by Adele Parks
We’ve made a baby.
I need to talk to Ridley, I suppose. Although how am I going to say what I have to? It kills me, but I miss him so much. It’s so uncool of me not to just straightforward kick-him-out-of-bed-hate-him. I didn’t know until now that it was possible to hate and love a person at the same time. I miss the way when I’m with him I feel strangely light-headed. The way he moves, effortless and loose, thick hair, dark and curly. Backpack flung over his shoulder. I used to cling to his other shoulder as casually, as intrinsically. I miss the feel of his hands on me. I miss the way he throws back his head when he laughs, exposing his lumpy Adam’s apple. His laugh is the best if I’ve caused it. I miss the conversations we had. “What’s your greatest fear?” He asked me this as he trailed kisses up and down my thigh and hip. His lips were gentle, tender and yet also hot. Right then, I had none. No fears at all. He made me fearless.
“Weird question,” I pointed out.
He smiled. “Yes, I guess it is. I was hoping you’d say, losing me.” He looked shy, sheepish. I grinned.
“Yeah, that’s it,” I replied, indulging him. He came toward me and kissed my mouth. Through his kisses, I murmured, “Losing you and not doing this again are my fears.”
He momentarily stopped kissing me and stared at me with a fabulous intensity, his dark eyes boring into me, like he knew me inside out. “Then you are totally safe. Which is all I want. I want to protect you and keep you safe forever.”
This was quite caveman as an approach, but it bothered me less than it should.
The conversations we had were the sort you can’t have with anyone else, not even Megan. I miss the musty smell of his balls. Obviously, I hate him, too.
Or maybe not obviously. Not at all.
“Dad, are you going to ask Jennifer and Fred to the party?” I ask as we are examining Sara’s map and timing plan of the evening’s flow.
“Your mum isn’t keen.”
“Yeah, but they’ve apologized, right? And set the record straight about them not being in the lottery.”
“You think I should forgive them?”
Dad keeps his eyes on the plan. He marks up a suggestion in pencil, swapping the crepe stall with the taco cabin, so that the sweet options are all on one side of the big marquee and the savory on another. I’m not sure it should be regimented, but don’t want to get into it with him as we might get off track. It’s because he seems caught up in something else that I feel I dare admit, “Maybe.”
“What if they bring Ridley along? Do you want to see him?”
“God, Dad, no. No way.” Yes. Yes, more than anything. “I mean, if they bring him along, I’m cool with that, but I don’t want to see him.”
Dad looks at me now. Steadily. Unblinking, he searches my face for something. Whatever he was looking for he must be satisfied as he says, “I might ask them, then, if you are okay with it.”
I shrug. Dad gets me.
CHAPTER 26
Lexi
Monday, May 20
I look out of the window and see that the dark gray cloud, which has hovered all day, has now swollen to stretch across the entire sky. Rain is imminent. I wonder how much progress my family has made today. Jake, Emily and Logan are all at the party site helping pitch the marquee. Actually, if only that was true, then I’d be there with them lending a hand. To be accurate, they are standing about watching other people mow the field, pitch the marquee, lay the dance floor inside the marquee. I haven’t joined them because I don’t want to endorse our children’s idleness and increasing belief, encouraged by Jake, that they can pay someone else to do everything for them.
We now have a cleaner and she does our ironing, too. She’s a lovely woman and I’m sure Jake’s right, I probably will get used to the idea of someone throwing bleach down my loo and emptying the bathroom bin. Eventually. I can’t deny that our house has never been tidier; in fact, it’s immaculate as it has benefited from two thorough goings-over this week, the first one done by me before our cleaner arrived.
As much as Jake loves his brand-new Ferrari, which he took delivery of last week, he doesn’t clean it himself. Yesterday he got someone to come around to do a specialist inside-and-out clean, even though it’s only a whisper away from pristine. Certainly, a far cry from the state we used to allow the old family Volvo to get into. The inside of that always reflected the fact it had served years of hard labor ferrying us around. A foot deep of crisp packets, banana skins and Diet Coke cans was the norm. Whenever I drove it, I kept the window down an inch to try to disperse the stench of rotting food, sweaty sports kits and dried mud. Jake has got rid of the Volvo. He’s bought a new Audi Q7. In metallic brown. It’s undeniably gorgeous. He says it’s my car.
“Mine?” I wouldn’t have chosen brown.
“Well, the family car. You know, because we can’t all fit into the Ferrari.”
I haven’t had a chance to drive the Audi yet, but I have been a passenger and it definitely smells better than the Volvo.
Jake and the kids have been at the party site all day. Emily keeps sending me photos of the props and rides arriving and being unloaded from huge vans and lorries. Her photos are pretty good, and I want to show that I’m interested so I reply with a series of exuberant messages. Awesome!! Amazing! Wow! And a string of overly jolly emojis. Sometimes I have to admit emojis are a godsend—they save us from ever having to articulate anything tricky. Emily has yet another new phone, the second in as many weeks. She told us that she dropped her first one when she was trying to carry a takeaway coffee and Snapchat someone at the same time. “Why weren’t you more careful?” I grumbled when she finally admitted this to be the case. I could hear my father’s voice singing in my head, easy come, easy go, a reprimand that carried such force when I was a child. I had instinctively known that nothing had come easy to my parents, who worked long hours at hard jobs to provide for me and my sister.
“I just dropped it, Mum. I didn’t do it on purpose,” Emily muttered sulkily. “What do you want me to do—chain it to me?”
“Well, you could buy a case,” I suggested. She seemed okay with that suggestion. It gave her something else to buy online. She has spent a lot of time online buying stuff. I can’t bring myself to tell her off about that. What else is she supposed to do if she’s not at school and isn’t seeing her friends or boyfriend anymore? Until recently Emily defied the stereotype of a teen. She served on the school student council for three years, she was an active member of the debating society, she sang in the school choir, and last year she was the only student in her year to receive the Gold Award of Leadership Through Service at school. It was a scheme that a keen member of staff set up, which monitored just about everything the kids did: attendance, participation in sport and clubs, volunteering work, etc. It was pretty much the most hated thing in Year 9 because they all felt their every moment was clocked-in and clocked-out. That said, Emily did everything that was required. Never put a foot wrong. I remember at the time Ridley and Megan teased her, saying she had an unhealthy respect for rules considering she’s a teenager. They, and a handful of others, got the silver award. Getting up on a Sunday morning to coach lower school hockey games was the deal breaker. I was so proud of her enthusiasm and her community spirit.
She doesn’t seem interested in anything other than shopping now.
I am not a big shopper so when I was asked to leave work, I had worried that I would be bored, but in fact as one door closes, another opens. As Gillian told us to expect, we are now receiving a lot of letters requesting charitable donations or asking if we are interested in investing in different ventures, some no doubt real, others appearing deeply suspicious. We are not unlisted. A fact that we had entirely forgotten because that decision was made when God was a boy, and no one had ever really heard of data protection, privacy issues, etc. Certainly, none of us could have imagined a scenario whereby people we didn’t already
know might want to contact us. Within just hours of the public announcement of the win, we began to understand what that historic decision meant. The phone started to ring nonstop. Most of the calls were from family, friends, neighbors and some vaguer acquaintances congratulating us on our luck; others were from complete strangers wanting to help us spend our cash. We unplugged the landline pretty sharpish and I put the handset in a cupboard. If only everything could be cleared away so easily. As we didn’t opt out of the telephone directory, this doesn’t just mean people could call us. It also apparently means that our address is easily tracked down online. We are now inundated with letters that Jake scathingly refers to as begging letters.
“They are not begging letters.”
“Right, some of them are scams.”
“They are just overtures from strangers.”
“And I suppose strangers are just friends you haven’t yet met?” he says with something that seems close to a sneer.
“Maybe,” I mumble sulkily.
“Is there a single letter that doesn’t ask for money?”
“Well, no.” He makes a sound of victory, confident that he’s proven his point. “But most of them are asking for money on other people’s behalf. It’s actually fascinating to see the breadth of charities and enterprises that exist in order to make the world a better place. If you watch the news or go online, it’s easy to imagine the world is going to hell in a handcart, but reading through these charity requests reminds me that there are countless good people out there trying to make things better, not just for themselves, but more often than not, for others. There are a number of interesting projects that—” I looked up and noticed he’d left the room. The kids seemed embarrassed for me.
Unfortunately, the flip side of beginning to comprehend how many charities and aid projects there are in the world is that it drives home the fact that there are endless people who are suffering and in need of help. I sit at the kitchen table and let my fingers trail over the words that have been sent my way. Most of them are sprawled across printed letters, or even professional-looking pamphlets and brochures, but some have been handwritten. Florid, loopy requests made in ink; fast, urgent pleas in pencil, even some desperate, rudimentary ones in crayon. They all say the same. Help me.
I’m not sure how I will decide which causes to support.
...We work in twenty-two countries, helping communities to lift themselves out of poverty through education, training and supporting livelihoods...
Donate safe in the knowledge that it will be used where it is most needed...
...Be the reason for improved livelihoods...
...Your donation means we can continue funding vital research into heart disease, strokes and...
...Just a small donation could support a PhD student starting their career in research in vascular dementia...
...Become a sponsor today, and you’ll see a child’s life change for the better. By sponsoring a child you’ll help them have access to safe, clean water, health care and education...
At first, I approach the letters haphazardly. I pick them up, read them, paw them, put them down again. It’s only after I have read about twenty and I pick up one I recognize that I realize I need a system. I sort the requests into three piles. One for charitable requests, another for investment requests in businesses and a third for scams. These letters—from people asking for my bank details, a PayPal transfer or urging me to invest in wine, land, carbon credits, gold or diamonds—all go in the bin. I put the more genuine-looking investment opportunities into a file—I’ll look at those later. It’s the charitable projects that interest me the most. The extraordinary wealth is weighing heavily on me, but at the same time it affords me a tremendous opportunity. I can do a lot of good.
I realize that many will think impulsively giving Toma, a relative stranger, three million pounds was an act of insanity.
Maybe it was.
I should have told Jake by now. I really should have. I know that. But I haven’t. The right moment hasn’t presented itself. I’m beginning to think the right moment doesn’t exist. Jake will be livid, that’s for certain. He’ll see it as a betrayal. Maybe even cruelty or spite. I wonder how long it will take him to notice. Whilst he is very keen on spending the money we won, he hasn’t yet shown any interest in investing it or monitoring what is in our prestige bank account. He spends, spends, spends, safe in the knowledge that we have enough, we have plenty.
Jake and I are not seeing eye to eye on much at the moment. Whilst I’m dealing with all the correspondence regarding charitable endeavours, he’s dealing with the party RSVPs. As he left the house today, he oh so casually said, “You know, the Heathcotes have said yes to coming to the party.”
“Have they?”
“Which is a good thing.”
“Is it, though?”
“Lexi, they changed their statement. We got what we wanted.”
“Their son beat up our daughter.”
“Well, technically, he didn’t beat her—Megan and her cronies did.”
“Jake! Can you even hear yourself? Okay, technically, he stood by and watched as our daughter, his girlfriend, was beaten up.”
“They’ve been buffeting one another around since they were toddlers. Fallouts, scraps and makeups are a way of life to them. Emily is fine with this. Kids will be kids,” says Jake with a shrug.
“You know this is nothing to do with kids being kids.”
“I think it’s important we make a clear and public statement that all that nonsense about them claiming to be winners is water under the bridge.”
I glared at him. “We don’t need to make clear and public statements about anything. We’re not running the country. How do we know something won’t kick off again? What if they hurt Emily again?”
“Tensions were high. Things have calmed down now.”
The one thing I know about parties is that nothing ever calms down at them.
I sigh, check the clock. I should put on some dinner. They’ll probably be home soon. I decide to prepare a lasagna. We’ve been eating out a lot recently, still too high to consider anything as mundane as cooking. Maybe we’re ready for some home-cooked food, and lasagna is a long-standing crowd-pleaser in our family. Good, solid, comfort food that I regularly serve up when the kids are feeling overwhelmed with schoolwork or after an important sports match or when Jake has had a long day at the office. Often on Tuesdays. He always used to work late on Tuesdays.
None of the above apply, but I find I have a need to eat lasagna anyway. Reading the letters has been emotionally exhausting. I heat some olive oil in a frying pan, the gas is up too high and it snaps and spits. I pour myself a glass of red wine and put on the radio as I like to listen to Classic FM when I’m cooking. I don’t listen to classical music at any other time. Usually, I prefer listening to Sara Cox on Radio 2, but somehow the fugue and rondeau lift browning meat and onions from a mundane chore to something a little more special. I add the passata, beef stock and grated nutmeg. I leave the dish to simmer for half an hour and then put a WhatsApp message on our family chat asking what time I should expect them. I hold the phone for a few minutes until the blue ticks appear that tell me my message has been read by everyone. I wait a little longer, hoping for a response—none comes. I see that all three are online, then Logan isn’t. A message tells me Emily is typing. And then she is not. She goes offline without giving me an ETA. I wait for Jake to pick up the mantle. I send another message. Just an estimate will do.
No response. Charming.
The kitchen suddenly seems moody and morose. The gloomy clouds have thickened and although it’s only seven o’clock, it’s much darker than it ought to be on a May evening. A dark shape slips along the low back fence: the neighbor’s cat. Another shadow slinks on the ground. A wily fox.
Flicking on the electric light, I swallow the lump of irritation that
sticks in my throat and continue with the prep regardless. Maybe they are just heading home and didn’t think it was worth telling me as they’ll be here in ten minutes. I spoon the meat sauce into the warmed and greased ovenproof dish, then cover with some fresh lasagna sheets and then cheat a little by layering on ready-made white sauce. I get great pleasure in repeating this process three times, scattering torn mozzarella and prosciutto over the top and popping the entire dish into the oven to bake. There’s something lovely and reassuring about producing a big slab of food where, just a short time ago, there was nothing.
I become aware that not only is it dark in the kitchen, but a chill is sweeping through the house. A door slams shut upstairs and makes me jump. The wind is getting up outside and I have all the bedroom windows open. In the garden the trees are shuddering, their leaves rustling as though they are whispering and chattering among themselves, passing on slippery secrets. The sky is charcoal. Raindrops splash onto the kitchen window, fat and determined, the type that suggest an oncoming deluge. I run around the house closing windows. Last year we had a heat wave, and either because we’re an optimistic nation or a dumb one, I think we were all expecting the same again despite the fact that the heat wave before last was in 1976. We really ought only to be hopeful every forty-two years. Funny thing, I made this jokey observation to my next-door neighbor this morning, a woman in her eighties who I have always pegged as a sweet old dear.