by Freya North
‘No, thanks. Can’t we call – the zoo?’
Oliver laughed. ‘Parakeets are common now. Anyway, they’ve made this their habitat. They’ve become indigenous.’
‘Sods.’
‘It’s like the wallabies in Derbyshire.’
‘Sorry?’
‘They escaped from Chatsworth or somewhere – and now leap around the dales.’
‘But wallabies are cute and quiet,’ Vita said sulkily. ‘These bastard parrots are anything but.’
‘Those wallabies wreak a fair amount of havoc,’ Oliver countered. He considered how crestfallen she looked. ‘Wait a moment.’ He left, leaving the front door open and when he came back into the kitchen, for a moment Vita wondered whether he’d have a chainsaw with him. No. Just paper. Official-looking forms. He took down her details; his writing bold, rhythmic, neat. ‘I’ll send this to Martin first thing – OK?’
He glanced at his watch. Vita glanced at the kitchen clock. Couldn’t believe the time, either of them.
Tim and Vita and Rick
‘Vita, it’s Tim.’
‘Hey.’
‘Where were you today?’
‘Today? In the shop, of course.’
‘Not at four o’bloody clock, you weren’t.’
The words, spoken seethingly quiet, were squeezed through clenched teeth like pressurized steam.
‘I had to shut up early,’ Vita said. ‘I had an appointment.’
‘At peak time? Well, that’s just excellent planning, isn’t it! I need to make an appointment – I know! I’ll book one for four o’ clock.’ Sarcasm now; abrasive and harsh.
‘Tim – I had to. It was an emergency.’
‘An emergency – oh! An emergency!’
‘I have problems at home. I had to see a man about a tree. Two men, actually.’ She could hear that it all sounded stupid, so feeble.
‘Well, while you were entertaining Robin Bloody Hood and his Merry Dickheads, did it not cross your mind that we’re losing money hand over fist? Jesus, Vita – why the hell didn’t you call someone? Christ! I’d’ve stepped in for a couple of hours.’
‘It was only an hour or so early. Today only. You hate working in the shop.’
‘That’s not the point. It’s my business and if you can’t be arsed to run it responsibly, I suggest you back out and we’ll employ a professional manager.’ The sarcasm had gone, in its place rock-hard nastiness dressed convincingly as common sense.
‘Tim?’ She hated it, hated it when he was mean. And the strangest thing was that it didn’t make her feel vindicated for leaving him, it didn’t even make her feel relieved she was no longer in a relationship with him and bearing the brunt of it; she didn’t feel justifiably indignant nor did she defend herself. It made her feel feeble. It made her feel that she had to earn back his tenderness because somehow it had been lost for skewed reasons which she felt compelled to justify. ‘I have an – epidemic – of wasps. At mine. I’ve been badly stung.’
Tim was quiet. He knew well enough how she hated wasps. In the early days, he’d gallantly swipe them away. Later on, it infuriated him and he accused her of over-reacting. Just sit still, Vita – for Christ’s sake, stop all the flapping. Chill out. Grow up. ‘You should have phoned me. You do not make decisions concerning the business without consulting me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What’s happening tomorrow? An anthill giving you grief? A spider’s web a bit too near the front door?’
‘Everything will be back to normal tomorrow,’ she said, subdued.
‘It better be,’ Tim said, hanging up.
*
And then Rick phoned just minutes later and, though she’d have been just as pleased to have an early night, by the end of the short call, she’d agreed to meet him for what he kept calling A Quickie. Vita laughed politely at his euphemism, but clarified quite clearly that she was coming for A Quick Drink.
He was already at the Bull and Last, a small pub nearby she’d been to only on a couple of occasions. Rarely had Vita heard herself say, God, I need a drink – but that evening the phrase seemed totally justified. Rick beamed at her, stood and kissed her when she arrived; a bottle of red wine open and two glasses already filled. He was gregarious and attentive and handsome and a distraction and soon enough she was thinking, Maybe I will take him home, maybe sex isn’t everything. Perhaps it’ll be better this time anyway. Maybe it was just nerves or booze or a head cold. Mediocre sex she could tolerate, she thought, for the company it would afford her. Maybe I could just close my ears and stare at the ceiling.
But she couldn’t close her ears in the pub and the asides Rick wrought against his ex were enough in themselves not to warrant him coming back, never mind his French alter ego.
‘So, Miss Vita – that’s a bottle of wine gone and the question is, do we drink another here – or do we go back to yours and sip miniatures your mate nicked from some mini-bar or other?’
‘I’m out of those,’ Vita said. ‘And really, I could do with calling it a night now, and going to bed.’
Rick gave a throaty growl and raised an eyebrow – all very comic but obviously with intent.
‘Alone?’ Vita ventured.
‘You can’t throw me out –’
‘– I haven’t invited you in.’
He wasn’t smiling now. ‘What I mean is – you can’t not let me come. I need refuge from the Witch!’ He ran his hand up the front of Vita’s thigh as he spoke.
She put her hand on his wrist and stilled him. ‘Why do you call her the Witch?’
‘If you’d met her – you’d know why.’
She tightened her grip. ‘Is she evil? Nasty? Unpleasant?’
‘She’s just mad,’ Rick laughed. ‘The Ex From Hell.’
‘But in what way?’
He looked at her as if he really didn’t know why details were relevant when surely a statement like that was enough. Anyway, hadn’t he told Vita enough already? ‘She didn’t want to split up and she’s just gone a bit – you know, psycho – ever since.’ It was as if he thought insults had some great comedy value.
‘Define psycho.’
‘You know – the waterworks, the late-night messages, the long – oh my God – long long emails, snail mail. Not taking au revoir! auf wiedersehen! vamoosh! for an answer.’
‘She didn’t want to split up?’
‘It’s been months and she’s still moping and pleading and sobbing and promising.’
‘And you left her – why?’
Rick shrugged. ‘It had just run its course. I needed a change. I wasn’t in love with her anyway. Sex was crap. She was annoying – always talking about getting married, having kids. She became really needy.’
Vita finally removed her hand from Rick’s wrist. He started rubbing her thigh again. Quickly, she crossed her leg away from his touch. ‘You know, Rick, to me it sounds like she’s in pain. It sounds like she really loved you and planned a future and now that’s been denied her, she’s mourning, she’s finding it hard to cope – her hopes have been dashed, the future she dreamed about has gone and she’s scared about that. There’s nothing in its place. She wants you back. She doesn’t want to let go of everything it meant to her.’
‘Jesus, tell me about it! Why can’t she just move on!’
‘Because the world seems horribly big and empty. Because the future is a very frightening concept when you’d previously planned on sharing it with someone. Because she’s a girl, she’s a romantic and she fears that if she lets go of her dream, she’ll live a nightmare. Because she has hope and she fears if she lets her hope go, who will she be?’
‘Pathetic.’
‘No, it’s not!’ Vita’s emphatic tone made Rick jerk to attention. ‘Listen here – I know that pain. I know that panic. The least you can do is to be gentle on her. She’s suffering because she obviously cared deeply and she’s hurting desperately and she feels she must cling on to all she hoped for because if she lets go, she might plumm
et. The effort, the pain of clinging on is preferable to the wide-open fear of letting go.’
‘It’s such a waste of time!’ Rick saw the whole thing as ludicrous.
‘It’s a process. It needs to take the time it takes.’
He considered this for a moment. ‘Why can’t she see it’s pointless? It’s madness! Why can’t she just do what all the agony aunts would no doubt say – and Move On? It’s certainly a pain – it’s a pain in the neck.’
‘God, you’re a sod,’ Vita muttered. She turned to him. ‘Let her talk, Rick. Allow her the pain. It’s very real – though the only real madness I’d say she’s exhibiting is being hung up on you.’
‘Whose side are you on!’ he laughed.
‘Hers.’ Vita was emphatic. She stood. ‘I’m going back home now. Goodbye, Rick.’
He stood too. ‘Oh, come on, Vita – chill! God, why do all you women catastrophize the whole time?’ He was making light of it all, brushing the air dismissively and then resting his hand on her arm.
Vita looked at him, took his hand in hers and squeezed it. ‘We don’t. You men just interpret it that way. To make you feel better, superior, to absolve yourselves of any responsibility in the matter. Us silly girls – we’re too emotional, aren’t we?’ He wasn’t meant to nod at that. In some ways, Vita was pleased that he did. ‘Just – be – nice. Please be kind. Help set the poor girl free of you. She’ll be so much the better off.’
‘So is a shag out of the question?’ He was pulling a soppy face, as if to say, Get over your hump, woman, and let’s get humping.
Vita thought, God, I could so easily adopt a phoney French accent at this point and say, Pardon, monsieur, haw hee haw. But then she thought of Candy’s karma and Michelle’s down-to-earth wisdom and she even thought of the man she’d met that afternoon, Oliver Bourne, and his sound, steady demeanour. So she smiled at Rick and added a little meekness to it for the benefit of his ego.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I’ll have your Teds in Beds but I’ll be sleeping alone in mine.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m just talking about sex,’ he said, as if she’d overblown the situation, ‘not love and marriage, for God’s sake.’
‘Actually,’ said Vita, ‘that’s precisely what I’m talking about too.’
She felt surprisingly light, leaving; even happy to turn at the door and give Rick a conciliatory wave which he didn’t see as he was staring into a pint. It was just growing dark, she’d be back home in time for an early night. The wasp stings were still sore but the swelling was finally subsiding and her limbs felt more her own again. And, with Oliver Bourne promising to send the forms off first thing (and to Vita, he seemed like a man whose word was his bond), what had been a problem now had a solution. She’d have her garden back to herself too. Even more of the garden, with the tree soon to be gone. So, no more parrots and therefore good nights’ sleep. No more wasps and nicer summer days. Just a little red tape, perhaps some noise and mess, in the interim.
This has been a good evening, Vita thought to herself. I’ve done well.
* * *
Vita and Tim were like an old-fashioned mechanical weathervane. One coming out as the other went back in. Rain versus shine. Dark versus light. Cold versus warm. They lived on opposite sides of town. There was no reason for their paths to cross anywhere other than by the till in That Shop.
‘I can’t believe my mum said that thing – you know, of when you’re going to make an honest woman of me.’ Suzie was fidgeting in the passenger seat; she’d been quiet on the way out, a bit excitable once there and was now gabbling on their homeward journey.
‘She was just joshing,’ said Tim, wondering whether to go for the winding short cut or keep on the main roads. He opted for the latter.
‘But – I mean – we haven’t spoken about this – but maybe we might start thinking at some point – you know, about moving in together?’
Suzie didn’t know how to read the sudden glance Tim gave her, but she sensed she should change the subject.
‘Did I tell you Hel’s having a party this weekend?’
‘You did. Bastard lights.’
‘Sorry? Oh! The traffic lights. Yeah. Anyway – we’ve been asked. Of course. Shall we go?’
‘Sure.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I just said “Sure”, Suzie.’
‘OK – it’s just, we can do something else if you prefer. I know you think a couple of the blokes are knobs.’
‘They are.’
‘But it might be good.’
‘Look, we’ll go, OK? We’ll go.’
Suzie turned her head and looked out of the car window, feeling a little bruised that he should snap. She only wanted him to know she was cool with whatever he wanted to do at the weekend. And the moving-in thing? He could have said something instead of just that look. She hadn’t known how to read it – it was in a language she was only just getting to grips with.
Why doesn’t she just shut up for five minutes? Come on, lights, come on. At last. Thank you.
Turn left. More lights. Amber to green. Thank you.
Left again. Green lights.
And more green lights.
And a zebra crossing. Slow down, someone’s about to cross.
Vita was aware of a car slowing sufficiently so she stepped out onto the crossing. It was only a step later that she came out of her thoughts and glanced at the car. And the first thing she saw was the registration plate which of course she knew off by heart. But it was out of place, out of context, like seeing a celebrity in the supermarket and thinking, Oh, I know you, wondering if they were an old school mate or friend of a friend. And then the penny drops.
But it wasn’t a penny that dropped for Vita just then, it felt more like an anvil falling from a height right onto her.
Tim’s car. That’s Tim’s car. Oh God – and she’s there, next to him, where I once sat.
Vita couldn’t help but stop and though she prayed for it, the ground didn’t open up and swallow her nor did time speed up – in fact, it stood still. She was trapped, staring at him and Tim was staring back and Suzie was fiddling with her nails thinking she wouldn’t use that nail bar again because the white tips had gone a bit yellow already.
It was a split second, but it was loaded as Tim and Vita looked at each other. Then the car on the other side of the crossing tooted and now Suzie looked up and Suzie saw the woman in the road looking at Tim who was looking at her.
‘What’s she doing here?’
And, without diverting his gaze, Tim said, ‘She’s crossing the road.’
‘I can see that,’ Suzie said, ‘but why’s she doing it in front of our car?’
And in an instant, both she and Tim were acutely aware what a ridiculous thing that was to say.
Vita kept on walking, concentrating on a steady straight path on all this black and white. And she kept walking, briskly, straight ahead, not glancing over her shoulder, just walking forwards in the direction of home.
Helpful Unhelpful Thoughts
The parakeets were noisier and earlier than ever. The wasps Vita could sometimes hear bickering beyond the glass of the kitchen window which she was keeping resolutely shut until the tree was down. Though she could see honeysuckle starting to rampage over the shed at the back and though it was one of her favourite scents, she didn’t dare go out. The plundered, festering pears lay where they fell and there was no way Vita was venturing over to clear them away. The heatwave was coming and she was discovering that Pear Tree Cottage was a place that both mimicked and magnified the weather outside. In the winter, it had been bone-chillingly cold, necessitating layer upon layer of clothing and toilet paper stuffed into the gaps of the old window frames. Summer, the house transformed into a sauna. The windows, ironically, let no air in and were warped tight in their frames to the same extent that they had rattled and moved during winter. Not that Vita would have opened them anyway, too afraid was she of the vindictive wasp community outside. Now she was
peeling off clothing, often resorting to doing her chores in just her bra and knickers. In the evenings, if she was reading or watching television, she’d taken to sitting with her feet in a washing-up bowl of lukewarm water, a damp cool flannel at the back of her neck. Despite the discomfort, she was starting to feel less like a lodger at Pear Tree Cottage.
One week on from meeting Oliver Bourne, the tree still stood and the post brought no word from the council. One week on, after ignoring a text sent by Tim late on the night of the zebra crossing (U ok?? Txx), Vita was into a new regime to deflect any need for him to phone or visit, by texting him pre-emptively.
New stock flying out. V
Have ordered more beeswax candles, also bubble wrap. V.
Jodie in tomorrow a.m. V
Will email balance Fri pm. V
At strategic locations at home and at work, she’d stuck Post-its with the same two words. Unhelpful Thoughts. And, so far, it was helping. She’d put one on the mug rack, to prevent her brooding that she was only making tea for one. Another on the bathroom mirror, to steel herself before she went to bed and to bolster her for the new day when she woke. Another she used as a bookmark (currently, she was midway through a bittersweet David Nicholls novel that might well have made her self-indulgently reflective otherwise). One was in the spare compartment of the cash register at work. Jodie never read the notes she left her, so she certainly wouldn’t bother with this one. Vita even placed one on the top right-hand corner of the television. The one she placed inside the door of the store cupboard at work still managed to sing out to her from all the others whose subjects ran the gamut from Use less wrapping to Double-check bottom lock and Christmas starts in October and Marmite & de-caff. The patchwork of small squares of paper, slightly curled, resembled a shingle roof in need of attention. But it worked for Vita, she always paid note. Jodie ignored them all and Tim had never bothered to read any.