The lengths I’d go to right now to get some approval.
‘I know of a place where they’ll take good care of you,’ I’ll tell the old man, or perhaps, ‘Why not come and live with me?’
Mind you, that’s not a great idea. There isn’t even room for me at home anymore, as Lipsy and Robert keep telling me.
But when I reach the car park, he’s gone. Now I’ll never know what happened to him, and for a moment I find this unbearably sad.
I am aware all this is crazy. There’s just no explaining the way my emotions are messing with my head right now. Take last night, for example: out of the blue came a memory of a book my mother bought for me when I first started university. It was poetry, Emily Dickinson, but I wasn’t studying literature. Evidently she figured this was the kind of book a student would need by her side.
I’ve never read a poem, not from that book or any other. At some point I must have thrown it away, carelessly discarding a precious gift with no knowledge of how I might regret it one day. Last night, when I thought about the book’s faded yellow cover and old-fashioned typeface, the memory caused me real physical pain. And it seemed an insult to my mother, the likes of which I could never hope to make amends for.
Of course, she knows nothing about it. She’s far too busy being furious with me for ruining her day as mother of the bride to care about some old tome of poetry. In fact, if I did still have it, she’d probably take great pleasure in hitting me over the head with it.
But I know. And, as much as it’s possible to miss something you never noticed you had, I wish with all my heart I still owned that book. I might find comfort in a poem or two.
‘You took your time,’ Lipsy says when I get home. She’s turning into a real fishwife – Robert’s words, not mine, overheard during yet another row this morning. They argue a lot, and apparently most of it is my fault.
‘There’s not enough room here, Mum. We can’t breathe,’ she said when I asked what they were rowing about.
Well, fair enough. I was supposed to be living up in Derby by now, after all. The tearful parting and promises to visit each and every weekend never happened; instead Lipsy and Robert are tearing their hair out wondering what to do with me. The spectre at the feast. An unwanted guest in her own home.
‘Could you not find a flat somewhere?’ she asked me over breakfast.
‘And pay for it how, exactly? I have no job, no money, no nothing.’
Cue more grumpy behaviour, of course. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Oh, it’s not all fantasising about rescuing old men from cars. There’s also regret. There’s a water-stained, hardly-worn wedding dress hanging on the back of the lounge door that I can’t bear to look at or bear to put away. And, of course, I’ve had the fallout from my long overdue pregnancy confession to deal with.
‘You’re what?’ said my mother.
‘You’re not!’ said Lipsy.
‘So, why didn’t she marry him, then?’ asked Robert.
‘Wah, wah,’ cried Phoenix.
‘Cup of tea?’ said my dad.
At least one person didn’t want to hit me.
Lipsy took the news fairly well. ‘I hate you and I never want to speak to you or even see you ever again,’ she said. Well, she would. She’s a teenager, after all. But she came round in the end. Lipsy’s a pragmatist. Soon she started to see the positive side.
‘Now I won’t have to find a childminder when I go back to work,’ she said, hugging me and drying her eyes. ‘You can do it instead. It’ll save us a fortune.’
I’m not sure if my mother will ever forgive me, though. Maybe that’s where the age-old guilt is coming from. Dad said he’d talk her round, but I won’t hold my breath.
‘Mum,’ Lipsy says, pointing at the Co-op carrier bag in my hand. ‘Are you just going to stand there or are you planning on putting that lot in the fridge.’
I have to get out of this house. Having your own daughter treat you like a child is not good for the soul.
‘What are you up to this afternoon,’ she asks over lunch.
She means: Are you going to look for somewhere else to live today?
I have Phoenix on my knee and I’m trying to eat a sandwich and hold his bottle at the same time.
‘You could always move back in with Grandma and Granddad, you know. Oh, she’s pissed off with you right now, but she’ll come around. You wait, as soon as you start showing she’ll be all over you like a rash. You know what she’s like about babies.’
Right. Maybe having her not speaking to me might be preferable in the long run. I sigh, and put down the sandwich. ‘Actually, this afternoon I was planning to go to Twilight.’
‘To visit the oldies or to ask for your job back?’
‘The latter.’
‘Well, hallelujah! Finally we see some action.’
‘But it’s not a done deal by any stretch of the imagination,’ I tell her. ‘Velma hates me, as you know. And they might have filled the job by now. I can’t just expect to walk back in and take up where I left off.’
‘Oh, come off it,’ Lipsy says, her mouth full of bread. ‘They’ll be over the moon to have you back. Even scabby old Velma. And it’s only been a week since you left.’
‘Hmm, well. Just don’t hold your breath, that’s all.’
I don’t relish the idea of going back to my old boss and subjugating myself. But the fact is, I don’t have many options. If we can’t sort something out here, I really will have to find somewhere else to live soon, and for that I’ll need money. My future packed up his rented van and drove off up the motorway yesterday right on schedule, as if the wedding-that-wasn’t had never happened. It was the oddest thing. I imagine him just carrying on on autopilot, getting in the van, setting the satnav for our new address in Derby, and driving away from Milton Keynes as though I was right there by his side. Maybe he convinced himself I was, that it was all a bad dream. Maybe it wasn’t until he approached the services and felt a bit peckish and turned to the passenger seat to say, ‘Hey, Stella, fancy some lunch?’ that he noticed I wasn’t there at all.
Or maybe he figures he’s had a lucky escape.
‘But why didn’t you marry him?’ my mother wailed when we were all back at the house again, sitting around staring at the walls, shell-shocked. ‘Why, if there’s a baby on the way? Didn’t you want security this time? Don’t you want your next baby to grow up happy?’
‘I’m perfectly happy, thank you,’ Lipsy piped up. ‘Watch what you’re saying. Kids can do quite well without their dads, you know. Mums are essential, dads are optional.’
‘Oh, well, thanks very much.’ This was from Robert, and was followed by stomping into the kitchen and more arguing.
The people in my family always manage to turn the focus onto themselves, no matter what the crisis. Sometimes it’s a comforting flaw.
‘Will you be OK to look after Phee this afternoon?’ I ask Lipsy after lunch, trying to stall the visit with Velma.
‘He’s my son, of course I’ll be OK.’
Never mind the fact that she’s barely been alone with him in two and a half weeks. Excuse me for the concern.
‘And will you please, please, stop calling him Phee! His name is Phoenix. Phoe-nix. Got it?’
I nod meekly. ‘Got it.’
But when I kiss him goodbye, inhaling his smell of milk and talcum powder, I whisper in his tiny, shell-shaped ear, ‘Bye, Phee. Love you.’
And somehow this small act of rebellion lifts my mood out of the doldrums for a few glorious minutes.
In the car I turn on the radio to hear Gloria Gaynor singing I Will Survive. If this were a Rom Com, I’d sing along now, and an orchestra would start up, and I’d go on to new adventures, which would include meeting a hunky new man who didn’t think a single mum with two kids – one a baby, the other a teenager – was a bad risk at all.
But this is my life. So I turn off the radio in disgust, grit my teeth, and drive in the rain to beg for a menial, badly-paid j
ob from a woman who hates me.
I know. It serves me right.
*
‘Stella! It’s so good to see you.’
‘You too, Edie.’
‘But what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be on your honeymoon?’
Edie is eighty-four and just a tiny bit forgetful, so I’m not surprised she doesn’t remember that Paul and I weren’t going on honeymoon anyway. I return her hug and allow her to lead me into the communal lounge.
‘Look, everyone – it’s Stella!’
There are at least fifteen residents in here this afternoon and their faces light up at the sight of me. Well, I won’t flatter myself – they don’t get much excitement at Twilight. Soon I’m surrounded by familiar faces and I can’t stop myself from hugging each of them in turn.
‘So, come on then,’ says Rosa, the resident octogenarian flirt. ‘Where’s that handsome husband of yours.’ A little flutter of excitement passes through the assembled ladies – the one time Paul visited me here he sure did create a stir.
‘And wedding photos,’ shouts Violet right in my ear.
‘Violet, there’s no need to shout at the girl,’ Franklin says, rolling his eyes at me. Every female in this place, staff and residents alike, are a little in love with Franklin. Except Velma, perhaps, but that’s only because her heart is made of stone. No really, it is. Franklin is the kind of man you dream your own fella will be like when he gets old: dignified and handsome, always well turned out with a nicely pressed shirt and a fresh handkerchief at the ready, and of course he has all his own teeth and a full head of silver-grey hair. But it’s his eyes that do it – they are still, at seventy-nine years of age, the brightest, sparkliest blue, and the mischief in them is born out of a desire to make other people happy. I have never known Franklin to cause offence, or to lose his temper or snap or be grumpy. And goodness knows most of them in here have enough to be grumpy about. The incurable, dragging illnesses they suffer; the stacks of tablets to be dished out every day; the children and grandchildren who don’t visit but still expect Christmas and birthday presents and prime position in the will. There is a lot of talk about wills, and bowel movements, and food.
It could drag a person down if you let it. But then there’s the other side of the coin: the hope in the eyes when the post comes round and there’s a letter or a card addressed to them; the laughter and the mischief-making and the bawdy stories they love to share. There are the memories you get to hear about, thick with all of life, of lives well lived. And then, most wonderful of all, are the romances.
I’ve known for some time that Edie has a thing for Franklin. Not the same kind of benign love we all feel for Franklin; Edie’s regard goes far deeper. I watch her now out of the corner of my eye as Franklin teases Violet about her hearing aid. Edie’s face lights up when she looks at him – I’ve seen her giggle like a schoolgirl when he turns his bright light of affection on her, or blush and hide her face, or disappear from the room in confusion. Once I teased her about her toy boy – a whole five years younger than her – but the look on her face told me this was no laughing matter. This was love.
‘There are no wedding photos,’ I tell Violet and the others, ‘because … there was no wedding.
Violet fiddles with her hearing aid, shouting, ‘What? What?’ above the clamour of voices and exclamations. It takes me a while to calm them down enough to listen to my explanation, and of course I keep it short, missing out a few essential details.
‘You mean you just changed your mind?’ says Rosa incredulously. ‘But that man of yours, he’s gorgeous.’
I nod. There is no denying the truth of this.
‘He was a real catch. You’ve messed up there, girl. There won’t be another one like that.’
‘Leave her alone, Rosa. Can’t you see she’s upset?’ Edie puts her arm around me and pulls me close. Her hair smells of pears and her cheek is papery and dry next to mine. ‘It’s all right, Stella dear. You have a good cry.’
How is it that these people who I’ve known for such a short time can offer more comfort than my own family? Franklin goes to the buffet and gets me a cup of tea – their answer to every problem in here – while Edie strokes my arm and Violet tells everyone, in a voice that’s even louder than before, of a man she knew who was also jilted at the altar.
‘What happened to him,’ I ask, sniffing into Franklin’s handkerchief.
‘What?’
‘What happened to the man?’ I shout.
‘Oh,’ says Violet coyly, ‘I married him, is what.’
We all start to laugh at this, and at the look on her face, and for the first time in three days I feel better. I look around at my friends and offer a tentative smile.
‘You’ll get through this,’ Edie whispers, getting to her feet. ‘You made the right decision, you know.’
‘Did I?’ I wipe my nose and look up at her. Between her shoulders is a noticeable hunch – when the hairdresser visits each week Edie has to stand up and bend forward over the sink to have her hair washed. She says she doesn’t mind, but I’ve seen how she gets shampoo in her eyes and the back of her dress always ends up soaked through. She nods her neat little head and smiles.
‘How do you know, though? What if I’ve made the worst mistake of my life? That’s what everyone else thinks.’
Edie huffs and gives a brisk shake of her head. ‘There’s no such thing as a mistake, my dear. There are only paths taken. This was the right decision simply because it was the decision you made. That, my dear,’ she adds with a conspiratorial tap of the nose, ‘is the secret to living a happy life.’
I watch her shuffle over to the TV and take her place by Franklin’s side. He has no idea how she feels about him, but she’s content just to be near him. And he’s kind to her, as he is to everyone. But is this enough for Edie? I guess it has to be. Her words ring in my ears as I trudge up to Velma’s office. Was she right? Did I make the right decision?
Although, when you drill right down to it, I didn’t make any decision at all. All I did was ask a question.
Chapter 10
Sort out job: tick. Book doctor’s appointment: tick. Throw away wedding dress: tick.
Well, OK, I lied there. I can’t bring myself to throw it away, but I’ve shoved it into a black bin bag and put it in the loft. Where it will no doubt go mouldy because it’s still a bit damp, but I just can’t bear to look at it anymore.
I’ve put my ring away in my make-up bag, along with the locket. Paul gave the ring to me for safe keeping, afraid he’d lose it and not willing to trust it to either of his two best men. Typical of Paul that he couldn’t choose which of his two best friends to pick and ended up having both of them. He always was a have-your-cake-and-eat-it kind of guy.
Being angry with him helps, but only a little. And when I start to picture Paul having to explain to his friends how there isn’t going to be a wedding after all, my mind pulls down the shutters. It’s a self-protection thing. My dad wouldn’t be drawn on the details. I guess he thought they would be too painful for me to hear about.
The last item on my to-do list is to make a decision about my living arrangements. The way I see it, I have five options. I could carry on living here, in my own home, and force Lipsy and Robert and their three-week-old baby to move out. Unsurprisingly, this is not my preferred option. Or I could carry on living here, in my own home, with them. Ditto above. This tiny house is cramped for two independent adults; it was uncomfortable for three; impossible for three and a baby. It will be beyond impossible for three adults and two babies.
Option three is to move back in with my mum and dad for a while. Well, we might as well just draw a thick black line through that one right off. Option four, a surprise development, is the offer of Jean’s spare room. But Jean isn’t what you’d call a close friend, and while she might develop into one given time, I wouldn’t feel comfortable imposing on her that way ...
OK, the real reason is that I’m planning to keep t
he baby a secret at work just a little while longer. Which might get tricky if I’m living with a colleague.
Which really leaves only option five: find myself somewhere else to live. Alone. At least for a little while. For the summer, say. When the baby’s due – whenever that is – I’ll move back home and Lipsy and Robert can be the ones to move out. But at least my conscience will be clear.
Right now, I don’t need anything else to weigh heavy on my conscience. If I have to sacrifice some short-term comfort for my daughter’s happiness, so be it. At least I’ll be making someone happy.
At least I’ll have someone’s approval.
*
Church Street, Derby
Friday 9th March
Dear Stella,
I’ve sat down to write this letter at least twenty times but each time I find I don’t know where to start. I still can’t believe what happened – I can’t believe you’d throw away our future just because of a silly misunderstanding. I’ve wracked my brains to come up with the real reason, and I can only assume that you had cold feet because deep down you just don’t want to marry me. Everything else, all your worries – Lipsy and her baby, moving away – we could have sorted out. I know we could. I’d have driven you back there myself every Friday, or at the very least every other weekend. Now what am I supposed to do? Could you tell me that? Am I supposed to just carry on with our plans, our future, all that we’d talked about, on my own? Is that what you really want?
It’s not too late, Stella. If you don’t want to be married, fine. I wish you’d said something earlier – do you have any idea how embarrassing it was, standing there like a lemon waiting for you to follow me in? And when your dad walked in and said what he said ... I didn’t believe him. I thought it was a joke.
Anyway, like I said, it’s not too late. We can sort something out, salvage something. Can’t we? I mean, it’s not like we haven’t been through our fair share of troubles. It was hard enough just getting together in the first place! You know how much I love you, you’ve always known that deep down. Surely you can’t just walk away and carry on with your life? I phoned Lipsy this morning and she said you were at work, and when I asked when you’d be home she said you’d moved out! She said you were working back at Twilight – I’m wondering if you ever did really leave at all. And a new place to live? Are you really on your own, I wonder? Is that what this is all about? Please tell me it’s not that.
The Family Trap Page 8