by Fiona Gibson
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dear Charlotte,
Lovely to hear from you. And quite a surprise, to be honest. I wasn’t sure whether you’d want to contact me or if your dad would even pass it on. So, where to start? I know it’s been a hell of a long time but I’ve wanted to get in touch so many times over the years. I’ve just never quite known how to go about it, or how you’d react if I did. The truth is, I never stopped thinking about you …
I’ve wondered about him over the years too – or, more accurately, why he asked Mummy to write me that letter. And the possibilities I’ve come up with are:
She was horrified at the thought of him becoming a young dad when he had ‘a promising future ahead of him’ (obviously, as far as she was concerned, I didn’t have any future at all) and forbade him to see me. And although he was nineteen, and perfectly capable of travelling all over Europe by himself, he was a good boy and did as she asked.
He asked her to write it because he was too embarrassed to admit that he’d found himself another girlfriend called Perdita with a swishy mane of golden hair and a cabinet full of gymkhana trophies.
As my husband sleeps off his chemically-induced hangover, I am feeling unusually measured and calm. The kids are having a lie-in too, and there’s an aura of stillness as I stretch out on the sofa with my laptop and read on.
So how are things are in your life? I assume you’re married and fantastically successful. You were always so smart – far smarter than me when it came to travelling around and finding somewhere to stay and getting us sorted. Remember that room I found us in Pigalle and it turned out to be a brothel, with a peephole in the wall and all those frantic noises in the night? And the time I left my passport in that bar? Anyway, you know how to contact me now. I’d love to see you for a coffee, just to catch up. But of course I understand completely if you’d rather not—
At the sound of someone coming downstairs, I quickly shut my laptop. ‘Hi, Mum. Is Dad all right?’ Ollie wanders in and flops down beside me.
‘Yes, he’s fine, love. At least, he will be. He just needs to sleep it off.’
He nods. ‘It’s good that he was sick, if he’s got food poisoning.’
‘Yes.’
‘Being sick’s how the body gets rid of bacteria before it can be absorbed in the bloodstream. It’s what we’re designed to do. The diaphragm goes up and down and the abdomen contracts and food shoots out, it’s called projectile vomiting—’
‘Yes, Ollie, I know.’ I muster a smile and test his forehead with the flat of my hand. ‘So how are you feeling? You were awfully hot last night.’
‘I’m fine now.’
‘That’s good, darling.’ I put my arm around him as he rests his head on my shoulder. It’s a breezy, sunny morning, and I’m seized by an urge to get out of the house, away from Will for a few hours. ‘D’you want to do something today?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, like what?’
‘I don’t know. You’re on holiday, we’ve got the whole day ahead of us.’ I shrug. ‘We can do anything really.’
Ollie sits up. Such a handsome boy with his clear, grey-blue eyes, a scattering of freckles and a big, wide smile. ‘All right. Shall we go swimming? To that big new place with the flumes?’
‘Um … are you sure that’s what you want to do, after having a temperature last night?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine! Can Saul come?’
‘Yes, of course he can. I’ll call Maria now …’
‘Um, Mum?’ he says as I place my laptop on the table. ‘You’re not going to, er … swim with us, are you?’
I laugh. ‘No, don’t worry. I’m not planning to put you to shame with my record-beating front crawl.’
He laughs. ‘I mean, you don’t even have to come. We’d be fine going on our own.’
‘Listen,’ I say, scrolling for Maria’s number on my phone, ‘I’ll take you but I won’t put so much as a toe in the water, okay? I’ll see if Liza wants to come too and we can have a coffee in the café.’ After dispatching a glass of water and toast to the sick bay – which Will accepts with rather sheepish thanks – we set off, collecting Saul and Liza on the way.
Compared to last night’s greasy spoon, the swimming pool’s café is an oasis of loveliness. Slightly over-heated, perhaps, but at least it’s making me sweat out my ill feelings towards Will. ‘You’re kidding,’ Liza exclaims. ‘Will took ecstasy? Your Will? Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s completely bizarre.’
‘But people don’t start taking drugs at forty-one years old. They kind of … build up to it. In fact, no – they might have a go at it when they’re young, then they get to a point when they start tapering off because they can’t handle it anymore and they’re scared of looking stupid.’
‘Well,’ I retort, ‘there’s been no building up or tapering off with him. He’s just dived in and done it. Voluntarily, too. I mean, I’m assuming Tommy didn’t sit on him and force it into his mouth … God, I wonder what his mother would say?’
Liza splutters. ‘I still can’t believe it. He seemed fine when I was there. A bit pissed, sure, but okay. Why did he do it, d’you think?’
I shrug. ‘No idea. In fact, I don’t really care. I’m more concerned about the fact that I don’t seem to know him at all. Don’t you think that’s a bit … worrying?’
‘Oh, come on.’ She touches my arm. ‘It was just one mad night …’
‘I saw him dancing with someone too,’ I add, going on to describe his erotic display, and our jolly jaunt to the all-night café where I squirted him with salad cream.
She convulses with horrified laughter. ‘He must’ve been off his head. If he took ecstasy on top of all the beers he’d had at the venue … It doesn’t mean anything.’
I shrug and cup my coffee. ‘That’s what they all say.’
‘It’s true, though. God, Charlotte, you know he’d never do anything to jeopardise the two of you. He might not always show it, but you know he’s devoted to you. And he was only dancing …’
‘Yes, but the dance involved him squashing his head in her cleavage.’
‘Oh.’ We both glance down at the pool where Ollie and Saul are lying on floats, drifting languidly like a couple of middle-aged friends on sun loungers. ‘Maybe it was the leather trousers that sent him a bit mad,’ Liza adds.
‘Yeah, possibly,’ I say, managing a smile. ‘Um … there’s something else. I’ve heard from Fraser again …’
She frowns, studying me. ‘You want to see him, don’t you?’
‘Sort of. Yes, I suppose I do …’
‘Because Will was off his face?’
‘Of course not! That’s nothing to do with it at all.’
‘Because …’ Liza adds, obviously choosing her words carefully, ‘you wouldn’t make such a monumental decision on the basis of him acting like an idiot just for one night … would you?’
‘No,’ I declare, a shade too loudly. A little boy in a buggy slides a choc ice out of his mouth and stares at us.
‘So you wouldn’t do it for … revenge or anything?’
‘Of course not,’ I insist. ‘I’d see him because he’s Rosie’s dad. You know she wants to make contact with him …’
Liza nods.
‘Well, if I meet him first, I’ll be able to suss out if he’s a decent man and if it’s okay for Rosie to get to know him.’
‘Well, that makes sense,’ she says cautiously.
I turn to watch a woman dive, in a perfect arc, into the deep end. I’m feeling better already, about Will’s indiscretion; it no longer feels like an earth-shattering event. Liza has the knack of helping me to put things in some kind of perspective. Plus, I’m no longer racked with guilt over my email exchange with Fraser. If I do meet him, it’ll only be to check out whether he’ll be a positive presence in Rosie’s life. I’d be conducting an assessment – interviewing him, if you like. It all feels quite sensible and grown up.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot
Ollie hauling himself out of the pool. He sees me and Liza and waves. ‘How lovely that he still acknowledges you in public,’ she says with a smile.
‘Yes, I know. He’s a great boy.’
She turns to me with a look that tells me a difficult question is coming. ‘So, if you do arrange to meet Fraser, will you tell Will?’
I hesitate. ‘Yes, but after I’ve met him, I think. There’s no point in a big drama now – and anyway, we’re hardly on the best of terms …’
‘Well, if you’re sure you feel okay about that.’
I drain my cup, watching an exhausted-looking woman chasing two excitable young children who make straight for the vending machine. They proceed to shake it, as if that’ll make all the Galaxy bars tumble out. ‘I’m not sure about anything, Liza,’ I say. ‘It just feels like something I have to do.’
*
Will appears to be on best behaviour when I arrive home with the boys. ‘Sorry about last night,’ he says as we start to prepare dinner together. I notice that he has left a small pause, into which I am perhaps supposed to insert, And I’m sorry too, for being so immature as to squirt you with 70s condiment. It was wrong and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. But I don’t. Anyway, a call from Rosie’s agency quickly dispels any lingering hint of tension.
‘I’ve got a casting on Monday,’ she announces. ‘It’s a massive job. I can’t believe it!’
‘That’s fantastic,’ I say, hugging her. ‘What’s it for?’
‘Billboards. An ad campaign for that new mall they’re building, the one that’s going to be bigger than Bluewater …’ I beam at her, delighted to see my daughter looking so radiant and happy.
‘Well done, darling,’ Will says, clearly not grasping its significance.
‘I probably won’t get it,’ she adds, trying to rein in her excitement, ‘but Laurie said they’re really keen to see me. Oh, and those knitting people wanted me again, for another pattern book or something, but I said I’m not doing that.’
I frown at her. ‘You turned down a job? Are you sure that was okay?’
‘Yeah. Delph said it wouldn’t do my profile any good …’ How bizarre, to hear my daughter talking of having a profile. She brightens again. ‘Anyway, I really want this other one. The billboard thing, I mean. Laurie thinks I’m their kind of girl …’ Her face bursts into a huge smile.
‘Well, that’s that, then,’ I exclaim. ‘Sounds like you’ll get the job!’ We dissolve into whoops of excitement, Will’s saucy dancing and Fraser’s emails disappearing from my mind, at least for now.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The house is all quiet early on Saturday morning as I curl up on the sofa and compose an email.
Hi Fraser,
Thanks for your email. Yes, I think meeting for coffee would be a good idea as, obviously, we have things to discuss. Are you still in Manchester? I’m in East London. Are you down here often? Let me know what works for you.
Charlotte
Hi Charlotte, comes the speedy reply.
Lovely to hear from you again. I’m so glad you want to meet. As I’ve mentioned before, I have wanted to get in touch with you for years now, and seeing the magazine was the trigger I needed.
I divide my time between Cheshire and London these days. I’ve been working in the City the past few years and I have a flat in Battersea. Anyway, I’d love to know more about your life now, and your family and what you’re doing … but I guess you’ll tell me if and when you feel ready.
Also, I want you to know I don’t blame you one bit.
Yours,
Fraser x
I frown at his last sentence. Blame me for what? For getting pregnant after we’d only known each other for a few short months? This implies I stole his sperm and impregnated myself, and that the poor mite had nothing to do with it. Or does he mean me scoffing that space cake? I love cake, always have, and didn’t imagine anything involving eggs, flour and butter – innocently baked – would result in me sliding off a chair in a café and lying on the floor laughing. Has he decided to forgive me for that?
Another email pings in: I know this is a long shot but I have some time off next week … is there any chance we could meet up then? Or would that be completely out of the question?
It’s wrong, I know it is. But I need to see him.
Okay, I type, how about Caffe Nero in Long Acre on Monday, 2 p.m.?
Good choice, I decide. Huge, busy and impersonal.
Perfect, he replies, see you then. Fx
Business concluded, I have a rather stilted breakfast with Will – the kids have yet to emerge from their rooms – then head out to the local shops. I can’t be around Will right now. I know it’s terrible, arranging to meet Fraser in secret when I took time off to hang out with my family and be useful at home. I wouldn’t feel quite as guilt-ridden if I didn’t experience a whoosh of excitement whenever an email from Fraser pops in. Although he irritates me slightly – what with ‘dividing his time’ between two homes, the posh knob – my heart still leaps every time he gets in touch. I wish I could treat his emails in the same way as the relentless INCREASE GIRTH AND LENGTH NOW!! spam which floods my inbox daily. But I can’t.
I have to see Fraser. I need to know why he cut off contact so abruptly, and why he just stopped wanting me. And I’m kidding myself by pretending it’s all for Rosie. Perhaps – despite insisting that I don’t care, that I despise him, actually – the truth is that I’ve never truly got over the miserable, spineless rat-bag deserter after all.
I stroll past our local, rather uninspired shops, and walk for another twenty minutes or so to the villagey area with its fancy boutiques and artisan bakers. There’s a homewares shop which seems to sell little more than antique cut-glass perfume bottles and brocade cushions. There are galleries, shockingly pricey boutiques and fancy delicatessens. I buy a sourdough loaf with the density of sandstone, and an apple tart in a flat white box from a new French patisserie.
Greengrocer’s next. Here, I carefully avoid choosing anything which Will is capable of growing at home: lettuce, for instance. That’s the effect my correspondence with Fraser is having on me. It’s making me paranoid about the tiniest things. For instance, if I bought, say, some rocket, would Will glower at it and remark, ‘But we have plenty in our garden … or aren’t my leaves good enough for you?’
God, it’s exhausting. Who’d have thought salad could be controversial? If I could only rattle off a quick email to Fraser saying BUGGER OFF OUT OF MY LIFE, then at least I wouldn’t feel so bad, even though I haven’t really done anything – yet. Whereas my husband, as I keep reminding myself, gobbled mind-altering chemicals and made a complete spectacle of himself with a mystery female in full view of our street.
I glance down at a wicker basket laden with mangoes. At least I’m on safe ground with fruit, because Will doesn’t grow any yet, apart from plums, which are yet to appear. In fact, being in close proximity to so much over-priced produce is making me feel a little more wholesome. It occurs to me, as I fondle various prime specimens, that that’s precisely what I am actually doing here: i.e., not buying mangoes because anyone particularly likes them (disappointing flesh-to-stone ratio) but because it’s the kind of thing good mothers/wives do. They take their mangoes home and cut them up and everyone sits around slurping them in the garden. That would impress Tricia – to see all of us enjoying the sunshine, whilst snacking on exotic fruit.
Yep, that’s what we’ll do. Mangoes are far more pleasing than reject crisps. Starting to make my way home, I decide to try to make amends with Will as soon as I get back. As he’s kindly pointed out, I am perfectly capable of making an arse of myself too; witness my drunken head gash. Feeling more positive now, I stop off to buy a bottle of Chablis for us to enjoy in the garden later. I shall present these fine offerings to him as peacemaking gifts. Maybe a relaxed evening together will help to thaw things between us. Yet, as I stride along with my expensive provisions, I still feel like a very bad person indeed.
I have asked Fraser to meet me for coffee behind Will’s back. Glancing down into my bag, I’m wondering now if Will even likes sourdough. Didn’t he comment once that it was ‘heavy’? Then I see it, parked on the gravelled forecourt outside the church: a white van, with Donate Blood Here on its side. That’s what I could do. That would cancel out the guilt, more effectively than any amount of produce from Roots ‘n’ Fruits.
I stop and watch people drifting in and out of the church. It might be my imagination, but they look like good people. They save human lives, after all. As I make my way towards the entrance, it occurs to me that, if they drain off some of my bad blood – the guilt-tinged blood that’s currently bubbling through my veins – then my body will replace it with nice clean fresh stuff. And perhaps, miraculously, the new blood my body produces will stop me wanting to see Fraser quite so much.
There’s a small queue at the booking-in desk. ‘Have you donated blood before?’ the woman asks.
‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘but a long time ago.’ I give her my details and she checks the screen and finds me. I’m given a form, and perch on a plastic chair at the end of the row while I fill it in. A young woman with a swingy blonde bob takes me into a little booth where she pricks my thumb with a hand-held machine. She studies the digital display. ‘Ah, sorry,’ she says, ‘your haemoglobin’s too low.’ She smiles reassuringly. ‘Your iron level – it’s nothing to worry about, but I’m afraid you can’t donate blood today.’
For some reason, even though I know I’m being silly – it could probably be rectified by scoffing a pile of spinach which, as luck would have it, Will grows in abundance – I am hugely disappointed by this news. Everywhere I look, posters are pinned up saying DONATE BLOOD TODAY AND SAVE A LIFE. I want to donate mine, but no one wants it. And it’s not really about iron. I know this. It’s because I am a terrible person who’s planning to sneak off and meet her ex.
I glance around the hall where row upon row of people are lying on beds, having their lovely iron-rich blood drained out of them. At one end of the room a cluster of people are sipping tea, tucking into chocolate biscuits and having a jolly chat. There are bursts of laughter. It looks an outing in itself.