‘We’re going to have to buy a cow to keep up with you, you’re drinking that much,’ she laughed. ‘Reckon we can fit one on our lawn?’
A shrug was my reply. I was too busy swallowing down more.
‘Why are you drinking so much, anyway?’
Finally I put down my glass. ‘Because milk makes you stronger, Mum, and I want to make sure he never hurts you again.’
Her fingers flew to the choker of bruises peeping guiltily above her turtleneck top.
‘It’s complicated, Sophie. Sometimes adults do things they don’t intend, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love each other really. Dad’s sorry for what he’s done… and I shouldn’t have goaded him by arguing back.’
My seven-year-old brain tried to make sense of the excuse. If adults did things they didn’t mean, then that meant they were liars. But telling fibs was wrong. Dad was always telling whoppers, the biggest being that he was sorry. After beating Mum black, blue and multicoloured, he’d sometimes cry, saying the word over and over and over, but it never stopped him from being mean again.
He never learned his lesson.
Mum lied all the time, too. She said she was fine even when she was bleeding. She said Dad didn’t mean the things he said; words I didn’t understand, but which made his eyes go hard and mean, as if he wanted to hurt us with a look. Bitch, slut, whore. She said he needed our love. But he never seemed to want it.
Being in the same room as him made me want to hide inside the walls. One day that wouldn’t be enough, though. Young as I was, something told me that one day I’d be too big to hide, and then Dad would come for me as well as Mum.
Well, I’d be ready for him. I’d get him before he could get me. I’d grow big and strong and protect my mum.
Six
Now
For the first time, I’m dreading the support group. I lurk outside the building, almost turn around, but in the end can’t keep away. I’m too weak. Late as I am, the meeting doesn’t seem to have started yet, thank goodness.
Carrie is already there, of course. She’s wearing her favourite striped beanie hat, sporting all the colours of the rainbow, but even without it I’d be able to tell where she is immediately because she’s surrounded by a crowd. Presumably everyone is making a fuss of her after last night.
Although slender as a whip, her skin is glowing, eyes so bright and clear that it’s hard to imagine cancer is eating her alive. As I look on, time is no longer linear; it seems to concertina, so that I can see through its folds all that has been, all that is to come. This time yesterday Carrie and I were friends, about to enter the pub for her surprise do. This time two weeks ago I had no idea she was dying. In two months’ time, she’ll no longer be here.
My innards turn to liquid mercury at the thought.
‘Happy birthday to you,’ everyone strikes up. Of course, that’s why they’ve all gathered: it’s Patricia’s birthday. Exactly as she’d told me she would on our walk to her house a fortnight ago, Carrie surreptitiously organised a whip-round at the last meeting and got everyone to sign a card for her. I join in the last few words: ‘And many more!’
Patricia’s all tears and happiness as she opens her present of a stack of five crime thrillers.
‘They’re the ones you like, aren’t they?’ Carrie checks. Patricia’s a nervy lady who loves to terrify herself by reading gangland tales of hard-faced criminals and glamorous women. ‘Um, and this is a little something just from me. It’s not much.’
Even though she’s barely got two pennies to rub together, she’s bought Patricia a beautiful metal bookmark. Adorning it are three delicate lilies.
‘Oh, how lovely! How did you know they’re my favourite flower?’
‘You mentioned the other week that they were what you like to lay on your husband’s grave.’
Patricia hugs her. ‘Typical of you to remember such a personal detail. You’re a one-off, Carrie Goodwin.’
Over her shoulder, Carrie notices me for the first time. As soon as she’s free she comes over, shoes clicking on the wooden floor. ‘I’m sorry for being such an ungrateful cow. It’s no excuse, but I’m a bit all over the place at the moment, and—’
‘Don’t say another word. I’m the one who should be apologising,’ I gasp.
The meeting gets started, and as usual it whizzes by. I tell them the latest about the twins.
‘Elise won’t even call me “Mum” any more. She insists on calling me by my name instead. She’s so angry, and I’ve no idea how to get through to her. As for Edward, when I see him he’s always calm and polite – like I’m a stranger.’ My arms ache to hold them, and the pain of loss makes it hard for me to breathe. ‘Things seem to be getting worse, not better. Although we didn’t see each other often, we used to talk, despite everything. Not now. We should be going on shopping trips together, cuddling up to watch films, going on day trips. You know? Just a normal family. I’d love to give them advice on their lives, but they’ve made it clear they don’t want me.’
Tears escape. Many of the group are mothers, and their faces are full of sympathy.
‘Have you tried talking to Owen about it? Would he be willing to help you? It would be for the good of the children. He needs to put them first,’ says Parvina.
Sniffing, wiping at my face, I shake my head. ‘There’s no getting through to them. I’ll just have to be patient. Even though they hurt me, seeing them… ’ I put my hand on my heart and gasp, unable to continue. Finally, I catch my breath. ‘Seeing them even for five minutes with them telling me they hate me is better than nothing. We’ll get through this. Things will get better.’
Talking is always exhausting, but I feel so much better for sharing what’s going on in my life.
Finally, Carrie stands. She’s the last of the group to take a turn.
‘When I was about four, in art class one day I got all the colours of paint lined up and felt so excited because I was going to paint a huge rainbow. I painted the thick bands, one after the other: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, and threw a couple of others in, too.
‘Impatient, I didn’t wait for each one to dry. The wet paint ran, one into another, and instead of the smiling colours I wanted to hang over my bed, all I had to show for my efforts was a sludge-brown mess smeared across the page.
‘It broke my heart. How could something so pretty end up looking so miserable?
‘But now I think of it another way. Now, I see all the crap in life, and know that if I look hard enough I can see the good in it, something beautiful. I can find the rainbow in the sludge brown of everyday life. If I just try hard enough.
‘That’s everyone’s challenge. We’ve each of us got our reasons to be miserable, but we can’t let the clouds win. Instead, let’s create our own rainbow.’
She gets a standing ovation.
Afterwards we all go to the pub for our liquid debrief. Everyone’s chattering.
‘You smell nice,’ Jackie says to Carrie. ‘It’s not Straight to Heaven, by Kilian, is it? My sister works on a perfume counter and gave me a tiny sample of it. She was telling me it’s over two hundred pounds a bottle!’
‘Is it? I rubbed myself with a magazine before I came out. I’d have to sell a kidney before I could afford a bottle – who’d pay that for fragrance!’
‘James always used to get me J’adore, every birthday,’ says Pat sadly.
Honestly, I just want to give her a big hug; she looks so heartbroken, picking at the brown cardigan she’s teamed with a brown corduroy skirt. Instead, I distract her by asking about the books she’s been given, and she’s soon talking enthusiastically about drugs, gangland lovers and gunrunning. An elbow digging in my side distracts me, minutes later.
‘Hey, fancy getting out of here?’ Carrie whispers out of the corner of her mouth, holding her glass in front of her so people don’t see a hint of her lips moving.
I cover my own to reply. ‘So soon? What’s going on?’
‘Explain la
ter.’
She’s already scrabbling her things together, saying her goodbyes, so I follow suit.
Outside, she groans in relief.
‘Eurgh, Jackie was giving me the third degree about palliative treatment. Boring! Like I want to spend my dying days talking about that. I want to have fun! She’ll probably start asking Pat about James’s funeral next. Honestly, for someone who runs a support group she can be a bit insensitive sometimes.’
My reply is a snort. It’s true. Jackie’s well intentioned, but she can be a bull in a china shop, emotionally, at times.
‘Oh, and then she started banging on about how much time we spend together.’
‘Us?’ My heart hitches. Jackie’s noticed how overeager I am to be with Carrie. She’s suspicious. She’ll discover the truth. If she does, I may have to take steps to stop her talking.
Seven
Carrie doesn’t seem to notice my panic; instead she turns it into a joke, wiggling her eyebrows up and down suggestively. ‘Yeah, I think Jackie might be jealous.’ She links arms with me. ‘Come on, I’ve a bottle of wine back at mine with our name on it.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘What else will you do? Sit at home, alone, worrying about your children? You can do that with me, too – or even better, I can take your mind off it by forcing booze down your throat and making you watch bad films with me.’
I laugh. ‘Okay, that sounds good, actually.’ She does a little dance of glee. ‘How do you do it, Carrie? You’re always so upbeat and positive.’
‘Dying just means I appreciate every single thing about every single day, and I don’t even have to worry about pensions, or eating healthily, or exercise. It’s great!’ As she speaks, she opens up the box of doughnuts a member of the group has bought for her and takes a big bite out of one. ‘Mmm, custard cream. And the best thing? There are no calories in anything when you’re dying – fact.’
When we reach her house, she goes straight to the loo. The sound of her vomiting is a reminder of the reality behind her brave words. She can’t keep much down these days. Still, she comes out smiling, as if nothing has happened, and opens a bottle of wine.
‘Are you sure you should be drinking?’
‘Oh, one little drink isn’t going to kill me,’ she winks. She fills a tumbler and a mug because she doesn’t own any wine glasses. ‘Low-ball glass for you, as you’re the guest. You know your problem, Alex? You worry too much. Live each day like it’s your last. Seriously, you’re not just “glass half-empty”, you’re like, “oh, if what’s in the glass is so great, why’s it been left by someone? And it’s probably been left for so long that it’s gone rancid now, so I’m not even going to bother trying it”. You need to lighten up.’
‘Well, if my glass is half-empty, I reckon it’s because you’ve nicked some of it – you think your glass is so full it’s overflowing,’ I joke.
‘That’s me, I’m brimming over – and why not! Anyway, fancy watching a film? Something sloppy, like The Time Traveler’s Wife, or what’s that one with Keanu Reeves, The Lake House?’
‘Huh, actually, I’ve just remembered I’ve got an urgent appointment to wash my hair. I’m off – oy!’ The purple fur cushion she chucks bounces off my head.
‘Come on, misery guts, live a little! We can dissect how books are so much better than the films. You love that.’
‘Ha, you know I can’t resist book talk.’
‘Top up your glass, sit down and we’ll have a gossip.’
But as she flops down beside me on the sofa, her face changes, mouth pulling downwards. ‘Everyone’s been so kind to me. I’ll miss you all so much. You especially, Alex. It’s unbelievable what you’ve done for me. No one has ever done anything like that for me before.’
The look on her face reminds me of the expression Edward pulled as a child when he wanted a hug but hadn’t dared ask in case Elise laughed at him. So I give Carrie a cuddle. She’s shivering.
‘I’m getting your duvet, you’re not right,’ I worry.
‘I’ll be all right in a minute,’ she calls.
Too late, I’m already upstairs. When I return and wrap it around her shoulders, she melts into it, pulling it closer to her until she’s cocooned.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she repeats, despite her lip trembling. ‘I’m just being silly.’
‘Er, no, you’re not. It’d be silly not to react like this. You’re in shock, Carrie, still coming to terms with everything. Don’t you dare apologise to me.’
‘I just don’t want to go, not really. I’m not ready. I thought I was – oh, I really thought I was – but I’m not.’
‘Then fight, Carrie.’ I take her hand. ‘We’ll fight together. I love your positivity, but you don’t always have to put a brave face on things.’
‘Sometimes… sometimes I do feel scared,’ she confesses.
I put my arm around her, duvet and all. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’ll be with you every step of the way. Promise.’
To try to cheer up, we end up watching both films. I’m glad I insisted on subscribing to Netflix for her, a gift that had made her burst into tears. The movies are all so sloppy that they flow into one for me, as do the constantly topped-up glasses of wine.
‘I’ve never found love, never settled down. Always moved around a lot,’ Carrie slurs as the credits roll. ‘Always had to.’ A tear trickles down her face. She rubs at it with her sleeve, leaving her cheek red. ‘I’ve just always been so alone. I wish I weren’t.’
‘That’s my fault,’ I say. The room is starting to spin. Or perhaps it’s my head. I’m not sure if I said that out loud. Carrie doesn’t pick up on it. My thoughts are rolling round, too, light with the clarity of alcohol, creating a tornado of regret that my best friend doesn’t realise I’m to blame for her biggest fear as she faces death.
‘You know who some of the most dishonest people in the world are?’ I announce. ‘Nice people. They’ll say anything rather than hurt someone’s feelings. They’ll tell you that you haven’t hurt them. That they know you’re a good person who is only lashing out because you’re in pain. That of course they know you didn’t mean the awful things you said and did. They’re too nice to tell you the truth.’
Carrie’s reply is a barely discernible snore.
Probably for the best, because I’m saying too much, letting slip things I need to hold tight.
Prodding her awake, I manage to herd her stumbling form up to bed. Pop a bowl beside her, with a dash of disinfectant, just in case.
* * *
When I next open my eyes, it’s morning, and I’ve got a crick in my neck from sleeping on the sofa. Carrie presents me with a mug of coffee and some toast, then settles beside me. She’s brought the duvet back down and goes to put it over both of us and turn the telly on.
‘No, no, I can’t stay. I’ve got a client arriving in, urgh, in twenty minutes. Don’t worry about seeing me out,’ I add.
Carrie has been making to stand, but sinks back onto the sofa. ‘You sure?’
‘Think I can find the door on my own, thanks.’ I wink.
‘Just feels a bit rude… ’
‘Rubbish! I can see myself out. You look too comfy to shift.’
‘You’ve got a point.’ She hugs the duvet to her belly, giving it a squeeze, eyes half-closed, then opens them and grins. ‘Do you know, I might treat myself to a bit of a duvet day. Thanks, Alex, for, you know, everything.’
‘Don’t be daft, I’ve done nothing. See you tomorrow. And don’t forget what I said: if you need me, call. Any time. I mean it.’ The last was said almost as a threat, my finger wagging in her direction, eyes stern.
‘Yes, Mum.’
A warm glow spreads across my face, my whole body. Like I’ve come alive. It’s just a silly tease, a throwaway phrase, but it’s been so long since anyone called me ‘Mum’. I don’t like to admit even to myself how much I like it. To hide it, I pass her the remotes for the television.
In the hallway, I zi
p up my coat and step outside while still fiddling with my gloves – almost tripping over a parcel left on the doorstep. It’s about the size of a shoebox. I turn to call to Carrie, but the words die as I notice the message scrawled in red pen.
I’m watching you
Eight
I’m watching you
It looks threatening, screamed in big red capitals. I check over my shoulder to make sure Carrie hasn’t got up and followed me, then pull the door closed. Kneel down and scoop up the box before I can change my mind. It’s incredibly light. Perhaps it’s empty? Some kind of practical joke?
The parcel has nothing to do with me. But those words scrawled in scarlet capitals across the top of the box seem off. I’ll take it home, check inside, then tape it up again and pop it back on the step before anyone can notice it’s disappeared.
The whole walk home, I regret my decision. The spire of St George’s Church reaches up to the clouds in all its Gothic glory, pointing out how they frown their judgement down on me. Still, I hurry on, my thoughts moving as fast as my feet.
I’m being overprotective of Carrie, I know. Mothering her. Smothering her. It’s because I’m not allowed to be there for my children any more. My fault. All my fault. The thought depresses me. I don’t want to act out of selfish reasons, instead I want finally to be doing the right thing by people, making amends for pain caused. My counsellor, Rosie Knight, has warned me that anorexia takes good personality traits such as perfectionism, attention to detail, determination, and twists them into something destructive. Perhaps it’s happening again. Perhaps I should back off and leave Carrie alone.
Alone, to face death? No, that’s never going to happen. I need to atone, and if I don’t do it now then it will be too late. She’ll be gone. The urgency, the sense of time and life slipping away, makes my footsteps faster… then I slow… The houses all have pumpkins, cobwebs, witches adorning windows and gardens. Halloween, of course.
The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller Page 3