Valentina: A Hauntingly Intelligent Psychological Thriller

by S. E. Lynes

  “I could get used to this,” she said. “Up yours, sister.”

  We chinked glasses.

  “I thought yoga teachers only drank water from mountain springs,” I said. “Ate mung beans, drank soya milk, that type of thing.”

  She shook her head. “That’s bollocks. I’d smoke too if I could. Don’t suppose you have any dope, do you?”

  I laughed. “Good grief, no. What do you think this is, a crack den?”

  She smiled, pushed her thick auburn hair back from her face before shaking it out again. She took another long gulp of wine. “Listen, Shona, how would you feel about having Zac, just for an hour after lunch?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “I have this private yoga session booked with a client. I usually take Zac but he can be such a pain and I’ll be quicker if I go on my own. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I can have Isla another time, no worries,” she said. “But thanks, you’re a mate.”

  “To mates.” I held up my glass. “Or as we say, pals.”

  As if pleasantly surprised, she smiled again, showing all those white sharkish teeth. She picked up her glass. “To pals.”

  At half past one, she announced she was late, that she had to go. She pulled her bag from the chair, kissed Zac on the head and rushed out. She’d drunk two large glasses of wine to my one; the bottle was two thirds empty. I knew she’d be over the limit, naughty girl. And how the hell she was going to teach yoga, I could not fathom. She was made of steelier stuff than me.

  Once she’d gone, I put Zac in Isla’s buggy and Isla in her pram and took them both into the garden. I spent a good fifteen minutes pushing both back and to, back and to, until I got them to sleep. Arms aching and back aching, I left the back door open and came inside to make a cup of tea. I was thirsty, fuzzy-headed after the lunchtime drink, already wishing I’d stuck to water.

  The babies only slept for half an hour. When they awoke, I got a pit in my stomach wondering how I was going to keep them both calm. When I next looked at the clock I saw it was 2:30pm. Thank goodness. Valentina wouldn’t be long.

  At three o’clock, I wondered about texting to see where she’d got to. I left it, worried about coming across as nagging or uncool. She was only half an hour late after all – I calculated that the session was probably an hour and, adding on journey time, it was no wonder it had got to this time. At half past three I picked up my phone and wrote:

  Are you OK? S x

  I read the text and deleted it. The Brig O’Dee could get quite snarled up with traffic at certain times of day. The babies were watching a DVD now and seemed calm enough. But for how long was anyone’s guess. I still had the pit in my stomach.

  At four o’clock I rewrote the text:

  Everything fine here don’t worry just wondering if you’re on your way back. S xxx

  Less direct. Friendly but still waving a flag – help. I sent it.

  Zac began to fret. I picked him up – Christ he was heavy, it was like lifting a pig! I lugged him onto my hip, which made Isla cry. I picked her up too and put her on the other hip and lurched around the house like Quasimodo after a night on the town. By now I was pissed off. Where the hell was she? I’d give her a piece of my mind when she got here.

  Anger turned to worry. She’d had two large glasses of wine. She hadn’t replied to my text. What if she’d driven like she’d wanted me to the other day, tried to set the land speed record on the South Deeside Road and crashed? I didn’t know where she lived, what her home number was. I didn’t even know her last name. All I knew was that she was married to a man named Red who worked in a vintage record store.

  Zac’s face changed from pale to dark pink, a look of terrible concentration. I knew that look. Oh, and I knew that smell.

  I carried both babies upstairs and manoeuvred Zac onto the changing table but lost balance and cracked my shoulder against the wall. I righted myself, ripped open the nappy and gasped. Ditch-water brown spray ran down his thighs, legs, up his back, all over his vest, his trousers. I coughed, swore, held my breath. I stripped him, cleaned his body as best I could. He was so much bigger than Isla, legs like hams, gut like a fridge-freezer.

  Sat on the floor, Isla got louder, a desperate, abandoned sound. My hair fell into my eyes, stuck to the sweat on my forehead. I couldn’t push it out of the way – my fingers were covered in shit. Still swearing like a sailor, I flattened one of Isla’s nappies on the table. With my elbow, I held the nappy down, plonked Zac on top and pulled the tabs across. They stopped just short of one another – the nappy was too bloody small. Zac stared up at me, his big brown eyes unblinking.

  “Where’s your mummy? Eh?” I said in a sing-song voice. “Where’s she gone? Where the bloody hell has your motherfucking bastard mother gone? Where? Eh?”

  He smiled – obviously appreciating the quality swearing.

  I pulled hard on the tabs, found a millimetre of connecting Velcro to take the strain. From Isla’s chest of drawers, I found a vest, some grey jogging bottoms. But they were all, all of them, too small. Of course they were. Zac’s birthday was the 27th February, only a week after Isla’s, but I guessed, being a boy, he was thicker set.

  I put him on the floor, naked apart from a too-small nappy: a mini Sumo wrestler, black hair, round belly and wildly chubby legs. Finally, I found an outfit, aged one, from my Aunty Moira on my mother’s side: a baby pink sweatsuit with Daddy’s Girl on the front in sequin letters. My Aunty Moira has a good heart, don’t get me wrong, but her taste leaves a lot to be desired.

  I wrestled Zac into the jogging ensemble. He looked ridiculous – but he was clean.

  Still sweating, I picked up Isla. Her nappy was so wet that when I dropped it to the floor it landed with the thud of a dead animal.

  All done, I scooped up both babies and shuffled downstairs on my bottom. I laid both kids on the rug to have a kick but Isla started whining straight away. I stretched out my back, hands to my kidneys, groaning like an old lady.

  Never mind Valentina, I felt like I’d been in a road accident.

  By five o’clock, I had sung so many nursery rhymes my voice was hoarse. I was bone-tired, aching and livid. Valentina had said one hour. She had taken more than three. This was an abuse of my generosity, no question about it. I would tell her so when she got here. I would not let myself get walked over in this way by anybody, not even her.

  The doorbell went. Finally. I was away to open the door when Valentina stepped into the hallway. I was fired up to give her a row but her appearance caught me off-guard. Her hair was different – straighter. She’d redone her eye make-up too, I thought – and was that nail polish on her fingernails? She smelt of soap, as if she’d had a shower. All the things I’d had stored up to say evaporated.

  “Hi there.” She shook her head, her hair falling around her shoulders, catching the light, falling just so. She looked like Klimt’s Judith. She looked relaxed on some deep, molecular level. I really should try yoga, I thought.

  “You could have texted,” I said.

  “I left the damn phone in the car. I thought it’d be quicker to get on and get here.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” She looked at me in that very direct way she had, no arms crossed, no doubt at all in her body: a wordless, flagrant challenge.

  “Nothing?”

  “I underestimated the timings, that’s all.”

  I waited for an apology. It didn’t come.

  “Have you washed your hair?” I asked.

  “I always take a shower after a session. Especially Ashtanga. It’s so ... vigorous.” She was still staring at me, impassive, and I realised I’d seen her do this before, in the nursery.

  “Zac did the mother of all poos.” I indicated the living room with my head. “It went everywhere. I had to change him. It was a nightmare, to be honest.”

  “Oh God,” she said, laughing. “He does whoppers. It’s gross.”

&n
bsp; “Listen,” I said. “If you’re going to be longer than you say you need to let me know, OK?”

  She saluted me with a smirk. “Won’t happen again, officer. Didn’t realise you were so touchy about it.”

  She strode into the living room and cooed in a baby voice: Zac. Zackeeee. Zackee, angel. I followed her to the door. Please take him home, I wanted to say. Please go. I am too exhausted to be cross, too weary to know what just happened, what I feel about it.

  “I’ve put his other things in the wash,” I said instead. “I’ll give them to you next time. I know he looks like Kim Kardashian in her leisure wear but that was all that fit.”

  “Thanks,” she said, turning to me. “You’re so sweet.”

  “I’m away to give Isla her tea now so –”

  “Wow, Shona,” she said. “You really don’t have to do that.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t mean ...”

  “But I guess Red’s not home till late on Fridays so that’ll save me cooking two dinners.” Out of nowhere, she leant toward me and stroked my cheek. “You have lovely skin,” she said, before heading back into the living room. Through the open door I watched her sit, then lie on the sofa, Zac on her belly. “You’re amazing, Shona,” she called through. “Has anyone ever told you that? Absolutely amazing.”

  The next day, Saturday, the day of Mikey’s return, I woke early as usual to Isla crying. But this day was different. I didn’t groan, nor did my legs ache with deep fatigue. I felt OK. I felt light. I nipped out and bought scrummy things for tea and replaced the bottle of Sancerre that Valentina had drunk.

  When I got back, I put my Disclosure CD on loud and burst into action cleaning the house. Honestly, it was like the 1950s, getting ready for a husband to come home from work – house perfect, wife perfect, baby perfect. But I enjoyed it despite all that, in a weird, postmodern, ironic way. I think.

  At midday I heard the taxi from the kitchen. My stomach flipped over.

  I ran to the door, as I’d imagined doing all week, flung it open and stepped out.

  “Hey stranger,” I called out.

  He looked up, gave me a quick wave and continued to count cash for the driver, smiling and chatting in that way he had. I waited, hopping from foot to foot. I waited for him to come and fold me into his arms.

  He patted the roof of the cab, picked up his kitbag and walked towards me with it dangling over his shoulder. Behind him, the taxi drove down the lane, out of sight. Anticipation built in my belly. His smile was different, I thought, almost bashful, his chin dark with stubble.

  On the front step, he dropped his bag and opened his arms. “Look who’s here.”

  “You!” I fell into him and he held me, buried his face in my hair.

  “You smell like home,” he said, his hold tightening.

  We stayed there, neither of us able to move.

  After a long moment, I pulled him into the house. “Isla’s asleep.” Up the stairs, into the bedroom.

  He pushed me back onto the bed, lifted my t-shirt and plunged his warm face into my belly.

  “Hurry,” I said. “We don’t have long.”

  He unfastened my jeans, pulled my underwear off with them. “I won’t need long.”

  Isla started to cry as we fell back onto the pillows.

  “Maybe you should put your bag down now,” I said.

  “I think it’s still on the step. It might still be in mid-air.” He kissed me, quickly, like a full stop after a lovely sentence and met my gaze with his. “That wasn’t a very polite hello, was it?”

  I rolled him onto his back, climbed on top of him, pinned him down by the shoulders. “Good afternoon, Mr. Quinn. How are you this fine day? I must say, you’re looking affa fine. How’s that for polite?”

  “Spoken like a duchess.”

  “Affa fine means really well around these parts, don’t you know.”

  The volume of Isla’s cries grew like some out of control wah-wah pedal.

  I huffed. “She’s jealous I’m getting all the attention.” I climbed off him and pulled on his t-shirt, grabbed my pants from the floor and waltzed out with them on my head.

  In the nursery, Isla had reached crimson-faced fury, her tiny knuckles white against the cot rungs. I put my pants onto the correct part of my anatomy and reached out to her. As soon as I touched her she released her grip on the cot. I cradled her against my chest and shushed her. In the palm of my hand, her head still fitted: damp, soft and warm. She quieted as quickly as if I’d switched her to mute. I understood her. Sometimes, all it took was to be held.

  Back in the bedroom, Mikey had propped himself up against the end of the bed and was buckling up his belt. A lick of black hair fell over his forehead. He blew at it, flicked back his head when it refused to behave. At the sight of us, he grinned and reached out. “Come here, baby girl!”

  Isla squealed, mirroring his dark outstretched arms with her own. I passed her over and climbed up after her onto the bed. All three of us nuzzled into one another, Isla cooing and giggling against the tickle of Mikey’s stubble. I thought I would cry with happiness. Mikey was home. We were a family. Not half a family now, but a whole.

  “I’m parched,” he said after a moment.

  “I’ll make some tea. You stay here with Isla.”

  I leapt off the bed, pulled on my jeans and ran down to the kitchen. As the kettle boiled I heard the creak of stair under foot. Mikey appeared, Isla in one arm, the other on the bannister. Like me, I thought, being super careful. At the bottom of the stairs he stopped, the way a person does when they hear a sudden, odd noise or smell burning.

  “You all right?” I called from the kitchen.

  “Yeah.” He bent to pick up his coat from the floor, made to hang it up and stopped dead – again. “Whose is that scarf? Is it new?”

  I followed his gaze to the coat hooks and laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ve not been out spending. It’s Valentina’s.”

  “Oh.” He hung up his coat, crossed the hallway with Isla and sat down with her at the wee table at the mouth of the kitchen area.

  “At least it’s not a man’s scarf,” I joked, setting down the two mugs of tea. “I hid that one.”

  He smiled and kissed Isla – one two three four five times. Both of them stared at me then and – for the briefest moment – I had a vision of myself on an iceberg, floating away, helpless. Tears pricked in my eyes, a fist of nameless anxiety clenched in my stomach. I turned away, to hide my face. This offshore business would, I realised, take a long time to get used to.

  NINE

  The next morning, Sunday, Mikey suggested we go out to lunch at a country pub he’d heard about while he was on the rig. With Isla in the sling on Mikey’s chest, we walked straight out of our front door and into dense woodland. June’s summer light filtered through the leaves, the air fresh on our faces. After ten minutes or so, we emerged into a field of rapeseed, acid-yellow, the sun creamy by comparison, outshone. We followed the field’s edge up to the short length of road that led us to the Deeside Tavern.

  Inside, red patterned rugs lay over stone floors, the furniture mahogany, solid, old – plaid cushions on the seats. In the hearth, where in winter no doubt they would have a fire, fat white cathedral candles burned with shallow flames.

  We were shown to a table next to a couple who looked about fifty or so. Her greying hair was set in a tight curled style that was too old for her, his face was an angry red, veins broken with high living.

  I took Isla to the Ladies’ to change her. By the time I got back, Mikey had struck up a conversation with the couple. He always did this, everywhere he went, but today I didn’t want him to talk to them – or to anyone for that matter.

  The guy was telling Mikey he was an OIM.

  “What’s an OIM again?” I asked, sitting down.

  “The big boss,” said Mikey, winking at the couple, grinning, leaning forward.

  “Offshore Installation Manager,” added the man’s wife with a pinched smile.<
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  “Who do you work for?” I asked her husband.

  “Maple Energy, for my sins,” he said, placing one hand on his chest and blinking fast as if he had grit in his eyes.

  “Mikey works for Maple, don’t you Mikey?” I turned to Mikey, who was drinking his beer like a man dying of thirst.

  The man brightened, sat upright. “Right you are, young man! Onshore or offshore?”

  Mikey coughed into his hand – served him right for drinking his beer so fast. “Off. Which platform are you?”

  “Fern, for my sins.”

  “You’re on Fern, aren’t you Mikey?” I said.

  “Bracken,” said Mikey, poking his thumb over his shoulder at me. “Honestly. As long as the money comes in, eh?”

  “I’m sure you said Fern,” I said. “I must’ve misheard.” I winked at the man. “As long as I bring up the children and get the dinner on, eh?”

  Mikey turned to me. “I wrote it down on that piece of card for you. With the number.”

  “Did you now? What, while I was changing Isla or hanging out your boxers?”

  “That’s Aberdeen for you,” the guy interrupted, his chin puckering. “Can’t fart at one end without someone smelling it at the other.”

  “Trevor!” His wife shook her head in disgust while I had a good belly laugh. I had not expected him to say that. “If you’re an oil man,” she said to Mikey, “you and your wife should join Kippie Lodge.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Studiously avoiding me and her husband, the woman explained to Mikey with the air of someone in the possession of classified information she was, in her benevolence, prepared to share, “Oh, they have everything: a golf course, a café, a pool, you name it. You have your gym facilities, your classes, your yoga, etcetera.”

  “I have a friend teaches yoga,” I said. “Valentina. I wonder if she does any classes there.”

  Still not looking at me, the woman nodded to Isla, who was on my lap, propped up in my arms. “You could take the wee one for a swim when she’s older. Away from, you know ...” she rolled her hand like the queen on a drive by.