again.’
Rachel stares at him, her face pained with reproach. ‘I knew you’d take her side,’ she says, before running up the rest of the stairs.
He stands for a moment, the slam of Rachel’s bedroom door loud in his ears. He shakes off his jacket and looks at Olivia. She hasn’t moved and her face is set. He’s never seen her so angry. ‘It’s raining,’ he murmurs, looking for time, wondering how best to handle such an unexpected situation.
‘What’s going on, Olivia? This isn’t like you two.’ He reaches out, placing his hands at the top of Olivia’s arms to draw her in. She’s trembling. He can feel the anger rising from her as she pushes him away, the flat of her hand firm against his damp shirt.
‘And how would you know?’
He stands and stares. Is Olivia laughing? He isn’t sure. He hardly recognises her.
‘How would you know?’ she repeats. ‘Tell
me, Mike. You’re never here. And even when you are here you’re in some unreachable place. You don’t notice me, you don’t notice the girls.’
‘That isn’t true.’ He sees his daughters in his mind, dancing to Rihanna. ‘Of course I notice you all. Come on, Olivia, this isn’t like—’
‘When was the last time you gave me a compliment?’ Olivia isn’t laughing, she’s crying, but the soft contours of her pale face are gone. ‘When was the last time you bought me a box of chocolates or some flowers? I had my hair cut last week and you didn’t even notice.’
He gazes at her hair. It’s blonde, elfin short; it suits her petite face and her frame. ‘I did notice. Of course I noticed. It looks lovely. But flowers, chocolates? Come on, Olivia, you don’t do chocolates.’
‘Fuck the chocolates, then. Fuck everything. You just continue to take it for granted that I’m going to be here, the little wife with a smiling face when you come home, your bloody dinner waiting on the table.’
He catches his breath. This is Olivia, calm, capable, witty Olivia; Olivia who takes everything in her stride. She’s never been and will never be ‘the little wife’. She’s clever, opinionated and strong. He stares again, aware that life has shifted, that the world has somehow moved without him noticing.
‘What do I do on a Tuesday, Mike? You never ask me how I am, where I’ve been, what I’ve done. I could be anywhere, with anyone. You’re just so used to me I’ve become invisible.’
‘That isn’t true. Really. You never said,’ he replies quietly.
‘I shouldn’t have to say anything. If you loved me, Mike, you’d see, you’d know.’
She stares at him for a moment, searching his face, her amber eyes wide and sad. ‘What’s the point?’ she mutters, then walks into the kitchen and closes the door.
A wisp of a thought enters Mike’s head, an impulse to turn around and walk out of the door he entered only minutes earlier. But it’s only a thought and only for a moment as his eyes catch the pink fur of Hannah’s favourite slippers. She’s under the stairs, hidden from view, her arms around her knees and her blonde head buried.
‘Is it my fault, Daddy?’
‘Of course it isn’t.’ Mike pulls her to him, his beautiful bag of bones, breathing in the cosy smell of shampoo and baked beans. ‘It’s Daddy’s fault. Don’t worry, I’ll make it all better, I promise,’ he says, hugging his warm living child tightly to his heart, wondering where on earth he should begin.
It’s late. Antonia is in bed, asleep, her long hair spread away from her face like a fan on the pillow. David studies her features for a while, taking in her glossy skin, the definition of her jaw and the graceful length of her neck. He longs to trace his fingers from the small lobe of her ear to the hollow of her throat, but he doesn’t want to wake her and spoil the moment. He slips in beside her, the clean sheets feeling crisp and cold, much like his sleeping wife.
In those few moments when the terror of his worries relaxed their grip, he thought of Antonia again today. He had a clear image of her in his mind; that of a honey marble statue, perfectly chiselled, incredibly beautiful, but cool and impenetrable.
Sleep doesn’t come and when Antonia sighs, he rests his head on one arm, stroking a finger along her naked spine, counting the tiny moles on her back. He always wants her, even when he’s too drunk to do anything about it and she’s never denied him. She’s soft, willing and compliant. But the reality is that even when he hungrily invades her, even when he comes with a thunderous rush of pleasure, even as she whispers, ‘Please, David, please,’ he doesn’t really penetrate her. It’s this insatiable desire, this urgent need to connect that makes him want her so badly.
‘I’ve tried to give you everything,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m sorry.’ He wants to add, ‘I know you don’t love me, but promise you won’t leave me. Stay with me forever. I’m nothing without you.’ But he’s afraid that saying the words out loud will validate them. And if Antonia hears, she’ll despise him for his weakness, of that much he’s certain.
As the whisky slowly drags David into sleep, his mind replays the last two days: insurance, his bank manager; Charlie, Charlie ill; angry clients; too much alcohol, too many lies. And finally Antonia. She laughed at one of his jokes over dinner and just for an instant he glimpsed a different person, but the moment passed as quickly as it came.
As a small boy on a boating holiday abroad he’d seen the same look on his mother’s face. ‘Look, the sea’s turquoise. Jump in, Mummy! I dare you!’ He’d said those words knowing that Mummy would laugh and shake her head. But despite her carefully made-up face and her jewellery, she jumped into the sea without a moment’s hesitation. He clapped his hands with delight as he watched from the side of the boat. Then he anxiously waited for his mother’s copper hair to reappear from the salty depths of the ocean, caught with a sudden fear she might drown, that he might never see her again. But when she emerged from the sparkling sea, just for a second as the sun caught her face, he thought she was someone else. Someone young, happy and free. But the moment was lost when his father pulled the pipe from his mouth and cleared his throat noisily. He stared at his wife and shook his head before replacing the pipe and pointedly consulting the map.
Mike’s head feels leaden on the pillow, crammed with listless negatives as he considers the day. Rachel, lovely Rachel, her face white with reproach. Little Hannah’s tears. And Olivia, his wife Olivia, unrecognisable Olivia. And his associate’s baby, a healthy son.
He closes his eyes, reviewing a scene at St Mary’s maternity hospital from over a year ago. ‘Just a routine scan,’ the consultant obstetrician had said with easy charm. ‘Nothing to worry about, the bump just seems a little small – probably a small baby.’
They’d strolled in for the scan, like many times before. But the face of the sonographer was blank as she looked at the screen. A face that told them everything.
‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ A look of panic on Olivia’s face.
But Mike knew. Mike understood. There was no need to wait until Olivia had wiped the gel from her stomach and covered her naked bump. No need to wait in a room with a door, not a curtain. No need to hear the words, ‘I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat, the baby has died.’
He sighs and turns in the dark. There’s no point in rewinding the film. There’s nothing he can do to change the past. Just like with his little sister, he can’t bring them back. And it’s late. With or without the dog, he must sleep. A voice echoes in his ears as he drifts off. ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven.’ The words repeat in his mind every night, like a mantra. But the words aren’t his and they’re hollow.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Morning, Mike, lovely weather still,’ Judith says, glancing at him as she adjusts the collar of her blouse and wondering, as she seems to every day, whether she might have overdone her perfume. She does a double take. ‘Are you OK? You look terrible!’ She studies Mike’s handsome face. He looks tired, with shadows beneath his dark blue eyes. ‘Sorry. Perhaps not tactfully put, but I guess I’m not going to start being diplomatic after twelve years. Is everything all right?’
Mike looks away towards the window, squinting slightly in the way he always does. She once asked him if he had worn glasses as a child, but he looked perplexed and said, ‘No, why?’ with a friendly smile. She now knows it’s just his thoughtful look. She’s been his secretary since she was nineteen and knows more about Mike Turner than he knows himself, or so she jokes. And the truth is that they’ve grown up together, in a way. She’s seen him through his marriage to Olivia and the birth of his girls; he’s been her ‘diamond, the sort of rock I like’ through two marriages, four broken hearts and breast implants that have recently been removed.
‘I didn’t sleep very well,’ he says, still gazing at something Judith can’t see. She busies herself with filing. She knows there’s no point in hurrying him, especially of late.
‘Bloody typist, diarist, dogsbody and counsellor!’ one of the secretaries decla
red yesterday over lunch, succinctly expanding on what her original job description had omitted. As Judith waits patiently for Mike to embellish on his lack of sleep, she understands what her friend means.
He eventually turns with an awkward smile before sitting at his desk.
‘Turns out that I’m a rotten husband and a rubbish dad, Jude.’ His face is slightly flushed. ‘And there I was, thinking I was perfect!’
Judith smiles and wags a finger. ‘That’s because I’m always telling you you’re perfect. I didn’t think you were listening.’
‘You’ve got it in one. I don’t listen, apparently.’ He puts his head in his hands for a moment and then rubs his eyes. ‘But the truth is they’re right. I haven’t been looking or listening. I’ve taken my eye off the ball.’
‘Trust you to use a football analogy, Mike,’ she laughs. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? Go into goal? Keep score?’
She sits down in the chair opposite him. There’s plenty she’d like to do to help, she thinks affectionately as she strokes her ever-increasing bump, but that would certainly get in the way.
Mike Turner has been at the top of the secretaries’ ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed’ list for years. Christmas after Christmas various young hopefuls have tried to snog him at the office party, without success. Judith is certain that he’s completely oblivious to these advances and to his charm. It’s the way his hair is always scruffy from raking his hands through it, she decides, it makes him look both trendy and vulnerable at the same time. Those cheekbones too, a real man with cheekbones! And of course his thoughtful Irish eyes.
Beneath the Skin Page 3