by Claire Sandy
Fern took in every lean inch of him. The cut of his trousers and the narrow shoulders of his striped jacket accentuated his weight loss as he skipped and wiggled and got down with his bad self.
The crowd went crazy – except for the green-faced woman at the bar, who watched as if turned to stone. The sense that she didn’t recognize Adam was by now familiar. Her ex surprised her daily.
What rooted her to the spot was a revelation. He’s happy. Adam was free, lost in the song, literally jumping for joy. Fern had assumed that Adam was struggling beneath the veneer of new clothes, just as she was. The man on stage wasn’t struggling; he was ecstatic.
‘Woo-hoo!’ When the other witch cheered, the crowd followed suit, even though the band was ragged, out of step. Lemmy looked as if he’d had a home brew or two in the dressing room, and Keith had the air of a man in the grip of a cheese dream, desperate to wake up and find himself safe in his bed. It was a shambles, only saved from collapse by Adam’s dogged showmanship. He was the psychedelic equivalent of a captain going down with his ship, and he cavorted until the last note of the last tune.
‘Goo’night King’s Head!’ shouted Adam, suddenly mockney, as Keith strode off stage as if his fluorescent bell-bottoms were on fire.
‘MORE!’ yelled the audience, half-heartedly.
‘That’s yer lot!’ Adam bowed low, like a jester, and scampered off stage. Fern prophesied that those pixie boots would play merry hell with his athlete’s foot.
‘You’re my first groupie.’ Adam strode towards Fern in the now-deserted bar.
‘Can I have your autograph?’
Adam threw his head back and laughed, then said, ‘Oh, you meant it?’
‘It’s a consent slip for Tallulah’s school outing.’
‘Top marks for bringing me back down to earth,’ murmured Adam as he took the proffered biro. ‘So.’ He cocked his head.
Oh God. ‘So!’ Fern repeated. ‘So, indeed,’ she said, slapping her thighs, without knowing quite why. ‘So . . . so . . . stunning!’
‘You think so?’ Adam was so boyishly keen to believe her, he’d forgotten how to read body language. ‘You didn’t think we were a bit, you know, scrappy?’
‘Yes, you were. Only a bit!’ added Fern as his face fell. He was wearing mascara, she noticed. It made his eyes glisten naughtily. ‘You’re out of practice, so—’
‘We’ve been rehearsing non-stop for a week.’ Adam’s gaiety was kaput. ‘You hated it. I knew you would.’
‘I didn’t hate it.’ Fern scrabbled, trying to regain lost ground. ‘You, sir, were extraordinary.’
‘Was I?’ Adam warmed up a little. This late-night, eye-lined doppelganger was anyone’s for a compliment. Luckily, he didn’t stop to consider that ‘extraordinary’ is a double-edged sword of a word.
‘You haven’t mentioned my make-up,’ laughed Fern.
‘Are you wearing any?’
Swatting him, she relaxed. ‘Git. Look, shall we grab a burger or something?’ Fern recalled her nemesis witch. ‘Unless you’ve got plans.’
‘The guys and me . . .’ Adam stopped, and Fern felt him weigh up the situation. She wondered if she was emanating need; she needed some little proof that she had a toehold in Adam’s life. ‘Burger’s a good idea. Let me make a quick call.’ Adam took out his phone and retreated to a distant corner.
When he’d finished what seemed like a tricky conversation, Adam marched back and took Fern’s arm. ‘Come on. We have to be quick.’
In the gourmet burger joint, after the obligatory scoffing by Adam – ‘What’s a gourmet burger? Bring me a hunk of mince to aim at my gob. End of’ – their order was slow arriving. Adam fidgeted, watching the door.
‘Relax,’ said Fern, already made uncomfortable by the looks her green face was attracting.
‘I’m hungry. The adrenalin just pumps through you on stage.’
‘I noticed.’
‘The next gig’ll be better. Although this one sold out within twenty-four hours.’
So Adam was unaware of P.W.’s ploy. ‘Who’s the elegant lady in the long black dress?’
‘Long black dress?’ Adam writhed, looking for the waiter, playing for time.
‘Yes, Adam.’ Fern was calm. It felt right to ask. ‘Is she Percy Waddingsworthington?’ She sat back. If her feelings weren’t so engaged, Fern might have relished the way Adam kept opening and closing his mouth as he rummaged desperately for an answer. She cared too much about him to enjoy his predicament. She felt sorry for him. And for herself. ‘It’s time we talked about her.’
‘She’s called Penny,’ said Adam, before stopping dead, as if that was all he knew about the woman.
‘And?’
‘And?’ Adam splayed his palms on the tablecloth. ‘And what, Fern?’
‘And you’ve known her, been seeing her, since before we separated.’ Fern held back from adding She’s partly why we separated. There was enough kindling on this particular bonfire.
‘That’s true.’ Adam took off his hat. His new haircut looked forlorn, flattened. ‘That’s true,’ he repeated, on a sigh that sounded self-hating to Fern.
‘Your burger, sir.’ The waiter, so longed-for, now appeared at the most inopportune moment. ‘And yours, madam.’
‘Eat,’ said Fern. ‘You’re starving. Eat first, talk later.’ She’d always enjoyed watching Adam eat. He enjoyed every morsel and was that darling of the home cook, a man who asks for seconds.
‘Thanks.’ Adam picked up the bun, but another hand swooped like a vengeful seagull and snatched it.
Holding it high in the air, Percy Waddingsworthington said ‘No!’ the way Fern did to Boudicca when the dog stretched out an exploratory paw towards an unattended custard cream. ‘Do you want to undo all our good work?’ She turned to Fern, her smile a blade. ‘We haven’t been introduced. I’m Penny Warnes.’
Adam slumped, the mystery initials finally explained.
‘And you are?’ said Penny.
About ten years older than you. ‘I’m Fern,’ said Fern. Penny’s age shouldn’t really matter, but it really did.
‘The ex!’ Penny’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. You’re exactly as I imagined.’
‘I’m not usually green.’
‘Adam said you were funny,’ deadpanned Penny.
‘He didn’t say anything about you at all.’
Adam stood, putting down his napkin, all a-bustle. ‘Maybe we should, you know, the after-party . . .’
‘I manage Adam,’ said Penny, standing firm, her feathered cape gleaming black. ‘All aspects of his life. All his nooks and crannies.’
‘Interesting mental image,’ said Fern.
‘What did you think of the gig?’
‘I thought it was very good,’ said Fern carefully.
‘It was out of this world. Kinky Mimi are on their way. You can say you used to live with a superstar this time next year.’
‘Where is this after-party?’ Fern stood too, disliking the way Penny was looking down at her. She’d sat on her hat, and decided to leave it where it was.
‘That nice Italian place on the corner,’ said Adam, obviously glad to have something to add, something neutral.
‘Guest list only,’ said Penny. She pulled a comically sad face. ‘Soh-wy. If Adam had asked I’d have put you on the list, but it’s too late now.’ Penny took hold of Adam’s arm. ‘Come on, guest of honour. Mustn’t disappoint the fans.’
‘Come, Fern, please,’ said Adam.
‘But she’s not on the list.’ Penny was firm.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Adam.
‘I should get home.’ Fern moved fast, refusing to squabble over Adam as if he were a bone.
‘Thanks for coming!’ called Penny as the night air swallowed Fern up.
‘Adam!’
‘Don’t sound so surprised, Layla. Fern didn’t get custody of you.’
‘No, I just meant . . . Adam! It’s great to see you, even on a squiggly
computer screen.’
‘It’s late. Sorry. Did I get you up?’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t matter. You look well. Is that . . . eyeliner?’
‘What? Oh shit, yes. I forgot. It was Kinky Mimi’s first gig tonight.’
‘How was it?’
‘Mind-blowing.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘You’re rubbing your eyes. I shouldn’t have disturbed you. I’m a bit pissed, to be honest.’
‘I’m not sleeping these nights. It’s fine.’
‘Now you’re yawning!’
‘Adam, sweetheart, what do you want?’
‘To say hi.’
‘You’ve said that, and it was fascinating, but what’s on your mind?’
‘Just . . . how does Fern seem to you?’
‘No you don’t, Adam. Uh-uh. These are questions you should ask Fern, not me.’
‘I can’t. She’s distant.’
‘She’s distant?’
‘Sometimes I see her down in the park with Boudicca. And a guy.’
‘Shock, horror!’
‘He looks young.’
‘Do you have a telescope, Adam Carlile?’
‘Of course not. Well, yes.’
‘You know what, Adam, if you’re so bloody interested, ask Fern.’
‘OK. Blimey, Layla. I’m sorry I got you up. Give Luc my—’
‘Adam, it’s not you, it’s me.’
‘Is something wrong?’
And with that, she told him.
‘Layla, Layla, Layla,’ whispered Adam. ‘I’m so sorry.’
CHAPTER FIVE
November: Sorbet
Christmas casts a long, sparkling shadow. By mid-November, Fern was a slave to lists: presents to buy; cake to make and ice; impossible fantasies of perfection to nurture. Not on any list, yet done every day, were two dog walks. Boudicca had never been so fit and lean; her owner had never been so sexually confused.
The gang had fallen away. Maggie went to live in Leeds, Pongo was on a cruise and Sabre was – well, nobody knew where Sabre was. Morning and evening, Fern met Hal at the south gates and they wore a rut in the grass as Boudicca and Tinkerbell stole crisp packets out of bins.
Setting off one chill, starchy morning, Hal described the mugs he’d created that morning in his studio. ‘The handles were tricky. They’re . . .’ He’d tailed off. ‘You know all about me, right down to the boring stuff about handles. But what do I know about you?’
‘What do you want to know?’ Fern had been spy-like, only offering information when it was strictly necessary. It was one way of keeping Hal safely in his box, to be taken out, dusted down and enjoyed twice a day for forty minutes. ‘I’m not very interesting.’
‘Everybody’s interesting,’ said Hal. ‘For starters, what do you do?’
‘I’m a beauty therapist.’
‘What’s that? Do you do massages?’ Hal’s eyes lit up.
‘What is with men and massages? Yes, I do, but there’s nothing saucy about it. I use aromatherapy oils.’
‘Do you wear a nice white coat? Like a sexy matron?’
‘My coat is white, yes. I also wax. Ah, thought that’d make you wince.’
‘I’ve guessed you have kids.’
‘How?’ Fern had been careful never to mention Tallulah or Ollie. As if they might be tainted by this flirtation of their mother’s. As if, she thought, irritated with her puritan conscience, this is somehow wrong, when all it is is a walk in the park.
‘Dunno. You’re so capable.’
As adjectives go, it was so-so. Fern preferred being a sexy matron.
‘There’s a warmth about you. Tell me about them.’
Fern dithered before saying, ‘My daughter’s eight. She’s Tallulah. She’s a feminist and an activist and a big fan of Enid Blyton. Ollie is . . .’ After a brief temptation to reinvent Ollie as a toddler, Fern said, ‘My son’s seventeen.’ She eyed Hal to check if he’d gone pale or poked out his own eyes. The air quivered, as did Fern, who felt as if she was standing naked beside him. Ollie’s age underlined, in black ink, the gap between Fern and Hal.
‘Cool,’ he said, sounding just like Ollie.
Years might take an age to pass or rush by in a flash, but in the rear-view mirror they are solid and immovable. I’d already had my first snog when Hal was being born.
‘And your other half,’ said Hal. ‘Is he still around?’
‘He’s a good dad,’ said Fern.
‘But a lousy hubby?’
‘Not lousy, no.’ Fern cleared her throat. Her mohair scarf seemed to have tightened about her neck. ‘We grew apart. He wanted more.’
‘More than you?’
There was no mistaking the he must be mad undertone. Fern smiled, grateful, excited. ‘Yes, even more than a beauty therapist who comes complete with her own whippet.’ She looked around for Boudicca. ‘Where’s Tinkerbell?’ Fern stopped dead. ‘Hal, I can’t see her!’ Panic gripped her as she looked across the frigid early-morning grass.
‘She’s in Suffolk,’ said Hal, unperturbed. ‘With her owner.’
‘So you didn’t bring her,’ said Fern dumbly. ‘Then why . . .’
‘Why did I drop the pretence of taking the poor little sod for a walk twice a day when all she wants to do is lie in her basket and chew her own bum? You tell me.’
When Fern didn’t tell him, when she just went a violent shade of red, Hal helped her out. ‘I work on my own in the studio all day. I love it, but sometimes I need to air myself. To talk. And I like talking to you. And our occasional coffees are good too, and our wine. It’s just nice and good and you don’t need to be scared.’
‘I’m not scared,’ said Fern.
‘You look it,’ smiled Hal. ‘I’ve never come across a woman so bad at taking a compliment.’ He thought for a moment. ‘This ex . . . didn’t he pay you compliments?’
‘He used to.’ It was unjust to demonize Adam. ‘When you’re together for a long time . . .’ As Fern said this she realized that she’d been with Adam nearly as long as Hal had been alive. ‘Things change. You become more of a partnership. You don’t notice each other as much. To me, that was sweet, the feeling we were in it together. I was too busy to notice we weren’t on the same page.’
There was more; much had coalesced in Fern’s mind since the separation. Adam had over-relied on her during the marriage, as if she was his mother, not his wife. More than anything, she wanted to tell Adam, ‘You didn’t take me along for the ride when the money arrived.’ He’d taken flight, giddy, drunk on his new power, but he hadn’t looked back at the shrinking figures he’d left at ground level. ‘Shit, ignore me, Hal.’ After so long saying very little, Fern had gone too far. ‘You’re not my shrink.’
‘It’s time,’ said Hal, taking out his phone, ‘that we exchanged numbers.’
Homestead House had a light at every window when Fern shut up the Beauty Room. Homework was (allegedly) being done upstairs. Ollie was resting between shifts in his room. Donna was reaching over her bump to stir a stew on the stove. Nora was worshipping at the altar of Alan Titchmarsh in the sitting room. Evka was doing Pilates in the newly yellow hall.
‘Did you think about question I ask?’ Evka tailed Fern up the stairs.
‘Yes.’ Fern put her hand on the handle of her bedroom. Once their room, it was now all hers, and she’d be very glad to see it after an afternoon of blackheads and feet. She liked this time of day, when the deepening night was kept at bay by the house’s lamps. ‘And the answer is no, Evka, I can’t give you a rise.’
‘You are slave-driver.’ Evka crossed her arms. ‘You pay less than going rate.’
‘You work less than the going rate,’ retorted Fern. ‘One hundred per cent less. You’ve been my cleaner for seven months and you still don’t know where the mop lives.’
‘Yes I do!’ Evka was outraged.
‘Ha!’ Fern was triumphant. ‘Trick question. I don’t own a mop.’
‘Fiend.’ Evka laid a
hand on Fern’s arm. ‘I have way I could earn a rise.’ She whispered her idea into Fern’s ear.
‘You sneak,’ said Fern, admiringly. ‘You’ve earned yourself that rise.’
Younger people can’t help making older people feel old. Hal wasn’t to know that his habit of using txtspk when he messaged her brought out Fern’s inner schoolmarm. How r u? she’d repeat to herself. What’s so arduous about typing ‘are’ and ‘you’? Her texts – a paragraph or two long – were checked for punctuation, spelling and grammar, and Hal would reply C U there.
Once free and easy with her phone, Fern now kept it close. Some corners of life can’t be shared with the family. Even innocent texts arranging the next dog walk were out of bounds for her children.
When Adam walked into the kitchen one morning while she was midway through smiling at Hal’s latest, brief message, Fern slipped the phone into a drawer as if it was a revolver.
‘God, you’re thin,’ she said, instantly regretting it. Evil imps lived inside Fern and Adam, goading them to make personal remarks. Knowing that Penny was behind his healthy eating had curdled it for Fern; she could never approve.
‘The word you’re looking for is slim.’ Adam did a twirl in his overcoat. ‘I’ve been taking those new diet pills endorsed by Lincoln Speed.’
Lincoln Speed was the cool kid at school and Adam his adoring geek disciple, the boy who tried to be like his hero but ended up with his head stuck in the railings. Fern had seen the ads; a page of hokum, making absurd claims for the pills. ‘Isn’t one of the side effects death?’
‘Good enough for Lincoln,’ said Adam. ‘Good enough for me.’
‘I saw pictures of the funeral online.’
‘Yes. May he rest in peace.’ Speed’s monkey had died a hopeless alcoholic. Adam closed his eyes respectfully for the animal, who had really gone downhill after giving up smoking.
Debauched monkeys and diet pills were safe territory. They barely mentioned Penny. Refusing to be pinned down on the woman’s exact role, Adam’s vagueness frustrated Fern. ‘She’s vital to me,’ he’d say. Or ‘She gets it.’
‘Daddy looks like a model,’ said Tallulah, who was head to toe in camouflage gear, a tiny guerrilla. ‘Come on.’ She tugged at his hand. ‘We’re buying me new Uggs today, Mum.’