by Amanda James
‘I explained that to you already. She was ashamed that she’d allowed it to carry on for so long. She had concocted a nice picture of her life with Neil for the dinner party. I guess she didn’t want you to feel sorry for her.’
‘But it was all a lie, Lu. A whopper.’ Rosie fiddles with her hair. ‘And I may as well tell you that Adelaide phoned me the other night and said she wanted me to look out for you. She said Mellyn was dangerous, and—’
‘I knew it! I could tell you’d talked to her because you weren’t surprised the other day when I told you I’d decided to stay here and not go back home. Did she tell you why she thought Mum was dangerous?’
‘No. She said it wasn’t her place to tell—’
‘It was over a silly argument about jewellery, that’s all.’ I try to smile but my lips tremble. My heartbeat is off the scale now and I dig my fingers into my armpits. ‘Adelaide is a worrier, feels responsible for me, knows I’m still vulnerable after Mum’s death. She got me through it … she’s over-protective.’
‘God, Lu, I hate this. If you think everyone is making mountains out of molehills, and Mellyn made the truth or dare thing up, then so be it. I can’t bear to see you upset, but I had to tell you what my mum said. How could I not?’ Rosie’s eyes well and she blinks.
I nod and swallow a few times. My brain gets the upper hand and forces a ban on speech while I gather my thoughts. How I wish I believed the rubbish I’d been spouting. I could turn my back on Val’s revelations, ignore my darkest fears and carry on as before. But I might just as well ask the world to stand still. I hear the thump of my heart in my ears and the weight of the future threatening to crush any hope I’ve nurtured.
Images crowd into my head led by a memory of Mel’s confession to murdering Neil … then her first meltdown at the gallery, the night at Joe’s Crab Shack, followed by the vicious clown face when I wouldn’t accept free jewellery, and the way she’d made me feel when I did, her wild attack on Evelyn over the ‘stolen’ necklace, the pain in my shoulder when she’d jabbed her finger into it, and so many other scraps of misery queued up behind, waiting to be seen. Too many. My memory slams the door on them.
Now there’s this new story about my grandparents. I have to know the whole truth, and my suspicions argue that Val had been told some of it. Hints and generalisations needed clarity and I must have it. ‘I could go and see your mum, ask her some more about what she remembers?’ I say, hoping the hysteria in my head hasn’t leaked into my voice.
Rosie shifts in her seat and bites her lip. ‘You can’t. We had an argument and I told her to leave.’
‘What? Why?’ I say, bewildered. Am I just wading through a bad dream? Nothing seems real today.
‘She sticks her nose into my business. Thinks I’m still a child,’ Rosie says through a sigh.
I can tell I’m not getting the whole truth, but what’s new there? ‘Has she gone back to Spain?’
‘No. She texted me to say she’s gone to Penzance to see Jake. Said she wanted to make it up with me before she goes back in a few days – she’ll be staying at the Golden Sands.’
I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair. The walls are too close, the space too hot. I need to get out of here, away from Rosie and her big sad eyes, away from the easy chatter and laughter of the others in the café, away from the smell of coffee, away from my heart telling me to forget all about it, because if all this is real and this huge horrible nightmare is true it will mean the end of my new life, the end of Mel and me, the end of everything.
‘I need to think, Rosie, make sense of all of it,’ I say, standing and slipping my coat on.
‘Yes, I expect you do. Shall I come with you, you know, for support?’
‘No. I need to be alone.’ I look at her tearful face. ‘And thanks for telling me about it all. It can’t have been easy.’
‘I’m just so sorry. So sorry.’
‘Me too,’ I say and walk towards the door.
27
Under the duvet I can pretend. The world is locked out; I’m safe in a pillowy cocoon of warmth and fabric softener. Bad thoughts can’t get me here, make me do anything, send searching and painful questions stab, stab, stabbing at my conscience.
Mel is locked out too. I’ve had a, ahem, ‘tummy bug’ since yesterday afternoon. Must be something I ate. And no, I couldn’t possibly accompany her to the doctor this afternoon, even though I felt a teensy bit more like myself. I can’t face the prospect of sitting in the surgery and listening to more lies tumble from her mouth like circus acrobats. Sometimes living with her is like being inside a Big Top. Thrills, but mostly spills, with me walking a tightrope between happiness on one side and an open cesspit full of shit and daggers on the other. Overseeing and directing this spectacle is the ringmaster – Mellyn Rowe.
Mel might not even go to the doctor now that I’m not there to make sure she does. Her expression when I told her I wasn’t coming was as though I had given her a get out of jail card. I groan and push my head into the pillow. Get out of jail … not the best metaphor. A seagull squawks with laughter outside my bedroom window and I tuck the cocoon tighter around myself. If a chink of light is permitted, the stabbing will start again. Now I can’t breathe. I untuck, make a little gap at the edge of the bed and take a few deep breaths. Tea. I need tea. But that means leaving this sanctuary and I’m not ready to do that.
So, what if she doesn’t go to the doctors? It’s the least of my problems. Until we’ve established the truth there’s little point. Stab. Yes, of course I know that learning the truth might mean there would be no visit. Stab. Yes, of course I realise that she might need those get out of jail cards for real. Stab. Yes, I do know that I need to make a decision and stick to it!
I break out of the cocoon, but the mirror in the corner tells me I look less like a beautiful butterfly and more like an escaped zombie from a freshly dug grave. My nose tells me I probably smell like one too. It’s been too long since my skin has seen water.
I close my eyes and screw up my face under the powerful jet of water. Then I reposition the shower head and look down at the chipped nail varnish on my big toes, the water, as hot as I can stand it, bouncing off my shoulders. When I was little, my mum had said that hot water invigorated the skin and soothed a troubled mind. I have to admit I do think a lot in the shower, and after a short while I can see what she meant. If I concentrate really hard, I might be able to squeeze a decision or two out into the swirl of steam enveloping my body – my replacement duvet.
I tug a comb through damp hair and I look out of the bedroom window at the seagulls perched on the roof opposite. I have arrived at two decisions. One is that I will repaint my toenails, and the other is that I will organise the best birthday meal in the world for Mel tomorrow evening.
We’ll have the celebrations on the Sprite and we’ll be normal, jolly, and try on the lives of a loving mum and daughter in the hope they’ll be a good fit. One last lovely evening, and then the next day I’ll sew a few questions into a conversation about the weather or something, but within the thread there will be snags upon which Mel’s answers will be caught. With any luck I’ll be able to examine them, smooth them out before my needle sets to work again. And if luck deserts me? One seagull flies to the roof of a shed in the next garden and cocks a glassy yellow eye up at my window, as if waiting for an answer. I huff at it and draw the curtains.
‘Oh, lovely. You’re up and about.’ Mel comes indoors with the scent of wood smoke in her hair and brushes cold lips against my fire-warmed cheek.
‘I am indeed and feeling much better now. How are you?’
‘Wonderful!’ She hangs her coat up and runs water into the kettle. ‘You were so right to make me go to the doctor’s. Doctor Roebuck is such a lovely woman. I’d expected a big hoo-ha – did I have suicidal thoughts, did I have a troubled childhood, yadda yadda. She did ask those kinds of questions, but only in passing. Mostly she just let me talk, share my feelings, you know?’
�
�That’s great,’ I say, and point at a glass of water on the coffee table when she shakes a tea bag at me.
She raises her voice above the roar of the kettle. ‘So anyway. I’m going back in a few weeks when she’s managed to book me in to see a counsellor. It’s a twelve-week thing where we’ll go over my main concerns and work through my anger issues.’
I watch her back as she makes the tea and hope that she’s actually been to the surgery. She seems much more up and cheerful than she’s been for weeks, so if this is another lie it’s a bloody convincing one. ‘That’s great, Mum. No medication?’ I say as she sits down opposite my ‘sick bed’ sofa.
‘Nope. Not even a smell of any.’ She raises her cup to her lips but doesn’t drink. ‘And for that I am very grateful.’ She takes a sip of tea. ‘Oh, I needed that. I’ve been run off my feet all day, and all the time worried sick about the appointment.’ She cocks her head a little like the seagull earlier and narrows her eyes at me. ‘So, have I been a good girl, then?’
‘You have. Very good. And because you have, I’m organising a birthday treat for you tomorrow evening. A meal and a celebration on the boat.’ I smile and it feels genuine.
Mel’s face can’t seem to decide if it’s happy or confused. ‘Oh, Lu. That’s lovely … but don’t you remember I said no fuss? People aren’t coming, are they?’
‘What people? You’ve never introduced me to your friends.’
Relief curls her lips. ‘Oh, I’m glad it will be just us. I thought you might have invited Rosie and Val. I don’t mind Rosie, but Val is a bit odd.’
Funny, that’s what she says about you, and worse. Much worse. ‘No. Just us, as you say, unless you want me to invite your friends?’
‘I told you I don’t really have many.’ She winds a strand of hair around her finger and winks. ‘A woman on her own and all, they think I’m going to gobble up their husbands.’
Or maybe it’s because you’re psychotic and you scare the pants off them. ‘Yes, okay. Just as you like – it’s your party.’
‘And I’ll cry if I want to?’ Mel laughs and then a frown silences it. ‘I hope you haven’t gone to a lot of expense. There’s no need. It’s not as if it’s the big five-oh or anything … not yet, anyway!’
‘Never you mind. You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow night.’
28
Rosie is possibly the only person I want to talk to now, apart from Adelaide, of course, but I can’t talk to either of them. I picture Rosie’s lovely face, her big sad eyes and wobbly chin the last time I saw her. If I saw her today I’d crumble, and a big soggy mess in Pomp and Vulture’s dining room would take an age to clean up. If I phone Adelaide, she’d be down on the next coach and I couldn’t cope with that either.
Rosie has texted me a few times over the last few days to ask how things are between Mum and me, was my illness genuine, and could she do anything? I told her Mel and I were working through things, of course it was genuine and no she couldn’t. I text her now to say I’m still under the weather and won’t be in to work. I hate letting her down, but the lying is worse. No use worrying about that though. I must have a clear head and put Mel first. Tonight, is the party, but tomorrow the serious stuff starts.
In the garden I pull the zip of my fleece all the way to my ears. The September early morning air has just been a bit nippy recently, but today, nip has turned to pinch. Searching for a rose for Mel’s breakfast tray isn’t an option, they had long since gone over, as Adelaide would say, but a few sprigs of lavender and honeysuckle yet hold on to life. They would be more appropriate; I admire their determination.
I clear away the breakfast dishes and watch Mel smell the little bouquet. She was thrilled that I had stayed home to make her a birthday breakfast, and her ‘Oh dear’ when I told her I’d lied in order to do so sounded less like reproach and more like a triumph.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Mel picks a turquoise cashmere sweater out of its box and holds it to her face, her eyes wide in surprise. ‘This is the one I saw last week! Oh, Lu …’ She looks at me and shakes her head. ‘This cost a fortune – I don’t want you spending all that money on—’
‘Well, I did, you’re my mum. Just think of all those birthdays I missed.’ I hadn’t planned to say that, so I quickly hand her another gift to cover my words. Mel had said something similar to me that day in the shop when she was trying to get me to accept all that jewellery, and I could tell by the wry smile that she remembered. I hope she didn’t remember her behaviour too.
‘Something else? Oh, this is really all too much.’ She takes the silver gift bag and pulls out a bottle of her favourite perfume. Her eyes fill and she fans her hand across her cheeks.
‘Hey, don’t start blubbing. This is your birthday. Oh, and here’s your card.’ I pass a little yellow envelope to her. Buying everything else was so easy compared to that little slip of verse and paper. The only card I’d ever bought with ‘Mum’ on the front was for the woman who had loved me and nurtured me all my life. A woman who had so carelessly played chicken with her own. Betrayal whispers in my ears, even though I try not to listen.
In the shop a few weeks ago, I had thumbed through generic birthday cards with nature scenes and seascapes on the front, but then my conscience prodded me over to the Family Birthday section. Even though I call her Mellyn in my mind, I call her Mum out loud, so why is it so hard to send a bit of card that will be in the recycler in a week? I know the answer. The verses in the cards were flowery and love-soaked and I haven’t felt comfortable enough to say words like those out loud yet. I’ve tossed a careless ‘you too’ at her ‘I love yous’, but that’s not the same as buying a card with it written in black and white. Mel would adore a verse like that, however; she’s been hungry for a public show of affection and there it was in my hand. So, I bought it.
I watch her face as she opens it and traces the words inside. ‘What a lovely, lovely, card.’ Her eyes swim and she fans her face again. ‘Such beautiful words.’
‘Glad you like it,’ I say, and scrunch up the tissue paper from the sweater box to mask her sniffs. ‘And now I have things to do, places to go, before I see you this evening. Off to work with you, you’ll be late.’
‘Is that wise?’ Mel frowns and places the card on the kitchen table. ‘It’s a small town and if you’re seen out and about when you’re supposed to be poorly …’
‘Yes. I’d thought of that but it can’t be helped.’
‘You need to think of a big fat fib in case you’re spotted,’ she says, pats me on the cheek and takes her presents upstairs.
I stand at the foot of the stairs and listen to her hum a merry tune, open and close drawers, run water in the bathroom and lean my head on the whitewashed stone lintel. And you’re the master of big fat fibs, aren’t you? Thoughts like that won’t help, won’t help at all.
Unhelpful thoughts thankfully haven’t been my companions today and, as far as I can tell, I haven’t been spotted going about important birthday business. All my tasks are now accomplished and, in an hour, or so Mel will be the beneficiary. Jack looked as if his face had been squashed into a troll mask when I walked into the Crab Shack this morning. His mono-brow had bristled like an overweight caterpillar and he’d folded his arms protectively over his dubiously stained apron.
Once he learned that I wanted two of his lobster specials delivered harbour side this evening, and that I was paying top dollar, he unfolded his arms and face and grinned like a clam. Or was it happy as a clam? Either way, he was very courteous and accommodating and wished Mellyn a very happy birthday. I chose a delicate pâté from the deli and fresh rye bread that I’d toast for the starter. The cake shop was next, and my order was everything I’d dreamed it would be, and a bottle of fine champagne cooled itself down in the fridge. Now I look at the clock. Right, I must get changed, grab ice for the bucket, toast the bread, throw everything else in the cooler and off to the boat. Mustn’t forget the cake. I’ll need two trips – glasses, plates and cutlery i
n the same bag would tempt fate. Everything has to be perfect tonight and perfect it will be.
The Sprite looks like a dream. White fairy lights twinkle on her deck and clusters of balloons shake in a zephyr. I can’t believe how mild the evening air is compared to the pinch of morning. It isn’t warm, but it’s much better than I could have hoped for an alfresco dinner. I’ve just finished putting the finishing touches to the starter and rearranging chairs that were perfectly fine, when I hear, ‘Lu! Wow how wonderful!’
I watch Mel hurry alongside. She looks wonderful with her hair floating around her shoulders, jeans tucked into boots, and a smart wool coat over her birthday jumper. Holding on to the handrail she steps aboard, her smiling face illuminated by the fairy lights, but mostly it shines from within. She puts her arms around me – her new perfume’s overpowering. ‘I can’t begin to thank you for all this,’ she says into my hair. ‘Nobody has ever done anything so lovely for my birthday before. Not even special landmark birthdays!’
I hold her at arm’s length. ‘That’s awful. Didn’t your parents do anything for your eighteenth … twenty-first?’ The pain etched into the lines around her eyes and the downturned lips signal back off. Damn it. Why do I always uncover the weeds in her past? Why are there never roses?
‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘Look, we have a starter.’ I wave my arm with a flourish at the candlelit table.
Mel claps her hands in delight. ‘That looks delicious.’ She reaches into her canvas bag. ‘I brought both red and white. I didn’t know what we’d be eating.’
I take the bottles and just in time remember that admonishment won’t be a good idea. Not tonight. ‘Well, we have champagne for the main course. Let’s have white with the pâté.’
The starter over, Mel pushes her hair from her forehead and says, ‘That was so good.’ Then she leans across the table and cocks her head. ‘Tell me. How did you manage to make the main course without me knowing? When I got home tonight there was no smell of cooking.’