by Laura Kemp
‘Nah, I’ve only got one bag!’
‘Let’s have that drink first then.’
Mel nipped in for wine glasses and Ceri held the cool bottle to her forehead.
‘It’s going to be a belter, the sunset, just you watch,’ Mel said, settling down beside her.
Ceri didn’t want to waste a drop of champagne so she crawled the cork into her hand. She poured it out as the scent of the bubbles mingled with the lane’s wild jasmine and honeysuckle, which was sighing sweetly into the early evening. This moment was special because chances to reflect were fewer and further between now the season had started: everyone was rushed off their feet, chasing time, making sure people who had come here to wind down got the service and experience they expected. It was what the locals had dreamed of so no one minded. But it meant life was intensely busy and thundered along at speed – on top of that, Ceri had her Cheap As Chic administrative duties to perform. She seemed to have got away with melting away from the spotlight so far: the OMG range had done so well Jade had become hot property and she’d signed up with a magazine for exclusive pictures of her wedding next month.
Ceri hadn’t had a proper chat with Rhodri for ages. She missed him hugely and when it became too much, she’d convince herself he wouldn’t match up to what she imagined him to be when she next saw him. It was good practice too, a test run for when he left in fast-approaching September. But whenever she did catch sight of him, perhaps across the bar or in the queue at Mel’s, he was better in the flesh and his smile made her heart blossom. Every time, she would pray to have gone off him.
‘Electric blue, Tuscan roof, pumpkin and tulip red. Then … let me see … heather, orchid and bedouin night. That’s how the sky will go,’ Mel said. ‘If I’m wrong, well, tomorrow’s a new day. I can try again.’
‘Too right, kid,’ Ceri said, offering her glass to Mel’s for a toast. ‘Here’s to trying again.’
29
Where was Mel? She was supposed to have been here ages ago and she was in danger of missing out on Rhodri’s pizza.
Tomorrow was the anniversary of Al’s accident and Ceri had been keeping an eye on her in the days they’d been living together to check she was coping. Mel was keeping her chin up and showing no signs of a breakdown: she’d said she was too busy to lose it now! At teatimes, Ceri had offered to go with her to Cardiff if she wanted company. But Mel insisted she had to do it alone – instead she’d asked her to run the cabin for the weekend. And she’d finally relented, out of necessity, offering Fi two days of work.
Even so, Ceri wanted to pop to the Pink House before she got too merry. She weaved past the locals and Rhodri’s workmates, who had gathered around a table laid out with a variety of toppings to make their own. There were circles of juicy mozzarella, strips of fresh asparagus and melt-in-the-mouth prosciutto and bowls of succulent olives and mushrooms. Rhodri was nowhere to be seen so Ceri told Seren to save them some and made her way down the steps to the lane. When she got to the Murmur Y Coed gate, she found him crouched over a box and he jumped out of his skin when he heard her.
‘What’re you doing?’ she said, puzzled by his furtive behaviour.
‘Oh, God, I knew this would happen,’ he said, mumbling something which included the words ‘fucking’ and ‘Logan’ as he tried to hide the parcel.
‘What is it?’
He blushed and stammered ‘nothing’.
‘Okay,’ she said, giving him suspicious eyes. ‘Absolutely nothing to see here at all apparently. I’m off to get Mel. Bye bye. But let me know not to bother coming back if it’s a machine gun or a pop-up doll.’
‘See? This is why he’s done it,’ he said, throwing his arms in the air. ‘To humiliate me. Oh, you may as well know. I’m sure that’s why Logan delivered it now. Reckoned he’d tried earlier, my arse. Far better to drop it now when I’ve got people over and he’s not invited.’
‘What are you on about? Are you some kind of dark web overlord?’
‘Believe me, I’d feel better if I was … it’s … Lego.’ He hung his head and Ceri burst out laughing. As crimes went, it wasn’t up there with the worst but she couldn’t help herself.
‘Lego?’ she cried. ‘As in those completely unenvironmentally friendly, non-biodegradable nuclear war-resistant plastic blocks? After all the recycling shit you gave me! That’s classic, that is!’
‘Yes, yes, I’m well aware I’m a hypocrite. Go on, do your best, go for it, rip me to shreds.’
He was actually serious. She toned down her horror.
‘Rhodri, you don’t have to be this perfect person, you know.’ She gazed up at him with warm eyes, trying to express her feelings for this gorgeous man bear.
‘They are developing greener plastic …’ he said, weakly. ‘It’s just when I was a kid, I did it with my dad but my brothers would smash up whatever I made … me and Henry do it now. That was what was on my laptop that I didn’t want you to see. It wasn’t … rude stuff. Just the Lego website.’
‘It’s cool,’ she said. ‘It makes no difference to me. I still think you’re amazing.’
‘Do you?’ he said, shocked.
‘Yes. If a bit geeky.’ Not to mention a bit paranoid about Logan.
He nodded resignedly, his eyebrows drooping like they’d just given up on life. She wished she hadn’t said that last bit.
‘What I meant was …’
‘It’s fine. Go and get Mel,’ he said, as if he couldn’t get away from her quickly enough.
As awkward went, it was pretty much a masterclass. So she did as she was told and went to find Mel, mulling over her hopeless heart. Why hadn’t she realised she stood no chance with him? Yet for all their ridiculous differences – his eco-cleaning materials versus her bleach, his hatred of money and her stuffed purse, his humility against her swagger, his countryside upbringing and her townie life – he was either making her laugh or having a deep and meaningful with her. As much as it hurt her, she was beginning to think she needed him to go to Sweden to get over him.
She let herself in and called out for her. Mel had done a great job with the house – it was so tidy compared with when she’d first set foot in here. There were free pegs in the hallway, boots were paired up, a smell of fabric conditioner and the surface of the dresser was uncluttered except for a few letters.
‘Mel! It’s me,’ she said at the foot of the stairs, waiting for her to answer. Still, there wasn’t a peep. So she went up to the lounge, nothing; then back down to the bathroom, again nothing. Maybe she was having a nap? Her door was always closed; Ceri didn’t go in there because she didn’t want to invade Mel’s personal space, so she gave it a light tap and put her ear to it to see if she could hear snoring before gently pulling the handle down to go in.
‘Mel,’ she whispered as it opened a crack onto utter darkness. No wonder she was in a deep sleep if the curtains were closed. ‘Time to wake up.’
She pushed against the door but it refused to budge. Harder now, she placed her hand and her shoulder against the wood, wondering what on earth was in the way. A funny feeling came over her as the resistance continued and she called louder now while summoning all of her strength and barging her way in. A crash and a bang and a torrent of bags and clothes and magazines and books and ornaments slid on top of more rubbish – there wasn’t a spot of carpet to be seen.
‘Mel!’ she shouted, squeezing through the gap of the door, fearing her friend had been crushed by the avalanche. The bed was stacked with more belongings, towering and teetering against the wall, leaving an inch of length which presumably Mel crawled into at night. Ceri had had a vision of her skull smashed in under the duvet but she wasn’t in there, thank goodness. Now she knew Mel wasn’t in mortal danger, Ceri’s eyes adjusted to the room. It was chaos: every available area from her bedside cabinet and the window sill to her wardrobe and dressing table were littered or hanging or cowering beneath millions of
bits and pieces, some of which she recognised from upstairs. So this was how she’d done it: transferring her possessions into one room, the place Mel wouldn’t think visitors would look. Ceri felt awful she’d seen it – as if she’d read her diary behind her back.
Trying not to panic, she reasoned at least Mel had made the rest of the house habitable. But it was obvious that while Mel had been calm on the surface, underneath she was struggling with tomorrow’s anniversary. Her fingers itched to make the room safe but she couldn’t do it – Mel would see it as interference or, worse, a violation. What should she do? She found she couldn’t move, though. It was like staring into Mel’s head, seeing a photo album of her memories but not knowing why this particular troll with its green sticky-up hair was important or understanding the significance of the cracked piggy bank. Why keep a grubby My Little Pony? And a game of Hungry Hippos? What had the Etch A Sketch meant to her growing up?
A stack of vibrant canvases lay against the radiator and she crept in, wading slowly so she didn’t stand on anything. Flicking through them, they were exceptionally bright watercolours of places she didn’t recognise, cityscapes and a castle, a brewery and a street scene. Were they from her days at art college in Cardiff? Next to them was a cracked plastic tray bursting with worn-down Rimmel lipsticks minus lids, unused eyeshadows still in their cellophane, solid nail varnish and – oh! what were the chances of it! – an empty Cheap As Chic lip gloss. To think Mel had held Ceri’s work in her hand and been unaware of it. Then Ceri caught sight of a curling photograph half-covered by a scary staring orange Furby on the floor. She picked it up, drawn to it. The picture was of a scene she knew so well – the rocks where her mother cuddled up to her father. Except it was of a, what, nine-year-old, ten-year-old beside a waterfall, Dwynwen’s waterfall, on this very beach, beside a brown-haired and tanned man in a silver neck chain complete with a locket. It didn’t make sense. What was Mel doing with him here? Was it even him? How could it be, unless …
She dropped the photo and reeled away as nausea took hold, her head screaming. Backing out of the room, closing the door, she barged into the dresser and as she turned to steady herself, she caught sight of the top letter, which was addressed to Mr Emlyn Thomas. Her mouth went dry and blood roared in her ears. She shut her eyes but she could still see the man’s features – the eyes she’d never seen because his face was obscured in her mother’s photo. They were her own – the same almond shape, the same chestnut. His nose was strong and the set of his broad smile like hers, too. She thought back to the pub when he’d come in the night the village was on the news … she’d met him and not realised. But Mel’s dad was Lyn, wasn’t he? She shook her head, not understanding what she’d seen, not accepting what her mind was concluding. Mr Emlyn Thomas. Emlyn. Could Emilio be a fabrication? But why? And how could he be two people, two fathers, if Mel was only a few months older than her?
Ceri’s feet carried her forward in an out-of-body stumble to her room.
Feeling her legs go, she fell back onto the bed, trying to see through competing and muddled emotions. There was disbelief and astonishment and rejection of what couldn’t be but anger at what possibly was.
She heard the front door go and Mel’s footsteps, then her voice which crept round into Ceri’s room.
‘Ceri? Are you in?’
She couldn’t hide – Rhodri would only tell Mel she had gone looking for her. And yet she couldn’t let her see her like this. Because Ceri would crumble and it would all come out. Mel was too fragile to see this. Tomorrow was too important.
‘In here,’ she croaked, pulling the duvet over her, hiding her face.
‘The bus was late but I’ve got a load of nibbles for Rhodri’s and – oh, Ceri, what’s up?’
‘Just a headache, I came back to get you. Then I felt poorly. You go, they’re waiting for you.’
‘But what about tomorrow? Will you be okay if I go to Cardiff?’
‘Yes. I just need to sleep,’ Ceri said, desperately.
‘Okay,’ she said reluctantly. ‘But any problems, just say, promise?’
‘Yes.’
Ceri waited until Mel had gone before she allowed herself to cry. At first they were small dumbfounded sobs as the questions she needed answering weren’t yet properly formed. Then the stabs in the dark began to shape themselves as she started to deal with the discovery of something challenging all the facts she’d grown up with. The mother she’d thought she’d known. The father she’d thought she’d had. And if it was true, it would mean she had grown up with deceit. It would mean her father wasn’t dead in the water but here, alive and well.
Ceri counts her blessings
It’s the middle of the night, Mum, and I can’t reach you.
Usually when I talk to you in my head, I can sense you listening in; see your smile or your frown, hear your words of encouragement or doses of common sense.
But you’re somewhere else, far away, unreachable. I don’t blame you – why would you want to face up to what you did? To see my distress and anger, hiding under the duvet, staring out into the dark, disbelieving and confused. To see my disappointment in you. Because you’ve let me down. Of all those horrible feelings, being disappointed in someone you loved and trusted and idolised is the worst. I haven’t slept a wink, my eyes are sore from crying, my nose is blocked and there’s a sickness in my stomach, which rises up and tastes sour and acidic, of dishonesty.
Why did you spin me such a fantasy? I remember feeling special that I had a dad from Spain. In the eyes of a child, it was exotic and dramatic – full of colour and swishing red and black polka-dot flamenco skirts. I grew up thinking I had that in my blood, and even as an adult I’d put all my success down to him, his entrepreneurial genes and you played that game too. You carried it on, saying I was just like him. It feels so cruel. How did you keep a straight face for so long? Did you start to believe it yourself? No wonder there were never any photos or telephone calls from his family. How did I not see the holes in your story? They never got in touch because your pregnancy before marriage was a sin in their Catholic eyes. All that shit about sardines and mermaids … and the likeliest thing of all is that he was a let-down. Just like Tash’s dad was. My God, you could pick them. And that makes me feel terrible that he was a rock for Mel, when she wasn’t even blood. Were you and me such a bad option that he’d chosen her family over us?
Or … oh God … was there something worse? Maybe he’s a monster and you were abused or manipulated and you ran and now I’ve got to keep this to myself … just when I thought I’d found a place which was honest and good. I mean, I’m sleeping in Mel’s house, for God’s sake, she’s refusing rent and it’s looking like she’s my sort of sister. It’s a huge tangle. But why would you send me here? Why would you want me to find out he was a bastard? To confront him? To show him up? To correct the past? My gut can’t accept that. But then how can I trust my gut anymore? And yet you were the epitome of kindness – whether that was how you brought Tash and me up to be or in the way you lived your life, doing favours for people, looking out for them, fetching shopping for Mrs Briggs up the road, all of that. And you’d always spoken so well of him, as if he was the love of your life. I just don’t understand and I can feel this pressure in my head trying to make sense of it when how can I ever know the truth? Do I have to leave this village now and all my friends?
Because I can’t mention this to Mel. She’s a mess and how would it sound if her beloved father knocked you up then walked off, never to contact you again? I can’t do that to her. The kindest thing to do is not say anything – and here I am spouting something you’d say and now I feel guilty because what if you never meant me to know but it was just your dementia reliving it all? Oh, Mum, if you can hear me, I’m sorry. And I’m even sorrier that I can’t think of any blessings either. Because what bloody good is a sunset or a nice tea when you find out your whole life has been a lie?
&nbs
p; 30
Adroopy bouquet hung from Mel’s hand as life went on all around her.
Blocks of jerking turquoise and carrot from belching buses. Cars in postbox red, platinum and marine blue zipping past. Multi-coloured bursts of bicycles. Cookie dough bricks in the bridge. The sandwich-white clouds dotting the sweltering lunchtime sky. The truffled Taff flowing below. It was a giant moving painting of smears and layers, only slowing down when the humps and traffic lights commanded. At least she could still see the shades, at least it hadn’t all gone black.
Cardiff was busier than she remembered: she felt under attack from people streaming around her and the sound of drilling: above too, caged in by the scaffolding as the city built itself higher. Only the mushroom castle and its animal wall of stone creatures, of seals and bears, hyenas and lions, were the same. Ten years ago today she had seen Alwyn’s blood spill and pool and run on the tarmac; thank God the night-time had given her some protection from its shocking hue. The scream of approaching sirens as she’d cradled his miraculously untouched face, lolling in the crook of her arm, his body becoming gruesomely twisted and bent, lit by a neon flashing blue. She had vomited, immediately sober, and smelled fumes and iron on what had been a humid evening. Now, the bitter coffee from her train journey was swilling in her stomach. Why had she come? Why had she made cheese rolls? They were only ever destined to become sweaty in her rucksack, uneaten because she had no appetite.
How had she chatted to Dad about the glorious weather on the drive to Fishguard Harbour? It wasn’t gorgeous, it was oppressive: more like a frying pan to the back of her head. Smiling at the conductor when she’d produced her ticket between Kidwelly and Pembrey had been a betrayal of her churning insides. The words in her book had swum in tears and she’d run out of tissues by Llanelli. The torturous row in her head swinging from get off at the next stop to stay put for the entirety of the journey. Until only Cardiff Central remained, the capital city where she was supposed to be staying the night. By then, the sprigs of candy-floss-pink dog rose, fluffy white meadowsweet and Fruit-Salad-wrapper honeysuckle had started to wither. By the time she had arrived at the spot, the once damp kitchen-roll sheath was dehydrated and the scrunched-up foil was hot from her palm.