The Woman Who Upped and Left

by Fiona Gibson

  I stand up and noisily push back my chair. Natalie’s eyes are wide, her mouth hanging open. ‘Vince,’ I bark, ‘I think we should leave Morgan and Jenna to talk things over – by themselves.’ I turn back to Natalie, then glance at her husband, having forgotten he was there for a moment. ‘So, Vince and I will leave you now.’ I touch Morgan’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you and Jenna could go for a walk, get some time on your own?’

  He looks up at me and nods.

  ‘You’re okay if Dad and I go home?’

  ‘Er … yuh.’ He looks as fearful as when I left him in the classroom on his first day of school. I almost want to check that he’s remembered his lunchbox.

  ‘Well, thank you, Natalie,’ I say tightly, glancing briefly at the untouched Danish pastries, ‘and thank you, er …’

  ‘No, thank you,’ says the husband, darting up from his seat before Natalie escorts us out. Her jaw is set, her face waxily pale. She doesn’t even say goodbye.

  Vince and I step outside, and the door shuts firmly behind us. I try to ignore the nausea swilling through me as we climb into my car and where, unexpectedly, he gives me a brief, firm hug. ‘God, Aud,’ he exclaims, ‘you were fantastic in there. I never knew you had it in you.’

  In years gone by, when Vince had visited, he and Morgan might have headed into York to do something boyish together: see a Bond movie, eat a pizza, or run about in some dark, mysterious warehouse armed with laser guns. Now, of course, Morgan isn’t here, and even if he was, he wouldn’t want to do anything with his dad. His absence is palpable as I knock together lunch from odds and ends in the fridge.

  ‘Think they’ll work things out?’ Vince asks.

  ‘I hope so. It’s hard for Jenna, though, when her mum’s laid down the law.’

  ‘Surely she can’t stop her from seeing him. What’s she planning to do, barricade the poor girl in?’

  ‘No, but she can make life difficult.’ I pause. ‘God, Vince, we’re going to be grandparents. I’m only 44!’

  He laughs weakly. ‘Jesus, Aud. Still haven’t got my head around it, to be honest.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Think he’ll cut it as a dad?’

  I shrug. ‘He’ll have to, I guess, if he’s allowed to play a part in it.’

  Vince nods. ‘He might rise to the challenge.’

  ‘You really think so? I don’t know, Vince. How on earth is he going to contribute? I’ve gone on about courses, apprenticeships, finding any old job to tide him over … the gardener at Mrs B’s even asked him if he’d be interested in some casual work.’

  ‘Will he go for that, d’you think?’

  I pick at my slightly wilted ham salad. ‘He wasn’t exactly raring to go, put it that way.’

  ‘And he still thinks this street theatre thing’s a goer?’

  I smile. ‘He hasn’t mentioned it for a while so hopefully he’s started to see sense.’ I look at Vince across the table: a caring, well-meaning father, with no more clue about how to shake Morgan out of his ennui than I have. ‘I know you think I’ve mollycoddled him,’ I add. ‘Of course I want him to get out there and do something. But I can’t go on at him all the time. Life would be hell. I don’t want him to hate me, Vince.’

  ‘Hey,’ he says gently, patting my arm across the table. ‘You’ve done a brilliant job.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Yeah, I really do. He’s just in a … slump, that’s all. It happens. He’ll have to shape up when he has a child to support and then he’ll be off your hands, and we’ll wonder what the hell we were worrying about …’ He breaks off and grins. ‘Anyway, how about you? Seen much of your man lately?’

  ‘Oh, he turned up at the hotel without any warning, can you believe it? Wanted to stay the night in my suite …’

  ‘Bet he did! Sounds like it was a step up from a Travelodge. So, did you let him?’

  I chuckle, grateful for the easiness between us; not that I’ll be sharing any details about being tied up and dowsed in champagne. ‘No, I did not. I was there to cook, Vince.’

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ he says, raising a brow.

  ‘I’ve seen him once since then, and that was weird too …’ I fish out my phone. ‘I found a book – a notebook – in his car …’ I scroll through my pictures to find the shot of the page. ‘Look. What d’you make of this?’

  Vince takes it from me and frowns at the screen. ‘No idea. I don’t even know what I’m looking at, Aud …’

  ‘It’s a page from his notebook. I took a picture while he was paying for petrol …’

  He turns to me and grins. ‘Can I ask why?’

  I laugh in embarrassment. ‘I don’t know. It just seemed odd. It is odd, the whole thing, and I just had a feeling …’

  ‘Could it be something to do with his work? What it is he does again?’

  ‘Oh, it’s that mindfulness stuff, focusing on the moment. I don’t fully understand it.’

  ‘Why doesn’t anyone have a proper job any more?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t get it – the little notebook, I mean …’

  The front door opens, and Morgan shambles in. ‘Hi darling, how did it go?’ I ask.

  ‘Dunno really,’ Morgan says, joining us at the table. ‘I think she’s just scared of what her mum’ll think if she sees me …’

  ‘Aw, don’t worry,’ Vince says, wrapping an arm around him, ‘she’ll come round, once the dust’s settled. Jenna’s a lovely girl, son. God knows what she sees in you.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’ He grimaces.

  ‘I’m joking. Anyway, wasn’t your mum brilliant today?’

  Morgan shrugs. ‘She was all right.’

  ‘C’mon, she was more than all right!’

  ‘She was, uh, direct,’ Morgan offers with a weak smile.

  ‘Hey,’ Vince adds, ‘here’s something to take your mind off Natalie and whatever the bloke’s name was. Your mum was showing me something, maybe you can help …’

  ‘He’s welcome to have a look,’ I say, turning to Morgan. ‘Go on, love, see what you make of it. You used to be great at all this stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’ He frowns.

  ‘Figuring out codes, secret messages and all that,’ Vince says. ‘Don’t s’pose you fancy resurrecting those spying skills, do you? Maybe that’s a career path worth investigating …’

  ‘Dad, that was when I was, like, ten.’

  ‘Ah, you were pretty good at it, though,’ Vince teases, ‘writing mysterious notes full of symbols …’

  ‘I spoke to Jessica Watson’s mum yesterday,’ I cut in. ‘She thinks Jessica still has that letter you wrote, Morgan.’ He looks blank. ‘Remember the invisible ink one?’

  ‘Oh, God, yeah.’

  ‘The love letter,’ I add slyly. ‘Well, her mum reckons she kept it for years …’

  He grins, his cheeks glowing. ‘She can’t have read it, Mum.’

  ‘She did, her mum said …’

  He laughs bashfully. ‘Remember that spy book I had? There was a thing about how to make invisible ink from onion juice but it stank so bad, I just used water. So,’ he adds with a snigger, ‘there was nothing to read.’

  ‘Well,’ I add, ‘her mum said it was definitely a love note, that she was besotted with you, darling …’

  ‘Stop it, Mum.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Vince says sagely, ‘she interpreted it the way she wanted to.’

  Morgan shakes his head. At least he’s perked up. ‘Anyway,’ Vince adds, thrusting my phone at him, ‘what d’you make of this, spy kid? It’s a page from a notebook your mum found in lover boy’s car.’

  With a small shudder, Morgan takes it from him and peers at the screen. ‘Well, it’s dates, isn’t it?’ He turns to me. ‘Where d’you usually meet him, Mum?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Stevie, when you stay overnight.’

  I clear my throat. ‘Er, you know. At motorway services …’

  ‘Well, yeah, er …’ He tails off.
r />   ‘What is it?’ I exclaim.

  ‘Dunno, Mum. I think it’s pretty obvious, though, don’t you?’

  I take my phone from him and squint at it. ‘You mean you don’t know, or it’s obvious? Which is it, Morgan?’

  ‘Mum …’ He throws me a pleading look. ‘I think it’s kinda, um … a diary-sorta-thing.’

  ‘Really? A diary of what?’

  ‘Well … of his motorway, erm, things.’

  ‘What things?’

  He looks a little queasy. ‘His, um … the stuff he does.’ He stands at my side and jabs at the screen ‘See the J bit? That’s the junction, and the M bit’s the motorway, obviously …’

  ‘And the other letters?’ I prompt him. ‘The D, C and A?’

  ‘Well, I’m only guessing,’ he mumbles, ‘but I’d say, there’s the date and the motorway and junction numbers, and the letters are, er …’ He breaks off and looks at me. ‘Well, the A is you.’

  I stare at him. ‘Oh. So … what are the C and D?’

  He reddens as his dark eyes meet mine. ‘I don’t think it’s what, Mum. It’s who.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Dinner for One

  Stevie doesn’t favour motorway hotels because of the fuzzy ball toothbrushes. Nor is it their proximity to Pringles or a tepid Meat Feast Slice. It’s their convenience, the fact that they’re right there at the roadside. They are anonymous stop-offs for salesmen and shaggers.

  Yep, shaggers. If I am the A, then the D is – who, Donna? Denise? And the C … could she be Caroline or Cathy? I have no idea. I do know, though, that the little red notebook is a logbook of motorway-related activities and suggests that Stevie is a very busy man. So he has excellent time management skills after all. Bastard. No wonder he’s made a career out of it. I wonder if C or D lets him tie her up and slurp booze from her bellybutton? Maybe they both do. He certainly seemed well practised with knot work, and I don’t believe for a moment that he was in the Scouts.

  Vince has headed off home now, having persuaded Morgan to go back to his place for a couple of days. ‘Just for a change of scene,’ he suggested, ‘to let you think over this whole scenario and decide what you want to do.’ To my amazement, Morgan agreed. ‘It’ll be good for him,’ Vince added, as Morgan disappeared to pack a bag. ‘Give him, and you, a bit of space.’

  I’d desperately wanted space when I’d headed off to Wilton Grange. Now, in our eerily silent house, I am not so certain.

  ‘Are you sure that’s what it is?’ Kim asks when I call her. ‘I mean, is there anything else it could be?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ I reply. ‘I’ve checked my diary and all the A dates match up to the nights I met him.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she breathes. ‘So he’s kept a record of it all …’

  ‘… Yep, probably so he can remember who he’s taken to which one,’ I add. ‘God forbid he ever remarked that he’d been there before, forgetting that it’d been with someone else.’

  ‘It’s so weird,’ she murmurs.

  ‘Kind of creepy,’ I agree.

  ‘Oh, Aud. I’m so sorry.’

  I consider this. ‘You know, I thought there was something odd going on. I just told myself it was the easiest way for us to get together, with him travelling so much …’

  ‘Well, it sort of made sense,’ she murmurs.

  ‘No, it didn’t. Not really, when you think about it. The whole thing felt wrong. Just tell me, am I the stupidest person you’ve ever met?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Kim retorts. ‘You’re smart, Audrey. You just … wanted to believe it was okay.’

  ‘I’m gullible then.’

  ‘No, you trust people. There’s nothing wrong with that. Look, I’m doing a make-up rehearsal today for a wedding next weekend. But I could pop over later?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, honestly.’ I pause, wanting to tell her about Morgan and Jenna and the baby, but can’t bring myself to load that on her now, on top of the Stevie debacle. Plus, it’s really too soon to share the news; I should never have blurted it out to Paul.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Kim asks.

  ‘I’m not sure. I need to think about it …’ In fact, as soon as we finish the call, a plan lays itself out before me. I am free today; Victoria, Mrs B’s daughter, has arrived to ‘take over the reins’ for a few days, as she put it, asking Julie to alert me and Claire that we wouldn’t be needed during her stay. Not exactly convenient for the others – but after today’s confrontation with Natalie (that’s what it felt like: a confrontation) I could do with a break. I spend the afternoon de-stinking Morgan’s room – he’ll hate me for it but I can’t help myself – and make a dinner for one; a defrosted portion of bolognaise which I realise now was meant for two (Morgan and Jenna) and which I can barely stomach anyway.

  I don’t call to say I’m coming over. I just set off at 7.30 p.m. in the gravymobile, knowing it’s likely that Stevie won’t be home. Fury simmers inside me as the undulating countryside fades into the affluent suburbs. I try to calm myself by thinking of soothing things, like slowly browning onions for soup, which no one will want because Morgan will only tolerate Heinz tomato. So that fails to calm me. Instead, I switch my thoughts to the lovely evenings spent with Lottie, Tamara and Hugo – but then, what was all that about, making out he’d be consigned to the dunce corner when he’s a bloody professional chef? Does no one tell the truth any more?

  I’m finished with men, I decide. At least, apart from my son. Kim was right: he’ll be living with me when he’s 47 and we’ll be having greaseproof-wrapped sandwiches on Bridlington beach.

  I pull into Stevie’s narrow street and park on the corner, to allow myself a few moments to calm myself rather than being someone who ‘blows things up’. His office sits in between a solicitor’s and a dentist’s in a bland modern block. There are several bare, reddish patches where the pebbledash has crumbled off. Stephen Dudley Mindfulness Training, reads the tarnished gold lettering above the window. There’s a lamp on in the window of the flat above; not that that means he’s home. The entrance to his flat is next to the office. There’s an intercom, and I should buzz really – but then, there are lots of other things I should have done, like practised my pelvic floor exercises and taught my son to hand wash a T-shirt without microwaving it to buggery, and made a point of having relationships only with decent, honest men. So, bypassing the intercom, I push the door – it’s unlocked – and walk straight in.

  The bleak, narrow hallway is bare apart from a small shelf bearing a scattering of mail. The wallpaper is of the woodchip type, and peeling in places. I tread lightly up the bare wooden stairs to the landing. The door to Stevie’s flat is of the cheap, flimsy type, badly painted with white gloss. The one time Stevie invited me here, I was faintly thrilled by how basic it was, the way he existed unhampered by clutter with the tiniest size of milk carton in the fridge (skimmed). He gave me cheese on toast – value Cheddar – and a large glass of cheap Argentinian red. I felt a wave of youthfulness, imagining that this was what being a student at music college might have been like. However, I could understand why he wasn’t keen for me to come over again. He was embarrassed by its sparseness, I decided. ‘It’s pretty tragic,’ he kept saying, ‘for a guy of my age.’

  Low music is filtering through the door. I hover for a moment, awaiting instructions from my brain as to what to do next. My options appear to be: creep back downstairs and drive away. Or, knock on the door and, when he answers, explain that I was just passing and that, last time I saw him, I found this little book, and was compelled to take a picture of it and … oh, God. Maybe Morgan was wrong, and it was nothing to do with motorways after all. I mean, it’s been a good eight years since he abandoned his career as a spy.

  That’s it, I decide: I’ve jumped to conclusions. Stevie is just a busy man, and motorway hotels fit into his schedule—

  I jump back as the door flies opens. ‘Oh!’ A woman – no, a girl – is staring at me.

  ‘Hello,�
� I say, in a ridiculously chirpy tone.

  ‘Er … hello, can I help you?’ She’s so young, is all I can think. She’s a tiny doll of a person, with reddish brown poker-straight hair that falls all the way to her bottom, which is pretty much where her tight black dress ends too. She was probably born in the 90s, for crying out loud.

  ‘Erm, I’m here to see Stevie,’ I say, in an eerily level voice.

  The girl frowns. She’s clutching a packet of Silk Cut and a cheap plastic lighter, and a silvery bracelet glints at her wrist. ‘He’s just popped out. I was just going out for a cigarette …’ I catch her looking me up and down and quickly figuring that I can’t possibly be anything other than a vague acquaintance, or perhaps a neighbour. ‘He hates cigarette smoke,’ she adds, her expression softening. ‘Won’t even let me lean out of the window, says it wafts back in …’ She laughs self-consciously.

  ‘I’ll come down with you,’ I say, as she shuts the door behind her.

  ‘D’you want to leave him a message? Is it anything I can help with?’

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think so,’ I say, sensing myself ageing rapidly as we trot downstairs together. While I’m still wearing the sensible pale blue shirt and black corduroy skirt I chose for the summit meeting at Jenna’s, this girl looks like she’s about to go clubbing. I could be her mother, for goodness’ sake.

  She lights up as we step out into the cool evening. I am horribly tempted to ask her for one. ‘Is it something important?’ she asks, looking uneasy now and repeatedly glancing down the street.

  ‘It is quite,’ I reply.

  She gusts out smoke and picks at a nail. They are long and sugary pink, possibly false, and each one has a sparkly jewel stuck in the middle. ‘How d’you know Stevie, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Oh, just from round and about,’ I reply vaguely.