by Claire Sandy
‘Not this again, Fern.’
‘It’s like he ran off or something, not died. As if we mustn’t—’
‘How long has this been going on, this separation?’
‘He left in June.’
‘Oh.’
‘I would have rung, but I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Sure. Sure, love. It doesn’t matter, not a bit. Would you like me to . . .’
‘Come over? That’s up to you, but yeah, if you like . . .’
‘Although you’ve got a full house by the sounds of it.’
‘Mmm.’
‘And I shouldn’t really leave Dave with all the work.’
‘No. Look Mum, somebody’s at the door, so . . .’
‘Bye, dear. Look after yourself.’
‘Bye, Mum.’
Fern put down her mobile. ‘I love you,’ she said, almost to herself.
Another day, another dark walk in the park, but this time it was in the evening. Hal had been missing from Fern’s morning circuit with the usual mob. ‘Probably busy!’ Pongo had said.
Or regretting being so friendly. Fern’s inner dialogue had turned on her since the split, as if she needed Adam’s bulk around the house to bolster up her self-esteem. This was an unwelcome thought, not the mindset of the mother of a rampant feminist. Hal’s opinion of me is neither here nor there, she told herself.
Boudicca’s flashing light leapt in graceful arcs around the grass, like a mini fireworks display. ‘Here, girl!’ called Fern, waving the lead.
In the darkness a bush moved, grew legs. Fern tensed, her fight or flight impulse stirring. But then the bush with legs said, ‘Evening,’ and she realized it was Hal.
‘You scared the life out of me!’
‘God, sorry.’ Hal took a step back. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ He folded his arms around himself. ‘Sometimes blokes forget how it is for women out on the streets at night. I should have called out.’ He looked sad, his large features drooping. ‘Should I, you know, sod off?’
‘No, silly.’ Fern was glad to see him, his Cockapoo romping giddily at his heels. ‘I thought I’d be the only dog walker out this late.’
‘You said you sometimes walk Boudicca about this time, so . . .’ Hal was smiling, a little uncertainly.
Glad of the darkness, Fern bent to snap on Boudicca’s lead. She felt the warm surge of a forgotten power.
‘How about another coffee? A slightly more salubrious place this time.’
‘Bored of coffee,’ said Fern.
‘Oh, well, OK.’ Hal looked at the ground.
‘But if you were to suggest a glass of wine . . .’
By the time they’d taken their seats at the back of a poshed-up pub, Fern had discovered some pertinent details about Hal. He walked a little too fast, making her skip; he put his hand on the small of her back when they crossed the road, making her flutter; his favourite TV show was Roomies, making her wilt.
‘Roomies is reliably funny,’ he said as he set down their glasses. ‘Nothing else touches it. I watched the whole first season just the other night, with a giant pizza for company. That Lincoln Speed is brilliant.’
‘Quite a character, according to the papers. Bit of a bad boy.’ Fern neglected to spill her one interesting bean, her Roomies connection. ‘Bad boy used to mean a little kid with a stink bomb. Now it means a bed with your name on it in rehab and a sideline in punching hookers.’
Hal barked a short, merry laugh. ‘Apparently he’s denying an affair with his Roomies co-star, the blonde one, even though he was papped leaving her mansion at three a.m. He reckoned they were discussing politics.’
Fern knew every move Lincoln Speed made. Adam kept her informed. Her ex’s specialist subject on Mastermind would be ‘Lincoln Speed’s Stupid Behaviour 1998 – Present Day’.
‘Do you like bad boys, Fern? Don’t all women secretly yearn for a bastard?’
‘Are you a bad boy?’ Under the table, Boudicca stirred, as if taken aback by her mistress.
Hal’s eyebrows shot up, as surprised as Boudicca by the flirtatious question. ‘Me? I’m not bad. I’m not saying I’m good. No man in their right mind describes themselves as good.’
‘Conjures up a comedy vicar.’
‘Like most people, I’m somewhere in the middle. Not so good that I’d bore you to death, but I wouldn’t say I’m dangerous.’
Oh, yes, you bloody are.
Twirling his glass on the table top, his eyes on it, Hal said, ‘And you? Where do you stand, Fern, on the good/bad spectrum?’
‘I am extremely good.’
‘I believe you.’
‘What do you do with yourself all day?’ Fern felt the need to move the subject away from the subtext, although as soon as she left it behind, she missed it. ‘Now that you’ve sold your business.’ She clocked his confusion. ‘Your internet company.’
‘I’m a potter,’ said Hal.
The misunderstanding took seconds to unravel. The dot-com mogul was Hal’s cousin. ‘I walk his dog.’
‘Tinkerbell’s not even yours!’ That was the most shocking revelation for Fern.
‘My cousin bought Tinks ’cos Cockapoos are fashionable, but he doesn’t see her as a living, breathing thing. He neglects her, so I trot around the park with her as a break from the studio.’
‘What sort of pots do you, um, pot?’ Fern was reassembling the jigsaw. Now Hal’s low-key wardrobe made sense.
‘Big pieces. Platters, mainly. Quirky one-offs. Too arty for my own good, though. At some point I’ll have to give in and get commercial. When I’m sick of being broke. But I’m not doing so bad only three years out of uni.’
Three years out of uni. Three years ago Fern had been wondering if she could squeeze out one last baby; Adam had been against the idea. ‘I’d like to see your work.’
‘I’d like to show you.’ Hal shook his head, sighing with amusement. ‘Can’t believe you mixed me up with my cuz. He’s an arsehole. You know the type, over-rewarded, a ton of money for doing very little. It ruins people.’
Fern didn’t trust herself to comment on that.
Walking home, walking away from Hal, Fern was equal parts attracted and repelled. The man was undeniably to her taste; as if some diligent Cupid had created him just for her.
But he’s in his twenties. Fern had bras older than Hal. There were fewer years between Hal and Ollie than there were between Hal and Fern. I’m no cougar.
The real impediment, rearing up between them like the Berlin Wall, was Adam.
‘From my window in Bratislava I see ninth-century castle.’ Evka pulled down the spare-room blind. ‘Here I see lady next door shaving legs.’
‘What’s it like,’ asked Fern, putting clean towels on the freshly-made bed, tweaking the duvet, ‘in Bratislava?’
‘Is small.’ Evka took a stone apple from a shelf and rolled it in her hands, a Slovak Eve. Her voice dropped. ‘Is long way away.’
‘Are you happy here? In the UK?’ Such a personal question was risky. Despite Evka’s chumminess with Nora, she bristled with Keep Out signs for Fern; but when Evka was low-key like this, Fern felt she was more authentic. And approachable.
‘I am busy here,’ said Evka, putting down the apple. ‘I have much sex.’
‘Not what I asked.’
‘I like being busy and I like sex so I am happy,’ said Evka. ‘By the way –’ she was proud of this new phrase, and said it slowly and lovingly – ‘you need more gin. I finish last night.’
‘That was you?’
‘This room . . .’ said Evka.
‘Yes?’ Fern braced herself.
‘I like.’
‘Ouch.’ Nora pulled her hand away. ‘You clipped me skin.’
‘Please hold still.’ Fern would rather have given Boudicca a manicure. The old woman was a fidget. ‘I need to tidy your cuticles.’
‘I didn’t even know I had cuticles,’ grumbled Nora. ‘Will you be late tonight?’
‘I’m not sure. All
I know is that Adam’s band goes on at nine. You don’t have to wait up. Tallie will be in bed.’
‘If you’re not back at midnight I’ll bolt the door, young lady.’
Wielding her file, Fern let her aunt ramble. She was grateful for Nora’s offer to babysit; Evka had a ‘hot date’ at a bingo hall, but was taking Tallulah trick-or-treating before she went out. Without being asked.
‘I’ve told Evka,’ said Nora, who made a habit of telling people, ‘not to let Tallie out of her sight.’
‘She’ll be safe with Evka.’ No ghoul in its right mind would take on Fern’s lodger.
‘Nobody’s safe,’ said Nora with great satisfaction. ‘There are murderers on every corner.’
‘Perhaps every second corner.’
‘It’s not funny, Fern. You’re as bad as me brother. He never took anything seriously. You’re just like him.’
‘Good.’ Fern’s dad had taken her seriously. She unscrewed a bottle of base coat.
‘It was a noble thing to do, taking in Evka.’
‘I didn’t have much choice.’
‘She’s had a hard life.’
Living rent-free with more sex than you can shake a stick at? ‘Evka will always get by.’
‘Has she told you why she left Slovakia?’
Mildly interested, determined not to show it, Fern held up two bottles of almost identical pale pink varnish for her aunt. When Nora favoured one, Fern began to stroke the colour across her nails. ‘No. What happened?’
‘That’s just it. She won’t say. Her boyfriend did something unspeakable.’ Nora loved that word. ‘She won’t reveal exactly what, but it was bad enough for her to jump on the first plane out of there.’
‘Did he hurt her?’
‘Maybe he beat her.’
‘Or he was unfaithful.’ Fern bent lower over Nora’s hand. ‘That certainly hits a woman where it hurts.’
‘You look nice,’ said Layla, from her French kitchen. ‘Green suits you.’
‘Shut up.’ Fern stuck out her tongue, a vivid red against her green face paint. ‘Do you like my stick-on warts?’
‘Very much,’ said Layla earnestly. ‘You’ve really gone for it.’
‘Is it over the top?’ Fern pulled at the black wig and regretted the stick-on nose. ‘Actually, you look a wee bit green yourself. Are you feeling peaky?’
‘I love that expression. Where does it come from? I’m good, thanks, hun. How are things with you and Adam?’
‘It’s like Alice in Wonderland. Everything upside down and topsy-turvy.’
‘He still loves you, Fern. I’d put money on that.’
‘He loves me so much, he lives in a different building.’
‘You started that ball rolling.’
‘You know, it would be easier if Adam and I didn’t have to talk to each other. You should hear the way we communicate. Like CEOs of a small failing company.’ Fern considered telling Layla about P.W., about the twittering voice in the background when she called the penthouse. Instead, because she didn’t want tear tracks down her green face paint, she said, ‘And my children hate me, so that’s nice.’
‘Tallulah still blames you?’ Layla knew the little girl inside out.
‘How come Adam leaves and I stay, I tuck her in every night, I bathe her, feed her, read to her, but I’m the villain of the piece?’
‘Maybe ’cos she’s eight, and this is tough even at our age.’
‘You’re saying suck it up, bitch, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’
‘There’s just so much to suck up. She and Nora get on like a house on fire. I feel shut out.’
‘Little girls and old ladies are natural allies. They have a nose for trouble, no responsibilities and plenty of free time to tease the ones they love the best.’
‘It’s not love I see in Nora’s eyes.’
‘It was you she came to when she needed somebody.’
‘’Cos I’m a mug.’
‘’Cos you’re kind. Tallulah and Ollie aren’t some perfect family from a TV commercial. They love you and Adam. They’ll come round.’
‘If you say so. You are their Other Mother, after all.’
‘I miss them.’ Layla sounded raw, as if she’d opened a door she hadn’t meant to.
‘They miss you.’
Both rooms, separated by a mass of land and a strip of sea, were silent for a while. It was an electric silence, fizzing with the women’s need for one another, by the friend-shaped void in their day-to-day lives. Through the wonders of technology – and love – Fern and Layla had a vibrant moment of togetherness.
‘This’ll make you laugh.’ Fern changed the mood. ‘I think I’ve got the hots for somebody.’
Layla’s face was a perfect illustration of ‘gobsmacked’. ‘You?’
‘Yes, million-year-old, about-to-be-a-Grandma me.’ Fern screwed up her nose. ‘I feel a bit of a perv.’
‘Why?’ Layla sat back.
‘He’s young.’
‘Not one of Ollie’s mates?’
‘Dear God, no.’ Fern thought of Ollie’s posse, a constellation of pimples held together with self-consciousness and Lynx. She described Hal.
‘Sounds bloody gorgeous. I fancy him. Go for it.’
‘Go for it? What sort of advice is that?’ Fern realized she’d wanted Layla to throw cold water on her. ‘You know my situation.’
‘What’s the worst that could happen?’
‘Apart from utter humiliation? How about Adam finding out?’
‘You asked Adam to leave, remember? If you want him back, you should tell him so.’
It sounded so simple. Like a Ladybird book. ‘There’s no guarantee he’d want to come back. If he did, the rows would begin again. We lost our footing.’
‘It wasn’t always like this. Sometimes there’s a route back.’
Fern hesitated. Just out of the camera’s reach was the battered box. Today’s slice of handwritten nostalgia was so loving, so daftly affectionate, that it had made her weep. Partly because of its loveliness, but partly because she couldn’t imagine Adam ever writing anything like it again. As soon as she and Layla said their goodbyes, she picked up the letter and sat back.
The heading was ‘MY FAVE PICS OF YOU’. Adam had glued snapshots onto the page. There was Pritt Stick over her face in the square image of a fresh-faced Fern sunbathing in a black bikini. Didn’t we wear any colour at all in the nineties? One hand shading her eyes from the sun, she glowered at the camera. Or at the person wielding it, presumably Adam. Beneath it he’d scribbled:
Portugal with your family. Our first holiday. My first trip abroad.
You were telling me not to take this but I thought ‘oh God she’s so pretty, I’ll take a few snaps in case she dumps me’ and now you have!!!
Next up was a photo-booth strip. Close together, cheek to cheek, above the sheepskin collar of a jacket Fern had forgotten, but which brought back a visceral memory of its feel and smell. The pair pulled faces, their eyes wide and their tongues out. The last little square was, inevitably, a full-on snog.
Your freckles really show up in these. I love your freckles. They spill onto your shoulders. I remember kissing you so I could show the picture off to my mates, but when it came out I knew I wouldn’t show it to anybody.
Asleep between sheets so lurid they just had to be Adam’s, Fern was in Adam’s digs. He was my older man; the sophisticate at music college. The one-year age difference had made Fern feel she’d hooked Cary Grant.
I took this without you knowing. Which sounds dead creepy like I’m a spycho pysco murderer. I’m including it because it shows you trust me. You sleep like a baby in my bed. Even though my room smells of armpits (according to you). I want you back in that bed please.
Fern traced the faces in the photo-booth pictures, remembering Layla’s soothing words. Could there really be a route back to a place that no longer existed?
Shouldering through the Frankensteins and vampires, wondering when s
exy schoolgirls had become Halloween characters, Fern made her way to the back bar of the King’s Arms. The green make-up was itchy, and one of her warts fell into her G&T as she arranged her witchy robes on a bar stool.
I’m early. Fern had forgotten that music-venue time runs differently to the rest of the world. Bands go on late. She’d dashed out of her door, her pointy hat askew, squawking instructions for Nora: Tallie must stay in bed. Don’t let her bamboozle you into letting her have fizzy drinks. If her tummyache comes back, give her Calpol. It was hard to leave the house, as if glue seeped from the hall parquet. She’d almost turned back to reiterate the microwave instructions for Nora’s supper.
An air of expectancy hung about the handful of people, some in fancy dress, all about her age, loitering in the back bar. It was a laid-back expectancy; more like a receptionist’s leaving party than a gig.
Double doors flew back, and another witch stalked in. Where Fern had gone for comic effect, this witch had gone for glamour in a tight black dress and a feathered cape. Her faultless make-up was not green.
A sixth sense, like the one that made Binkie’s fur stand on end if another cat even thought about entering Homestead House’s garden, made Fern’s skin prickle. Nice to meet you, P.W.
‘In, in!’ Her glossy black wig strobing, the woman ushered in a lively, hooting mob. This solid slab of party filled the room, running into corners like mercury. Boas were waved, and air was punched.
‘Chant, guys.’ The witch checked her phone.
‘Kink-ee Mee-mee! Kink-ee Mee-mee!’ The noise was deafening.
‘As we agreed,’ yelled Penny. ‘Free bar. Stay till the end or you don’t get paid.’ Swivelling on patent Louboutins, she was gone.
Crushed at the bar, Fern jumped as the room went black. Spotlights landed on the band, who’d snuck on. She gasped. Lemmy, still recognizable despite the passing years and his velour all-in-one, pounded the drums like an orangutan. She only recognized Keith by his height; all his youthful glamour had melted, along with his hair.
Leaping at the mike, a feather in his hat and quite possibly ants in his pants, Adam belted out “Psycho Bitch”.