by Vikki Patis
‘Why didn’t you?’ I say, lifting my chin as his gaze finds mine again. ‘You are his father, aren’t you?’
Lexi’s eyes widen at my words. ‘Sorry,’ she murmurs, and I want to tell her not to apologise. I want to tell her to stand up to him, this bully to whom she has tied herself. She suddenly looks very young, almost lost, and I feel the anger go out of me. She reaches out and takes Leo’s hand, but his fingers still cling to my trousers and I look down to see his large eyes swimming with tears. I hold out my hand and he takes it with his free hand, his little palm damp in mine. My shoulder bumps into Felix and he staggers, his eyes blazing as Lexi and I move away from him, Leo between us, our backs straight and our heads held high.
27
The Mistress
‘That wine is too good to be drunk alone.’
Those were the first words Richard said to me. Well, not the very first words; we’d known each other casually for years, had been on nodding terms at training events and work dos. But the first time I noticed him, really noticed him, was at the end of a particularly busy week. The company I worked for, providing sleep pods for the homeless, had received a charitable donation from Richard’s firm, and he had invited us along to one of his fancy dinners. He always loved to throw a party, had known how to wine and dine both clients and suppliers, and a few of us from the charity had been invited. One of my colleagues came down with the flu the day before; the other had to take their daughter to the airport, and so I went alone, determined to shake off the stress of the working week.
The dinner was exquisite, as always, the ambience perfect, but my mood refused to lift. I can’t remember now what had been stressing me out so much. Isn’t that always the case? The things that seem so huge, the challenges so insurmountable, often melt away with the passage of time.
After dessert, I found myself ordering a bottle of wine and taking it out onto the terrace, sitting alone in the chilly September air, a scarf wrapped around my shoulders. Not ten minutes later, Richard joined me outside, grinning his boyish grin as he approached my table.
‘That wine is too good to be drunk alone,’ he said, producing another glass with a flourish as if he had planned the whole thing, and sat down beside me.
We talked for hours, the sky black and full of stars, the guests leaving one by one as the hour grew later. And still we talked. He went inside for another bottle, and I remember wondering what I was doing, why I hadn’t made my excuses and left. But I didn’t want to. I was pleasantly surprised by how well we were getting on, by how much I was enjoying his company. The slick businessman had been left inside; I was finally meeting the real Richard, the man behind the mask. And I liked him.
He had booked a room, since he had a function nearby the next morning that meant it was pointless going home in between. We stumbled into the lift together, clutching one another, our lips stretched into grins. We were like giddy teenagers, and when the lift doors closed and he kissed me, I felt as if I were sixteen again.
We stayed up all night, tangled up in the pristine sheets, finally tiring at around 4am and falling into a drunken, sated sleep. His alarm at six thirty was an unwelcome shock; I woke with sticky eyes and a dry mouth, to see him sliding out of bed, his naked back glistening in the half-light. He turned and smiled at me.
‘Stay and sleep,’ he whispered, reaching down and tucking my hair behind my ear. ‘You have until midday.’
I must have slept again, because when I opened my eyes he was gone, a business card left on his pillow, a message scrawled across the back. What a surprise you are, Ellie. Call me. R x
I was flattered. I was a few years older than Richard, but I had begun to pride myself on keeping fit after my divorce. Early morning jogs and weekly swimming meant I was healthier in my fifties than I had ever been before, and I enjoyed the attention it gave me. Some women complain about the male gaze, but they will miss it when it starts to skip over them, when they become invisible. When my son died and my marriage fell apart, I was a size 18 and uncomfortable with it. I’m all for body positivity, but it didn’t suit me, and I wore the weight like a heavy shroud. My hair was a mess, my skin neglected, and I threw on whatever clothes I could find, without caring if they were clean or dirty. I was thirty-two, divorced, bereaved, alone.
It took five years to lose the weight, five years of strict dieting and daily exercise. I hated it to begin with, hated being the largest person in the Zumba class, puffing away at the back amongst the young, lean things. I hated lettuce, would look down at my daily salad with dismay as my stomach grumbled. But I soon got used to it. I learned to buy the salad I actually liked, and set aside time to prepare meals for the week so I could avoid the oven pizza bought in a rush. I started walking every day, buying myself a pair of headphones and listening to audiobooks as I strolled, then jogged, then ran across the beach. And as my waistline shrank, my confidence grew. I finally had something other than my grief to focus on. I was alive, despite everything I was still alive, and I was going to live.
The year I met Richard was also the year I decided to retire from my job at the charity. I had built up a good pension, had paid off the mortgage on my house and on the student flat I rented out in Falmouth. I had enjoyed my career, for the most part, juggling contracts for construction businesses before moving to the charity. I’d enjoyed dressing in smart suits and expensive heels, and working at the charity gave me a sense of purpose. I had done well, I thought, contributing to the success of the business, and now I was going to relax.
In December, I gave six months’ notice and left the following summer, Richard waiting in the car park at the end of my last day to take me home. He cooked steak and we spent the evening on the living room floor, blankets barely covering our naked bodies. This is the life, I remember thinking. This is my life now.
Richard still worked, of course, and he had Fiona to go home to. It niggled me at first, when I realised that he was still married, but he soon began to assure me that he was going to leave her. He spent at least three nights a week at mine, and we met regularly for lunch in a pub near his office. We even took his sons out for dinner, and I often saw Felix in the office when I arrived to pick Richard up. We were not discreet. We had no reason to be, Richard said. Fiona had her own lovers; they had an agreement.
My cheek stinging, my eyes sore from crying, I realise now that Richard had been lying to me. That Fiona was heartbroken by his infidelity; that I was The Other Woman, the homewrecker who had been trying to steal her husband away. She probably still loves him as I do. She is probably as grief-stricken as I am.
Glancing at the clock, I realise that I must have slept. My head feels groggy, the sour taste of wine in my mouth. I grimace, lifting my head from the table. What am I doing, drinking in the middle of the day? Richard and I always liked to drink, at mealtimes or out with friends, but this?
You’re grieving, a voice inside my head says. And it’s right, I am grieving. I am grieving the man I loved, and the life I would now never have. But I know deep down that I would never have had that life. It started six months ago, when I picked up Richard’s phone instead of mine, and glanced at the preview of a text message.
We can’t keep doing this. It’s wrong. I don’t–
The rest of the message was cut off, and I didn’t know his passcode. The sender’s name was S. I wracked my brains, trying to think of someone whose name began with S. Skye? No, he hadn’t spoken to her in years. And she was his daughter; this message felt… seedy. As if from a lover.
The word brought tears to my eyes. While I knew he probably still slept with his wife, it was almost as if Fiona didn’t count. I was the lover, after all. Was he seeing someone else? I realise now that so much of Richard was shrouded in mystery. There was so much I didn’t know about him, so many dark corners where he hid his secrets from me.
Who were you, Richard? I think, tears filling my eyes. Who were you really?
28
The Daughter-in-Law
S
kye leads me back to our table, flashing me a small, reassuring smile as she slides in next to Fleur. I am amazed by her, at her strength and the conviction in her words when she spoke to Felix. Why am I not more like her? Why am I incapable of standing up to him? All my life, men have pushed me around. My father barking orders, my brother giving me his chores to do as well as my own. The men in the camp telling me to wear shorts if I was going to do cartwheels instead of ‘flashing my knickers’, the same men who shunned me after my mother’s murder. Arsehole bosses and rude clients and strangers telling me to smile, love, it might never happen. Then Richard, and now Felix. I’ve had enough.
I look down at my son, my golden lion, and make a silent promise that I will raise him to be better. That he will know how to treat people, that he will be respectful and kind, but strong too. He will be better than all of us.
I glance up, noticing Skye place her phone on the table before her. Fleur glances at it, and the two women exchange a look.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, and they look at me in unison.
‘Just a text from my mum, asking how it’s going.’
I grimace. ‘What are you going to say?’
‘Oh, that it’s a barrel of laughs,’ Skye says with a sigh.
‘Putting the fun in funeral,’ I say without thinking, and she laughs. I blush, reaching out to take a sip of my drink.
‘You are, what is the term… a black horse?’ Fleur says, screwing up her nose.
Skye giggles. ‘Dark horse, dear.’
Fleur’s cheeks redden. ‘Dark horse. You are a dark horse, Lexi.’
I like the way my name sounds in her mouth, her French accent giving it a flair I’ve never heard before. I smile at her, at her kindness. She and Skye are not what I’d expected. I had only heard Skye mentioned a few times, Fiona not liking to be reminded of Richard’s first family, and I’d been given the impression that she was a hard, prickly woman, difficult to like. But in truth she is warm and funny, her pretty face open and kind. In truth she is stunning, with her cropped copper curls and long, lean body; her pale skin and bright eyes the colour of summer grass. And I can see the love she holds for Fleur in them, in the way she looks at her, her lips always curving slightly, the way her hand rests lightly on Fleur’s leg. Theirs is an easy love, something I have never had before.
We sit in companionable silence, Skye tapping out a reply to her mum, and I listen to the conversations in the room, catching snippets from voices I don’t recognise.
‘…lovely, wasn’t it…’
‘…are you going to…’
‘…not sure why he’s…’
‘…no it was Alan’s funeral, only last year…’
‘…blatant disrespect…’
The last one catches my attention and I turn my head in the direction of the words.
‘Her father would be spinning in his grave,’ an elderly woman is saying two tables away from us.
‘Well, he would, if he had a grave,’ the other woman says, chuckling into her glass.
‘It’s just for attention, isn’t it?’ a man says, his hands resting on his large stomach. ‘All these new sexualities and genders. One can hardly keep up.’
‘No wonder they didn’t speak,’ the first woman says. ‘He was ashamed, no doubt.’ She looks up then, our eyes meeting, and she turns quickly away, her cheeks colouring as she nudges the woman beside her. I feel my own cheeks flush as I realise who they are talking about. I turn back to Skye and Fleur, hoping they haven’t heard. I have no idea who these people are, and I wish I was strong enough to confront them. I wish I was the kind of person who causes a scene when one is worth causing.
Leo shuffles closer to his aunt, his head resting on her arm as she shows him something on her phone. ‘You live there?’ he asks, looking up at her in wonder. He turns to me. ‘Mummy, Auntie Skye and Auntie Fleur live on a farm!’
I watch the women exchange a glance at the term, smiles on their lips, and I feel a rush of something. Is this what family feels like?
‘Not on a farm.’ Skye chuckles, raising an eyebrow. ‘But next to one.’
‘Do you have chickens?’
‘Yes, there are chickens. And cows too.’
‘Moo!’ Leo says excitedly. ‘Moo!’
‘Inside voice, sweetie,’ I say softly, and Leo puts a hand over his mouth.
‘Moo,’ he whispers, and we all laugh.
‘Show me,’ I say, bending over the table to look at Skye’s phone. She scrolls through photos of breathtaking scenery, clear rivers and thick green forests. ‘Wow. It’s beautiful. Is that your house?’ She’s paused on a photo of her and Fleur, standing outside a faded yellow door. They have floppy hats on their heads and large sunglasses covering their eyes, and their arms are wrapped around one another, cheeks pressed together.
‘Yes,’ Fleur says, ‘we rent it from the farmer. It used to house farm workers, I think.’
‘Does your doggy live there?’ Leo asks, and I frown.
‘Do you have a dog?’
Skye shakes her head. ‘Fleur wants a dog–’ she begins.
‘A golden repriever!’ Leo interjects.
‘Don’t interrupt,’ I tell him, and he puts a hand over his mouth again, his eyes wide and glittering with naughtiness.
‘– but there’s no way one would fit in our house,’ she finishes, smiling. ‘One day though.’
‘I know someone else who wants a dog,’ Fleur says, winking at Leo, who nods seriously.
I sigh. ‘Maybe one day, when you’re bigger.’
‘But I am big!’ he protests.
‘Big-ger,’ I say, reaching out and ruffling his hair. ‘When you’re old enough to take care of it.’ But why not now? a voice says inside my head. I know Leo gets lonely, spending most days with Fiona while the rest of us are at work. Sometimes I worry about what she’s filling his head with. But then, who says I have to go back to work? The realisation hits me suddenly. Felix owns the company now, he can take a wage as a director without even having to do anything. Why couldn’t I spend every day with Leo, reading and playing and walking a dog? I have no need to work at Asquith & Son anymore. I have no need to live in that house anymore. My debt died with Richard. Leo and I could be free now, couldn’t we?
29
The Celebrant
James is sitting in a wide armchair, his legs crossed at the ankle, giving him the appearance of a relaxed man. But he is anything but relaxed.
He watches Fiona glide around the room, shaking hands and tilting her head to accept the well wishes. She is a graceful widow, hiding her pain well; so well in fact that James had not realised the extent of it. He has done her a disservice, he thinks, ashamed of his earlier thoughts. She is grieving for her husband, whatever sort of man that husband might have been.
Felix is in a small group of men by the bar, tumblers of whisky at their elbows, and their laughter is on the brink of becoming raucous. They are all young men, mid-twenties, with fitted blazers and shoes that look as if they are fresh out of the box. Matching haircuts – long on top, shorter on the sides, slicked back and shiny – and matching Home Counties accents. His school friends, then, the boys he spent six or so years with at boarding school up country before they went off to university. Richard packed both boys off when they turned eleven, and they only returned three times a year. Fiona missed them, James knew, remembering the times they met for coffee and how she would proudly tell him of Felix’s hockey win or Toby’s music lessons. He never heard Richard speak of them when they weren’t there, but then again, James tried not to speak to Richard much at all.
To amuse himself, James decides to give the young men a background. He’s always fancied writing a novel, and perhaps now he can, now he has the time. The short one he calls Edward, never Eddie except on nights out, who is the son of a banker but has dreams of being an ice skater. The one with dark hair is Fred, heir to a pharmaceutical empire. The third is Louis, pronounced the French way, with fingers adorned with heavy rings
. He is the leader of a secret society, which only permits white, male members from the upper class. And the final man, the only one there with slightly darker skin, is the illegitimate child of a British lord and a foreign actress. He tries to think of a suitable name, something slightly exotic, but fails to come up with anything that doesn’t teeter on the edge of racism. He really needs to expand his horizons, he thinks. And he’ll have to get better at characterisation, if he’s ever going to write that novel.
Felix looks at him then, his eyes clouded with drink, and James looks away, not wishing to draw his attention again. He had had enough of Richard, and now he has had enough of his son.
His eyes find Tobias instead, sitting in a corner with an older couple, one of them the secretary at Asquith & Son, James thinks. He ponders on the name for a moment – why not ‘Sons’, plural? – before remembering that Richard had started the company when he was still with Fearne, when he only had daughters. Or had Felix been born by then? James shakes his head, the timeline confusing him as always. Either way, it would seem that girls were not enough for Richard. Only sons would do. And only a son like Felix.
‘You’ve got a nerve.’ The words are low, hissed from behind his head, and James turns, startled. Sandra, Peter’s wife, stands behind his chair, her fists clenched at her sides. ‘You’ve got a bleddy nerve, showing up here.’ Her Cornish accent is strong – something Richard always ridiculed, James remembers – and her eyes are blazing with fury.
He stands, knocking a decorative cushion to the floor as he does. ‘S-sorry?’ he manages, but he knows what she is going to say. He knows the reason for the anger in her eyes. ‘I’m going,’ he says, echoing the words of Eleanor at the crematorium. Sandra’s eyes flash, and James is suddenly glad to have the heavy armchair between them. She looks as if she wants to throw him across the room, or at least punch him. He can smell alcohol on her breath, and her eyes are bloodshot, unfocused.