He had certainly become a bit more ‘kicky’ since Lola messed with him. He felt unbalanced, unsettled, and I could sense it in each joint. But the physio seemed to tire him, irritate him even, and so I urged him into our new shared bed, with the promise of a favourite cartoon on his tablet and also one of the new pills I had bought that morning to calm him and make him feel better.
I shut the door on him. The rum was weighing on me and somewhere out there I could feel my sister watching, waiting. But that was nothing, compared to the inevitability of him.
A knock.
God. Surely it wasn’t—
But Lola was at the door, shivering in trainers and that velvet blazer, which was far too worn for this weather, and not waterproof.
‘Hi, how did you find me?’ I asked, knowing full well.
‘Oh, I …’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. Where was her red coat? ‘Come in.’
In a cute flourish, she brought out some bright tulips from behind her thigh:
‘Here. I stopped on the way, I know you like them.’
She had bypassed the petrol station buckets of carnations and turned off her route to buy them from the gift boutique on Fields Avenue. I recognised the hand-tied raffia. Maybe she did not yet think I was a monster.
Yuh si? Like mi always sey: one, one coco full basket.
‘Come on,’ I said, laying the flowers by the simmering beef. ‘Through here, let’s talk.’
‘I’m so sorry, Darling.’
She was still standing.
‘I didn’t know what I was doing, making him dance like that.’
I choked a touch, breathed out a cough.
‘You … no.’
‘I got it wrong.’
‘Yes! Thank you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I forgive you, Lola,’ I said. ‘It’s all OK, sit down.’
Once seated, she looked uncertain, and said nothing for a moment.
‘Dad would love you to come back home, you know?’
‘Would he? That’s good.’
If this were true, then he had not fully understood, but he would, one day.
‘Better than this place, right? Not that it’s …’ She peered up for a second. ‘Also, I need you back. We were going to find a plan. Weren’t we?’
‘Yes.’ Too weary to think, I reached for my rum.
‘Are you worried about Stevie? I’m pretty sure he hasn’t hurt himself.’
‘No,’ I said. The alcohol had ceased to either burn or soothe my throat an hour before. ‘Stevie’s just fine. He’s watching something in our room. He’s fine.’
‘Good. Because I know your illness makes you worry too much about that stuff. I get it now. Jade said—’
I rocketed upright. ‘You’ve spoken to Jade?’
‘Yes, I wanted to tell you. She came to the house last night and wanted to see Stevie. That’s what made me think I should—’
‘You believed her? When she said I was ill?’
Now Lola sat straighter in her chair, looked about the strange flat.
‘I’m not sure,’ she lied.
On and on she talked, about syndromes and mistakes and understanding and why I must not worry. She talked on. This rum was starting to taste too sweet, too much of cinnamon and cloves. I pressed my hands into the arms of the chair. Rose up slowly.
‘Don’t you worry about me, poppet,’ I could hear my slowed, unsteady tongue. ‘It’s you we need to think about. Wait here.’
I went to my rented bedroom. Stevie was sitting with earphones in, staring at his tablet. It would have been so easy to shout ‘Lolly’s here!’ but so unfair, on us all. I had to stay focused. She had now spoken to Jade.
The room offered a few shelves with fewer books. No plays or sonnets. But there was an odds and ends box I had examined earlier, with reels of cotton, a ruler, a pencil sharpener, needles, pins, scissors, the back page of a guide to Spanish grammar and, amongst the dross, a tape measure, the type you used for sewing.
I retrieved what I needed and went back to her. She stayed for another half an hour, and then she was gone.
The oxtail was sure to be ready soon. I could smell it, hoped it hadn’t caught on the hob. When I went back to the kitchen, I saw that some of the tulip petals – just the very edges – were in the blue flame, charring and smouldering. Lola’s gift, ruined. I turned everything off and poured another rum, feeling only the dullest surprise that the smoke had not set off the alarm.
Then I threw the flowers, all of them, in the bin.
Lola
DONE LIST 10
I had to come back and pack a bag, and to write this in case som but I can’t stay now.
I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it.
I’m going to be a mum. It’s too late for anything else. Darling told me last night.
But before even that, how the hell can I cope with the pregnancy, let alone the kid? Surely no better torture could have been created for me.
I realise now that my only hope of getting through this is to let Darling take care of us all. I’ve just come back from this flat she’s in – shit, it was all so weird. But ill or not, she’s a nurse, she knows what she is doing. We will need her more than ever now. Now that I have ruined everyone’s lives … Still couldn’t find that bloody letter so I didn’t mention it in case it pissed her off. But his parents will be getting a letter too soon, Darling said we had to.
No, it’s too much, I can’t do this.
I think maybe I am losing my mind. What’s wrong with me? I no longer feel in control.
Only I have brought us to this point. If I had taken more care, paid more attention, then nothing would be the way it is now. None of it. I’ve done this. I wish I could work out how to fix it but my brain feels like I do – bloated jelly, a beached whale. I can’t think. I can’t remember why I agreed to do what I did with Will. Can’t believe I lost my virginity to a boy who thinks it is OK to steal almost £300 from his mother and then gets the cleaner sacked for it (she’s got two kids and, now, a bad reputation). The sex was stupid enough but to have helped him to go after Darling was I should have kept him away from the family. And all that nasty stuff online, God. I think he only wanted to impress his BNB friends, so he used me. I feel totally used.
Found it. The letter was stuck inside my magazine, right at the top of the drawer I’d looked in ten times #blindbloodybitch.
I read it.
Fuck them all, Dad and Darling and her son and her ‘sister’, fuck Will, and most of my friends and all of my failures. I think I have lost it already and now I have this thing growing inside me. But that is not even the worst thing of all. I have ruined everything and I just want to
OK, calm. It will be OK. It all has to be OK, but I can’t do it like this any more. I’m going to go to Ellie’s right now, she’s being really solid (at the moment). Actually, thinking about it, my only real problem is that I always seem to need people who let me down. Happens to the best of us, right?
Whatfuckingever. Enough.
Achievements
Done my DONE Lists and now I’m DONE.
Darling
WEDNESDAY, 23 NOVEMBER
An alien light, green. I was not where I was supposed to be. Ah, here then. The clock was shining its news at me: 3.14 a.m. Even before I tasted the old rum in my gorge, I knew I might vomit. The hand above me was now pressing down on my crown, on all of us. The blear of fear before my eyes was bright as day, but I knew it was night. Time to act, not sleep.
At this time though, the middle of the night, all I could do was lie and stare into the dark. What had I done?
By 5.59 a.m., I had decided. Now sober enough, with enough dawn to justify me, I carried Stevie into the car and drove back to Littleton Lodge. I sat in the drive, engine idling, wondering whether I could knock at 6.15 a.m. In the event, Thomas came to the front door.
‘Darling, what on earth?’
‘Is Lola upstairs?’
A flash of confusion as memory fought sleep.
‘Lola? No, she’s fine, she stayed at Ellie’s last night.’
‘Ah, sorry,’ I said. ‘Good.’
‘Are you coming in, or …’
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come so early, no we’ll go back—’
‘OK, fine, whatever,’ he said, sounding tired as death.
But it was not fine and I was not going back. I had to find Lola. I had to put her straight.
I drove to Ellie’s house.
All the lights were off and it was only 6.47 a.m. I would wait until either one came on or it hit 7.30 a.m., then ring the bell.
‘You all right, Stevie?’
‘Yes.’ In my rear-view mirror, he was rubbing his eyes.
‘We won’t be too long here, sweetie.’ In my healed car, looking up through the half-light to strange windows, I tried to imagine which curtains Lola might be behind, or whether she was sleeping. If I acted fast, all this could be put straight.
I would never again be petty or short with her. I would understand better, listen more. I would not be jealous or unkind. I would make amends. I would chill the fuck out. I would love her, if I could just get to speak to her now.
A light came on, top right.
I knocked. A knock ought to be less of a shock than a ring. It was so early. Thudding on stairs, a shadow that became a crease-faced man:
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m very sorry to call so early. I’m here for Lola.’
‘Oh, of course. I doubt they’re up but – hang on.’
Then he pushed the door to a touch, either to keep out draughts or me, and went back upstairs. I could hear voices.
He returned, shaking his head.
‘She’s not here?’
‘Really? My husband said—’
‘She was, but she left first thing—’
‘OK. Sorry to disturb you.’
Now fear was rising in my chest. Where was she?
I called Thomas:
‘Is Lola back with you yet?’
‘No. Listen, Darling, should I be worried?’
‘She might be on her way. I don’t know … Look, I’ll speak to you later.’
I could not bear to hear his voice, could not bear that he did not know a single thing that mattered, could not yet bear to explain.
I dialled again:
‘Ange? Hi, it’s me. Listen, could you take Stevie for the day, call it emergency rates? Thank you, thank you, lifesaver …’
I swung by Ange’s and Stevie hurried to the door, ever pleased to see her and her young son, Joe. I waved, drove around the corner and parked up in the first free space.
Find My iPhone, tracking Lola. I could know where she was in seconds. I launched the app. A grey dot still hovered over Ellie’s house. Her phone had to be off. Her phone was never off.
I had nothing, nowhere.
I drove to Littleton Lodge. This time I used the key.
‘Darling?’ Thomas was hunched over a coffee. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I know you must hate me.’
‘What, why? Lola was saying some stuff, but I can’t believe this strange long-lost sister, or whatever, would know better—’
‘No, of course you can’t. Silly of me to storm out like that. I just felt so angry but … OK, this is not important right now, forget Jade. We need to find Lola.’
‘Yes, why don’t we know where she is? We have to talk this through, together. I’m calling her, right now—’
‘Don’t, I—’
My heart nearly pounded its way out of my chest as I realised that, if Lola picked up, there would be no way back for us, ever. I could hear three rings, four …
He looked up. ‘Gone to voicemail.’
In those seconds I had seen the answer, the only way. My hands started to shake.
‘Listen, look. You’ve got to leave for work in a bit. I’ll make you breakfast and then wait here for her. I remember her saying something about popping to a few friends, now I think of it. Let’s just let her get on with it and try her in a little while, yeah?’
‘OK, that’s probably best, it’s not even eight o’clock.’
‘Good. Go. Try to relax. I’ll make you breakfast.’
We ate, then I left him to dress, with another glance at my watch. Lola, Lola. I would tidy the kitchen cupboard – it had got quite out of control.
Spices, herbs. With rustles and banging, I took out all the well-used jars. I wiped around with a cloth soaked in detergent and breathed in the acrid lemon. Then I set about putting everything back inside in alphabetical order. Allspice, bay leaves, bouquet garni, cardamom pods, cayenne pepper, celery salt, cinnamon sticks …
‘Darling! God—’
… cloves, ground coriander, cumin …
‘Darling!’
I raced upstairs to find him shaking in the doorway of our en suite in shirt, soaked tie and boxers. He was white and although eyes should not flicker and sweat, his did.
‘God, I’m—’
I loosened his tie, his worst, a dark red-pink one. I took it off, began to unbutton his shirt.
‘I’m … sorry,’ he said. ‘I feel …’
We wondered, between building heaves, how this terrible food poisoning had happened. He confessed that he and a few colleagues had celebrated a minor win with some paper-swaddled fried efforts from the Dalton Road fish and chip van the previous lunchtime. Bad cod, we said.
Then he about-turned, slamming the door behind his slumping back.
He was vomiting with an alarming frequency – every five minutes – and I could not stop him for long enough to get him in the car to the hospital.
My head fell forward. So much sickness. This had to be the worst. How it turned me inside out, turned us all inside out, that there should be so much sickness when my every fibre lived to heal, to nourish. When did I get so tired, so old? Maybe, like in the sonnet, that old spark – my youth – had in the end been ‘consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.’ Now I could not see past that closed door through to what needed to happen next. What if I lost him too, what if it was all already too late? Every tendon and ligament and muscle was in that moment exercised, stretched taut – hard and thin as my mind. I was on a rack and knew that my husband was sick, very sick and that he would have to stay home all day.
The heaves grew more violent, and I felt that I would have to scream out for it to stop, all of it. But then his sickness subsided and he dragged himself from the bathroom to bed.
‘I’m sorry, Darling, I need to—’
‘I know, don’t worry. Nurse, remember?’ I said, my heart beginning to slow at last. ‘You need to lie still for a while. I’ll leave you to sleep now. I’ll shout if there’s anything. She’ll probably wander back home later.’
I shut the door on my husband. Just me then. Just me alone with the things that I had done, and the things that I needed to do.
8.11 a.m. Her phone was off.
8.14 a.m. Her phone was off.
8.21 a.m. Off, off.
I stood at the sink in the kitchen, washing the frying pan and blender cup as Thomas dozed, wondering at how fast life could change. There was still time. I would tell my husband – one day soon, if he remained my husband – about Cara and perhaps even the day of the St Foillan’s lift; at least the parts he would understand. I would tell him about the baby girl I had given birth to long before I met Demarcus, when I was much younger, twenty-seven, and that the father (some stocky Kos wanker, it didn’t matter) still did not know to this day. I would tell him how she was a sickly baby, how I helped her, nursed her, was everything to her despite whatever my little sister might try to say. That she died, but not because of my care, or the treatments that only I knew how to give; she just gave up the ghost and left me. That I had nourished the thought of her, that ghost of her, for an age, nourished it like hope. That when later I had Stevie, my Wonderboy, I knew I had to do things differently, better. And now
he was six.
8.29 a.m. Her phone was off.
Thomas was in a deep sleep now, I could sense it.
My mind roamed from past to phone, future to phone, tumbling as if I were still swilling rum, or spinning tales in my mind.
Lola was gone.
Some kisses stayed with you.
Jade had come.
I had to find her.
Uncle Malcolm tried to visit us again, after the last of my childhood was blasted away behind the pantry door, but I would not stay in the house: even the smallest gardens had crouching exits and a sky to escape into. Then he faded off for many months and I started to write my stories, but they all warped and split until uncontainable visions of him ended up pouring right into the quietest part of my head, every time. I stopped writing; of course I did.
After Uncle Malcolm had shown me what he meant by a kiss, nothing mattered for a long time. I made sure that nothing mattered by fucking up everything that might have come close in garish, spectacular fashion: my exams, my sanity, my sense of myself. I read, yes, always, but I also dabbled in, had a go at, went over the top of, and wilfully tried on all the naughty. All the wrong parties; the wrong choices; boys true, false and don’t know; a long powdery line; a wayward join-the-dots leading from an Elm Forest terrace all the way to the glaring Greek sunshine. There was no one to mind, after such a kiss, no one to look after or care for, certainly not myself at least. Only Jade, then nine months after Kos, Cara. But then there was no Cara. And then later only Stevie. Thomas did come along and try to cherish me, but that was not the most important thing of all. There always had to be Stevie.
Yuh draw bad caad, but yuh cya get tru …
My mother had watched it all. Watched me skid from doubt to despair via disaster and back and onwards again until I too knew to live out my natural-born nursing. She died a few months after I enrolled at college. She watched it all, she knew.
Yuh draw bad caad, but yuh cya get tru …
9.05 a.m. Her phone was off.
Lola had broken me. Even now, she was not thinking about any baby, she could only be plotting to fill my life with torture or ache. Who was she with, Will and his lot? Was this some ploy, a last-ditch play? Did she believe in me now, or hate me? After everything, did she still want my destruction?
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