“I don’t give a toss how she pronounces it,” Angela snapped. “You certainly desire her.”
“I love her,” Ian said simply.
“Don’t try and dignify your lust with that word,” raged Angela. “What about me? You love me, or I thought you did. And the girls—yourdaughters, remember? You’re supposed to love them, this will break their hearts.” Even as she brought Annabel and Chantal into the argument, Angela despised herself for doing so. None of this was their fault, they shouldn’t become pawns in the bitterness of the fight which was about to erupt.
I won’t use them as weapons, she swore to herself then. They are going to be hurt enough by his leaving without being drawn into the crossfire. For Angela intended to fight for her husband and her marriage; to her their life together had been a happy one, and she had had no inkling that Ian had found someone else until he dropped the bombshell. The feeling of betrayal engulfed her, drowning her in pain. It had never once crossed her mind to question the business trips and late work at the office, her trust in Ian and his love for her and their daughters had been absolute. They had still shared a bed, and though on reflection they had made love less often of late, she had put that down to his tiredness from pressure of work; and when they had, it had been as tender and satisfying as ever. She responded to his touch as she always had, and he had been as aroused. After all, she thought bitterly, men can’t fake it.
She had no warning, no premonition that her life was about to collapse in jagged shards about her feet. Ian had simply said one day, “I have to tell you I’m moving out.”
Angela stared at him, uncomprehending. “Moving out?” she echoed.
“Yes. I’ve found someone else.” And that was that.
He moved out the same day, saying, “A quick, clean cut is best, easiest for everyone.” And his quick, clean cut sliced through Angela’s inner being. She had no protection against such a cut, for up till now she hadn’t realised she needed one.
He waited only to see the girls when they came home from school, to try to explain why he was going. Annabel greeted the news with a blank stare of total incomprehension, and Chantal had shrieked in horror and rushed from the room to find her mother. Then he picked up the case he had already packed, dumped it into the boot of his car and had driven off, leaving his stricken wife and daughters to comfort each other as best they could.
Gradually, over the months, the girls had adapted to his absence, each in her own way. Life continued for them as near to how it always had been as Angela could manage, and the girls came to terms with only having a weekend father. Outwardly, Chantal slowly settled back into her normal self, noisy, untidy, slapdash with her school work. The only outward signs of her inner turbulence were that she was much more argumentative and truculent than she had been, and occasionally when things went wrong, she dissolved into tears.
Annabel seemed to have become more aloof; she was working hard, as far as Angela could tell, but she no longer confided in her mother the trivial happenings of her daily round as she had used to do. She had withdrawn into herself behind an invisible wall. Outwardly, she was perfectly polite, well-behaved and hard-working, but lately some part of her had become private.
Now, Ian had phoned to say he wanted to discuss things. Would she have dinner with him tomorrow evening?
“No!” Angela had said fiercely, while aching to go and despising herself for that ache.
“A drink then,” he persisted. “So we can relax a little and talk things over in a civilised manner.”
I don’t bloody feel civilised, Angela had raged to herself, but she had agreed to the drink. She didn’t feel at all civilised and she was afraid; afraid of what he was going to say; afraid that the separation was going to become permanent with the official seal of divorce, but it would be worse not to see him. And David hadn’t phoned as he’d promised.
David, recently encountered, had given Angela back a touch of self-respect. Clearly he admired her and the admiration in his eyes was balm to her soul. He had asked her to go away with him for a weekend and was supposed to ring her this evening for her answer. She still wasn’t certain of that answer, but it piqued her a little that he hadn’t phoned to find out. After Ian’s phone call, she was even less sure of what her reply would be.
Angela sighed and downed the last of her whisky. Tomorrow she would see Ian and talk. There were things she wanted to talk about, too. Annabel, for instance. She was really worried about Annabel. It seemed to Angela that she was nursing some secret to herself. Often although she was there physically, her mind kept slipping away.
I’ll tackle her in the morning, Angela resolved. It’s Saturday, so neither of us has to rush off anywhere, then maybe I’ll have something more definite to tell Ian.
Her chance came next morning as they lingered over their breakfast together. Chantal had not yet put in an appearance and Angela decided to grasp the opportunity while it was there. She looked across at Annabel whose eyes were unfocused, somewhere in the middle distance.
“Penny for them,” she said casually. “You’re miles away, darling.
Problems?” Keep it light she adjured herself, keep it comfortable and easy.
“Sorry, Mum,” said Bel, slipping back into Annabel’s skin. “I was thinking about my history project.”
“Were you now?” Angela was not convinced and didn’t sound it.
“Really, I’m meeting Avril this morning to go over what we’ve got.” That at least was true because what “they” had got was whatever Avril had got. Annabel had nothing to contribute yet.
“I see. Fine. It’s just that you used to discuss your work with me too, and I don’t even know what your project is this time.”
“The effect of the First World War on the lives of women in the earlynineteen-twenties,” Annabel said. She gathered up her plate and mug and put them into the waiting dishwasher. “I must go now,” she said. “I’m sorry if I haven’t discussed it with you, Mum, but you aren’t always there like you used to be.”
Seeing the pain on her mother’s face that this comment had caused, Annabel gave her an awkward half-hug and said, “I know it’s not your fault, Mum. I know you have to work full-time now Dad’s gone. You always look so tired when you come home, I don’t like to trouble you.”
“Never too tired to talk to you,” Angela said. “We can always talk, you know, like we used to.” She kept her voice gentle, as if dealing with a frightened animal. “I like to be involved in what you’re doing, and ifyou do have a problem, any problem, I’m always here for you.”
“I know that, Mum. I’ll show you my project tonight if you like,” Annabel promised, “when I’m really up to date with Avril.” When I’ve at least a few notes on the subject, she thought.
She gathered her books into her bag and closed the front door behind her. Angela watched her from the living room window, saw her slouch her way across the Circle and out to the main road. She sighed and poured herself another cup of coffee, feeling she had got nowhere, had indeed driven the wedge of silence deeper between them. Far from calming her fears, Annabel had excited them further. There had been something furtive in the way her eyes had slid from her mother’s gaze and Angela was even more certain now that there was something wrong in Annabel’s life, that she had a problem that she was keeping to herself, or at least the rapport they had always had was gone.
Maybe she blames me for Ian leaving, thought Angela for only the thousandth time. Maybe she’s right, maybe it was my fault that he left. They always say it takes two to tango, but I didn’t even know I was dancing.
Annabel turned the corner out of Dartmouth Circle. She scanned the main road for any sign of the Bedford van, and when there was none she trudged on to Avril’s and the inevitable row there was going to be when Avril discovered that she, Annabel, had done none of the reading research she had promised.
There was a toot behind her and the Bedford drew up at her side. With a burst of guilty relief, Annabel put off the evil
hour with Avril, and Bel climbed swiftly into the passenger seat before Scott accelerated into the Saturday morning traffic.
Six
Oliver Hooper lay in bed in the downstairs bedroom of his father’s house, staring at the cracks spreading like river deltas in the ceiling. He was fed up. School holidays should be spent at home or with his mates,not here in boring Dartmouth Circle in boring Belcaster with that bitch Annie going on at him all the time. Dad was out all day at work, Annie worked part-time and there was nothing to do and no one to do it with. He could hardly admit it to himself, but he found he actually missed his sister, Emma. It was never quite as bad at Dartmouth Circle when she was there. She seemed to get on all right with Annie and created a buffer zone around Oliver. But Emma was off in France on a school trip; she wouldn’t be back for two weeks and he was stuck here.
Oliver didn’t allow himself to dwell too much on why he wasn’t at home with Mum for the Easter holidays, it made him too angry. She had gone away as well, to Tenerife, with her new man, Oslo. How could he be called Oslo, for God’s sakes? Oslo was a bloody town in Norway! However, his name was Oslo, Oslo de Quinn and the stupidity of it made Oliver loathe the man even more.
“I’m sorry it’s during the holidays, darling,” Lynne Hooper had said,
“but that’s the time of Oslo’s timeshare, so we have to go then.”
He has to go then, Oliver raged inwardly. You don’t have to bloody go at all!
“Why can’t I come too?” Oliver demanded. “You said it was a villa, there must be room for me.”
“Yes, it is a villa, and I’m sure you’ll be able to come another time, darling, you and Emma, but this time Oslo’s invited some other friends. Come on now, Ollie,”—Oliver hated it when she called him Ollie, he’d stopped being Ollie when he started at prep school—“Come on now, Ollie, it’s only for two weeks, and you’ll be fine at Dad’s.”
Lynne didn’t tell him that she had already asked Oslo to take him too, but had met with a direct refusal. She was not sure enough yet of
Oslo and the continuance of their relationship, to stand against him, and had given in.
“I’m sorry Lynne, but it’s not possible this time,” Oslo said firmly. “I have already invited some business associates and their wives to join us, it would be no place for Oliver, he would be bored.” He didn’t add, “And in the way,” which is what he was thinking, but he softened his words by taking her in his arms and saying, “I’m afraid Oliver is going to have to get used to sharing you, my darling. He’s going to have to get used to you having a life of your own.”
Lynne returned Oslo’s kisses and allowed the guilt she felt about deserting Oliver during his Easter holidays to be smoothed away by Oslo’s persuasion, culminating in a murmured reminder that, “A boy needs to spend time with his father, it’s important their relationship is strong.”
Lynne agreed. She thought it would indeed be good for Oliver to spend some real time with his father, not just the occasional weekend. Let Stephen take some responsibility for him for a change, instead of always turning up like the good guy in the white hat, being the one who provided presents and treats and days out, who never had to nag about prep, or bedtimes or TV programmes or games kit. Lynne’s indignation began to build. Let that bitch Annie deal with the soggy, filthy, rugby kit that smelled so high it almost crawled out of the kit bag by itself, except that it would be holidays and there wouldn’t be any rugby kit, or any kit at all for that matter. Typical of Annie to get out of everything.
Encased in Oslo’s persuasive reasoning and her own indignant righteousness, Lynne had smothered the last of her guilt, dropped Oliver off in Dartmouth Circle and flown off to Tenerife with a clear conscience. “Goodbye, darling,” she hugged him at the gate. “I won’t come in, I’m running behind time,”—not true and he knew it,—“Have a greattime with Dad. I’ll give you a ring on Saturday.”
I’ve only been here for half a day and I’m already fed up,” he thought angrily. Then he brightened as he remembered that Dad had promised him this afternoon together at the County Cricket Ground to watch the opening match of the season, but even so he didn’t rush to get up, there was too much morning to get through on his own. There was no one in the Circle remotely near his age, except on occasion Peter Callow and that stuck up madam, Chantal Haven.
The thought of Chantal made him pull a face. There she’d been at the Callow’s party at New Year, posing on, so cool yeah? With a glass of wine in her hand and puffing at a cigarillo thing. Oliver could see she didn’t like the cigar because she never inhaled. He recognised the trick because it was one of his own when the need to smoke at school arose.
Chantal simply took smoke into her mouth and blew it out again, and twice he heard her coughing when she’d done it. Some coolth!
He’d offered to get her another drink and she looking at him as if he were something the cat had brought in, shrugged her shoulders and handed him her glass. With another puff at the cigarillo, she drawled, “If you like, thanks.”
Oliver had smiled and taken her glass to the kitchen where he half filled it with wine and then topped it up with vodka. When he took it back to her, she was talking to Max Davies, the son of the doctors who lived at number twelve. Oliver didn’t know him very well, but handed Chantal her drink and stayed with them. Chantal accepted the drink without a thank you and took a large swig. She looked across at Oliver.
“Is this a different wine?” she asked.
Oliver shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. It came from one of the open bottles in the kitchen.”
Oliver’s sister, Emma, and Peter Callow joined them and Max gently detached himself from the group, leaving the four youngsters together.
Chantal scowled at the newcomers. “Now look what you’ve done. He’s gone. He didn’t want to be with a bunch of kids; just when I’d got him interested!”
“Interested? Interested in what?” Oliver laughed derisively “You? He’s at least ten years older than you!”
“That’s nothing these days,” remarked Chantal airily, downing the rest of her drink. “I always go for the older man.”
“You go for any man,” muttered Emma.
Chantal glanced at her. “And men seem to find me attractive too,” she said as if she hadn’t heard Emma’s remark. “They might go for you, too,” she added, “if only you did something with your hair and got rid of your zits.”
Emma went scarlet. The fact that she had bad acne mortified her, she already knew with a desperate certainty that no one could possibly find her attractive with spots on her face, and in a crowd, she often retreated into herself, rejecting herself before anyone else could reject her.
Seeing her flush, Oliver suddenly felt very protective of his sister. It was out of order for someone like Chantal to make remarks like that. He said stoutly, “Well, I think you look great, don’t you, Peter?”
Peter Callow rose to the occasion. “Yes, I do,” he said. “I was, like, going to say let’s go in the disco.” He took Emma’s hand and pulled her towards the music which blasted up the stairs from the garage which had become a makeshift disco.
“Do you want to go down the disco?” Oliver asked Chantal.
“No,” Chantal replied shortly, “but you can get me another drink if you like.”
“OK,” Oliver said easily. “Same again?” He was soon back with another glass of wine, spiked as before, and a glass of beer for himself. “Here you go,” he said, meeting her eye.
At that moment, Peter and Emma reappeared. “Hopeless down there,” Peter said. “Can’t move and the music’s crap. Me and Em’s going to grab a few beers and go up to my room and watch a video. I’ve got Vindicator. Coming?”
Oliver shrugged. “It’s a good movie. Coming, Chantal?”
Chantal glanced round the room. Max Davies was talking to some woman she didn’t know, and there was no one else to take her interest. For a moment, the room seemed to slip out of focus, but Chantal blinked and
all was clear again.
Gripping her glass tightly she said, “May as well.” Vindicator was indeed a good film. Her mother hadn’t let her see it at the cinema as it was an 18. She followed the others unsteadily to the stairs. As they passed the kitchen, Oliver picked up a six-pack of lagers and a newly-opened bottle of wine, and they scurried up to Peter’s bedroom where the TV and video sets stood in the corner.
“You’re lucky to have your own TV and video,” Emma said enviously.
“Christmas present,” answered Peter, “from Dad, to keep here. No chairs I’m afraid.” He pulled his duvet on to the floor, “Room for two on the bed and two here on the floor.” He sank on to the duvet and pulled one of the rings on the lager. “Beer, Em?”
The others made themselves comfortable while Peter put the cassette into the video.
Chantal sat on the bed and leaned back against the wall. Oliver could see her tits outlined against the white of her shirt. He wondered what it would be like to feel them, how they would feel in his hands, pressed under his fingers. He knew from guys at school, that feeling girls’ tits was exciting, made you feel powerful. Suddenly Oliver wanted to try— to see if they were right. Chantal had her eyes shut. The title music of Vindicator blared out. Oliver looked at Chantal’s legs, encased in skin-tight jeans, and wondered what the skin on her thighs would feel like. He felt himself grow hot and he grabbed at a can of lager, pulled the ring, took a long pull, almost choking.
Emma and Peter were leaning against the bed wrapped in the duvet, eyes glued to the TV screen. Chantal still leaned against the wall, her eyes closed, wishing the room wouldn’t spin and that the music wasn’t so loud.
“Drink?” suggested Oliver to Chantal, offering the wine bottle.
“Girls relax when they’ve had a drink or two,” Drew Elliott at school had told him. “Everything’s much easier then.”
Downstairs Oliver had spiked her drink because he was angry; angry with her stuck-up bloody superior pose, the way she’d treated him, the way she spoke to Emma. He’d wanted to take her down a peg or two, to show her she wasn’t so bloody clever, no better than him or Emma or Peter, that she was just a posy kid. Now it was different, she didn’t look like a dressed up kid and he, Oliver, didn’t feel like a kid either. He ached between the legs, he wanted to feel her tits and for her to take off her jeans. He looked down at his sister and Peter, staring at the screen, caught up in the terror of the Vindicator, Emma’s hand already pressed against her teeth in horror, and he saw them both as kids—watching sex and violence, but having no feeling of it inside them, within their beings. Oliver felt both, and as he looked down at them gripped by the film, he saw them as children and knew that he was not. So, he offered Chantal more drink, not from anger any more, not to spite her, or to make a fool of her, but because he thought it might relax her and he wanted to take advantage of that relaxation.
The New Neighbours Page 7