by S. E. Lynes
The air changes. Ava is at the kitchen door. One look is enough to see that she is held together with glue. Her hair looks oddly voluminous; her pale and exhausted face looks too small somehow. She has on a loose denim shirt dress, which she has tied at the waist with a tan leather belt, and on her feet are her white Converse pumps, which look a little grubby. Her shins are bluish-white.
‘Ava.’ Bella is out of her stool. ‘Your hair looks fab, babe. I love the way you’ve styled it.’
Ava puts a hand to her head, her cheeks flushing. ‘I just pointed the hairdryer at it and hoped for the best.’
She looks up, directly at Matt, and her doubtful smile breaks his heart. He has to look away, focus on Neil’s thick pink fingers on the green bottle as he fills up the glasses.
‘Well, it looks fab,’ Bella insists. ‘And that dress… is it new?’
‘It’s only a maternity one.’ Ava’s brittle laugh fools no one. ‘Just tied a belt on it. Nothing else fits.’
Undaunted, Bella reaches for two glasses and hands one to Ava.
‘Well it looks really nice, babe.’ She strokes Ava’s arm and gulps her drink.
Matt feels a rush of affection for Bella. She’s trying her best. She and Ava cannot bridge their differences with memories like he and Neil can. And since Abi went missing… since she died… he and Neil have taken their friendship out of their respective homes and he realises now that they must have left the two women stranded.
‘Cheers anyway,’ he says.
‘Cheers.’ The reply sounds strained, but he tells himself he is overthinking and, in his confusion, downs half a glass. The bubbles go up his nose, making him sneeze. Bella is still fussing Ava, not picking up on Ava’s body language at all.
‘Do you want me to do your make-up? I don’t mind.’
‘No,’ Ava replies bluntly. And then, ‘I’ve done it, thanks.’
‘Actually, mate,’ Neil says. ‘Have you got a lager?’
‘Sure.’ It is a relief to be given a task.
‘Nee,’ he hears Bella say. ‘Roll your sleeves down, babe.’
Matt pulls out a Stella Artois and is about to hand it to Neil, but Neil is concentrating on straightening his sleeves, not a trace of protest.
‘So, how’s work?’ Bella asks, and Matt realises she is talking to him.
‘Good, yeah.’ He opens the beer bottle and hands it to Neil.
‘What are you working on at the moment?’ Bella insists, blinking rapidly.
He sighs, his insides dying a little. Bella never asks him about his job, is only asking now because she’s been stung by Ava. A year ago, Abi would have been here, breaking what little ice there might have been with her babbling chatter. Neil and Bella always seemed keen to hear whatever funny things she had to say, and later, she would insist NeeNee take her upstairs and read her a bedtime story, and he would roll his eyes, feigning reluctance.
Matt answers Bella as briefly as he can. He has an office block to design; it’s quite high-profile, exciting.
Bella nods, but he can see her eyes glazing over.
‘How’s the salon?’ he asks, cringing. He’s about as interested in her salon as he is in colonic irrigation, and is dimly aware of Neil and Ava sitting in silence.
But Bella’s perfectly shaped eyebrows leap up. ‘Good, yeah! Always busy this time of year – people looking forward to autumn or last-minute holidays. Doing a lot of colours, a lot of cool cuts. A lot of waxing.’ She giggles and flashes a wicked grin. ‘Body waxing’s very popular with our male clients. I keep telling Neil he should have it done.’
‘And I keep telling you that will never happen,’ Neil says. ‘You won’t catch me getting a back, crack and sack.’ He pushes the bottle to his lips and takes a long swig.
‘Neil Johnson!’ Bella covers her mouth and shakes her head, but she’s laughing.
‘What about you, Neil?’ It is Ava who has spoken, no trace of mirth in her voice. The room seems to freeze. ‘You’ve been busy?’
‘Yeah, the business is doing great actually,’ Neil replies, his ears reddening. ‘I reckon it’ll be my best year yet. Lovegood did put me forward for quite a few lucrative jobs over in Richmond in the end. Must admit, I never expected him to do that, to be honest.’
Matt tries not to notice the fact that Neil does not once look at Ava, tries to ignore the pain this causes in his chest. This is all so different from how they once were. To varying degrees, they are, all four of them, still flying backwards in the blast of what happened, arms and legs flailing. Perhaps they all still feel the stain – of the statements just for procedure that they knew deep down were to test if their stories checked out, of phone numbers handed over, of dogs sniffing through their private things. Yes, they all must still feel it, he feels sure, because he certainly does. Once the investigation was put under review, the heat died down; they said they’d get together soon, just the four of them. But soon became two weeks. Ava fell ill. By the time she left the clinic, weeks had become months, her belly had rounded and the landscape had changed. Neil suggested they try for a 10K, a triathlon. But they never did get together just the four of them.
Until tonight.
‘Did Neil tell you we’re hoping to have our kitchen done next year?’ Bella says, topping up her glass with the fizz Neil has left. ‘And the loft. Neil’s going to take three months off, aren’t you, babe?’
Neil rolls his eyes.
‘Off,’ he says, making Matt laugh.
Bella hits him on the knee. ‘You know what I mean.’ She glances up at Matt, then at Ava, as if for reassurance. ‘Neil knows what I want better than anyone.’
‘You still talking about the building work?’ Neil quips, eliciting a mock-outraged screech from his wife.
‘No, but seriously though,’ she battles on. ‘I can’t wait to see what the Lovegoods have done with theirs. I’ve got my notebook with me, haven’t I, Nee? And I’m gonna take photos!’ She gives a wicked chuckle and Matt realises she is serious. ‘Actually, do you think they’ll mind if I take photos?’
‘Oh, I’m sure Rubber Johnnie will love that.’ Neil shakes his head, tips his beer bottle to his lips and drains it.
Matt reaches into the fridge for another and hands it to him; he takes it with a nod and a thumbs up.
Matt frowns at him. ‘You OK?’
Neil shrugs. Thankfully, the women have begun their own conversation. Ava is holding Bella’s fingers, her head bent forward. ‘Dark taupe,’ Matt overhears, and, ‘A winter neutral really,’ before he tunes out.
‘We won’t be staying long,’ Neil says in a low voice.
‘You really don’t like him, do you?’
He shivers – actually shivers. ‘I just had enough of being treated like the staff when I worked for him, d’you know what I mean? I tell you what, if he condescends to me tonight, I’ll punch his lights out.’
‘Condescending means talking down to people – you know that, don’t you?’
Neil laughs. ‘Sod off.’
‘You won’t punch anyone and you know it.’
‘I know, but…’
‘But what? You’re successful, good at your job, beautiful wife, nice house. You’ve got everything he’s got. What is it about him that gets to you so much?’
Neil moves his head about, as if to free up a stiff neck. ‘I dunno. He’ll, like, tell you he wants something a certain way, and when you tell him no problem, he’ll tell you how to do it anyway. It’s little things. Little undermining comments. Like, oh, is that how you do it? sort of thing, implying stuff all the time. Like, he didn’t have an architect, which is fair enough. But it’s the way he tells you he hasn’t. He’s all like, architects, what do they know? sort of thing.’
‘Well, exactly.’
Neil smiles – just. ‘He wouldn’t have used you anyway, would he, but… nah… I mean, that’s so him, thinking he can do someone else’s job when the biggest joke of it is, he can’t do his own. I saw him working out the numbers for the st
eels on the back of an envelope, literally, I’m not even joking – back of a flyer, anyway – and when they came they were a foot too short.’
Matt nods. ‘I don’t remember you mentioning that.’
‘No, well, you had… you had other things to worry about, mate. I’d only just got the steels in when… But no, the guy’s a knob. We had a massive bust-up about it. I was like, mate, it wasn’t me who ordered the sodding beams, you know? I mean, how can that be my fault? I know I’m good, but I can’t work miracles.’
‘So he’s slapdash?’
‘Slapdash?’ Neil snorts. ‘What century are you in, mate? Sloppy? Is that what you mean? Too right, yeah. He’s too quick, everything in a rush. I mean, how’s it my fault if the beams are too short? Idiot had to be happy with feature alcoves in the end, daft git. Not like I can rebuild a steel, is it? Rebuilt his outside wall though. For free. Most extensions have a line where the new build starts, yeah? Well, I knocked it down for him so that the bricks blended in to the original house. Did he suggest that? No, that was my idea. Did he say thanks? Did he f—’
‘Shall we go?’ Bella is lowering herself off her stool. She pulls a mirror from her bag and pushes a lick of brown lipstick over her mouth with an impressive, deft circular sweep.
Matt meets Ava’s eye. It’s no more than a second before she looks away, but still, it is long enough to communicate her deep reluctance. He has betrayed her – that’s how it feels. He has pushed her too hard.
But how will they ever move on with their lives if they don’t start living them?
‘I’ll get Fred,’ she says.
The moment she leaves the kitchen, Matt feels the air pressure drop.
Bella strokes his arm. And to her credit, she meets his eye, as so few people do these days. ‘She looks tired. Is she OK?’
He shakes his head. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t go.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s only next door and I’ll stay with her. It might take her out of herself, you know? Just an hour outside her own head.’
‘Sure. Thanks.’
She gives his arm a last squeeze. Ava is in the hallway, Fred asleep in his papoose. Matt hopes she didn’t hear him talking about her to Bella.
‘Won’t he be too hot?’ he asks. ‘Actually, won’t you be too hot?’
She is staring, almost glaring, at him. ‘You didn’t think I was going to leave him on the floor, did you?’
‘No, I—’
‘Look at his little fists,’ whispers Bella, her eyes shining. ‘He’s grown so, so much.’
‘He has,’ Ava concedes.
The pause that follows is heavy. The hallway seems too small, suddenly, for the five of them. Fred has done this, without speaking a word. Simply by growing, babies and small children show time passing in a way no calendar can, and as they step out of the door, Matt wonders if Neil and Bella perceive the change in Fred as he and Ava do: a constant and painful reminder of how long it is since they lost their little girl.
Seventeen
Ava
‘Welcome!’ Johnnie Lovegood stands at the door, hands thrown out, dressed from head to toe in black. His shirt has a Nehru collar, his black jeans have a thin red diagonal stripe across the front pocket. I recognise the brand; it was popular, possibly still is, with urban trendies about fifteen years ago. His thick hair, mostly pushed back with some slicking product, apart from one rogue Byronic curl, flicks out from behind his neck in a discreet flourish. The first few flecks of white dapple his carefully shaped beard, and finally, his feet… are bare. The whole effect is one of trying too hard whilst trying to pretend he’s not trying at all. I remember this about him – his expensive-looking charcoal suit worn over a black T-shirt. The silver bangle, which, yes, he is wearing this evening.
‘Come in, come in, lovely people,’ he says, and I let the others go ahead. ‘We have some amazing cocktails lined up for you.’
I hang back while the others shake his hand, while he kisses Bella on both cheeks. Her verbal diarrhoea diminishes, thank God, as she heads further into the house.
‘Here.’ Johnnie gestures towards my rucksack and smiles warmly. ‘Let me take that for you.’
‘Oh, no, it’s just nappies and wipes and stuff. It doesn’t weigh anything.’
‘Well, can I take the baby? Fred, isn’t it?’
‘Ava actually.’
‘No, I meant…’ He catches my flippancy a beat too late. ‘Oh, sorry, you were joking. Let me take him for you, at least for a bit.’
‘It’s fine, thank you.’
‘Seriously, come on. It’s ages since I’ve worn a papoose.’
I can’t quite believe how awkward this all is. Does he seriously expect me to hand over my baby, under any circumstances, let alone after having lost my daughter? Has he forgotten?
‘I’m fine.’ I meet his eyes, unsmiling. He has one blue and one hazel. Like Bowie. God, I bet he loves that.
He throws up his palms and backs away, his expression implying that he’s tried, he really has. Neil was right: the man is immediately irritating. I’m over-critical, I know I am, but dear God, every word, every gesture, every facial tic appears laced with a kind of superciliousness, a fake kindness that is actually about showing what a great guy he is. I remember this from before, from the days following Abi’s disappearance. He might not mean it. It might even be shyness. I used to give people the benefit of the doubt. But even before I hardened to this walnut shell, I remember that his questions somehow implied guilt when they were meant to convey sympathy.
‘And you’re sure you left the front door open? And you were upstairs for ten, twenty minutes, did you say?’
He wouldn’t shut up about the door, made minutes sound like days, as if I wasn’t already quite capable of torturing myself about that all on my own. But his wife had been less tactless. Jen, who is standing now in front of me in their enormous hallway.
‘You came,’ she says, smiling. She looks beautiful – polished yet understated in a deep grey linen maxi dress and designer flip-flops, her toenails professionally painted with coral varnish. Her grey hair is pushed back from her face in a chic French style.
‘Jen, hi,’ I say with relief.
She reaches out, not for the baby or my bag but for my hand. She holds it and keeps holding it after she has bent to kiss my cheek. She smells lovely – the fresh green smell I associate with her.
Another moment and she lets my hand fall but, as if conscious of even the smallest abandonment, keeps one hand light against my upper arm and asks if I’d like a drink.
‘Matt brought a bottle of champagne.’ I peer ahead into what looks like a gargantuan open kitchen area.
‘Well, that’s very naughty and very kind, but I’m asking if you want a drink, not if you brought your own.’ Her dry delivery and soft Irish accent make her sound mischievous. ‘I’m guessing you might need one.’ She meets my gaze full-on. In her eyes there is nothing but the same kindness of this past year, of last week’s visit. And more. Recognition. I see you, and I will not look away.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘A drink sounds good.’
‘Do you trust me to bring you something delicious and alcoholic?’ Her hand is still on my arm. Normally this would be starting to make me feel crowded, but somehow it doesn’t.
‘I’m still breastfeeding.’
She eyes the baby a moment and smiles. ‘He’s what, three months?’
‘Almost.’
‘One stiff drink won’t do him any harm, and it’ll take the edge off for you. I had a Guinness a day when mine were little. Generations of Gilmartins swear by the stout.’ The last few words carry a stronger Irish lilt.
‘Gilmartin?’
‘My maiden name. I changed it when I got married, which is either old-fashioned or post-feminist, I’m not sure, but frankly I couldn’t pass up on Lovegood, could I? Imagine that in court. Plus, I knew it would drive my parents mad. They hate anything pretentious, which is half the reason we landed our girls with outrageous
ly middle-class names. Now, come with me and let me book you into the comfiest chair in the house.’ She links my arm and leads me towards what I assume is the living room. ‘This was the only room I was allowed to style, by the way, but honestly, you can’t sit on anything Johnnie’s chosen – it’s all design over comfort, I’m afraid. Still, what Johnnie wants…’ She laughs and rolls her eyes.
What Johnnie wants… but I don’t pick up on anything coercive. If anything, Jen appears to regard her husband as a kind of man-child who requires a wry smile and a lot of indulgence, and again I kick myself for finding him so irritating when he can’t help it.
Jen guides me through the door, to a dove-grey room that flickers in the light of a log fire. The last day of August, but the room isn’t too hot, just cosy. Perfect. There are tasteful pictures all over the walls and amber fairy lights coiled in great glass cylinders and interesting pieces that I guess I’d have to call objets rather than ornaments.
‘Sit here.’ She gestures to a vintage leather sofa covered in soft wool blankets.
‘It’s so lovely in here.’
‘Johnnie hates it.’ She gives a brief laugh. ‘Hates throws, hates fairy lights, hates the fire. Hates anything that isn’t a clean line.’
‘Really? Oh no! But it’s so welcoming and lovely.’ The sofa is soft. Fred emits one of his little baby groans and my breasts harden in response. One advantage of the papoose is that it will hide any wet marks on the front of my dress.
‘Comfy?’
‘God, yes, this sofa is heaven.’
There is no one else here, and for the first time this evening, as I sink into those cushions, I feel my stomach muscles unclench. I could stay here all evening. Could I stay here all evening?
‘The throws are cashmere,’ Jen says. ‘Yikes, eh? Now, don’t move. I’ll be two seconds.’
And she really is, returning a moment later, though without drinks.
‘Two caipirinhas are on their way.’
I am aware of my mouth, of the strangeness of a smile on it.
‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ she says, with her customary disarming frankness, sitting beside me and picking a cream piece of fluff from her linen-draped thigh. ‘I worried that by calling round and telling you not to worry about coming I’d made you feel even more obliged, and I’m guessing you need that kind of pressure like a feckin’ hole in the head.’