by John Nicholl
‘Okay, just five minutes. But then it’s time for sleeping.’
Molly Mailer picked up the paperback and began reading.
‘Is Dad coming to see me on Saturday?’
Molly closed the book and rested it on the small glass-topped bedside cabinet. ‘No, Dad can’t make it this weekend.’ She rubbed the top of his head tenderly with the palm of her hand, leant forward, and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Shall I read the story now?’
‘Why can’t he come?’
‘I explained, cariad. He’s going away for the weekend.’
‘With his new friend?’
‘Yes, with his new friend.’
Anthony sat up and frowned. ‘It’s all my fault.’
Molly hugged her son tightly. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not your fault. It really, really isn’t. I love you. Dad still loves you. Now, under the quilt with you, and I’ll lie down on top of the bed to keep you company until you fall asleep.’
A few moments later Anthony curled up into a ball, hugged his teddy bear tightly to his chest and started snoring quietly.
Molly rose stiffly from the bed, silently cursed her aching lower back, and tiptoed out of the room, ever so slowly, ever so carefully. Please don’t wake up, Tony. Please don’t wake up.
She gritted her teeth and grimaced as she stared into the large oval bathroom mirror situated on the wall above the heated towel rail. Facing her, was a woman showing all the inevitable signs of ageing, cruelly highlighted by the glaring, excessively bright fluorescent light above her head. It wasn’t good. She looked tired, she looked jaded, and she looked older. There was no denying it, however tempting it was to try.
She took a deep intake of breath through her nose, and exhaled slowly and gradually through her open mouth. That’s what single parenthood did to you. The separation had taken its toll.
Molly sighed, rubbed her bleary eyes with the back of one hand, and headed downstairs. Any attempts at beautification, however seemingly necessary, would have to wait.
She shuffled into the kitchen on tired legs and switched the kettle on. Anthony was finally asleep, and Siân was out again. Why not make the most of the free time whilst she had the opportunity?
She slumped into an unforgiving kitchen chair, rested her elbows on the pine table, and cradled a large mug of her favoured peppermint tea, sweetened with an overgenerous helping of Welsh honey, in both hands. She closed her eyes and tried to relax as the rising vapour warmed her face. Should she head up to bed to enjoy her novel? It was tempting. No, she was going to have to wait up to let Siân in. That was if she bothered coming home at all.
Molly groaned loudly and took a calming gulp of the fast-cooling liquid. Would it be sensible to give Siân her own key? It would definitely make life easier. But, was she really old enough for that kind of independence? Yes, no, yes, no? It wasn’t easy making decisions when you were used to a partner acting as a sounding board. Why not sleep on it?
She yawned and fought to stay awake, but after about fifteen minutes of good intentions she capitulated, rested her head on the table, and slept.
Molly woke with a start, and stared at the kitchen clock. Twenty past twelve. Oh, not again, what did the thoughtless girl think she was doing? She was only fifteen, for goodness’ sake.
She hurried into the cottage’s tiny hall with its ancient faded red-tiled floor, grabbed the phone from its wall-mounted cradle next to the front door, and sat on the bottom step of the stairway, which creaked noisily under her weight. Molly stilled herself and listened intently. No sound of stirring from Anthony’s room. Thank God for small mercies.
After a minute or two’s cautious silence, Molly went to dial. But then it dawned on her. Who was she going to ring? Siân hadn’t shared details of friends for months. Was ringing arbitrary parents at half past twelve in the morning really such a good idea? All she could do was wait, worry and hope for the best.
Molly flopped back into the same kitchen chair and wept. Deep, all-consuming sobs that caused her chest to heave repeatedly as she gasped for breath. Should she ring her mum again? It was about an hour later in Majorca, but she badly needed to talk. Why not? Mum wouldn’t mind her calling. She never did.
Molly waited for what seemed like an age before finally hearing her mother’s familiar voice say, ‘Hello,’ in melodic Welsh tones, tinged with a barely decipherable but unequivocal hint of Spanish.
‘Molly? It’s about half one in the morning here. What’s wrong, love?’
‘Sorry, Mum, just the usual stuff.’
‘Sorry to hear that. But at half past one? Can’t we talk in the morning?’
There was a moment’s silence before Molly began weeping without words.
‘Oh, Molly, things can’t be that bad, can they?’
‘Not great, to be honest.’ She paused, and then added, ‘I wish Mike hadn’t met that tart.’
‘I know, love. I know. Give me a second, Dad’s sleeping. I’ll pick up the phone in the lounge.’
‘Hello, Molly?’
‘Yes, I’m still here.’
‘Right, tell me all about it.’
‘Siân’s out again. God only knows where. I just wish she’d tell me where she’s going, or at least give me a call to say she’s safe. It’s not much to ask, is it?’
‘Siân’s a teenager, love, you weren’t so very different at that age, to be honest.’
‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. But it’s not easy on my own.’
‘I know, love. Now, tell me. How’s Anthony doing?’
Molly shook her head slowly and frowned. ‘Tony? Where do I start?’
‘That bad, eh?’
Molly swallowed hard before responding. ‘He’s changed. He’s clingy, he’s wetting the bed most nights, and he’s even started taking a teddy bear to bed again. Mr Snuggles! Can you believe that? He’s seven, not four. I thought those days were long gone.’
‘It’s understandable, in the circumstances.’
‘He just stays in and plays with his bloody Lego. Anything to avoid mixing.’ Molly paused for breath and continued. ‘He asks me about Mike constantly: is Dad coming today? Can I see Dad on Saturday? Will Dad play football with me? I try to be patient, but he asks the same bloody questions every single day. I’m struggling, Mum. The other morning he threw an entire bowl of cornflakes across the room when I told him Mike couldn’t make it this Saturday. There was one hell of a mess. And then he went completely to pieces, stamping about the kitchen with tears streaming down his face, snot everywhere. It was like the terrible twos, but worse. It s-seems never-ending.’
‘He’s at that age. He’s missing his dad. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but these things don’t sort themselves out overnight. I wish I could be there with you, but, what with Dad’s kidney problems…’
‘I know, Mum.’
‘Have you told Mike about all this?’
‘I’ve tried talking to him, but we just end up arguing. I miss him. He says he’s sorry and wants us to get back together, but he’s still living with that woman. It makes me so bloody angry.’
‘I know, but don’t give up on him just yet, eh. You two were together for a long time.’
There was a moment’s silence as Molly wiped away her tears. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you. I saw them together.’
‘Really? When was that?’
‘Before he left. She’d sent him naked photos. I found them hidden in his sock drawer. Let’s just say they didn’t leave anything to the imagination. There was no escaping reality after that. He let me down. He let the kids down. I really trusted him. I hate him sometimes.’
‘I know, love.’
‘I didn’t tell him what I’d seen at first. I tried to live with it for the sake of the kids. But it gnawed away at me. I sat outside the bank one lunchtime and waited until they eventually came out together. Oh, Mum, she is so very young: figure-hugging clothes, immaculate hair and make-up, long legs, high heels and a ridic
ulously short skirt. And, so pretty. It made me feel totally redundant.’
‘That must have been awful. But, you’re far from useless.’
‘They walked straight past my car, and turned into Merlin’s Lane. I followed them a couple of minutes later and found them in the Scala. You know it, that nice Greek restaurant we used to visit on special occasions.’
‘I remember.’
‘He was sitting opposite her on a table for two with his back to me.’ Molly laughed despite herself. ‘I was lucky if he bought me a bag of chips. I just stood and watched them at first, without saying a word. But then Mike leant across the table and kissed her.’ She paused, contemplating the past. ‘The pig complained bitterly if I tried to hold his hand in public.’
‘How did he react?’
‘Some garbage along the lines of, it wasn’t what it looked like. I threw a glass of red wine in his face and told him to move out. He told me a few days later that he moved in with her that evening. The worst thing was telling Anthony.’
‘Why haven’t you told me all this before?’
‘Things become more real somehow, when you talk about them.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean.’
Should she tell her? Yes, why not? There was nothing to lose. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that there may be some light at the end of the tunnel.’
‘Well, thank goodness for that. Tell me more.’
‘Tony’s teacher rang me. She said he’d regressed.’
‘I can’t say it sounds too positive so far.’
Molly smiled, but the expression quickly left her face. ‘I talked to Dr Procter. You must remember her?’
‘Of course, she was my GP for years.’
‘I thought she may prescribe Tony something to cheer him up a bit. But no, she’s referred him to the child guidance clinic. She said it’s got a good reputation. I thought you may disapprove.’
‘Not at all, any idea how long the waiting list is?’
‘Not really, but you know what the NHS is like. It’ll probably be months.’
‘Well, at least you’re on the list. It’s good news. But you need to let Mike know what’s happening. Ring him, try to stay calm, tell him about the appointment, and tell him you still care about him. Because you do, don’t you, love?’
Molly smiled thinly. ‘I suppose you’re right. Thanks for the chat. Give my love to Dad. I love you.’
‘I love you too. Kiss the children for me. Now, it’s late. Try to get some sleep.’
3
Cynthia Galbraith rose at 5:30 a.m. on Friday 10 January, as she invariably did on days when her husband was working. She showered, dressed in an immaculate white silk dress, carefully styled her caramel-blonde hair and skilfully applied her make-up, taking care to look her best. She suspected that her husband would treat her efforts with utter indifference. Nonetheless, she reminded herself, she had to keep trying.
After one last anxious peek in the dressing table mirror, Cynthia hurried downstairs, ensuring not to make even the slightest noise that may prematurely disturb her husband’s slumber. He wouldn’t be ready to get up until seven o’clock, and she’d need every available second to prepare for his eventual appearance.
Cynthia rushed into the kitchen and began preparing breakfast in line with Galbraith’s particular requirements. Every detail mattered.
She placed a choice of two high-fibre cereals on the large stripped oak table, lining up the boxes so that each was exactly parallel with the other. She added an exquisite French Chantilly porcelain plate, a matching cup, saucer and bowl, a solid silver spoon, a jug of full-cream milk, a bowl of dark muscovado sugar, and a silver gilt toast rack, that she would fill with his preferred white toast at the correct time. Next, she poured chilled, freshly squeezed orange juice into a nineteenth-century crystal wine glass, placing it precisely one inch from the right side of the plate. Cynthia used a stainless steel twelve-inch ruler to ensure she got the distance exactly right, and checked the measurements time and time again. He’d be disappointed if she got it wrong. That could mean punishment, and the ruler had a sharp edge.
Cynthia entered the hall and tensed as she heard the shrill tone of the doctor’s alarm clock. He was getting up. It wouldn’t be long until he came downstairs. She had to get a move on.
She raced back into the kitchen and switched on the toaster, double-checking that it was set to her husband’s precise required setting. Too light, or too dark, and at best, he’d refuse to eat it.
She checked again to ensure that everything was on the table and in its correct position. It had to be perfect. Nothing less was acceptable. A white linen napkin! How could she be so stupid?
She hurriedly took one from a dresser drawer and held it up, confirming it was clean and totally crease-free. She took a deep breath, sucking the oxygen deep into her lungs. Thank God, immaculate. Surely it was good enough?
Cynthia switched on the percolator and added her husband’s favourite fine ground Columbian coffee. Finally, she took two free-range eggs, three rashers of unsmoked Danish bacon, organic plum tomatoes and button mushrooms from the larder fridge located next to the range cooker, and laid them on the shiny black granite worktop.
She moved to the centre of the room and turned slowly in a circle, surveying the entire kitchen with keen eyes. There had to be something she hadn’t done correctly. There was always something.
Cynthia checked the clock for the umpteenth time that morning. Time was running out at an alarming rate. She had to start cooking.
Galbraith awoke in unusually good spirits for a man who didn’t particularly like mornings. He threw back his duck-down quilt, leapt out of bed with an easy athleticism that belied his age, and paused for a moment on the landing en route to the bathroom to appreciate the glorious enticing aroma of high-quality bacon and coffee wafting up the sweeping staircase. Was it worth heading down for breakfast? Cynthia was, he had to acknowledge, an excellent cook, although of course it would never do to tell her that. He was hungry, that was certainly true, but did he really want to see the obnoxious bitch with all that entailed? Did he need the distraction? He had options, naturally. He could order her out of the kitchen, and eat alone and in silence. That was worth considering. But she’d have gone to a great deal of effort to prepare everything in line with his instructions. The woman always did. It would be amusing to ignore her efforts and grab a sandwich on the way to work.
The doctor grinned at the thought, but rejected the idea almost immediately. What the hell was he thinking? He needed adequate sustenance to sustain him on such an important day.
He dropped to the bathroom floor and began doing press-ups: one, two, three, four… The bitch’s psychological disintegration had been a glorious triumph.
He grinned, and rubbed the sweat from his eyes with the back of one hand: fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… Where oh where had the happy young law student gone? It had taken a little longer than anticipated to break her spirit completely, but he shouldn’t be too hard on himself. Her youth and inexperience had been to his advantage, but there were numerous obstacles that he had perhaps underestimated. By the time of their meeting she’d moved on to achieve an active social life, a wide circle of friends, and hobbies and interests. It posed a formidable challenge. And Cynthia possessed spirit. She’d left more than once in the early years of their relationship, before being persuaded back by unkept promises. Such things were never easy, particularly where a more intelligent subject was concerned. But, difficulties or not, his methods had worked. That’s what mattered. That was something to be proud of.
He glanced sideways, admiring his reflection in the mirrored wall tiles: eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six… The constant criticism, the never-ending fault-finding, the denial of pleasures, and the occasional physical punishments had proven an extremely effective strategy.
Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred! He sat bolt upright on the bathroom floor. How would he summarise the demise of her self-worth and its cons
equences in his thesis? He had to use the right words, the correct phrases, if his peers were to fully appreciate his observations.
The doctor rested his stubbled chin on the palm of one hand, and visualised the words appearing on the page. But then it hit him in the gut like a physical blow. It was important work, certainly, but could he really spare the time at such a crucial juncture? Shouldn’t he be focusing his attention entirely on Anthony Mailer? Of course he should. Of course he should. The thesis could wait. The bitch wasn’t going anywhere.
Galbraith showered, luxuriating in the sensual pleasure of the hot water warming his skin. Come on, man, focus, focus. Time was getting on.
He stepped out of the cubicle and dried quickly with a large, fluffy, pink bath towel, before throwing it to the floor next to the bidet. Right, come on, man. Time to shave.
He stood at the sink, stared at his reflected image in the illuminated magnifying mirror, and used a Victorian mother-of-pearl cut-throat razor to precisely shape the slightly greying sideburns that framed his well-proportioned face. Next, he used a silver-mounted mock turtleshell comb to coax his fashionably styled short hair into place, and to create a perfect side parting with copious amounts of shiny white hair wax. He stood there, staring into the shaving mirror for almost three minutes and admiring his reflection. Come on, man, get on with it, get on with it. He’d wasted enough time already.
The doctor returned to his opulent bedroom to get dressed. He put on dark blue boxer shorts, black knee-length socks, and chose a white Italian cotton shirt from a choice of six, perfectly ironed by Cynthia the previous evening. The shirt was followed by a dark grey single-breasted suit comprising a forty-four-inch chest jacket and trousers tailored to fit his trim thirty-three-inch waist. There were large holes cut in both trouser pockets, big enough for a hand to fit through. The suit was one of several high-end Savile Row business suits hanging in his spacious fitted wardrobes. Off-the-peg items just didn’t meet his required standards.
Next came highly polished, black leather-soled slip-on shoes festooned with bright silver buckles, and a pair of solid 18-carat gold cufflinks in the form of handcuffs, that never failed to amuse him. The final touch was a silk tie with a brightly coloured cartoon logo on the front. He adjusted the Windsor knot repeatedly until it was perfect. The tie was a stroke of absolute genius. He was a genius. What other explanation was there?