by Lucy Dillon
The light was off in her room, but there was a thin strip of light under the spare-bedroom door, the one her mother used as a study.
‘Mum?’
As Lauren pushed her way in, there was a flurry of activity, much more than if her mother had just been doing the monthly bills.
‘What are you doing?’ Lauren crossed the room in one step, and put the mugs down on the paper-strewn desk. Too late, Bridget swept away the papers, but even Lauren could see they were red bills. Very red bills. And when she looked at her mum more closely, she could see Bridget’s eyes were red too, as if she’d been crying.
‘Mum?’ she asked, her heart quickening.
Bridget wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and tried to look normal. Her mouth twisted in a crooked, unconvincing smile.
Mothers should never cry in front of their children, she told herself. Never, never. Not until you were so old they were looking after you and not the other way round.
‘I’m fine, love. I thought you were meant to be round at Chris’s tonight?’
‘I came home early . . . Oh my God, Mum, are you all right?’ exclaimed Lauren, dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around her mother where she sat in the chair. ‘Have you been crying?’
To her horror, she felt her mum’s shoulders start to shake under her, and for a moment, Lauren was swamped with panic. This was all wrong; her mum was meant to comfort her after her crap night with Chris, not the other way round. And if her mum was crying, her capable, sensible mum, then it had to be something really bad.
Her mind raced. What could it be? Dad ill? He looked OK downstairs. Billy ill? Something wrong with her granny, in the nursing home?
How can it be to do with those bills? wondered Lauren. Mum’s great with her budget. Maybe these are Gran’s bills. That must be it, she thought, her imagination filling in the gaps with lurid images as usual – she’s had her identity hi-jacked and someone’s run up store cards in her name and now Mum’s having to sort it out.
Lauren made soothing noises and stroked her mother’s thick hair. She felt so small and fragile in her arms. ‘Don’t cry, Mum,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing we can’t sort out. Don’t cry.’
She felt Bridget make a gargantuan effort to stop sobbing and pull herself together, and was quite relieved when she sat up, wiping her bright eyes.
‘It’s fine,’ Lauren went on. ‘Isn’t it? Tell me what’s wrong.’
Bridget took a couple of deep breaths, but while she was composing herself, Lauren caught a glimpse of a bill that had slipped onto the floor while Bridget was trying to hide them. The name on the top was definitely Bridget Armstrong and the outstanding amount was thousands. Thousands that they wanted repaying really, really soon.
She looked up, shocked. ‘Mum? Are those your credit-card bills?’
Bridget nodded, miserably.
Lauren’s mouth dropped open as all the daytime TV shows she’d ever watched about stupid people who’d run up thousands of pounds of debt played in her head. People who’d lost their houses, and broken up their marriages. Chavvy people, greedy people, not like her parents. There had to be a mistake!
‘Seriously?’ Lauren struggled to make sense of it. ‘Is it a computer error? We can go to Watchdog, Mum, these things happen all the time. I was reading about it the other day in Cosmo, about some girl who’d—’
Bridget grabbed her wrists. ‘Shh!’ she hissed urgently. ‘I don’t want your dad to hear!’
That was even worse to hear. ‘Dad doesn’t know?’
‘Of course he doesn’t!’
Lauren stared at her mother, now really freaked out. She’d never seen her like this: wild, worried, keeping secrets from her father. It felt as though the ground was moving beneath her. It was like she’d walked back into her own home, but with a strange, new Mum in it.
Bridget drew in a deep breath, and edited the truth as she went along. ‘It’s nothing for you to worry about, but . . . I’ve been a bit foolish with my credit cards.’
‘It’s for my wedding, isn’t it?’ said Lauren, realising. ‘You’ve gone into debt over my wedding.’
‘Well, no, not exactly, love.’ When she saw the troubled expression on Lauren’s face Bridget’s automatic mother reaction kicked in over her panic. ‘Don’t start worrying about—’
‘How much?’ demanded Lauren.
Bridget looked down.
Lauren felt her hands shake. She didn’t want to know any of this, but she had to. A childish part of her wanted to walk out of the room, out of the house, get back in the car, and start again, in the hope that when she came in this time, there would be no debts, no panicking Mum, no uncomfortable sense it was all her fault.
Lauren steeled herself. She wasn’t a little girl any more. She was about to sign a twenty-five-year mortgage for thousands and thousands of pounds.
‘How much?’ she asked.
‘Quite a lot,’ admitted Bridget. ‘But it’s not something for you to . . .’
Lauren’s eyes widened. ‘Mum! Just tell me!’
‘Fine! You want to know? Including our overdraft, it’s nearly sixteen grand!’ snapped Bridget.
Lauren’s mouth formed the words, sixteen thousand pounds, and she sank onto the bed.
‘And that doesn’t include the other bits of the wedding we haven’t paid for,’ Bridget added out of fear rather than anything else, then felt terrible for adding to Lauren’s guilt.
They sat in silence, each trying to think of something helpful to say.
Nothing sprang easily to mind.
‘Well, according to the bridal magazines, that is what the average wedding costs . . .’ Lauren began, then stopped, chastened. ‘I sound like Irene, don’t I?’
‘A bit.’
Lauren looked at Bridget, and knew she was being as diplomatic as she could about Chris’s mother. Normally, Irene’s name would have raised a laugh but it wasn’t funny now.
Lauren sighed. ‘I can’t believe it’s that much. I did a budget. I added it all up!’
‘Yes, but, Laurie, your budget keeps moving!’ Bridget tried not to sound too frustrated. ‘You budget for one thing, then get something else, and Irene doesn’t help with all her suggestions, I know, but . . .’ She raked her fingers through her hair. ‘It’s not just the wedding. I think there’ve been some impulse buys on there too.’
Lauren looked up at Bridget and her blue eyes were confused. ‘But, Mum, I thought you’d set some money aside for my wedding! Dad told me you had a wedding savings fund. I didn’t realise you were putting it all on credit.’
‘We’re not! There is a wedding account, but your father . . .’ Bridget stopped herself in the nick of time.
What was the point of making Lauren feel even worse? There was nothing they could do about that money now, not without ruining Lauren and Chris’s chance to get started in their own home. Bridget’s own married life had got off to a significantly better start than her sister’s, largely because she and Frank had had their own living room to argue in, instead of being trapped with their in-laws.
‘That’s for the reception, love,’ she said. ‘That’s covered. I must admit, I hadn’t realised it was going to be quite so . . . elaborate, but we’ll manage,’ she said, even though she didn’t believe it herself. She patted Lauren’s hand. ‘It’ll sort itself out.’
Lauren looked at her mother. Did she think she was stupid or something? You didn’t just manage when you owed sixteen grand on your cards!
‘No, it won’t,’ she said. Her lip jutted out. ‘Mum, I’ve seen what happens to people on television, getting into debt! It can ruin your life!’
‘I’m not going to go to some loan shark! Don’t think that!’
‘So what can you do?’
‘Well . . .’ There was a long pause, that didn’t reassure Lauren at all. ‘We can remortgage the house.’
Though that would mean telling Frank, of course, thought Bridget. And it didn’t answer the question of how they’d b
e able to afford higher mortgage payments, on their pensions.
‘Mum,’ said Lauren, slowly, then hesitated.
‘What, love?’ Bridget tried to look cheerful.
‘Mum, you know that money Dad lent me and Chris for the house? If I can get that back from the bank . . .’ She paused, trying not to let the disappointment show in her eyes, despite her words. ‘Maybe Irene can lend us the whole deposit, and then I’ll pay her back.’
‘No,’ said Bridget at once. ‘You’re not doing that.’
‘I’d rather do that than see you and Dad be made homeless!’ she wailed. ‘How can I be happy in that house, knowing you’re going bankrupt?’
‘Laurie, you’re over-reacting,’ said Bridget, tightly. ‘We’ll just have to cut back a bit, and I’ll go and talk to the bank next week. I’m sure they’ll have some solution.’ She squeezed Lauren’s hand, still clutching hers. ‘It’s not going to spoil your wedding, love. I promise.’
Lauren said nothing, because she was too busy hating herself for thinking, yes, it’s going to totally spoil my wedding. Totally. How could it not? The individual silver roses on each plate and the fairy lights in the outdoors-indoors box trees shrivelled before her eyes. Between cutting back on all her gorgeous plans, and feeling personally responsible for bringing unholy stress on her mum and dad, how on earth could she be happy?
And that was without Chris behaving less like a fiancé and more like a lad about town.
Lauren twisted her hair round her finger, something she hadn’t done for years.
Bridget saw Lauren’s distress and wished she could wind the clock back to that first stupid credit-card application. Better yet, to years and years back, to when she could fix things easily for Lauren, when all it took to make her smile was a strawberry Mivvi.
Unbeknownst to her, Lauren was thinking pretty much the same thing.
‘Come on,’ said Bridget, hugging Lauren. ‘It’ll come right.’
Lauren leaned in and hugged her mother, but even though she really wanted to, she didn’t believe her.
27
The conversation Katie was dreading having with Ross didn’t happen immediately; instead, it hung between them like a thunderstorm all day, the air heavy with tension as they went through all the normal Saturday motions with the children. Only now, Katie felt, every tiny thing had taken on massive significance: who paid for the doughnuts, who changed Jack, who told Hannah to use her indoors voice when her yelling attracted disapproving attention. It felt as if they were acting out the roles of Mum and Dad, instead of their usual natural parenting. She tried to distract herself by worrying about Jo and Greg, but even that led straight back to her and Ross.
A sugar-crazed half-hour or so at the drive-through doughnut shop was followed by another two sugar-crazed hours of Hannah and Molly running around in the princess-y dressing-up clothes Jo had bought Hannah for her birthday. Katie knew she was letting Hannah get away with some equally princess-y behaviour – ordering Molly off her new bike, for a start – but she couldn’t bring herself to tell her off, and that wasn’t a good sign.
At half-three, Ross murmured, ‘Do you think that’s long enough? For Greg and Jo?’
‘I don’t know.’ Katie kept one eye on Molly and Hannah, now enacting a Disney coronation. ‘How long’s too long?’
‘I’ll take the girls home,’ he said, getting up from the baby jigsaw he was doing with Rowan. ‘It’s time for their tea. Do them good to get back into a routine.’
Katie kept up a bright stream of chat as she made some tea for Hannah and Jack, but inside she was worried about Jo. Really worried. A corner of Jo’s bubbly confidence had been peeled back, and Katie was shocked at the vulnerable woman underneath. Was she really so paranoid that she’d believe she and Greg were having an affair? Had he really undermined her self-confidence so much? And, she berated herself, what sort of a self-absorbed friend had she been not to notice?
Unless Jo was speaking from a guilty conscience, wheedled an insinuating voice in her head. Unless she only suspects you because she’s up to something herself with Ross . . .
No, Katie told herself firmly. No. Not Ross. Not Jo.
She was in the middle of bathing Jack when Ross came home, and heard Hannah’s surprised ‘Daddy!’ from downstairs.
Jack splashed his starfish hands at her, and giggled, but Katie held him still. There was something odd in Hannah’s voice.
‘I’m fine, sweetie!’ she heard Ross call, as his feet jogged upstairs. ‘Silly Daddy! Bumped his head!’
Katie froze, the baby sponge in her hand, and suddenly Ross was in the bathroom behind her, shutting the door.
‘Don’t say anything,’ he warned her, running some water in the basin.
But she turned round anyway and let out a gasp of surprise.
An angry red mark had swollen up on Ross’s cheekbone and his lip was split. He stood by the mirror, looking hangdog as he tentatively touched the swelling, but still with the last flickers of anger in his eyes.
‘Oh my God!’ Without thinking, Katie leaped up and took his face in her hands. His skin was cold, from being outside, and smooth. ‘Ross! What happened?’
He grimaced with pain. ‘It’s nothing.’
Katie’s chest swelled protectively. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! What is it? Did you have an accident?’
‘Sort of. I punched Greg. But he goes to the gym and does tai-bo so he made a better job of punching me back.’
Katie stared. Ross punching someone? That was beyond out of character; it went all the way to surreal. Ross wouldn’t even cook mussels because he felt cruel knowing they were boiling to death.
‘Why?’ she managed.
Ross pulled a face, and moved out of her hands, so he could soak a flannel in the cold water. ‘He . . . said some things that made me lose my rag.’
‘What things?’ Katie turned back to Jack, frightened he’d slip while she wasn’t watching, but he was playing happily with his fishes. To be on the safe side, she pulled him out of the water anyway and wrapped him, wailing, in a towel. ‘What did he say that you had to punch him?’ she went on, drying Jack off as distractingly as she could.
‘He was . . . vile. About Jo. And he made some insinuations about me and you. I don’t know . . . I just couldn’t let him stand there, and be so smug and offensive. Ow!’ Ross touched his lip. ‘I’m crap at the big hero stuff. But it made me feel better at the time.’
Katie stopped towelling. ‘The kids didn’t see, did they?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Jo was with them in the kitchen. She didn’t hear what he said either. It was just me and him.’ He snorted. ‘Makes it sound like a Western, doesn’t it?’
‘You hit him . . . out of honour?’
Ross turned to her, and even with a flannel pressed to his cheekbone, he looked different somehow. Less soft. More sharply focused. There was still some anger in his eyes, and it made them flinty, not amused and gentle, as they normally were. ‘Partly. And partly, if I’m honest, because I wanted to hit something. Greg was an arsehole, and he got in the way. Now I feel a bit stupid, all right? I don’t like hitting people. I won’t be doing it again. But Greg . . .’ He pressed his tongue against his lip and winced. ‘I know you like the guy, but if you’d been there and heard some of the things he said about Jo, and about us . . .’
‘I don’t like the guy,’ Katie interrupted him. ‘I spoke to him this morning. He’s a total prick.’
Ross raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
‘I was so wrong about him,’ Katie went on. ‘I thought he was better than that, but I bet he’s got some new woman on the side, probably thinks he’s invincible right now. Jo’s better off without him, if he can’t see how lucky he is.’
As she spoke, her throat tightened; if she couldn’t appreciate Ross, did that mean he was better off without her?
I’m not as bad as Greg, she thought fiercely. I can still make this work out.
‘That’s what I told J
o,’ said Ross, cutting into her thoughts. ‘She deserves someone who’ll appreciate her.’
‘Yes,’ said Katie, ‘she does.’
‘Talc!’ said Jack. ‘Daddy, talc!’
Jack liked talcum powder, for some reason; given half a chance, he’d have the bathroom snow-drifted.
Katie reached for the powder but Jack whined, ‘No. Daddy, talc.’
She would have insisted normally, but tonight, Katie had no fight left, so she handed it to Ross, who proceeded to puff and squirt talcum powder all over the bathroom, to Jack’s happy giggles.
‘Mummy join in!’ commanded Jack, and she did, putting the Hoovering-up out of her mind, as she clapped her hands, as Ross giggled with him, pulling faces. For a moment, all three of them were laughing at the same time, and Katie felt a sudden flash of hope that they might still be able to get through this, because they both loved the children, and the children were part of their marriage too.
‘We need to talk,’ said Ross, after he’d talced Jack to his specifications, and the sudden gravity in his voice cut that little hope dead.
‘I know. But let’s get the children to bed first?’ said Katie, pulling Jack’s pyjamas over his downy head. ‘Later.’
She knew she was delaying, but there was something new in Ross that was making her think this might not be as easy to fix as she’d hoped. It was a Ross she didn’t think she knew.
They got through the rest of Saturday night with Ross making up some hilarious story about walking into a naughty slapping tree that he acted out so amusingly Hannah bought it wholesale, and even demanded action replays. They ate supper, and Hannah went to bed with only the usual demands for extra stories from Mummy, which Katie was happy to give her, and then fell asleep quickly, worn out with the past few days.
Katie sat for ten minutes outside her door, not wanting to go downstairs, but knowing she had to.
The conversation she’d had with Jo, and the almost identical one she’d then had with Greg went round and round in her mind like water circling a plughole. It was weird how a matter of hours could turn the way you saw something completely upside-down.