Stop at Nothing

by Tammy Cohen

  I smiled at her but knew better than to make a fuss. If Rosie felt everyone wanted her to follow a certain course of action, that was often enough to convince her to do something else entirely. It was just the way she was.

  Rosie left just before lunchtime, giving me a tight hug at the door that made me well up.

  ‘God, you’re burning up, Mum,’ she said, pulling away.

  ‘Good old menopause,’ I replied, blinking away the tears and arranging my mouth into a determined smile.

  The good humour engendered by my unexpected reconciliation with my elder daughter and her admission that she was thinking of going back to uni carried me through to the afternoon.

  I was working on a new feature on the unexpected bonuses of finding yourself single in middle age. When I’d first been commissioned, I’d inwardly laughed a hollow laugh at the whole concept, but the more I thought about it, the more I decided that, actually, there were some positives to Phil not being here. I did what I wanted, when I wanted. And yes, it wasn’t always wise, but at least I had agency now. I could make my own choices and my own mistakes. Marriage was such an endless dance of compromise and negotiation.

  And now that we were nearly two years out, and the pain of rejection was fading, I could concede that Phil might have had a point when he’d said our marriage had run its course. A memory came to me suddenly of him coming straight to a dinner party after being away working for a week and me seeing him arrive across the room and thinking, Well, how strange. He could be anyone.

  While I missed a lot of things about being with someone, I realized to my surprise that I didn’t actually miss him.

  So it wasn’t being single that I had an issue with so much as the timing of it. If it had come when I was still at the height of my career, I might have taken it more in my stride. Instead, I was still reeling from redundancy and the fiftieth birthday which followed so close after as to make the two things inseparable in my mind. Then after the separation came the house move and the car crash, and the estrangement from Rosie and from the local mums who might otherwise have been a support system.

  I sat down at the kitchen table with my laptop and dashed off an introduction. I was pleased with the tone of what I’d written. It was always hard to write first-person features that struck the right note of being warm and honest without lapsing into self-pity.

  An alert sounded on my computer to show a Skype call coming through. Kath. She quite often called around now, when she was sitting in her office having a cup of tea in that mid-afternoon slump time.

  The screen showed her behind her extremely untidy desk, piled high with box files and papers and mugs and a packet of cotton-wool pads next to a plastic bottle of nail-varnish remover. She was wearing a leopard-print top and her red hair was piled carelessly on her head and held in place with a tortoiseshell clamp.

  I told her about Rosie staying the night and she gave a little cheer. Kath knew how much losing Rosie had destroyed me. Then I took a deep breath and filled her in on the latest with Stephens. How he’d attacked another girl and I’d reported him to his football coach. She listened with an expression of building disbelief. When I got to the part about the spyware, she exploded. ‘Fuck’s sake, Tessa!’

  I grimaced. ‘I know. I know. You don’t need to say anything.’

  ‘Yes, I bloody well do. You know this is crazy, don’t you? The whole thing. You have got to stop with this. You don’t know who this guy is. You don’t even know if he is the right guy.’

  ‘Of course he’s the right guy. Why else would he be sending anonymous notes and threatening photographs?’

  Kath ignored me. ‘And whether he is or he isn’t, he’s a nasty fucker either way. Why are you involving him in your life and your daughters’ lives? It’s almost like you’re looking for trouble.’

  That hurt. Something that clearly showed in my face, because when Kath resumed talking she was less antagonistic.

  ‘It just beggars belief, that’s all, Tess. I mean, for decades, you sail serenely along – great career, great job, great family. Then, suddenly, boom! You hit fifty and you’re living in a bloody Die Hard movie, crouching behind a car while bullets whizz past your head.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for the sympathy. But thankfully, apart from the spyware thing, he’s been really quiet recently. I don’t want to tempt fate but I do think he might have got bored now and moved on.’

  Kath’s expression was sceptical. ‘From what you say, I wouldn’t bank on it.’

  Kath made me promise that this would be an end to it. That from now on I’d give Stephens a wide berth.

  ‘Draw a line under the whole thing,’ she told me. ‘And that includes getting shot of your new groupie.’

  It took a few seconds for the penny to drop.

  ‘You mean Frances?’

  Kath knew about Frances intercepting me before my date with Nick, and I’d texted her about how awkward it had been when Frances overstayed her welcome the night Nita was over.

  ‘That’s her. Look, I know she’s been nice to Emma and everything, and yes, it was bloody handy that she knew how to de-bug your computer, or whatever you call it, but what you need now more than anything is to get everything back to normal for you and the girls, and the last thing you want is a needy hanger-on. Time to detach now and get on with your own life. There’s a limit to how grateful a person can be expected to be.’

  I hesitated. On the one hand, I felt I should defend Frances and, of course, I was grateful to her, as Kath said, but if truth be told, I was starting to feel a little crowded by her. I felt hypocritical even thinking it, knowing I’d done my bit to encourage the relationship – all those times I’d turned to her in place of my oldest friends. But in my mind she was inextricably associated with Stephens, and Kath was right, if I wanted to put a distance between me and him, it might mean withdrawing from her as well.

  Then Kath wanted to talk about Nick and I found myself relaxing, describing how comfortable I felt in his company, how often we’d been speaking since we went on the date and how much we made each other laugh.

  ‘Stop, or I’m going to gag. Seriously, Nick sounds like a Very Good Thing. I’m happy for you. You deserve this. Don’t fuck it up.’

  After Kath had gone I realized that talking about Nick had made me miss him. I knew he’d be at work so I sent him an email.

  Are your ears burning? Just been talking about you. And before you ask, yes, it was all good. I’m going soft in my old age.

  After I signed off I went back to work. I was feeling uplifted by the conversation with Kath and the memory of that hug with Rosie, but despite what I’d said to Kath, I couldn’t completely shake off my concerns about Stephens. Was he quiet because he’d had enough – or because he was planning something new?

  I kept glancing at my inbox, waiting for Nick to reply. Usually, he responded within an hour, even if it was a quick message sent from his phone between lectures. But today there was nothing.

  At 4.30 p.m. I sent him another message. Is everything ok?

  Finally, at quarter to six, his name appeared in my inbox and I breathed a sigh of relief. But pleasure turned rapidly to bewilderment and then utter dismay as I read his message.

  I don’t really know what to make of this, Tessa. After your email last night I’ve been racking my brains to work out how to respond. Or even whether to bother responding at all.

  What email?

  I tried to remember what I’d written last night. I knew I’d tried a few times to formulate my thoughts into some sort of sense but, as far as I was aware, I’d given up and deleted the lot. Or had I?

  Sick with nerves, I went to my sent message folder. Sure enough, an email had gone out to Nick Lambert the previous night at 2.37 a.m.

  I clicked on it with an ominous feeling of dread. Why couldn’t I remember having sent it?

  Loads of stuff going on here, I’d written. To be honest, it’s probably not the best timing for me to get into another relationship. My girls ne
ed me. I’m not even sure I’m fully over my husband yet. Sorry, but better to nip it in the bud now before anyone gets hurt.

  I read the message with growing confusion. I knew I’d been in a weird state the night before, half dead with tiredness but also hyped up by what had happened with Rosie. I’d spent a while trying to compose a message, struggling to find the right words, not even sure by the end what it was I wanted to say, but I’d deleted everything, surely?

  Yet even as I protested to myself the doubts started creeping in. I had been in a volatile mood last night, full of fear. I’d lain in bed for hours while anxiety ate a path through my veins, beating myself up about all the things I should have done differently. I know there had been a point at my lowest when I’d questioned what kind of a mother I was, not to be able to protect my daughters from a man like Stephens, and been angry for allowing myself to even think I might be happy with Nick while the people I loved most in the world were suffering.

  Was it so unlikely that I’d put some of those fears into words in a message to Nick? Wasn’t it within the bounds of possibility that I might, in my sleep-deprived state, have hit send without even intending to?

  Or perhaps I had intended it. Perhaps it was me self-sabotaging because, at heart, I didn’t feel worthy of someone like Nick.

  I’m so sorry, I wrote back now. I was very emotional last night and I think I got myself into a bit of a state. I have no recollection of even sending that message. It certainly isn’t how I feel. Can you just forget you ever read it?

  There followed an agonizing wait while I refreshed my inbox every few seconds. Then, finally, a new message from Nick. Just one word.

  Sure.

  I could feel his hurt and confusion through the type and had to refrain from sending another message apologizing all over again. I’d call him in the evening, when he got home from work, and try to explain.

  Only how could I explain what I hardly understood myself?

  35

  It broke my heart a little to see how thrilled Em was that Rosie had spent the night in our house. Though, obviously, she’d seen a lot of her older sister at Phil’s house, and the two were constantly in touch on WhatsApp, I knew she’d missed Rosie being part of our lives here.

  ‘I was thinking, I could clear out half of my wardrobe so Rosie could hang her clothes up in there,’ she said now. ‘I feel bad that she only has room for a chest of drawers and that tiny cupboard.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, Em. She always said it made sense for you to have the bigger room as she was away at uni so much.’

  ‘Yeah, but …’

  Whatever argument Em had been planning to make was lost to the ringing of the doorbell.

  Instinctively, I was on guard, Kath’s warning about Stephens still fresh in my mind.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said, determined to beat Em to the door.

  I could tell from the shape through the glass that it wasn’t him, but when I opened it my relief was tempered when I found Frances standing there, brandishing a bottle of wine in one hand. Sancerre, which I used to love, but rarely drank as it was so expensive.

  ‘I thought you might need this,’ she said as I stepped back into the hallway to let her in. ‘Em told me there’d been some drama with Rosie.’

  ‘I don’t drink any more,’ I said. ‘Not since the crash.’

  ‘Just a small glass won’t hurt. It’s practically medicinal.’

  ‘No, really.’ It came out more sharply than I’d intended. ‘But thank you. It was a really kind thought. Why don’t you have a glass yourself, for both of us?’

  I got a glass down from the cupboard and passed Frances the corkscrew. Em was quieter now we had company, finishing her dinner in virtual silence, speaking only to tell Frances that, yes, she was working hard, and yes, it was infuriating how older people always said how much harder exams were in their day. After their initial closeness following the attack I wondered whether Emma might also be starting to find Frances an unwelcome reminder of an incident she would far rather put behind her. Then I remembered that it was Em who’d told Frances about what had been going on with Rosie. So there was still a bond there, of sorts. Still, Kath’s description of Frances as ‘needy’ had lodged in my head and I could not shake it free.

  I’d worried Frances might feel awkward after her visit a couple of nights before when Nita had been here and the three of us had made stilted conversation, but if she did, she certainly didn’t show it. She couldn’t have overheard Nita’s ‘I thought she’d never leave’, I decided, which was a huge relief.

  After Em finished eating and washing up the pots, she hovered by the sink until I put her out of her misery by telling her she ought to go upstairs to work if she had things to finish.

  ‘Yes, don’t feel you have to hang around,’ said Frances. ‘I’ll pop up to see you before I go.’

  As soon as we were alone Frances moved her chair closer so that she could reach out and lay a hand on my arm.

  ‘How are you, really?’ Her head on one side. Eyes locked on mine.

  ‘I’m fine, Frances. Honestly.’

  I hoped she couldn’t hear the note of irritation in my voice. The truth was, I felt conflicted. Frances had been so supportive since the attack, and of course I could never forget that it was thanks to her courage that a far greater trauma had been averted. But sometimes she seemed so invested in us. I remembered what she’d said in that bar in Peckham about how the Chinese say, if you save someone’s life, you’re now responsible for them. Did that mean she intended to stay in our lives for ever?

  The sound of the house phone startled both of us. Only one person ever rang on the house phone.

  ‘It’ll be my dad,’ I said, glad of the interruption. ‘Do you mind if I get it?’

  Without waiting for a response, I snatched up the handset from its cradle on the kitchen worktop next to a neat row of cookery books with faded Post-it notes poking up between their pages.

  ‘Hello, love,’ said my father. ‘Your mother and I were just wondering how you are.’

  It ripped me apart a little bit, that ‘your mother and I’. Even though I knew, if I turned on the webcam, she’d be sitting in her chair watching the television, oblivious.

  ‘I’m fine, Dad,’ I said. ‘And you?’

  I turned to look at Frances, who flashed me a small, pinched smile. Sorry, I mouthed, putting my hand over the receiver.

  I let my father talk for a few minutes. He was telling me about a diatribe my mother had launched at the new care assistant that morning. He was laughing, but in that way people did when they knew they could just as easily cry instead. He’d always been so unfailingly polite, my dad. Always believed that a person could be measured by how much respect they gave to those around them. I knew my mother’s rudeness would have bruised the very core of him.

  His voice had that slight tremor I’d noticed recently, that sense of being strung so tight the words reverberated off the surface of it. If Frances hadn’t been there, I would have quizzed him more closely about how he was doing, how much closer to the edge he had stepped since the last time we spoke, but I was conscious of her scrolling restlessly through her phone.

  ‘Dad, I’m sorry, can I call you back? There’s someone here.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Righto. My apologies, love. I should have asked.’

  He sounded so small and forlorn I wished I could climb through the telephone line and put my arms around him.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I said to Frances when I’d put the phone down. ‘My parents are a bit of a worry.’

  ‘It’s quite all right, Tessa. I understand completely.’

  I remembered too late about her ill mother.

  ‘God, I’m an idiot. Of course, you know all about it with your own mum.’

  She nodded wordlessly.

  ‘Look, Frances,’ I said, sitting back down at the table. ‘While you’re here, there is something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.’

  I felt a tug of treachery
as I saw her eyes light up, and she leaned towards me as if in expectation of a confidence. Why did things like this have to be so difficult?

  ‘It’s just that, well, please don’t take this the wrong way, but this is a really important year for Em at school and she needs to focus on work and put what happened to her out of her head as much as possible. And I’m afraid you’re a reminder of it. So I think it’s better, that is, I think it would make sense if …’

  ‘If I faded out of the picture a bit,’ said Frances.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I was trying to say, very clumsily,’ I said, sagging with relief.

  ‘Please don’t worry, Tessa. I get it. Really. I mean, I’ll always feel bonded to Emma, and I suspect she will to me, too, after what happened. But I’m happy to give her space for the time being. And besides, it gives the two of us a chance to spend more time together. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I think you could do with a friend.’

  She wasn’t making this easy for me.

  ‘That’s really sweet of you, and you know I’ve been so grateful for your support over the last weeks. But the thing is, I really need to give some proper attention to my girls and to my parents. My mum and dad are struggling. Well, you heard me on the phone, didn’t you? They really need me to be around more. I’m worried about my poor dad.’ I swallowed back a twinge of guilt, thinking about how hard my dad struggled not to be a burden. And here I was using him as an excuse to wriggle out of an association that was becoming inconvenient. Still, I continued: ‘To be honest with you, Frances, I don’t even have time for my …’

  I bit back the words ‘real friends’ just in time.

  ‘… for all the other people in my life.’

  For a moment I worried I might have offended her. She blinked her eyes a few times in quick succession, bit down on her lip.

  Then she smiled.

  ‘Oh God, I’m with you there. Life is so stressful, isn’t it? So hard to fit everything in.’

  I could have kissed her for being so understanding.