Please Scar – this work is really important. I know you’re angry but I promise you things will get better. Soon.
It was a strange thing to say in a text, and totally uncharacteristic of Carson. He was a meat, three veg and no emotions kind of guy.
After kissing Jessie and J goodnight, I dropped down onto the bed that hadn’t been made that morning, and pulled the sheets up around me.
Carson was up to something.
I only hoped it wasn’t what I thought it was.
Couldn’t be.
Could it?
Forcing myself to focus on the more pleasant aspects of the day, I wondered if the woman from NYC Shopper Weekly was really going to put LollyBliss’s window on the cover.
Lolly said they’d give me a credit, for my portfolio.
If so, it would be the first piece of legitimate commercial work I had ever done.
- Cue yet another pathetic melancholy memory:
Lolly McGuire was exactly like my best friend Lil, back in Bath, so it wasn’t unusual that I gravitated towards her. The first day at the college in lower Manhattan, I was snuffling about, looking for a lecture theatre and feeling, despite my scholarship, like a complete dunce. Everyone at the school seemed so worldly; in fact they seemed to come from another world. Edgy – that’s the world Lil would use. They were from Planet Edgy.
Every second person had a cigarette hanging casually from a hand; each boy seemed to have tight stovepipe trousers or cute summer dresses that revealed legs tanned naturally by the sun in the Hamptons, instead of under a sunbed in some dingy North London salon.
Thinking it might be better to pack it in then and there, I suddenly heard an infectious Tinkerbell-type laugh that seemed to resonate – just like Lil’s.
Edging into a crowd that had formed around a trio of girls, I saw the three were doing some sort of dance. Well, two were dancing, the middle one – a crazily dressed blonde with the longest legs I’d ever seen – was sort of lurching about.
Then she fell forward, right on top of me.
‘Shit, sorry. I really shouldn’t do this.’
‘Yeah, it should be totally illegal for you to dance, Lolly,’ yelled the short one of the trio.
‘Thanks Grace, I appreciate the support.’
A buzzer blared from the speakers installed in the courtyard and the crowd dispersed, eager to get to class.
Lolly caught her breath, observing me carefully.
‘I like that cardigan, did you make it?’
My tight navy woolen jumper had been made by Mum, circa 1989. How I still managed to squeeze into it was a miracle, but it made a cute combination with my kilt skirt and long white tee.
‘My mum did, when I was about ten.’
‘And it still fits?’
‘I don’t think I’ve grown since then.’
She groaned, indicating her legs and her waist-length hair. ‘I can’t seem to stop.’
Then I did something completely un-English. I asked Lolly if she wanted to get a drink after college that night.
And Lolly, tittering happily, put an arm around me and said, ‘You know, I’d really like that.’
The next morning, the phone rang early.
Mum.
‘Hello love, it’s Mum.’
‘Mum, I’ve been meaning to call.’
‘I know, dear.’
She didn’t mean to imply that it should be me returning her many calls, but the guilt weighed heavily on me anyway.
What with Cecily 2 about to arrive; my job at the supermarket under threat because of the time I’d taken off for Thanksgiving; Carson taking every opportunity to live the life of a bachelor; and Hammertro popping in every two minutes to discover when ‘our part of the deal’ would materialize, I was finding it difficult to remember to shower, let alone call home.
I needed to be of sound mind in order to talk to Mum, because I needed to keep up the pretence.
You see, Mum thought that Carson was a lawyer.
And she thought we lived somewhere wonderful, with views of Central Park and a spare bedroom.
And that I worked as a fashion designer with Lolly.
I know, I know. Why lie to my own mother? Simple. Having lost a daughter to America, the last thing my parents needed to hear was that I was struggling and on the breadline, and related, by marriage, to a bunch of crazies living in a trailer park.
‘How’s Dad?’ I was eager to deflect from my personal situation; to move the conversation to safe ground, because my hangover needed tending to as soon as I could respectfully end the call.
Mum’s voice caught. ‘That’s why I’m calling. Your father is in the hospital.’
‘What?’ Now I really felt as if I’d been stomach-punched.
When she didn’t answer I pressed her, ‘Why?’
‘His heart. It doesn’t look good.’
There was a pause, and I knew Mum was waiting, expecting, me to say that I would immediately jump on a plane and rush to see Dad.
As far as she was concerned, I could well afford it, couldn’t I?
And I would be heading to the airport too, if there was some way to get the money to buy a plane ticket.
Racing through the possibilities, there was no way I could raise the required amount. We were overdrawn, our credit cards were maxed out, we were late on the rent and Jessie and J had school excursions that needed paying for.
Even the Teesons’ recent proceeds of crime wouldn’t cover it – not that I dared to ask. Not after the sofa debacle.
‘Scarlet, are you there?’ Mum’s voice sounded small and worried.
What the hell could I say to her that wouldn’t sound completely trite?
‘Mum, Jessie is, um, ill too – something the doctors are checking out. That’s why I haven’t called.’
God would strike me dead, I was sure of it. How could I casually lie about my own daughter’s health like that? What else could I do, traumatize the poor woman even more by admitting my life was a complete sham?
‘Jessie’s sick?’
‘Might be nothing, just some tummy thing, but the doctors don’t know. And Carson is next to useless. I am so sorry, I really don’t know what to do.’
‘Don’t you worry about it, dear. Of course you need to stay for Jessica.’
Mum’s voice was strained and I sensed it was difficult for her not to cry.
‘Can Aunty Buck help?’ Mum’s sister Beatrice (known as Buck since she was thrown off a horse at twelve), was a no-nonsense woman who you’d imagine would be good in a crisis.
‘Yes, no doubt she can.’ The unspoken part of that sentence was that Aunty Buck was a stiff upper lip personified. Even the death of her own husband fifteen years ago had failed to raise a tear, although Dad insisted he’d seen some moisture in her left eye.
‘Tell Dad I’m thinking of him, and I’ll come as soon as I can.’
‘I am sure that won’t be necessary. You know your Dad, Scarlet. He’s always said he’ll go on forever, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
I didn’t finish the sentence. Despite how I felt about some of things Dad had done, I still loved him.
Hanging up, I got the distinct feeling that if there was reincarnation, I would definitely be coming back as a cockroach.
Or a rat.
Or Cecily 2’s granddaughter.
- Cue unfortunate childhood memory:
I was about nine, and Mum and Dad had been fighting over something insignificant. Then Mum hotfooted it off to Grammy’s to moan about Dad.
Our house in Bath was one of those terraced ones up on a hill – limestone of course – and about a fifteen minute walk from the shops, the Roman baths and all the historical action.
I dragged a chair to my bedroom window and watched as Mum stomped down the road to catch the bus to the other side of town.
Mum had only been gone about thirty minutes when the doorbell rang. Glad she was back, I raced downstairs and yanked open the door before D
ad could reach it.
A woman stood there, with bottle ginger hair and an apple-shaped body, her Barbie pink lips set in a grim line.
‘Is Stan here, love?’
My dad’s name wasn’t Stan, it was Sean, so I said no. Then Dad suddenly brushed past me and hissed at her: ‘What are you doing here?’
Despite appearances, the woman wasn’t stupid, and suggested that they speak somewhere more private.
‘Scarlet, I am going to talk a walk around the block to discuss, er, business, with this lady. Will you be okay for a few moments?’
‘Sure,’ I said, puzzled but accepting – as a child was.
I didn’t mention the lady to Mum, or even think of her again, until about four years later.
This time, she was waiting outside the council offices, her blue jeans so tight they seemed to bubble excess flesh up into her stomach. When she saw me, she quickly turned and walked in the direction of a nearby carpark, her orange head bobbing feverishly.
I knew then. It was too much of a coincidence for her to be at Dad’s work, as well as at our house.
I was older and my friends had told tales of horror about their parents and affairs.
The cheap woman was a mistress.
My father was an unfaithful husband.
And had been for years.
At least four that I knew of. Trinkets of my past – birthday celebrations, Christmas trees, holidays in campsites in Normandy – fell away and were destroyed.
That day, a little piece of the enormous love I had felt for him was chipped away.
And because of the love I felt for Mum, I never told her.
My boss at Flindes was a beefy creature – his doughy physique complemented by a snout-like nose and the unfortunate habit of casually picking it when he thought no one was looking.
We were sitting by the tills – the store was notoriously understaffed – and I was handing out cigarettes and giving change as I was admonished by my boss.
It was less than pleasant, particularly as I had to endure the pitying stars of the customers.
‘So, tell me, Mrs Teeson, what was it this time? Husband on fire? Children kidnapped by Al Qaeda?’
I wouldn’t have minded if Carson had been on fire.
‘Misunderstanding, Mr Phillit. I thought it was okay to have the time off. I usually do on holidays. I figured we’d be closed anyway.’
Dan Phillit flipped his fat head towards the sign in the front window. ‘What does that sign say?’
‘Open 365.’
‘And what do you imagine that means?’
‘Look, I get it, I shouldn’t have assumed we were closed, or that I had the time off, but I did, so can we move on?’
Looking at me intently, Dan Phillit shook his head. ‘You know I get about five job applications a day. People are desperate to work here, Scarlet. Desperate.’
I looked over at Scott and Maeve, who were ogling each other while double-charging the clueless customers they inexpertly were serving at the trolley tills.
Desperate was right!
‘And if you wish to continue with us at Flindes, I suggest you adjust your attitude.’
What was he on about?
‘Be more like them, you mean?’ I indicated Scott and Maeve, who were now tossing a pack of breadrolls across the registers, laughing raucously.
‘Actually, yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’
My boss ran a couple of chubby fingers over my cotton-trousered leg.
Seriously?
Never going to happen.
I pulled away, trying not to show the extent of my revulsion. ‘Look, Mr Phillit, can’t we just get on with work? I promise to make sure I put in for time off next time.’
Disappointment etched in the solid grooves of his plump face, Dan Phillit turned to walk away. Then, as if in afterthought, he looked back at me and said, ‘Of course, but you’ll have to work all of the Christmas and New Year to make up for your indiscretion.’
‘But I have children,’ I objected. ‘Those two don’t!’
I pointed at the loved-up youths who were now abusing a banana in the fruit aisle.
‘Up to you. Work Christmas and keep your job. Unless, of course, you can suggest some other way to satisfy me that you are dedicated to your job.’ He looked pointedly at my B cups.
With gargantuan will I managed not to leap up and throttle him.
Great, now I was stuck Flindes for Christmas. Carson would kill me, the Teesons would twitter on about what a crap mother I was, and worse still, I wouldn’t get to see Cecily open the re-gifted Circu-Boosta.
My only hope now for a reprieve now was Hammertro and his mates holding up Flindes and rendering Dan Phillit comatose – at least until Christmas was over.
Either that, or I would have to provide sexual favors to the most disgusting human on the planet.
After Cecily 2, that was.
*
Dinner was late and burnt thanks to the malfunctioning stove. The kids knew better than to comment because I was in what J called ‘a Moody Blues’ so they ate as much of the charred chicken thighs as they could stomach and hotfooted it to the living room to watch some serial about vampires.
‘Shame, it would’ve been very tasty without the black bits,’ Carson said, smiling.
Smiling!
He dared to grin inanely at me after treating us so badly.
My anger at the world at large consolidated itself into one huge ball of fury directed towards Carson.
‘How dare you leave the kids alone?’ I hissed, trying to keep the trauma between us.
Someone turned the sound up in the living room.
‘What?’
‘Last night.’
‘Technically, you did that, Scarlet, not me. I had plans, you didn’t. And you just ran out, like a child.’
‘This is a marriage, Carson, not a dictatorship. We aren’t pawns obliged to do your bidding. You should check with me before you go out, especially if you expect me to do the same. Otherwise, the default position should be that when you come home from work, you look after the kids, because it’s my turn for some freedom.’
A faint sign of moisture appeared on his forehead. ‘That’s a ridiculous notion, and you know it. I have to work, Scarlet. Work! Remember, that thing that keeps the roof over our heads, and the food in our stomachs? Occasionally, my work spills over into home life. I can’t control it.’
I was completely and utterly over my life, which was why I finally let him have it.
‘You think you’re a big man because you’ve got a job that means we’re holed up in this pit, barely able to afford food? In fact, the only reason we can afford the food we do have is thanks to my staff discount at Flindes. Harvard bloody graduate indeed. If I could sue you for misrepresentation, I would.’
He looked me up and down, sky blue eyes blistering with disdain. ‘I think I would probably counterclaim.’
Was he actually alluding to my weight?
The bastard!
‘Right, you can sleep on the sofa from now on,’ I told him, trying to control the urge to thump him with the frying pan I was scraping charcoal from.
‘Scarlet, come on, I didn’t mean to upset you. You don’t understand–‘
‘I understand perfectly, Carson. That’s the problem.’
‘What is it with you? You think you’re so above me that I don’t even have an opinion anymore? I know you assume my family is below you, but I didn’t think you viewed me in the same way.’
I was trembling with rage. ‘Your family has treated me like garbage since I supposedly stole you away from them. How dare you imply otherwise?’
Dare, dare, dare. I kept saying it, but it had no impact. He dared, because he didn’t care one jot for me.
Shaking his head as if he was incredulous at the turn of events, my darling husband predictably gathered up his various folders and tattered briefcase, and told me not to wait up for him.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I won’t.’
A few moments later, Carson slammed the door as hard as he could.
It waited a minute or so, then fell out into the hall after him.
The toad didn’t bother turning back to help me fix it.
Eyes full of tears, I wondered if Hammertro’s uncle was available again.
Taking the broom I used as a primitive communication tool, I banged on the ceiling.
The gorgeous young man appeared moments later. ‘What sa emergency, sexy momma?’
‘You’re standing on it.’
Frowning, Hammertro moved off the door and picked it up. The hinges and the wood they had been attached to remained on the floor. ‘You gotta to get a new door now, dudette. This can’t be replaced.’
Great.
Terrific.
‘How much is that going to cost, do you think?’
‘Uncle Rabbit will do you a deal. Fifty should cover it.’ Hammertro’s eyes shifted seedily from side to side. ‘I’ll call him now.’
I had to wonder whether the whole uncle-helping-gig was a scam. They’d probably had a free door from a skip that they wanted to sell on or something.
Less than two hours later, Uncle Rabbit and his nephew were hammering a new door into place in defiance of angry neighbors – it had glass panels and stickers of naked woman on the inside, but I figured fifty dollars was nevertheless a relative bargain, when the labor, such as it was, was factored in.
A pinch of the industrial strength spirits we used to clean down the meat counter at Flindes would remove the x-rated stickers in minutes.
Uncle Rabbit was one of those workers who came prepared. As ugly as his nephew was handsome, he was tiny and squat, and his toolbox contained a mix of foodstuffs, a battered paint-splattered radio, and a tin flask that I suspected did not contain tea or coffee.
Uncle Rabbit’s sobriety aside, it was all going remarkably well, and then a large crashing at the communal entry door below stopped work.
‘Not another ram-raid?’ Hammertro looked upwards, a worried expression on his face.
What on earth did he have worth snatching, I wondered.
The men held their tools aloft as the clunking footsteps made their way determinately up the stone steps towards us.
The Great Christmas Breakup Page 5