by kendra Smith
‘No, no you don’t.’
‘Please?’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘I’ll buy you donuts. Jam ones. I already asked Izzy who said she wouldn’t be seen dead in a dress so I’m a bit stuck.’
‘I can’t be a bridesmaid, Lulu, for goodness sake, I’m forty-one.’
‘Maître d’ then.’
‘Matron of honour, you muppet.’ Victoria grinned, smacking Lulu’s knee playfully. It was good to laugh. Did the New Victoria laugh? Something told her she didn’t. She pushed thoughts of phones and affairs out of her brain for the moment, it was time to help Lulu.
‘Pleeese!’ Lulu grabbed Victoria’s hand. ‘I’d feel less stressed. You’d be by my side.’
What about Simon? Victoria nodded. ‘OK.’
‘It will give you a reason to dress up!’ Lulu pulled her phone out of her bag and started to scroll, shrieking with laughter. ‘Look at this!’ She pointed to a model wearing a red silk dress with a killer cleavage. ‘You’d look fabulous in that! James wouldn’t know where to look!’
‘Neither would the vicar!’ Victoria rolled her eyes, glad that Lulu was at last having fun. ‘OK, but on one condition? Let me help you; it will be good to focus on something. I’ll make a list. And anyway you’ve only got four weeks.’ And as she whipped out a spiral notepad from her bag – did she now carry spiral notepads? – she had an idea. But it would have to wait till another day as right now she was done in.
When she got home, the house was quiet. She opened the front door and clicked it shut behind her, letting the silence of the house soothe her. The encounter with that gym instructor had unsettled her; the messages on her phone had unsettled her. She had the beginnings of a tension headache. But she was glad Lulu seemed brighter by the end of their chat. She kicked off her shoes and slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She slid on to her bed, closing her eyes as a weight of half-memories and guilt and longing seemed to percolate through her brain. Then, suddenly, her eyes flew open. There was another photo album in that box, wasn’t there?
She rummaged through her box again, letting the smells from the baby blankets transport her back. She picked up the pink ribbon and placed it to one side. I’ll think about that another time, she told herself. She wanted to look, to touch, to reach back into a happier past. She stroked the cover. It was made of purple and pink beads in the shape of a heart. She opened the page. Had she made this?
On the first page was a photo of her and James. Freeze-framed. She blinked a few times. Her memory went in and out of focus. She touched the image and willed herself to find the memory. They were standing side by side, the London Eye twinkling in the background, on a summer’s evening. She was leaning her head on his shoulder, staring at the camera and smiling. She was in a white, embroidered summer dress, its ruffle hem turned up in the breeze. He had his arm flung around her. But it was the look on his face that made her catch her breath. He was gazing at her, an expression of tender disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was gazing at his wife. When had this been taken? She turned it over. In blue biro, James had written:
July 2004. London Eye. The day we found out you were carrying our little donuts! Love you. xx
She looked up to the ceiling. Harley Street? Why were they there? Oh yes, for a specialist scan the local health centre didn’t offer. The sonographer with the purple hair. James squeezing her hand; she remembered the feeling of it. The walk along the Embankment afterwards, sitting, ankles entwined under a table, the Thames glistening in late summer sun. She could almost touch that happiness.
She turned the page and there were a few loose photos tucked into the back, and a collection of bits of paper. Her and James on the top of a snow-topped mountain somewhere, skis on their shoulders, sunglasses perched on their heads, wide grins. A group of them in a pub, all holding out their pints, some waving – there was Lulu – a TV screen in the background – football? James on a sun lounger. His long lean leg bent as he balanced a book on it, squinting under a baseball cap – a past life frozen in this little booklet. Victoria laughing, properly laughing, looking at James, who had his head thrown back, eyes shut. What had been so funny? We were somewhere hot, she thought, her with a silk sarong tied round her waist, James in neon green board shorts, a pair of flippers dangling from one hand. Tiny white dots on the hillside, an emerald, sparkly sea. Greece?
The next photo was James in a suit and tie. He looked about twenty, leaning against a cooker in a cramped kitchen. Suddenly a memory flashed up. Brighton! She turned the photo over. ‘First day on the job!’ That was ages ago, Town and Country Architects, his dream job. Before they’d had children, before this house. A one-bedroom flat, red front door. Sea views from the bathroom – just. He’d carried her over the threshold. She outlined his face on the photo. They hadn’t made it to the bedroom upstairs. His wide grin when she said yes to him as they pulled a Christmas cracker and out fell a ring. He’d tampered with the cracker and put the ring in there, sealed it up; they’d shared more champagne and danced around their tiny table. ‘A wedding in Winchester!’ Hazy memories of planning it, lists, but not the wedding itself. She glanced at her left hand, with its small diamond cluster in the shape of a daisy, set on a platinum band. As she put the photo book back in the box, a tiny scrap of paper fluttered out. James’s handwriting. She looked at it and smiled, then, silently, as the tears slid down her cheek, she put it in her back pocket. She’d had enough of an emotional roller-coaster today.
14 Victoria
It was Saturday, the first of April. Two weeks had slipped by and the mild tensions remained at home like a smattering of unwanted guests – popping up when she least expected them: sometimes civil, sometimes in the wrong place at the wrong time, sometimes friendly. How much longer could she go on like this? James had spent the morning in the office talking either on the phone to his architect colleagues or on Zoom calls to clients, and he’d finally emerged, and found her in the kitchen. He was looking drawn. What did she do in this situation normally? Ask if he needed a vitamin pill? Take a nap? Make him a coffee? Yes, that was it, she was sure. She pressed various buttons on the coffee machine. She was getting a bit fed up with New Victoria’s gadgets.
He was sitting at the kitchen table now, going over some papers. He looked up at her. ‘Does it always do this?’ she asked, pressing another button.
He nodded. She could see him biting his cheek, as if trying not to smile. ‘Every time.’
She fiddled a bit more, then some steam escaped and she swore under her breath.
‘Need a hand?’
‘Well, yes. This blasted machine, it’s ridiculous!’
James came over and showed her how to heat up the milk, then pressed a few buttons. Water started to bubble up, make a huge din, then very slowly a drip of coffee emerged in the cup below. He put the milk to one side.
‘Well there’s a relief – but that’ll take ages,’ she said, peering into the drips gathering into a tiny amount of coffee in the cup.
‘You wanted it.’ He folded his arms and leant back on the counter. There was slight mischief in his eyes. Her husband in the photo album was there briefly, and then he was gone.
Victoria searched for something to say to unite them, but couldn’t think of anything. April sunlight was streaming through the window; she glanced into the garden – what a nice garden. She smiled as she saw the daffodils bob their heads at her. The pink azaleas were flowering too, splodges of vivid colour in the borders; but the grass was pretty long now. What did they normally do? She wasn’t sure. Did she do it? Or someone else? So many questions.
James went to the fridge, pulled out some soy milk and started warming it up in the metal jug and poured it into the second cup. When he finished he handed it to her. Their fingers touched briefly. Was he wearing his wedding ring? She didn’t think so. Is that what she normally had, a milky coffee? She took a sip and nearly spat it out. It was dreadful. She puffed out her cheeks then let out the breath.
‘W
hat’s up?’ James glanced at her.
‘Interesting coffee.’
‘What you always have.’ Was it? Well, the New Victoria could keep her wallpaper-paste coffee. All this Victoria wanted was a normal filter coffee with one sugar.
‘How’s work?’ she found herself saying, feeling like she was in a bizarre TV show, Wife Loses Her Memory. Perhaps this is what she should be doing, showing an interest.
He frowned at her from the coffee machine. ‘It’s OK. Major client in Newcastle wants me to come up and see him next week – new shopping centre. Then there’s Hove County Council, they’ve asked me to bid for the new cinema complex they’re working on. That’s big. Lots of stress. Especially if I win the bid.’ He smiled briefly, then wandered over to the kitchen table and sat down. ‘Anyway, what’s it to you?’
‘It’s your job. I’m so proud of you, you’re a—’
‘Architect,’ he said patiently.
‘Of course I’m interested, James.’ Her jaw was aching from smiling. He took a sip of coffee and shrugged. Was he joking? Is this what their relationship had come to? Little put-downs. Surely not.
He seemed genuine, but why had it all gone wrong? Should she and James have tried harder? Seeing those photos had jogged her memory. The first day of his job. A packed lunch. They hadn’t had much money. Post-it notes on a cheese sandwich, wrapped in tinfoil, she remembered doing that. And now? They’d gone from love notes on Post-its to snarky comments. He actually seemed surprised she was asking about his job.
‘James, you know I have always been interested in your career, in what you do.’ She almost said, ‘This is your Squishy Vicky speaking’ but she sensed that wouldn’t work right now.
He was silent, then scraped his chair back, stood up and wandered over to the sink and started to rinse out his cup.
‘I just,’ she carried on, talking to his back, ‘I’m struggling to understand what’s gone wrong.’
He turned to face her. ‘Quite a lot, Victoria, it’s like dry rot – you know, in surveying terms, once it sets in, hard to manage – and it normally destroys the building.’ He started to walk towards the door.
‘James, talk to me.’ She put a hand on his. It was warm and he didn’t move away. ‘Where has this dry rot come from? From me or from you? I’m not sure I can keep second-guessing all the parts to our marriage.’ She rubbed her finger gently over his knuckles.
He stared at her hand until she removed it, but he walked back over to the table and sat down with a thump on one of the kitchen chairs. He pulled a pile of paperwork towards him. ‘Neither can I. I’m so confused. You were always busy,’ he said, looking back at her, ‘“up to your ears”. I was away a lot, but I was building my career, Victoria, it was for our future – you didn’t seem to understand that. You seemed – I don’t know – fixated on the kids, the house – like that was all that mattered to you – I know you’d given up your job, we decided that was the best, but somehow in all of it, you were competing with me with everything you did.’ He pushed his glasses up onto his head. She looked over at his stubbly face, the tired eyes and wanted to hold his face in her hands. She remembered the email. Really miss you all. ‘I felt—’
She looked over at him and lifted her eyebrows, willing him on.
‘Invisible sometimes.’
‘Well, you’re not invisible now,’ she said brightly. ‘You’re right here.’ She smiled her Best Wife Smile and walked over to him, but his eyes were dull.
‘Yes, yes I am,’ he said wearily, as she sat down in front of him. He rifled through the papers, and pulled two out. ‘First, you need to look at this report the police sent about the accident and sign it. It’s just a formality, we know who’s to blame; our insurance company are dealing with it all, but there will be more paperwork.’ Then he put his glasses back over his eyes and peered at the other form. He slid it right in front of him. ‘And second, these are from the divorce lawyers. Can you read them and sign here please?’
She looked down at his long fingers and studied his hand resting on the papers. She thought of her family, she thought of the moments before the accident, then she thought about those messages on her phone, who was it? Perhaps this was some elaborate joke. James hadn’t mentioned the papers for the last two weeks, she was hoping it would melt away, that by being back at home they would mend things.
‘It’s an April Fool isn’t it?’ She beamed at him. Went to poke him in the ribs, but drew her hand back when she saw his face, and started to bite her nail. He was shaking his head.
He tapped the paper with his index finger. ‘You were going to sign them that day – of the accident. Only—’
‘Someone drove into me – and everything changed.’
‘Not this, Victoria,’ he said, getting up from the table.
She closed her eyes momentarily and when she opened them she was looking at his dark silhouette, striding out of the kitchen. Her eyes flitted to the black cross next to where her signature should be and her shoulders fell. She took a sip of her coffee before she remembered it tasted like frog spawn and nearly spat it out. They were both to blame, surely? How had they let things drift so much? It was one thing for them to be on a flimsy bamboo raft, floating down the same river and facing bumps on the way in their marriage – it was quite another for them to be in different vessels, clinging on for dear life, not noticing if the other one needed rescuing.
Just what had happened to her? Had she missed her job so much that she turned her children into her career? Lost sight of what mattered? Her marketing assistant role for that charity had been good, but she was hardly the CEO – was she? And working part-time when the kids were little had eventually stopped, she did remember that, it was such a juggle – but there was a sense of loss – and relief. James had been earning a bit more money, she remembered, and they could just about cope. She had strong memories of parts of her life six years ago: on the side-lines of either a netball court or football pitch, helping decorate Jake’s room – a trip to the planetarium, then later, sticking glowing stars on his ceiling – ‘your own stars’. Had she unwittingly been given her P45 from that role? Images of the pink ribbon and the iPad with the lovely emails in the box flashed through her mind along with an ache in her heart. A family of five. All she’d ever wanted was a perfect family. She glanced at the papers in front of her, mocking her fairy-tale memory as tears pricked her eyes.
She reached for a tissue in her back pocket and felt the scrap of paper from earlier. She pulled it out, looked at it and sniffed. She pushed her chair back determinedly; she needed to get her glasses. She wore glasses, right? James was in the study when she went barging in – stopped and couldn’t remember what she was in there for.
‘I found this,’ she said clutching the paper.
‘What’s that?’
‘A note you wrote to me.’ She squinted at it. ‘It proves—’ She stopped abruptly, unsure what to say. He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘That you love me.’ She held his gaze for a moment, then looked at the silver rim of his glasses perched on his head.
‘Loved,’ he said, so quietly she almost missed it.
She decided to ignore that. ‘It looks like a list you wrote for our holiday. It’s your writing. I found it in a box under my bed.’ She handed it to James. He took it from her and stood up and walked to the small leather sofa by the window. He slid his glasses down from the top of his head. She came and sat down next to him and leant over, their faces were inches apart.
Holiday list – it was underlined with a flourish.
Suncream
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Two kisses on the neck