by Paula Daly
Felicity is at the table also, but sits silently, her head down.
‘Why is she still not answering her phone?’ Alice complains to no one in particular.
‘Perhaps your mum just needs a little time to herself,’ answers Eve. ‘Yesterday must have been really tough for her.’
‘But I’ve left countless messages,’ Alice says. ‘So now she’s, like, totally abandoned us? Is that it?’
Felicity delivers a death stare in Eve’s direction. Her jaw set, she stands, grabbing her hot chocolate. ‘I’m going upstairs.’
Alice stops texting. ‘Felicity, you know you’re not allowed drinks upstairs. Mummy’ll go schizo if she finds out.’
‘Maybe it’ll be okay just this once, Felicity,’ blusters Eve. ‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’
And Felicity regards Eve coldly before sitting down once more. ‘I think I’ll stay here after all,’ she says.
Alice is now frowning at her sister, and turns her attention back to her phone. ‘I’m sending Mummy one last text,’ she declares, ‘and if she doesn’t answer this one, I’m giving up. If she can’t be bothered about us, then I shan’t be calling her every five minutes.’
Eve fixes her hair in the glass of the wall-mounted cabinet. Turning around, she says, ‘So, dinner out tonight then, girls?’
‘Lovely,’ replies Alice.
Felicity lifts her head, watches Eve through narrowed eyes. ‘Again?’ Her tone is bitter. ‘Don’t you ever cook a proper meal?’
Alice is horrified. ‘Felicity!’ she admonishes. ‘Don’t be so rude. It’s not Eve’s fault she’s been marooned here with us because Mummy’s done a bunk. She can hardly be expected to cook all our meals and do everything when—’
Felicity noisily scrapes back her chair. ‘I’ve got homework to do,’ she says, and leaves.
When she’s gone Alice’s mouth gapes open. ‘What the hell is wrong with her?’ she asks, exasperated. ‘She’s not the only one going through this. She’s not the only one upset Mummy was arrested. She’s not the only victim.’
‘Try to be patient with her, Alice. This kind of thing affects everyone differently. It’s not easy having what is essentially a stranger in the house . . . when all you’ve ever known is your parents.’
‘But you’re not a stranger,’ Alice says. ‘We’ve known you for ages.’
‘But not as your dad’s girlfriend. And Alice, believe me, if I’d had the chance I would have taken this much slower. Teenagers need time to adapt. You can’t go barging in, have them think you’re trying to replace their mother when—’
‘Oh, Eve,’ Alice says, jumping up, ‘I don’t think you’re trying to replace her! I don’t think that at all. What you’re doing here . . . you’re helping,’ and she hugs Eve tightly.
‘Thank you,’ Eve tells her, sniffling a little. ‘That’s so kind, because I don’t feel I’m getting it right. I’ve been thrust into this situation, a situation I really hadn’t planned for. And I do feel terrible about your mum being arrested. I really wish I could have kept it from the police . . . but, well, it was recorded on the CCTV. And of course, her criminal record flagged up straight away, so . . .’ Eve shrugs at Alice as if she had been helpless to avoid what had happened.
Alice drops her head.
At once she appears bruised, and Eve worries perhaps she’s pushed things too far. She was aiming to keep Alice on her side. And, Alice being Alice, so open to suggestion, Eve felt confident she would go for it. Now she’s not so sure. Now she thinks making Alice feel bad about her mum might not have been the right tactic.
But then Alice speaks up. ‘Do you think Mummy will ever tell us the full story of what happened back then?’
And Eve smiles warmly, relieved by Alice’s words.
Clasping Alice’s hands together in her own, she says, ‘I’m sure of it, Alice. But it has to be in her own time. I don’t really know what happened exactly, and it wouldn’t be my place to tell you even if I did. That’s for your mum to do.’
Alice nods seriously.
‘She’ll tell you,’ continues Eve, ‘when the time is right. In the meantime, I just hope she’s going to be okay.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I hope she doesn’t become a danger to herself. I spoke to her earlier, and—’
‘You did?’
‘I didn’t want to mention it, because she was terribly upset.’
‘What about?’ asks Alice. ‘Where was she?’
‘She wouldn’t say.’
‘Oh, God!’ Alice cries, stricken. ‘What if she’s hurt, what if—’
‘She wasn’t hurt, Alice, only upset. Do try not to worry,’ says Eve, pulling Alice back to her again and stroking her hair, reassuring her. ‘I’m sure she’ll be in touch as soon as she’s feeling better.’
The sound of the front door slamming echoes through the house. ‘Hello?’ Sean shouts. ‘Who’s home?’
‘In here, Daddy,’ she calls back. ‘We’re in the kitchen.’
Sean appears and throws the change from his pockets down on the table. He is slightly dishevelled. Ruffled. His usual immaculate appearance is compromised. He has a four o’clock shadow and the collar of his Armani jacket is turned up on one side.
Eve cranes her neck expectantly as he approaches, but he doesn’t lean in to kiss her. ‘Everything okay?’ she asks him.
Sean turns away and moves towards Alice, kissing the top of her head. Regarding the nose strip, he says, ‘Haven’t you already done that?’ in a tone that’s slightly sharp for Sean, Eve thinks.
Alice doesn’t notice and tells him he knows absolutely nothing about skin care. Particularly teenage skin and how prone it can be to oiliness.
‘Have you spoken to Mummy?’ she asks him.
‘Not today, no.’
‘She’s not answering her phone.’
Eve jumps in here. Brightly, she tells Sean: ‘I’ve told Alice not to worry, told her Natty probably needs a little time to herself,’ and Sean is taken aback.
‘Why would she need time away from her own children?’ he asks her.
‘She wouldn’t . . . I just meant that—’
‘She’s their mother,’ he says.
Eve’s eyes widen in response. Sean has not spoken to her like this before. It’s not a good sign. Quietly, she asks him: ‘Sean, whatever is the matter?’ and his shoulders heave visibly as he tries to lose the tension from his body.
He shakes his head. ‘Bad day at work.’
‘Anything I can help with?’
He goes to speak, then changes his mind. ‘Honey,’ he says, looking at Alice, ‘would you mind giving me and Eve a minute alone?’
‘Why?’
‘Because we need to talk.’
Alice huffs, clearly not happy about being left out of the conversation. ‘Okay,’ she says finally, slinging her school bag over her shoulder. ‘Okay, I’ll go.’
When Sean’s sure she’s out of earshot he turns to Eve. ‘There are problems at the hotel. I’m sorry if I’m short-tempered.’
‘What sort of problems?’
‘Minor stuff. Nothing big. But it all adds up, and it’s as if . . .’
‘As if?’
He averts his eyes. ‘Natty used to take care of the small shit, you know? And now that she’s gone it’s as if the place is beginning to fall apart.’
‘Oh, that can’t be true, Sean,’ exclaims Eve. ‘Nobody is irreplaceable, not even Natty.’
‘That’s what I keep telling myself,’ he says with a rueful smile. ‘And while we’re talking openly, I know I should have said something about this last night, and I didn’t, but I’m truly sorry about what she did to you—’
‘Sean, you’ve already apologized for her ramming me, and I told you it’s not your fault.’
‘No, what I meant to say is that just because I sorted out the solicitor for her it doesn’t mean I condone what she did.’ He pauses, searching for the right words. ‘I needed to do that for her, if you c
an understand. To help Natty get out of the mess she was in. Both for her and the girls.’
‘No explanations necessary. You wouldn’t be the man I’ve fallen in love with if you didn’t feel beholden in some way.’
He nods. Comes in closer and rests his hand on her arm. ‘Anyway, back to the problem of work. Perhaps I should hire a second manager . . . or maybe you might consider becoming more involved? I don’t think I can run the place alone, and it would mean we could—’
‘Oh, no.’ Eve laughs awkwardly. ‘I don’t think it’s really my thing.’
Sean puts his hands up to his face. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, you’re right. Just a thought,’ and he walks towards the fridge. ‘I’ll put an advert in tomorrow, get another pair of hands, that should do it. Christ, I even had the bank grilling me today over cancelled credit cards, had no idea what they were going on about. As if I’ve got time to sort that out when the place is full, and we’ve got eighty in for dinner . . . and we’ve got Tony Iommi staying.’
At the mention of the credit cards Eve’s left eye twitches.
Sean pulls out a Budweiser, twists off the cap and drinks straight from the bottle. ‘I’ll need to head back over there later to have a couple of drinks with him,’ he says. ‘Make sure he’s happy.’
‘No problem,’ replies Eve, relaxing now that Sean’s mood is lightening. ‘I’ve told the girls we’ll eat out anyway, so you can drop us at home and return to the hotel afterwards. Who’s Tony Iommi? Is he a restaurant critic?’
Sean coughs mid-swig and the beer rises up the neck of the bottle fast, spilling on to his hand. Holding it over the sink, he says, ‘He’s kind of a famous guitarist,’ and laughs. He regards her quizzically. ‘You’ve really no idea who he is? You’ve never heard of Paranoid?’
‘Of course,’ says Eve, blinking rapidly, thinking it best not to show her ignorance. ‘Paranoid are an excellent band . . . Actually, I used to listen to them all the time . . . as a student.’
Forcing a smile, Sean picks up his mobile, kisses her briefly on the cheek and tells her he’s off to have a shower.
30
I’VE BEEN WAITING outside Sharon Boydell’s bungalow for close to two hours. I’m on the verge of abandoning my post when she returns home.
She reverses her car into the narrow driveway and begins unloading shopping from the boot of her Nissan Micra. As I approach she coughs. It’s a rattling, productive cough, ending in a deep growl as she hawks the last of the phlegm from her throat. A smoker.
I loiter for a moment, as she’s absorbed in her task. I don’t want to frighten her. She’s moving chocolate biscuits from one carrier bag to another and is unaware of my presence. She’s a wiry woman who moves with fast, jerking actions. One of those women who couldn’t put weight on if she tried.
I close in, and she catches sight of me in her peripheral vision. Turning, she regards me directly, and I know instantly that this is Eve’s mother. It’s Eve after thirty shitty years of hard living.
If you passed this woman on the street you’d say she had a difficult time; most likely been knocked about a bit in her youth. Her skin is stretched over her skull in not quite the right way, calling to mind a mummified corpse. She scowls at me, suggesting she’s angered by my presence. I’m hoping it’s confusion rather than rage, but when she widens her eyes at me, as if to say: Well? What is it you want? I’m left in little doubt.
‘Ahem. Sorry to bother you,’ I begin, ‘but—’
‘I’m buyin’ nothin’,’ she snaps, and goes back to rearranging her shopping.
‘I’m not here to sell you anything.’
She ignores my attempt to explain, cutting me off: ‘I am stickin’ with British Gas,’ she says, without looking up, ‘robbing bastards though they are . . . I’ve got UPVC windows, so as you can see I do not need double glazing, and if it’s religion you’re selling, I’m a Roman Catholic. So whatever it is you’re trying to flog, lady, I’ve already got it.’
‘I’m not selling anything,’ I repeat, mildly affronted, because do I look like a door-to-door salesperson?
‘That’s what you all say,’ she retorts, throwing me a derisive glance. ‘Then you ask me some sort o’ daft question like, “Do I think I’m getting value for money from my mobile phone?” I’m absolutely sick to death of you people knocking on my door. So, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’ and she tilts her head in the direction of the road, indicating I should skedaddle before she really loses her temper.
‘Mrs Boydell,’ I say carefully, ‘I’m here about Eve.’
Immediately she stops. Swallows. She’s about to say something nasty. I can almost see the words rising in her throat. But, at the last second, she changes her mind.
‘Is she dead?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Injured?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
Her face hardens again and she narrows her eyes.
‘Has she sent you here ’cause she owes you money?’
‘No,’ I reply, ‘it’s nothing like that. Listen,’ I say, shifting my weight to my other foot. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘Whatever that girl is up to, I want no part in it. None at all, understand?’ and she turns her back to me. Makes out as if she’s lost something on the far left-hand side of the boot.
‘Please,’ I try again. ‘I really need your help. Let me talk to you inside. If after two minutes you want me to leave, I will. I promise.’
‘Not a chance. Anything you got to say, you say it right here. I don’t want you in there upsetting my lad, we’ve got enough to put up with—’
‘Your lad?’ I ask, looking over my shoulder at the house. I was certain there was no one home. I’ve been sitting outside for hours, and there’s been no sign of movement from within. ‘Mrs Boydell,’ I say, ‘I pressed your doorbell a good few times earlier and no one answered. I don’t think there’s anyone home.’
She doesn’t look up. ‘He must be busy.’
I stand there, helpless. What is it with this woman?
Sharon Boydell closes her boot and reaches down to gather her shopping. I’m running out of ideas.
‘You could always put up a sign in the window,’ I venture brightly.
‘I could do what?’
‘If you want to stop people bothering you, put a sign in your front window saying “Do not ring the bell, shift worker asleep inside”. I did it when I had a spate of cold callers. It worked instantly.’
She tilts her head as she considers my advice. ‘Maybe I will,’ she says.
I dip fast and pick up a carrier bag.
‘Put that down,’ she says.
‘No.’
She sighs heavily. Rolls her eyes.
‘What are you planning to do,’ she asks me, ‘stand out here all day?’
‘If that’s what it takes,’ I reply, my voice quivering. I’m trying my best to put on an authoritative air, but it’s not really working. This tiny slip of a woman is formidable in the extreme.
Eventually, she says, ‘Oh, all right, all right. Grab these,’ and she thrusts another two bags my way. ‘You may as well make yourself useful,’ she adds, before strutting off inside.
After Sharon Boydell has put away all of her freezer stuff, smoked two king-size Lambert & Butlers, removed the lid from a canned Frey Bentos steak and kidney pie and popped it in the oven along with some McCain smiley potato faces, at last she’s ready to talk.
I’ve not yet caught sight of her son, but I am now willing to believe he exists, on account of the potato faces. The place is small, though: whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it quietly. The house is a 1930s semi-detached bungalow. Not much space, but well laid out.
Sharon stands with her back against the sink in the narrow galley kitchen. Behind her, the windowsill is filled with a selection of pots holding money plants in various stages of growth. She notices me eyeing them and says, ‘I do cuttings for people,’ then shrugs as if she doesn’t know why she bothers.
‘So, then, what’s she done?’ she asks when we’re finished with the small talk. ‘That daughter of mine, what’s she gone and done now?’
‘Taken my husband.’
She’s not shocked. ‘Sounds about right,’ she says. ‘I’d say you’re not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.’
‘No?’
‘It’s what she does. Fleeces one poor bugger before moving on to the next. She masquerades as some kind of therapist, so I’m led to believe, but why anyone would take advice from her is beyond me.’
‘You say it as if it’s common knowledge, as if everyone knows how Eve operates.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘It is common knowledge.’
‘But I had no idea. And I’ve been friends with your daughter since I was eighteen. As far as I’m concerned, she’s been living happily with Brett for—’
‘Who’s Brett?’
‘Brett Dalladay,’ I say. ‘Her husband.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Your daughter’s married name is Eve Dalladay. That’s what she’s been going by for the last’ – I pause as I count up the years in my head – ‘must be around seven years.’
‘The only thing you can be sure about with Eve is that everything that comes out of her mouth is a lie.’ Sharon grabs her pack of Lambert & Butler and withdraws another cigarette. Shaking her lighter furiously in her hand, she tries to get it to produce a flame. Eventually, she gives up, saying, ‘Forgot to buy a bloody new one,’ and makes do with using the toaster. I glance at the cooker, thinking, wouldn’t it be easier to use the gas? But it’s an electric hob.
The conversation stops as Sharon takes a couple of deep drags and the kitchen fills with smoke and a sweet, papery smell from the toaster that is at once both interesting and slightly nauseating.
‘Eve will do anything,’ Sharon says ‘– and I mean anything – to get what she wants. She has no feelings, she doesn’t understand what guilt or empathy is.’ I sense from her tone that I’ve tapped a well that was ready to gush. ‘The only time you’ll see any kind of remorse from Eve is if she thinks she’s in trouble and can’t lie her way out of it. Then she’ll pretend she’s sorry. But that’s all forgotten soon enough.’ Sharon shakes her head.