I snort. ‘No, I don’t think so, Zoe,’ I say. ‘I think this is something we need to do, don’t you?’
Zoe shakes her head. ‘It’s just . . .’ she says. ‘I’m just . . .’ She sighs and brushes a tear from her cheek.
‘You’re what?’ I ask her gently. ‘Tell me, Zo.’
‘It’s so hard,’ she says. ‘That’s the thing, Jude. I’m so ashamed.’
‘Is it Scott?’ I ask. ‘Did he do something?’
But Zoe is shaking her head.
‘He didn’t?’ I say, frowning. I’m thinking both, Of course he didn’t do anything, and, But he must have done something. I realise that I’ve been living with these two incompatible thoughts stuffed away in my subconscious for years.
Another shake of the head.
‘Then tell me,’ I say. ‘Just tell me what happened, Zoe.’
‘I’m not sure if I can,’ she says, her voice wobbling.
‘You can,’ I say. ‘You have to.’
Zoe chews her bottom lip and nods. ‘So, it’s all about that stuff, back then. Why I left and everything.’ She shakes her head and says again, ‘I’m just so ashamed, Jude.’
‘You don’t need to be,’ I tell her, softly. ‘You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, have you, Zo? But I think you need to tell me what happened, don’t you?’
‘It wasn’t Scott,’ she says. ‘It was Dad. The reason I left was ’cause of Dad.’
‘Dad?’ I say, breathing the word more than saying it.
‘I wanted him back, that’s all.’
I frown. ‘What? What do you mean you wanted him back?’
Zoe’s features are crumpling and tears are running down her cheeks. In a strange symmetry, the drumming of the rain on the roof suddenly intensifies again. ‘You won’t understand,’ she says. ‘Even if I tell you.’
‘Try me,’ I say.
Zoe covers her eyes with one hand and starts to judder in the effort to hold back her sobs. ‘I thought . . . I thought they’d get back together,’ she says.
‘Who would? Mum and Scott?’
‘No, Mum and Dad.’
‘What?’
‘I thought Dad still loved . . . us. I thought he and Mum still loved each other. I thought he’d come home if I could just get rid of Scott.’
I flinch. I cover my mouth with one hand. ‘You mean . . .’ I gasp. ‘You mean, you did it on purpose? You broke Mum and Scott up on purpose? Or have I got that wrong?’
Zoe peeps over the tops of her fingers at me and nods, makes a groaning sound and breaks into a fresh batch of tears.
‘But we thought . . . I mean, you let us think . . .’
‘I know . . .’ Zoe whimpers. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘But Zoe, Mum loved him,’ I say, my own tears rising, despite my best efforts to keep them down. ‘I loved him. We were . . . we were happy, Zoe.’
‘I know,’ she says again, her voice squeaky and strange.
‘You made Mum think he’d . . . done something to you, Zoe. You do get that, right?’
Zoe breaks into a series of breathy, juddering gasps. Without looking up from her hands, which she’s wringing in her lap, she nods. ‘It wasn’t my idea, though . . .’ she whispers. ‘I never said he’d done nothing. It was just what everyone thought. It was that shrink Mum took me to see, asking me all those disgusting questions. I hadn’t even thought of it till then.’
‘But you could have said,’ I say, struggling not to cry again. ‘You could have just told us. Why didn’t you just say? They split up because of you, Zoe! Mum was miserable for years. I was miserable. Scott was heartbroken. It was fucking horrible for everyone. It destroyed her. It fucked up our whole family.’
‘I know,’ Zoe whispers, peering up at me, red-eyed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘But why? I still don’t get it,’ I say, my tears morphing to anger.
‘I told you,’ she says. ‘I thought . . .’
‘Oh, don’t give me that,’ I say, my anger starting to leak out. ‘You knew full well Dad wouldn’t get back with Mum! You knew he was marrying Linda. We all did.’
‘But I didn’t,’ Zoe sobs. ‘Really, I didn’t. I thought he loved me. I thought he loved Mum. I thought he’d come back so we could be a proper family again.’
‘But Dad told us about the marriage!’ I say, struggling to keep myself from shouting. ‘So that’s bullshit, Zoe.’
‘I know,’ Zoe says. ‘That’s—’ But the rain abruptly hammers on the rooftop, drowning her words.
‘What?’ I shout, now that the rain has given me an excuse. ‘That’s what?’ Shouting feels better, in fact. Shouting seems to help.
‘I said, that’s when I realised,’ Zoe says, speaking more loudly in order to be heard over the crazy drumming of the rain. ‘That’s when I saw what I’d done. That’s why I had to leave.’
‘But Scott did nothing?’ I say, outraged. ‘Are you really fucking telling me that there was no reason you hated him like that? That he did nothing at all? Well, except be nice to us. Because he was really fucking nice to us, Zoe.’
Zoe drops her face to her hands and starts to weep uncontrollably now, but I’m way too angry to feel sorry for her. ‘You . . .’ I murmur. But none of the words that I can think of are strong enough. ‘You fucking . . .’ I splutter, trying again. ‘Jesus, Zoe . . . I . . . I’m fucking speechless.’
And it’s true. I’m so utterly, massively furious that I’m unable to speak. It’s never happened to me before, and in fact, I can’t even think of a word strong enough to describe my anger. It feels like a sort of burning white hole melting in the middle of my brain, like an overheated film spool or something. The edge of my vision is red-tinged, too, and I feel as if I might actually explode with it all if I don’t hit something. Or someone. Is there a limit to how angry one can feel, I wonder? Do you just die of a sudden heart attack or a burst blood vessel if anger exceeds a certain threshold? Because right here, right now, death, actual death, wouldn’t really surprise me at all.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ Zoe splutters, reaching hesitantly for the door handle. ‘I don’t know what else to say. I should go. I’m sorry.’
She glances at me one last time, but I turn away, scared of my own anger – terrified, in fact, that if I look at her for a minute longer I will find myself leaping through the gap between the seats to punch her in the face. These are emotions I have never had before, and I have absolutely no idea how to deal with them.
‘Just tell me one more time, before you go,’ I suddenly shout, lurching between the seats to grab her by her sweatshirt as she moves towards the door. ‘Tell me that Scott didn’t do anything. Tell me that he never did one single fucking thing to piss you off.’
Zoe turns to me and shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she squeaks.
She tries to prise my fingers from her shoulder, but I’m hanging on tight. ‘TELL ME!’ I shout.
‘He didn’t,’ she weeps. ‘He didn’t do anything at all.’
I release my grip and wipe the steamed-up windscreen with my sleeve so that I can look out at the rain. It’s quite shockingly dark outside. I silently shake my head as I hear the sound of the car door. Once it’s closed, I turn back and watch her blurred form through the window as she leaves, her hands over her head to shield herself from the torrential rain, and I think, with relief, that I will never have to see her again. And once she’s gone, once she has vanished behind the campsite office, I bang my fists on the dashboard of the Renault, and when that doesn’t seem to help as much as I’d hoped it would, I do it again and I let out a deep, soulful, animal wail.
Over half an hour has passed by the time Jessica returns, half an hour during which my emotions have been all over the place, swinging from utter speechless fury to sudden bouts of tears, and then back again to anger. At the precise moment that a very wet Jessica slides back into the driving seat beside me, I’m stuck in silent fury all over again. It’s one of those moments in life when you realise just how little separates u
s from the killers, from the murderers, from the psychopaths. Because right now, in this instant, I swear I could kill with my bare hands.
‘Are you OK?’ Jessica asks quietly, as she dries her face on her sleeve and then slides the key back into the ignition.
And how to even begin to answer that? I turn to look away from her, out of the side window. The rain has dwindled to drizzle now, and it’s got a little lighter. ‘No,’ I say, simply.
‘I’m not surprised,’ she says quietly. She reaches for my shoulder, but I shrink from her touch. ‘Do you want to talk about it or . . .’
‘Not talk about it,’ I say, and in my efforts to avoid shouting at her, the words have come out so quietly that I fear she hasn’t heard me at all.
‘OK,’ she says, eventually, her voice a little wobbly. ‘OK, I understand. Shall I just drive, then?’
I close my eyes and nod rapidly. ‘Yes, please,’ I say, once again in a whisper.
‘You don’t want to wait for Nick to—’
‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘No, I want to get out of here, please.’
‘OK,’ Jess says. She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and rather ineffectually wipes the windscreen and side window, then starts the engine and pulls on her seatbelt. She reverses out of the parking space, flips on the windscreen wipers and engages first gear, but then pauses. We sit there in silence, the engine ticking over quietly, the wipers slapping back and forth across the rain-splattered windscreen.
‘Just one thing,’ she says. ‘Your anger. It’s not with me, is it?’
I shoot her a glance and manage, just about, to shake my head. But that shake of the head is a lie, really. Because yes, I’m feeling angry with Jessica as well. I’m feeling furious with her for getting Zoe to tell me what happened, for having forced that conversation between us. Because, wasn’t it better not knowing?
I’m aware, though, that this is what people call ‘shooting the messenger’. Even through the illogical red filter of my anger, I can still see that this isn’t actually Jessica’s fault. And so I have lied by shaking my head.
‘Good,’ Jess says. ‘Let’s get you home, then, shall we? Or back to Nice, at any rate.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That would be good.’
‘And then I’m guessing it’s Buxton, here we come?’ Jess says.
I frown at her confusedly. I don’t answer.
But as we drive back to Nice in silence, I realise that she’s right: that the one and only thing to do now is to go and talk to Mum. Jess amazes me sometimes, she really does.
Fourteen
Mandy
I’m standing looking out through the living-room window at the darkened street beyond. Most of the snow has now melted, thank God, leaving only slushy leftovers on the pavements. More snow would have been bad news, not only for Jude but for my imminent house move as well.
I’ve been standing here street-watching for almost an hour. Oh, I’ve tried to concentrate on the television burbling away in the background, but on the eve of moving house, and while awaiting the arrival of my son, it’s impossible. So I’ve abandoned myself to my desire to simply stare out at the street.
I sip my glass of white wine and think about the fact of Jude and Jessica’s unexpected visit. It’s not the best day for it – not by a long shot. The removal guys are arriving at ten tomorrow morning, and I’d just about finished packing when Jude called. But I’ve now abandoned myself to this idea as well. I’m quite thrilled, if the truth be told, that they’re coming. And I’m excited about whatever it is they’re going to announce.
I’ve been running all the possibilities through my mind as I pack up the final pots and pans and unpack sheets and pillows for their arrival. Though it doesn’t quite make sense to me – it doesn’t seem to match the urgency of the visit, nor the stress that oozed from Jude’s voice over the phone – I’ve come to the conclusion that they’re going to get married. I’m now certain that this is what they’re coming here today to announce. Jude’s always had a few issues about committing to relationships, and I’ve decided that this must be the reason for his angsty-sounding phone call.
Images of a marriage now play across the cinema screen in my head, superimposing themselves on the view of the cold, slushy street beyond the window, glistening in the orange light from the streetlamps.
I imagine Jessica in a wedding dress and feel certain that she’ll look like a model. She’s a pretty girl with a great figure anyway, but it’s her sense of style that really sets her apart. Her clothing combinations are to die for. Jude, of course, will wear a suit – he rarely wears anything else. Perhaps he’ll even want top hat and tails, I figure. Any excuse to dress up; that’s my son.
I glance at the mantelpiece behind me, which is silly because not only is it completely empty (its usual contents having been long since scooped into a box) but the photo I was thinking of, my wedding photo with Ian, hasn’t resided there for years.
Headlights outside catch my eye, so I turn to look, but it’s just a battered old Renault 5. As Jude has to use hire cars when he visits, I deduce that this can’t possibly be them. I let out a sigh of disappointment and imagine, terrifyingly, that they’ve had an accident somewhere. Picturing your kids trapped in folded metal is the mother’s curse. It happens pretty much every time you know your child is driving.
The Renault is now pulling up outside; in fact, it’s parking right outside my house. And when the driver switches off the headlights, I can see through the windscreen, and it is indeed Jude and Jess who are sitting there, talking.
By the time I reach the front door, they’re on the doorstep.
Jude’s wearing an expensive-looking blue checked suit and Jess a striped jersey dress with olive-green leggings and a lime-green mac. They look, as ever, quite amazing. It’s funny, really, because before Jess came along, I always worried that Jude looked a bit like an accountant. He hasn’t changed how he dresses at all, but together with Jess, it somehow works. They look like a couple of eighties pop stars.
‘I didn’t think it was you,’ I say as Jude steps forward and hugs me with unusual intensity. ‘What’s with the old banger?’
‘I borrowed it from Steve, my flatmate,’ Jude explains as he separates from my embrace. ‘I couldn’t find a decent rental for tonight, so he lent me his.’
‘It runs really well, actually,’ Jess says. ‘And the sound system’s amazing. It’s like a night club.’
‘Yeah, Steve’s a musician,’ Jude says. ‘I think the sound system cost more than the car.’
I kiss Jess on both cheeks and lead them into the house.
‘Shit, Mum,’ Jude says, running one hand along the wall of boxes in the hall as he enters. ‘Someone’s been busy.’
‘It’s tomorrow, Jude,’ I say. ‘Of course I’ve been busy.’
‘I still think we should have been here to help,’ Jude says.
‘Me, too,’ Jess agrees.
‘It’s fine,’ I tell them. ‘It’s just boxes and bags. The removal guys are doing all the hard lifting tomorrow. And now you’re here to help as well.’
‘Well, we got the food, anyway,’ Jess says, raising a carrier bag in one hand.
I can smell the contents from here.
‘And yes, we went to Ip’s,’ Jude says, ‘before you ask.’
The kids take their coats off and hang them over the backs of the chairs, and then we all move through to the kitchen, where I’ve already laid the table.
‘Do you want to eat right away?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, while it’s hot,’ Jude says. ‘Plus, I’m pretty hungry, aren’t you?’
Jessica nods. ‘Me, too,’ she says. ‘It smells so good. My mouth was watering in the car.’
While I pour them glasses of wine, Jude and Jess divvy out the contents of the aluminium trays. Then we raise our glasses in a toast.
‘To you,’ I say, thinking that it will lead us on to whatever this is all about.
‘No,’ Jude says. ‘To your move! To
Nottingham!’
And suddenly I’m less certain as to why they are here.
‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ I ask, another attempt at moving things along.
Jude licks his lips and glances at Jess, who shoots him a reassuring smile.
‘Maybe after dinner,’ Jude says, turning back to face me. ‘I’ve got a bit of an announcement to make, but it might be better to eat first.’
‘Oh, God,’ I say. ‘I’m not going to need champagne, am I? Because I definitely don’t have any in. But there’s still time to nip up the road to—’
‘No, Mum,’ Jude says, solemnly. ‘No, you definitely don’t need champagne.’
I tut. ‘I hate it when you get all mysterious on me.’ I turn to Jess and tell her, ‘He used to do this as a kid, you know . . . say he had something to tell you but then make you wait until later on. A terrible desire to intrigue, my son.’
Jessica just nods, while Jude, for his part, says, ‘Yeah, I’m famed for it. All the same, let’s just eat first, OK?’
‘So, um, are you all ready for your move?’ Jess asks. She’s clearly decided that it’s time to change the subject.
‘Pretty much,’ I tell her, still trying to figure out what’s going on with the two of them. ‘Except for all the stuff I had to unpack for you two.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Jessica says.
‘Actually, it’s fine,’ I tell her. ‘It was nothing: just a couple of sheets and what-have-you.’
‘We brought sleeping bags,’ Jude says. ‘They’re in the boot.’
‘I’m not having you in sleeping bags,’ I say. ‘This is still your home, after all.’
‘For one night only,’ Jude says.
‘Don’t be like that, sweetheart,’ I say. ‘You know I’ll have a spare room for you in the new place, too.’
‘I meant it’s one night only, sleeping in sleeping bags,’ Jude explains.
‘Well, it isn’t that either. It’s one night only in a nice comfortable bed.’
‘Jude says the new place is pretty awesome,’ Jess says.
And so we talk for ten minutes about my new flat, which, with its views of the River Trent, is actually pretty awesome.
The Road to Zoe Page 25