by Alison James
Hurrying upstairs, she pulls a weekend bag from the wardrobe, then swiftly rejects it in favour of a suitcase that will contain a whole week’s worth of clothes. She packs it with jeans, sweatpants and trainers – all the clothes her husband disdains – then pushes it back into the corner of the dressing room. She climbs into bed, switches off the light and arranges her limbs in a way that will suggest sleep.
First thing the following morning, Marcus announces that he needs to see a couple of private patients in his Harley Street rooms.
‘I’ll pick the kids up after I’m done,’ he says over his shoulder to Lucy, as he inserts gold links into the double cuffs of his bespoke striped poplin shirt. Paying customers expect a certain image, and Marcus knows how to play up to that. ‘We should be back by midday though.’
Lucy nods but makes no comment.
‘Have you thought about what you’ll give the kids for lunch?’
She has not. Nor will she.
‘Pizza?’ she suggests, simply because it is the first word that comes into her brain.
Marcus frowns. ‘I think you can do better than that, Lucinda. Is it really too much to ask that the children get something nutritious to eat? Not bloody junk food.’
Lucy doesn’t point out that her home-made pizzas – which Tom and Lydia both love – are made with fresh tomatoes and the best quality mozzarella and olives. ‘Fine,’ she agrees, avoiding eye contact. ‘I’ll think of something else. And there’s a chicken in the fridge to roast tomorrow. Tom’s favourite.’
Mollified, Marcus grunts and pulls on his Oswald Boateng jacket. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Once he has gone, and there’s no chance of him doubling back for something he’s forgotten, Lucy drags her case out to the car and gets behind the wheel. She doesn’t unload the dishwasher or make the bed before leaving: two small but satisfying acts of rebellion. Instead she pulls over at her favourite café on Church Road to buy a takeout coffee, then drives straight to Redgate.
Jeffrey Gibson looks confused as he opens the door. Since Felicity’s death, the family home in Haverleigh Park has been sold, and he now lives in a characterless detached bungalow about half a mile away. The furniture from the old house looks all wrong in the smaller rooms, a reminder that there is no longer a Felicity to add homely touches.
‘Have I forgotten something?’ he asks, when he sees his only daughter. ‘Did we make an arrangement?’
She shakes her head.
‘Where’s Marcus?’ He instinctively looks into the front passenger seat. Jeffrey greatly admires his son-in-law, is even somewhat in awe of him. Like Fiona, Jeffrey believes that because Marcus is a doctor, he can do no wrong.
Lucy embraces her father, his hair now thin and completely white, his tall figure a little stooped. ‘You’ll have to make do with just me,’ she says lightly.
When he sees her drag her large case from the boot of the car, his look turns to one of concern. ‘Is there something wrong, darling? Something I need to know about?’
‘Everything’s fine, Dad. I just haven’t visited for ages, and I thought it would be nice to spend a couple of days with you.’
‘A couple of days?’ He points at the suitcase.
Lucy gives him what she hopes is a convincing smile. ‘Give or take? That’s all right, isn’t it? I can do some cooking: help you stock the freezer. Or we could take a run out to the South Downs, blow away the cobwebs with a bit of a walk.’
Her father may be slowing slightly now that he’s seventy-seven, but his mental faculties are still perfectly sharp. ‘Is everything all right between you and Marcus?’ He examines her face for signs of distress.
‘Yes, fine,’ Lucy lies, wheeling her case into the small, cramped hall. ‘I just felt like a few days away, that’s all. A bit of a break from the big smoke. How about I put my stuff in the spare room, then rustle up some lunch for us both?’
In the bleak little guest bedroom, with its odd combination of heavy oak wardrobes from the Haverleigh house and cheap Ikea drawers and rug, Lucy checks her watch. Eleven thirty; Marcus won’t be home yet. Sure enough, there are no messages on her phone. Lucy does what will irritate him most: switches it off. It’s a relief, and yet anxiety gnaws away at her stomach, making her feel light-headed.
She prepares a salad with some boiled eggs, a tin of tuna and some wilting lettuce she finds at the bottom of the fridge, then leaves Jeffrey doing The Times crossword while she drives to the local hypermarket to stock up with groceries.
As she reaches over her shoulder to remotely engage the lock on the car doors, she catches sight of someone in her peripheral vision, pushing a filled trolley out of the store. It’s only a glimpse, and the car park is busy with reversing cars and squabbling families, but it’s enough to make Lucy stop in her tracks. She inhales so hard it’s as though someone has winded her; and her heart pounds in her chest.
Adele Watts.
She’s changed of course. She was always a stocky girl, but now she looks overweight, possibly even obese. Her sandy hair has been bleached and the tips dyed pale pink. But it’s unmistakably her. Even from this distance, Lucy knows. It’s the tilt of her head, the way she carries herself. It’s Adele.
She turns and looks in Lucy’s direction for a beat. Has she seen Lucy? It’s hard to tell at this distance, and, anyway, would she even recognise her former best friend?
Her heart still pounding, and blushing furiously for reasons she doesn’t quite understand, Lucy grabs a trolley and pushes it through the doors of the supermarket, using it for support in the way a pensioner relies on a wheeled walker.
You’re being ridiculous, she tells herself. If you’re back in your home town, it’s hardly a huge surprise to see someone you were at school with. It’s to be expected really. But Adele, of all people. Of course, it had to be her. Who else?
The rhythmic thunk-thunk of the trolley wheels soothe her, as do the vast, overstocked aisles full of Saturday shoppers. Her heart rate subsides sufficiently for her to concentrate on the task in hand and she buys enough groceries to feed two people for several days, with leftovers for freezing.
Back at the bungalow, she makes moussaka because it’s one of her father’s favourites, and the two of them sit through an awkward meal, where they both try and avoid discussing the real reason she’s there. If Mum were alive, this would be so much easier, Lucy thinks sadly. She could confide in her mother, and whatever her misgivings, Felicity would understand.
Pleading a headache, she retreats to her bedroom as soon as the dishes have been done and switches on her phone. The handset vibrates fitfully as the messages land. Nine missed calls from Marcus, starting at 12.25 p.m., and two texts. The first, sent at 13.31 reads: Where the hell are you? and the second: Lucinda: is this sort of childish and selfish behaviour really fair on the children? They’re worrying about you.
It’s not her husband who’s worrying, Lucy notes, it’s his children. Though, in reality, they are almost certainly not. They’re probably only too happy to have their father to themselves, without the spectre of their insecure, desperate-to-please stepmother. Of course, it’s to her advantage that this is one of Marcus’s access weekends. He can’t really dump the children in order to go looking for her, which means he will be unable to do anything about her absence before Tom and Lydia are back with Amber on Sunday evening. And by then Lucy intends to be out of reach. She’s already decided that she’ll leave her father’s home after Sunday lunch, drive down the A3 to Portsmouth and get on an overnight ferry to St Malo.
Ignoring the calls and texts, she opens up her web browser and types ‘Adele Watts’ into the search bar. The most recent results are both from local newspapers, dating back to 2015.
A local Redgate woman, Adele Watts, aged 32, was today found guilty of benefit fraud at Guildford Magistrates’ Court, after being caught claiming unemployment benefit while in paid work. Watts, a mother of two, was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment.
There is the obligator
y tabloid-style shot of the accused arriving at court with her coat pulled over her head. Adele, who had her hair dyed brown at the time, was wearing a dark blue skirt suit and white shirt that looked as though they had been borrowed from someone else. The skirt cut into her hips and the shirt buttons strained over her chest. She had large breasts as a thirteen-year-old and now they’re huge, like a bulky shelf.
Staring at the photo, Lucy recalls the last time she saw Adele in the flesh. It was the day she left Redgate to go to university, a long eighteen years ago.
So Adele ended up going to prison. From nowhere, Lucy conjures the sight of that drowned body being lifted from the water, and a shiver runs the length of her spine. She switches off her phone before it can ring again and tosses it into her bag.
Seven
Lucy is woken at eight by the door chime, followed by a loud hammering on the front door.
It must have been opened by her father, because the next thing she hears is Marcus’s voice warmly exclaiming, ‘Jeffrey! Wonderful to see you.’ This is followed by the sound of manly back-clapping.
She tiptoes to the door and listens. Marcus has lowered his voice, but she catches snatches of what he’s saying: ‘Look, I’m really sorry about this… not right to involve you in this way… no idea what she’s playing at.’
‘I’ll fetch her,’ Jeffrey says. ‘There’s tea in the kitchen; help yourself.’
He appears at the doorway of the bedroom.
‘Marcus is here.’
‘I know,’ says Lucy, more calmly than she’s feeling. ‘I heard.’ She turns and heads towards the door of the en suite bathroom.
‘Well come on then, darling, he obviously wants to talk to you.’
‘I need a shower first.’
‘Can’t you do that later? I don’t think you should keep him waiting.’
No, of course, not. Nobody’s ever allowed to keep the great Marcus Wheedon waiting. Not for the first time, Lucy feels a rush of anger at her father for kowtowing to his son-in-law. For treating him as a superior. But she says nothing, simply closing the bathroom door firmly behind her and switching on the shower tap.
Fifteen minutes later, she comes into the kitchen dressed in T-shirt and jeans, her hair still wet. Jeffrey is hovering nervously with offers of toast and marmalade or boiled eggs.
‘Finally,’ says Marcus. He gives his wife a smile, purely for Jeffrey’s benefit, but his eyes are cold. ‘Good of you to join us.’
‘Coffee, perhaps?’ asks Jeffrey. He’s addressing Marcus.
‘No thank you; we really need to get going. I’ve asked my long-suffering PA to keep an eye on the kids for a couple of hours, but she has another commitment, so we need to go straight back to London.’
Beryl, of course. I might have known she’d be involved in this somewhere.
Lucy reaches for the cafetière and pours herself a mug. ‘No,’ she says calmly. ‘You can go back to London, but I’m staying here.’
‘Lucinda, for heaven’s sake… what’s this all about?’ Marcus is moderating his tone, but it’s only because his father-in-law is present. ‘Come on, don’t be silly. This isn’t fair on your dad.’
Lucy turns to Jeffrey, inviting him to back her up, but he doesn’t.
‘Marcus is right, darling, whatever needs sorting out, it’s better done at home,’
‘No,’ repeats Lucy, more loudly this time. Marcus reaches for her, but she sidesteps him and stands behind her father. ‘I’m not coming.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Lucy is aware of Marcus grabbing at her wrist, and at the same time, Jeffrey, who is sandwiched between them makes an odd sound and staggers back against the worktop.
‘Dad? Dad, are you okay?’
Marcus helps his father-in-law into a chair. His body sags oddly. ‘I can’t… I can’t…’ His voice sounds strange, as though it’s being projected from his body by somebody else. Only one side of his mouth is moving.
‘He’s having a bloody stroke,’ says Marcus, reaching into his pocket for his phone and punching in three 999s. He glares at Lucy ‘You happy now?’
The neurology consultant at the Royal Surrey says that Jeffrey Gibson’s stroke was caught early enough for the damage to be limited, and he was one of the lucky ones who could be helped by clot-busting drugs. Marcus had marched around the A&E department pulling rank, demanding that Jeffrey be seen immediately, and for once Lucy was grateful.
‘Malcolm Denehay is a good guy,’ he pronounces as they sit at Jeffrey’s bedside. Lucy is holding his hand, her eyes fixed on the bleeping heart monitor. ‘You’re in the right place in that respect. You should be up and around in no time.’
‘You two go,’ Jeffrey says drowsily. ‘I need to sleep and you have things to sort out. I’ll be fine here with all these lovely nurses.’
Marcus places a hand on Lucy’s shoulder and steers her away from the cubicle. ‘I sincerely hope you’re coming with me this time. After what’s just happened.’
‘But Dad’s just had a stroke. He needs me here with him.’
‘You heard what he said,’ Marcus hisses. ‘And anyway, he’s not going anywhere, not for a few days.’ He grabs her elbow as she turns to go back to the cubicle. ‘You realise that if you upset him further, he’s at risk of a second stroke. And next time it could be fatal.’
So Lucy ends up collecting her case from the bungalow and driving up the A3 with Marcus’s Range Rover close behind her rear bumper. He insists that she goes first and that he follows her, ‘So that I can make sure you’re not doing another disappearing act.’
And then she’s compelled to prepare roast chicken for the children and behave in front of them as though nothing has happened. Their loud but self-absorbed company dissipates the tension, and she ends up being rather sorry when Marcus has to take them home. When he gets back, he finds her sitting on the drawing room floor, her back against her sofa.
‘Is all this because of the other evening, when I lost my rag over your guests?’
He has remained standing up, so she is effectively conversing with his lower legs. She nods, focusing her gaze on his suede loafers and jeans. She stares at them, as though they belong to someone she has never met.
‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? Maybe I went a bit over the top, but I’d had the day from hell at work. The number of patients we see has doubled in the last few years and the services we can offer have halved… the stress of it all gets a bit much.’
A bit over the top? Dear God.
Lucy lets out a harsh sigh. ‘Our guests didn’t believe I was ill, by the way. They know something’s wrong. People aren’t stupid.’
Marcus slumps down onto the sofa, but Lucy keeps her back to him.
‘So is that your intention?’ he asks. ‘To communicate to people that something – in your view – is wrong? Is that what all this is about? This absurd running away? Scaring your poor father into having a stroke?’
‘I wasn’t running away,’ Lucy responds instinctively, if not entirely candidly. ‘I just needed some time out.’ Even as she says the words, she knows this isn’t true. She was running all right. And if Marcus hadn’t shown up when he did, she would probably have kept running.
‘Great. So you pissed off and left me high and dry, when you knew the kids were coming. What about them? Tom and Lydia? Do you ever think about their feelings? Their lives have been disrupted enough as it is.’ His tone strongly implies that this is Lucy’s fault.
Lucy stands up. ‘I need to go and phone Dad.’
‘I’ve told him I’ll try and visit him sometime in the week,’ Marcus calls after her, as she heads for the kitchen, ‘Make sure you give him my best.’
Leaning against the kitchen door, Lucy closes her eyes and steadies her breathing. Then she pours herself a generous glass of wine before punching in the number for the stroke unit and asking to be connected to her father.
He is doing better, her father tells her. He certainly sounds brighter, his voice stronger.
‘I
’ll come down again as soon as they discharge you. You’ll need someone at home with you, at least to start with.’
There is a long pause. ‘The thing is, darling, I’ve asked Rhea to come and stay when I’m discharged.’
Rhea is Lucy’s first cousin, the daughter of Jeffrey’s older brother.
‘Rhea?’
‘She seemed the obvious choice, given she’s had nursing training.’
‘I’m your daughter. Surely I’m the obvious choice?’
There’s another awkward pause. ‘I don’t want there to be any more trouble between you and Marcus. I can’t go through any more scenes like there were this morning; I’m sure you understand that. I need proper rest.’
So my husband can come and see you, but I can’t, Lucy thinks. That just about sums it up.
Two weeks later, on a breezy Monday in April, Lucy makes a second attempt to take control of her life.
On Sunday morning, while Marcus is doing an emergency bypass, she goes online and trawls through listings for jobs in the charity sector. There are a couple of potential openings in central London, but neither of them particularly appeals. One job does catch her eye – at a refugee support NGO in Bristol.
We are looking for a mature self-starter to help run our advocacy and information unit and assist clients with all aspects of the asylum process.
Lucy presses the link to the organisation’s website and clicks through the gallery of photos. The premises are a little shabby, but the diverse group of people in the welcome centre are all smiling, and not in a posed way: genuine smiles. She finds herself smiling back at the screen. The ethos seems positive, creative even. In addition to a help desk, there’s a crèche and initiatives for art and music. Lucy makes a note of the application process and starts working up her CV. Then she googles ‘Live in Bristol’ and browses through pages that tell her how vibrant, community-minded and green (literally and politically) the city is. Lucy feels her pulse quicken with a burst of positivity. She even checks an estate agent’s website and looks at properties to rent in Bristol. The decent ones seem quite pricey, but then again, nowhere near as expensive as Barnes. I could live there, she thinks. I could actually do it.