‘So, not just a pretty face,’ he finds himself saying at some point. Even as he cringes at the sound of his clichéd words, he knows it’s a poor shot at encouraging her to shut up and suggest they go back for ‘dessert’ at her flat. Not that she looks like the sort of girl who ever eats it.
‘Thank you for asking for me,’ Antonia says, holding Charlie’s hand at the side of his hospital bed. ‘I would have come earlier but I didn’t want to—’
Charlie pulls his hand away carefully, conscious of the cannula in the back of it. He hates feeling such a dependent fool. Even more he hates the fact that he hasn’t the strength to be anything other than that. When he tries to get up, he feels legless (an obvious joke he and David would have laughed at), but for all the wrong reasons.
‘—make my condition any worse,’ he says. He finds he’s completing Antonia’s sentences already. He knows that he should let her answer for herself, but it’s a habit he has difficulty breaking. ‘Oh don’t worry about me, these pretty nurses will sort me out soon enough. It’s you we should worry about. Has everything been all right at home? Has Helen been round yet?’
Antonia shakes her head. He thinks she looks nervous, her eyes remarkably calf-like.
‘Oh, she will. With lots of sensible advice. So now you’ve been warned!’
Charlie tries for a chuckle. Antonia tries for a smile. He knows what they’re both thinking, what they both want to say: ‘David’s dead. It’s unbelievable. It doesn’t feel real.’ But neither of them do. Instead there’s a silence, a very long silence. He clears his throat eventually and speaks. ‘Did Colin Green call?’
Antonia nods, her gaze far away. ‘Yes, he visited on Monday. He took—’
‘—some files. Yes, nothing to worry about. You know, business matters.’
Another silence, then a Charlie cough. ‘Ah, money. Are you all right for money? Enough in the bank? You must let me know if you get short.’
Another calf reaction, Charlie observes, as Antonia’s eyes seem to widen. This isn’t easy, not at all. But he continues stoically. ‘You see, the thing is that David had life policies, as you would expect. Policies providing for you in the event of his untimely death, but some policies don’t pay out in the event of, of …’
Charlie coughs again and clears his throat. ‘Well. Some insurers just like to be bloody difficult. But it’s not something you need to worry about. So, promise me you won’t?’
He feels quite winded by the time Antonia leaves. He pulls up the thin cotton sheet, then lies down quietly with his eyes closed, hoping that he’ll be left alone for five minutes without someone in hospital uniform prodding him. Or talking as though he’s invisible.
It isn’t just imparting bad news that has made him feel dizzy, not that he’s done so in any effective way. He feels breathless because he was dreading the ‘why’ question he thought Antonia would certainly ask. She hasn’t asked why, which he thinks is slightly strange. But then again, he doesn’t know the girl that well and who can predict how someone reacts to death? He isn’t even sure how he’s reacting himself, it’s all so surreal, which isn’t a word which often pops up in his vocabulary.
‘Do you know why David did it, Charlie?’
‘No, absolutely no idea.’
That’s how it should have gone with Antonia, but the question wasn’t asked. Indeed, the conversation didn’t head remotely in that direction. He should feel relieved, he knows. If Antonia was going to ask why, that was the moment, when she and Charlie were alone. She didn’t ask. But Charlie doesn’t feel relieved or reprieved. He lies in his NHS bed, a pathetic figure who requires a nurse and a tube to help him to piss. What he really needs, he realises with irony, is purgation. Not of the body, but of the soul.
He closes his eyes and recalls his harsh words to David. ‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. How could you be so bloody, bloody stupid? Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner? Do you realise what you’ve done? Has your thick head any idea of what the consequences will be?’
Charlie squeezes his eyes but the tears seep out anyway. David’s face. He can still see it clearly. The boyish surprise, the confusion, the dismay.
‘For crying out loud, David. You just don’t get it do you? I’m not going to sack you. It’s the Law Society who will sack you! You’ll be struck off and if I don’t report you, I’ll be struck off too. You’ve taken client money without permission, for God’s sake, and that is called stealing. It doesn’t matter that you intended to replace it at some indeterminate time. It’s theft and it will have to be reported. To the Law Society. To the police. You will no longer have a job because you will no longer be entitled to practise as a solicitor. Do you understand? You’ll be prosecuted, imprisoned, disgraced. Has the penny finally dropped?’
Of course Charlie didn’t ask the ‘why’ question then either. ‘Why did you have to “borrow” client money to pay the firm’s indemnity premium, David, when the money should have been in the designated insurance account you opened, duly earning interest?’ He didn’t ask because they both knew the answer was theft and frivolity with money, deeply humiliating and embarrassing for them both. It was easier to say, ‘A failure, David. Again. Just get out of my house. I can’t stand the sight of you.’
His very last words. How they hurt.
Helen’s having a productive week without Charlie. Her marking is up to date, as are her lecture plans and paper research. Charlie isn’t especially demanding to have around at home, but he’s a distraction. Aimless chatter, the garden in summer, the conservatory in winter and of course their long-winded meals.
She hasn’t particularly looked forward to visiting Antonia, but she knows that paying one’s respects has to be done and in fairness she does have the time. As she drives to White Gables in the dusky evening, she wonders what on earth they’ll find to talk about and how she’ll stretch the visit out to a respectable hour. But when she arrives, Mike Turner and his daughter are already there, sitting at the enormous breakfast bar on the (rather tasteless, in Helen’s view) gleaming chrome swivel stools. They’re drinking hot chocolate topped with whipped cream from tall glass mugs, chatting and laughing together. Despite Charlie’s grief, she still has no sympathy for David or his selfish actions, but she isn’t sure laughter is appropriate the week after a death.
‘I might get a job,’ Antonia says after serving Helen with an acceptable espresso and a rather tasty brioche bun.
‘Do you have qualifications?’ Helen asks, trying, but not succeeding, to keep the scepticism from her voice.
‘“Qualifications” sounds a bit grand for hairdressing, but yes, I suppose I do.’
Mike’s daughter, Helen notices, is big-toothed and wide-eyed as she gazes at Antonia adoringly. ‘Open a salon, Antonia. In Chorlton, near us. Then I could be your Saturday girl!’
The conversation flows easily, Helen thinks, surprisingly so. Until she mentions the wake at the Royal Oak and asks what plans have been made with Seamus and the caterers so she can tell Charlie. There’s a silence then. Antonia’s face flushes and Mike’s seems to darken.
‘Oh, I thought it would be here. I’ve already started to prepare,’ Antonia says eventually, motioning towards what Helen calls The Tardis.
Helen glances at The Tardis too. It’s still the size of a bloody wardrobe. Ridiculous, she always comments to Charlie. Who could possibly need such a large freezer? Especially for only two people, one of whom eats like a bird.
She turns back to Antonia’s flushed face. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t do the catering, you’re the widow,’ she begins. Then she goes on to patiently (extremely patiently, she later tells Charlie) explain the facts. Perhaps Antonia doesn’t fully understand that David was friends with the Royal Oak’s landlord, Seamus, and his wife for years. Since he was a student at Manchester Polytechnic, in fact. That he even lodged with them at some point and they treated him like a son. So it’s entirely appropriate and expected that the wake should be there.
They all turn and stare at Mike Turner in surprise. He’s raised his voice, which isn’t really necessary, Helen later tells Charlie, and his unshaven face looks like thunder.
‘What’s up, Dad?’ Rupert asks from the bedside. ‘I mean, I know it’s awful about Uncle David, but is there something else? You seem …’ His voice trails away.
Charlie stares through Rupert with vacant eyes for a moment before answering. He’s been working out how best to deal with ‘the insurance problem’ all day, without any solution. Cooking the books is the obvious way out, but that’s too blatantly wrong. Besides, it would involve too many people, even if Tony from accounts were willing to doctor the statements, as he would be, for Charlie.
‘How does one escape when there’s no obvious way out?’ he asks, finally focusing on Rupert’s inquisitive face. It sounds like one of the riddles he posed on long journeys to St Ives when Rupert was about eleven or twelve.
‘Bribery or blackmail? And if that doesn’t work, then fall on your sword,’ Rupert immediately replies with a grin. There’s no need to mull it over for fifty miles or so on this occasion.
Charlie puts a thoughtful finger to his lips and his grey eyes focus on the too-short curtains of the hospital room before eventually looking back at his son. ‘Yes, or perhaps a mix of all three,’ he says slowly. His face brightens and he chuckles. ‘Well done, Rupe. Good thinking! Got your mother’s brains, you have.’
‘And my father’s good looks?’
The family joke. It’s nice to hear Rupert say it. It’s usually Helen’s line.
‘You can’t ignore Antonia forever,’ Sami says when he finally arrives home from seeing Jemima, feeling vaguely dissatisfied. ‘She’s been your best friend since you were a kid. David’s dead. He killed himself, Sophie. That’s really bad. She must need you. And the funeral’s coming up soon.’
Sophie is lying on the sofa in the dark, without even the television for company. He glances around the room for a wine bottle or a glass but finds none. Then he apologises for being so late, explaining that the client prattled on over a drink and that it was difficult to escape.
‘That’s fine,’ she replies. He’s surprised at her mood. It’s muted and she’s quiet. Far too quiet.
He lifts Sophie’s head and sits on the sofa, feeling the warmth she’s left there through his fine-wool suit trousers. It was a crap evening with Jemima. He wishes he hadn’t gone. The sex was perfunctory on his part and her compliments left him cold this time. He should have resisted. He should’ve come straight home.
‘She didn’t love David.’ Sophie’s husky voice interrupts his thoughts. It sounds flat, disinterested.
‘Love’s a funny thing,’ he replies, bending down to stroke back her hair and plant a soft kiss on her forehead.
‘Do you love me, Sami?’
His hand stops its rhythmic stroking for a moment before starting again. He can’t remember her ever asking him that question before.
‘Of course I do. Very, very much.’
‘Even though I’m getting fat.’
‘No you’re not, I like you just as you are. Hey, what’s all this?’
Thoughts flash through Sami’s mind. Has he been sloppy? What does she know?
Sophie shakes her head, turning it into his body so he can’t see her face. But the tears he can feel, as they slowly seep through his shirt on to his skin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It’s gone. The black dog has gone. At least for now, Mike thinks to himself repeatedly. He doesn’t want to tempt fate. Fate being a bad thing. Like new shoes on the table. Like ladders, magpies and cracked mirrors. Just some of Olivia’s superstitions. He laughed with surprise the first time they became apparent on a day trip to Blackpool not long after they started dating.
‘Buying heather from a gypsy, Olivia? You of all people can’t possibly believe in all that rubbish.’
‘I don’t. She needs the cash. Anyway, better safe than sorry. And stop laughing!’
‘Sorry, but, spells and bad omens. Really?’
‘Don’t look so smug! It’s not so different to your blessed religion, Mike. Remember that Old Testament God? Divine retribution and wrath?’
Mike sits back, his hands behind his head as he gently swivels his office chair. It’s difficult to describe how he felt for all those months, but he no longer feels hollow. He’s content, happy even, and more importantly, Olivia is too. They’ve survived the blip and he feels closer to her than he has in a long time. Life at home feels good.
Then there’s Antonia. He’s been to White Gables most days since David’s death, taking Rachel with him after work. She’s thrilled to go, tapping her foot with impatience as she waits for him to finish his dinner. He can tell from the way she holds herself at Antonia’s kitchen island that she’s pleased to be treated as a small adult, but it’s more than that. Her eyes study Antonia. They gaze at her clothes, her make-up and hair. They follow her every move. Then when Antonia isn’t in the room, they drink in the surroundings. The colours, the curtains, the lamps and the rugs.
‘She’s so beautiful. Like a footballer’s wife,’ he heard Rachel declare on her mobile phone, presumably to one of her school friends. Olivia heard too. She raised her eyebrows at Mike and smiled one of her secret smiles of mutual understanding. Olivia had said those very words many times before in the early years, and Mike had agreed with the superficial assessment. But now he knows Antonia properly, the words feel dirty. They suggest something expensive but cheap. He wants to tackle Rachel about it, to tell her not to use the expression, but knows she won’t understand. She regards it as a compliment.
He looks at his desk. It’s already a muddle even though Judith has only been gone a few days. He’s surprised himself by how much he’s missing her. Not just because he has to tell the temps what to do every two minutes. Not even because of the lost banter. He’s missing her most because Judith understands him. Or if she doesn’t actually understand him, she puts on a good show.
She’s phoned him every day so far. ‘You’re still my baby until the new one comes along,’ she says. ‘Have you pined for me?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Ha! Told you so.’
This morning they chatted about David and Antonia and the upcoming funeral. He mentioned Rachel. Not about the footballer’s wife comment, which is still festering away, but the fact that she is temporarily star-struck by the whole White Gables thing.
‘Why do you always take Rachel?’ Judith asked. He gave the expected answer. That Rachel loved to go, that he enjoyed her company in the car and so on. But Mike knows Judith was doing what Judith does best. She was posing the question he’s secretly asking himself. Not that he’d admit to the answer. He wouldn’t admit to feeling an attraction, or to waking in the night and contemplating that erotic moment he and Antonia were last alone together.
He looks down at his diary again and taps his Biro on the page. He has a rare appointment out of the office today. It’s at the Macclesfield Planning Department, so it seems sensible to pop in on Antonia afterwards, since she’s only down the road. They can have a proper chat about the funeral, he reasons, something he doesn’t want to do in front of Rachel. He can ask Antonia if she’s OK, really OK. He hasn’t asked her since she cried the night of David’s death. He feels that a good friend should.
‘I can’t seem to get rid of you this week,’ Norma says as she hands a mug of tea to Sophie. ‘Would you like a Hobnob with that?’
Sophie takes a biscuit from the stripy tin and places it on the arm of the sofa. She tucks her feet under her bottom and holds the mug with both hands.
‘You look cold, lo
ve. I’ll put on the fire,’ Norma says.
Sophie gazes at the stone cladding wall and at the gas fire with its wooden-look surroundings. It makes her think of sherry and artificial Christmas trees. It takes her back to board games with Dad: Cluedo, Monopoly or Frustration on Sunday afternoons. Mum being strict with the rules, Dad soft. ‘She’s only a kid, Norma. Come on. Let her have another chance.’ She hasn’t seen him in ages. She misses his handsome face and his relaxed view of the world.
‘Preston’s too far away, Dad, don’t go,’ she said when he left.
‘Only thirty miles, love, we’ll see each other loads,’ he replied. Of course they haven’t.
‘To think it was state of the art when we had this gas fire put in,’ Norma says, turning the switch repeatedly to fire it up. ‘But even I think it’s time for a living flame.’
‘Living flames died out years ago, Mum. You could always put on the central heating. If it still works.’
‘Not worth it just for me,’ Norma starts. She sits on the footstool, slightly breathless from bending down and smiles. ‘Guess you’ve heard that a few times. Mum on repeat. Again.’ She pauses for a moment, looking over at Sophie. ‘Is Sami OK?’
‘Yeah, he says hello. And before you ask, no I haven’t spoken to Antonia, so don’t bother giving me a lecture.’
‘I wasn’t going to. Look, love, I don’t know what she did to upset you, but you’re entitled to feel whatever you’re feeling.’
Sophie turns her head and stares out of the window towards the soggy back lawn. ‘I don’t know what I’m feeling, Mum. I’m so tired. All I want to do is sleep.’ She looks back towards Norma with weary eyes. ‘But what I do know is that I don’t want to go to the funeral. People will think I’m a selfish bitch, but I don’t want to go. I really don’t want to go.’
Beneath the Skin Page 20