by Randal Eliot
Chapter Seven
The rail tracks cross a low bridge of iron and stone that has, over time, peeled the tops off several large trucks like a starving man at tins of sardines. The truck drivers had ignored or were somehow blind to the highly visible warning signs, something that dumbfounded a great many of those who drove by their ludicrous wreckage and the flashing police lights.
Just along the road from the bridge, set back a stone's throw from the hedgerow, and partially concealing the ashy, scarred landscape left by a defunct coal mine, a red-brick hotel converted from stables tries to put on picture postcard airs, only its whitewashed window-boxes, hanging-baskets and flowerbeds are too often empty or weedy for the image of a rustic idyll to bloom. Some say the prints of Constable's most pastoral days are hung in the foyer to woo guests with the romance of ye olde things before they endure rooms as cold and unsentimental as creaky barns in winter. The bed sheets feel damp to the touch as if they were aired over a misty grave, something not entirely incongruous to the rumours that the struggling hotel would soon breathe its last. Who doubted that the chain hotels surrounding the nearby corporate leisure complex were capable of a lethal squeeze?
It was in the failing hotel's public bar that Michael's well-rehearsed recital of Shakespeare's 'Shall I Compare Thee' made Cathy's heart glow like a summer sunrise. How stunningly wonderful! A vivid new star burning with personality and poetry that would not only illuminate her life, but guide her out of her domestic wilderness. And what about the fabulous gifts of Belgian chocolates and red roses? Michael had seemed so right in every way that she didn't need to forgive herself - no man or woman should be a martyr to marriage when they belonged elsewhere, to another's heart. Those barbaric days were confined to history. Everybody knew it. What a shame the roses had to be binned so their great secret wasn't betrayed.
Their relationship soon became fantastically dreamy and passionate, yet fell into a pattern in which it wasn't unusual for the lovers to be apart for a fortnight. No matter how imaginative their excuses, the responsibilities of their other, open lives could be like tyrannical masters. Still, absence makes the heart grow fonder and there was always something marvellously exciting to look forward to. Until now. Cathy's recent texts had received a few ambiguous replies. The messages she left on Michael's voicemail had met stubborn silence before a whispered, curt call in the midnight hour finally arranged for them to meet again at the hotel where it had started. Back then, with Cathy desperately clinging to some meaning attached to the ring on her finger, Michael had failed, despite deploying his most gentlemanly charms, to persuade her of other retreats' more lavish, private virtues. What had changed his mind about a place he'd thought beneath them?
Work was crawling with gossips. Cathy often sensed sniggering behind her back. Though she tried to convince herself that Michael had been laying low until loose tongues were wrapped round the next juicy scandal, she knew such thinking was flawed. The shop floor's boldest tittle-tattler would never insolently confront a man in such a senior position. Michael didn't have to hide. So, had breaking the news to his wife been so traumatic that he needed space? Perhaps the way Cathy had dressed gave the most telling clue as to her mood and expectations. In her lavender, chunky knit jumper, tight blue jeans and tasselled, black suede boots, she looked casually delectable whereas previously she had gone all out to glamorously, irresistibly thrill.
She'd arrived twenty minutes earlier than the agreed seven o'clock. The bar's only customer, she put a red wine on her credit card and seated herself in the nook under oak beams by the archaic, dead fireplace. It was where Michael had first embraced her and the hairs of her neck stood up as if the ghost of his kiss had brushed her skin. 'Impossible,' she murmured, sipping her wine, shivering. On the opposite wall, between a chalkboard menu and a Turner print of a turbulent sea, a poster promoted, in bold black marker ink, an over-thirties singles' disco. It was scheduled to shake the function room that very night, through the double doors to the left of the bar.
By quarter past seven, the teenage-like angst she had suffered all afternoon flared up into a chaotic resentfulness - her nerve endings fizzed and sparked! Her head swivelled round at the approach of rowdy, masculine voices; she frowned with fiery eyes as men in high spirits burst through the doors. 'Party time!' one of them laughingly exclaimed. Reeking of aftershave, the group eyed Cathy up as they passed her en route to the bar. Mr Muscle-bound arrogantly wolf-whistled. Stay away! she wanted to scream, and the perverse irony was not lost on her despite her see-saw umbrage. She withdrew into the ladies, staring into the mirror as if her reflection had demanded to give her a telepathic talking to. What had it - or rather she - said? A calmer, focused woman emerged and strode over to the fireplace, determinedly avoiding the men's lusty attentions. She scrutinised her mobile phone, quite aware that no messages had arrived. Pints and bottles in their hands, the men exuded beefiness like TV dating show contestants wary of hidden cameras set up to catch them at anything but their best.
The big hand on the wall clock above the cutlery and condiments table nudged round the Roman numerals. At the pool table under the blank Big Screen, the men lost their appetites for blokey repartee over a game of killer. Even the disc jockey hadn't yet shown for the feast of the food of love. Was Cupid preparing floppy sausage-meat with chips on shoulders? And don't laugh! Look at the only bird in the place - the type who thinks she's too classy to play the game so he who dares hasn't a chance. What had she turned up for? To tease her 'inferiors'?
Cathy was punching out a text when she heard stiletto heels click on the stone floor. A dumpy, busty, lightly tanned brunette in a strapless, black mini dress self-consciously swayed her hips, leading her petite blond friend to the bar. The blond's skin was milky white. Pink lipstick glossed her half-dazed smile. Her ring-less fingers with varnished red nails nervously smoothed down her velvety, royal blue number, which flowed to her ankles. Her plaited pigtails conveyed a girlish innocence that was complemented by the effect of her friend's feathery, boyish crop. Cathy watched several of the men ogling the pair as they ordered flamboyant, sickly-looking cocktails. And then she sensed eyes on her.
It was a tall gent in a three-piece glen-plaid suit, with a silver-streaked goatee, and a slightly bulging forehead as if something nasty was slowly bursting from his skull. His thin lips smiled condescendingly at the surprise on Cathy's pretty face, and he confidently advanced, placing his stylish, black leather briefcase on her table as if it was packed with testimonies to his importance. 'Good evening', he said, turning towards the bar without waiting for Cathy's response. His grey, slicked ponytail made her think of cold-blooded playboys and a serpent's fangs. His black, buckled, designer winkle-pickers were like a subtle threat that no expense would be spared to kick you when you were down. And then it struck Cathy that disaster had visited Michael and he had a reason that explained everything but her own lack of faith in him. Weren't her darkest thoughts a kind of betrayal?
She was wringing her hands in suspense when the mystery man returned with a golden spirit on the rocks and a blood red wine in a long-stemmed glass. He carefully placed the drinks on mats and then faffed about with his stripy tie, drawing attention to the old boys' school crest. Cathy knocked back the wine she'd bought.
'Mrs Cathy Randall?'
'Yes,' she nervously confirmed, intimidated by the evening's unexpected twist.
He shook her limp hand with a grip like a boa constrictor.
'I'm Rodger G. Cutterford of Cutterford & Nash, which in layperson's terms makes me a legal eagle. Not that I'm here to swoop on little lambs that have no rights.' His voice was educated, melodious, sharp; like a harp strung with razor wire. He grinned broadly, darkly, revelling in knowing everything that she didn't. 'In an unofficial capacity, I'm helping out a dear old friend. I understand you're acquainted.'
'Is Michael well?'
Cutterford unzipped his briefcase, opening it at an angle that prevented Cathy see
ing inside. He held aloft a plain, brown A4 envelope. 'My esteemed friend cannot be with us and has therefore requested that I deliver this correspondence.'
Cathy took the envelope as if she feared it might explode.
He sipped his whiskey, his narrowed grey eyes savouring her anxiety as she drew in a deep breath before taking the plunge and tearing it open. There was just one sheet of plain A4 paper on which was typed:
Cathy,
It's over. I think you must know.
Yours sincerely.
No signature. She turned it over as if something else must be written on the other side. Its blankness was an anticlimax that rammed the brute message home.
'Please,' Cutterford said, holding out his right hand to reclaim the letter and envelope. His gold bracelet was exactly the same as the one she'd bought Michael for his birthday. 'I'm sure the document has no use as a keepsake.'
Cathy complied, blinking, unable to think straight.
'An unfortunate affair,' he observed, returning the papers to his briefcase and emphatically closing it. 'I must ask: do you understand that the decision is final?'
She nodded, her stinging eyes settling on her glass. She wanted to throw wine in his face. Slap him hard. Scream her soul out. The dirty bastards.
'Ah, a sensible woman. There really is no need to make these things difficult and, indeed, courtesy of my friend, here's something that will make everything that much easier.' From his inside pocket he produced a wad of twenty pound notes bound by a yellow elastic band. 'One thousand pounds, tax-free, of course. I'm sure you'll agree that it's a more than generous settlement, and one that isn't obligatory by any means. I'm also certain that you appreciate the need for discretion from this moment on.'
Cathy didn't move to take the money, but instead sipped bitter wine. When she returned her glass to the table, Cutterford lifted it and used it as a paperweight. 'We don't want your gift to blow away should there be a draught as I leave.' He emptied his glass of liquor, looked intently for a second or two at the ice, and then threw the half-melted cubes onto the grate of the disused fireplace. 'My dear friend insists that henceforth any communication exclusively pertains to your respective professional - if that's the correct word in your case - duties. You both have positions to consider. I hope you take that in the spirit of sound advice as much as a warning. Thank you for your time, Mrs Randall. Goodnight.' He picked up his briefcase and strode to the exit without looking back.
Cathy glared at the wad, wishing a cigarette lighter was at hand. The cheap, lying, cowardly rat! So Michael thought she'd done it for the things his precious money could buy? His invites to the swanky joints where they'd flaunted what they'd got? It had been far more than that to her. She'd risked everything - her family - to be with him! And… And… Who was fooling who? Who was the greatest pretender? Cathy couldn't sob if she tried. Her injured pride would stand for nothing but dry eyes. And what was the truth of it? If not for Alicia's inability to hold her own water, then things would have remained exactly as they were? Naughty treats on the side, whenever Cathy felt partial and time permitted. The worst of it over the past week had been the instability, the doubts, the fear of the crashing dream… Or was she now just winding up for some other performance?
Not for the first time in her life, Cathy looked into her heart and struggled to explain its emptiness when it came to men, and there had only ever been two of them other than her father. In the artlessness of youth loving Ian had come easy until her raw intelligence, sick of unstimulating, endless routines, fell to the mercy of her imagination, bloated on soap operas, romantic novels, films, advertisements, glossy catalogues. From such materials she constructed a persona so illusory and glamorous that it gave her the derring-do to play any game and stripped her marriage - with its gritty little realities and dramas - of dignity and hope. Wouldn't Fairy washing up liquid have been the closest she came to romantic adventure if everything was left to dutiful, dull as dishwater Ian? And getting a job when the kids were big enough had made things worse: the monotony of work ensured she'd less time for home's chores. What a life! A woman's drudgery is never done! Who can blame a girl for dreaming of other 'hers' in other worlds? Michael, of course, was anything but her imagined Prince Charming and a virtuoso player of a game that always had just the one winner. It wouldn't be the last time a wealthy rake promised a pretty woman better things - spiritual as much as material - in order to taste the animal, fleshy pleasures. Urgh! The finer feelings said to make the world go round are lies and self-deceit stuck together with body fluids! Whenever Cathy tore away her disguise she could only swear by the giddy high of shopping, yet that was premeditated to leave you gagging like an addict. And as debts piled up a woman felt as hollow as a cheat's promises; she'd behave ever more furtively, sneaking something else on her plastic for a buzz that never actually made her feel whole. Was that it? Did Cathy have something missing that made her unlovable and unloving? Who did she love?
A muffled disco beat throbbed through the walls. Other than the young bar man who was wiping the beer pumps, Cathy was alone. She lifted her glass and took her lucre, zipping it up in the compartment of her handbag where she stored receipts. Well, now she knew; dreams can come true, most likely the wrong ones. Those recurrent, wild scenes in the dead of night were proof enough that she'd never fully trusted Michael. Did two souls occupy her body? A hopelessly youthful escapist enthralled by every cliché known to popular culture, and a hard-faced, no-nonsense realist alert to every disappointment known to life. It seemed that baby hard-face had had enough; oh, she'd cry later, no doubt, when the lights went out, but it was no crisis, just another crock of shit. Nothing could compare to her desolation when illness stole her mother and a lonely heart broke her father shortly afterwards. That had been love. She could almost hear her father telling her: 'Consider yourself lucky, lass. He hasn't left you for dead; you've another chance to live.' And so she had. How should she use that opportunity? It wasn't necessarily the colour of her hair or her clothes that had to change this time.
She pictured her two-faced ex-lover returning, all smiles, to his wife at their dinner table having just taken an important call. 'Yes, my sugar plum, everything is working out splendidly…' Cutterford never lets a man down. Did Michael's wife know anything? She was always buried in some project of the university where she worked, at least according to her husband. How reliable was anything he said? And yet really, whatever Cathy accused Michael of, she was as guilty. What about her treatment of Ian? He was now drinking himself into an early grave if the tales she'd heard were true. Had their marriage meant so much to him? And what about Alicia and Davie? Who had been hurt the most? Who did she love?
Cathy returned the three empty glasses to the bar and thanked the young man. 'My pleasure,' he said. 'Are you Alicia Randall's mum?'
'You've mistaken me for someone else.'
'Oh, sorry. You're the double of a girl my sister knocks about with at college.'
'Don't worry about it. We all make mistakes.' Cathy smiled into his face and the look in his eyes told her he'd also identified her from her credit card. 'And thank you again. Goodbye.'
Despite feeling grotesquely uncomfortable because of her lie, Cathy couldn't overcome her cynical curiosity. A singles' night for a single woman? Such a joker Michael had turned out to be. Wouldn't it be hilarious if he choked on his laughter? She pushed the double-doors open onto the cheesy sound of sisters in the mood for dancing, romancing, giving it all. Mists of dry ice and a spotlight swept across the dance floor. A strobe briefly flashed like an apparition of her intense, stormy dreams. From the booth in the far corner, the shadowy DJ peered over at her, the silhouetted woman in the doorway. She averted her gaze. The other two women had taken a chill out sofa near the back of the sizeable function room, and the men loosely encircled it and them. The petite blond appeared to be laconically answering questions put to her by a moustachioed man in a sickly, bright red shirt. He sat on the sofa's arm,
looking down. She crossed her legs. The slightly dumpy brunette got to her feet and inelegantly danced round the closest table, slipping a suitor who tried to grab her arm. To their right, the square-jawed hulk with a fake-tan grinned, flashing a gold tooth as he moved in Cathy's direction. By the time he reached the double-doors to the bar she had slipped through the exit. He smiled conceitedly towards the entrance to the ladies, and ordered a lager and a red wine. Ten minutes dwindled away before he cottoned on that he'd played himself for a fool. By then Cathy had stepped from the cold shadows on the edge of the car park and climbed into her taxi, thankful for the heating and the skinny, zitty driver in a baseball cap who never had much to say.
The ride through familiar streets and Cathy's bitter-sweet loneliness evoked memories that she had learned the hard way to censor; yes, relive the best times, don't mournfully revisit their end - death does not define those you've loved. Contrary to the present, the past overflowed with deep, everlasting affections and blissful days whose sheer ordinariness or lack of contrived magic provided a humbling glimpse of her youthful, ingenuous integrity and hopes… Turning a picture book's pages with her cute, sweet darlings by her side... Blushing through her veil on her proud father's arm as that most famous tune resonated meaningfully on stained glass and stone walls… Pinning up pretty boy posters in her room and recording the top ten hits on an audio cassette… A secret diary she still had stashed behind novels on a bookcase... The greatest ever birthday present: a doll's house of fascinatingly intricate detail… The taxi driver braked. Without a word, Cathy put the usual fare into his hand. She unclipped her seatbelt, opened the door and got out into the freshest night. She was alive and kicking, and, after a fashion, free.
Dance music's four-four beat softly bumped and ground from Alicia's bedroom. Funny really, thought her mother, the way she had no time for boys. Davie didn't appear to be around. On the kitchen worktop were four letters that Cathy hadn't had time to open earlier. Bills or junk mail? The homophonic connotations of the latter prospect caused her to ruefully smile - it was too easy to get into a lather over a rubbishy male's soft-soap. Perhaps her daughter had the right idea, for all of her naivety.
Let the vultures wait. After their contents were cursorily checked, Cathy tore her letters into quarters and binned them. She flicked the switch on the electric kettle. The white coffee jar on the shelf over the breadbin had a message embossed in red: 'Wake Up And Smell It'. It had been bought to mock Ian, but look who had taken the longest to get the joke, after all. She reached for the jar.
'You're back early.' Alicia leaned on the door jamb, her arms crossed over the big love heart on her indigo sweater. She'd been working; a yellow highlighter was in her right hand, the felt tip pointing down.
Vaguely pleased that her girl hadn't set the central heating cash-devouringly high, Cathy pensively felt her smooth teeth with her tongue. She spooned instant coffee and two sugars into her mug.
'Is everything all right, Mum?'
'Nothing for you or Davie to…' Sigh. 'Everything's fine.'
'And that's supposed to mean?'
Cathy opened the fridge to get the milk.
'Well?'
She poured semi-skinned over the coffee and sugar. With a stir, it turned brown.
'What is it?'
'We've decided to call it a day.'
'Oh, that's...' Time to hug her mother or time to get out of her way? Who'd be blamed?
Cathy returned the milk to the fridge. Who did she love? 'Where's Davie?' she asked after a deeply introspective moment.
'I don't know. He didn't come home after school… I didn't… It's…'
'There's no need to upset yourself, babe, because there's nothing more to be said on the matter. Except that I'm disgusted with myself for letting you get caught up in it. I'm so sorry.'
'I still want to say that I didn't…'
'Leave it, Alicia. Please.'
It was just as well. Alicia didn't know what she wanted to say. How could she?
Cathy pulled her mobile from her handbag, pressed a few keys and put it to her ear. 'Are you on your way home?' she said, picking up a dishcloth and wiping up the drop of hot water she'd spilled on the worktop when making her coffee. 'Good lad. I was thinking we could have a takeaway as a treat so don't dawdle… Yes and yes… See you soon.' She replaced her phone in her handbag. 'Right, my princess, I suppose you'll want to argue with Davie about whether it's to be Chinese or Indian?'
My princess? Hadn't she just split up with Michael? Alicia beamed blankly at her mother - explain what's going on, please!
Davie kicked off his trainers and dropped his hold all at the foot of the stairs. In the living room, he was surprised to find Alicia discussing college without launching herself into the deep end like a screaming toddler without armbands. 'Here you are, at last,' Cathy smiled, crisply clapping in greeting. 'We couldn't have held out much longer. We're famished.'
'Chinese?' Davie asked with a sniff.
'Even though Indians are generally healthier, I'll have a vegetable chow mein.'
'What's happened?'
'Don't be so suspicious, young man,' Cathy said gently but firmly. She'd have to be careful; he picked up on everything, that one. She reached for the house phone on the coffee table.
Why wasn't she complaining that no one ever puts the phone where it belongs, on charge?
'Your favourite?'
'Does he try anything else?'
Davie indulged his sister with his middle finger and spun round to leave the room.
'Enough of that, please, both of you. And wait a minute, Davie. We'd planned a family get together.'
'That's right,' Alicia smiled sweetly, as if she only awaited the delivery of her halo and wings before her transformation was complete.
'Ok, you're a one hundred per cent improved double, but what have you done with my sister?'
'Will you give it a rest? We want some quality time together. Now sit down.'
Something other than maternal tetchiness subdued Davie's instinct to rebel. He dropped onto the unoccupied leather sofa facing the drawn, silver silk curtains.
'And don't put your feet up on the arms.'
Now that was more like it; normality.
The call to the Chinese over and done, Cathy said, 'Alicia's been telling me about her progress at college. How are you getting on at school?'
'I do my homework. Don't start picking…'
'What about your grades?'
'Not bad.' They were better than that; Davie was achieving A*'s in most subjects. 'It's all a bit boring.'
'Just keep on as you are.' Cathy knew about her son's excellent work after frequently bumping into his form teacher, Miss Waites, and her boyfriend in the supermarket. 'We do, however, need to have a word about these films.'
'Since when did spending quality time together mean ganging up on me?'
'Nobody is ganging up on anybody. What you're doing is illegal. And don't look at Alicia like that - she hasn't said anything. Alex has flooded the factory with movies and music. He'll be sacked and reported to the police if management find out, and they will do. You do know that Alex isn't someone to get involved with?'
'He's family. My cousin. Your nephew.'
'Only half-nephew. His dad, George, was from my dad's first marriage. But that's irrelevant. Alex is a petty crook and a thug. I want you to promise that you'll stop pirating films and concentrate on your education.'
'I'll have to finish the order I'm on with,' Davie replied, frowning at the mention of father and son. Misreading her brother's discomfort, Alicia looked away to smirk covertly. 'It'll cause trouble if I don't,' Davie added with an air of inevitability.
'And that'll be the end of it?'
'Stick a needle in my eye,' Davie pledged, slyly crossing his fingers. Huh! His mother would get carried away with something else soon enough.
'Very good. Now that's been cleared up, shall we watch a film?
One of my legitimate copies.'
'They're soppy comedies or worse, full on mush,' Davie complained. 'I'd prefer one of Dad's spaghetti westerns. And it isn't a real family get together without him.'
'We'll get used to the change. It might not be what we all wanted, but me and your father were experiencing problems for a long time before things came to a head. Where are you going, babe?'
'Upstairs for a minute,' Alicia replied, paling.
'Where is Dad?' Davie asked when she'd gone.
'I suppose he's busy looking for work. No one can call him an idler, I'll grant him that. Other than that I can't say. I haven't heard from him since he came and collected his clothes.'
'Where did he take them?'
'I don't know.'
'You do!'
'Uncle Dan's,' Cathy finally conceded. 'Dad will be in touch when he's ready, Davie. I didn't tell you before because I didn't think he was in the right frame of mind.' And, by God, for the sake of the kids, she hoped he'd get into one.
'Can you expect…?'
'Shush!'
Alicia had returned with Monopoly. 'I thought we could play seeing that we don't like cowboy films that, in spite of what someone says, are just as make believe as the films we love. Everybody used to enjoy Monopoly. Do you remember?'
'I do, my love. It's a wonderful suggestion, don't you think so, Davie?'
'Not if she's banker.'
'I do not cheat!'
'You pay yourself treble for passing go.'
'That's what real bankers do, and more. Sally and Paige had to analyse some newspaper cuttings in their critical thinking class. They were thingy-sheets as well.'
'Broadsheets. And anyway, real bankers might cheat, but what's the point of us playing if you're going to do the same?'
'Davie can have a turn at being the banker, Alicia. Good girl. And I forgot to tell you both - your grandparents have invited you for tea. I bought you a little time by saying Alicia is very busy with her music. I shouldn't need to tell you that you're to be on your best behaviour when you do go round.'
Davie and Alicia gurned at each other in disbelief - as if they were mad enough to argue round there! Still, thought Davie, things were looking up. He knew where Dad was staying and, although he hadn't dared ring his grandparents for fear of Grandma June's reaction to everything, now she was in on it, she'd soon extract Alicia's secrets, one way or another. Alicia wouldn't dare refuse to go to tea in case she provoked Grandma into making her own visit round here.
A mix up in the kitchens delayed their Chinese. By the time the deliveryman knocked on the door Davie was on the way to mopping up on the Monopoly board. His mother and Alicia didn't always capitalise when the dice were favourable. So you don't want to privatise Liverpool Street Station? You'll turn down Park Lane because you'll never drop on Mayfair? They'd concentrate better if the game was based on Gucci shares, Davie grinned, admiring his piles of pretend cash and deeds rather than reading the searching looks Alicia gave Mum in exchange for her strangely tranquil smiles. Alicia had snapped up Old Kent Road and when Davie's racing car braked on Whitechapel he skinned her for the right to own the whole seedy area. Seven hundred pounds, a get out of jail card, and the water company - stop making films? They must be joking! The Monopoly board didn't lie! As soon as he was of a legal age, Davie Randall would thrash the likes of Bill Gates at their own get-rich-quick game! Bring on the big bad world!
Cathy switched on the TV while they ate. They became engrossed in a programme about a heavily scarred female skeleton unearthed by an archaeological dig in Southwark. Forensic scientists revealed she was a teenage girl who'd shockingly contracted syphilis. A too young lady of the night, concluded the historians. 'That's putting me off my food.' Alicia put down her knife and fork. The grisly, reconstructed face of pockmarked poverty during Queen Victoria's reign had set her imagination racing down dark, Ripper haunted streets. 'What a great thing attitudes changed and we don't have to do that to survive.'
'Things haven't changed that much for a lot of women,' claimed Davie. 'Or men for that matter.'
'Don't be stupid.'
'I'm not being stupid, idiot!'
'Well, how can you claim that?'
'Ask any lad. You only have to set up a Twitter account and loads of hookers send you messages. And they're threatening to stop Johnny's dad's money because he told them he wouldn't work for next to nothing as a shelf-stacker.'
'That's disgusting! They must be drug addicts.'
'Johnny's dad isn't. He says a fully qualified workman needs a proper job that pays enough to keep his family.'
'I hope you don't reply to any of them,' said Cathy, scandalized by Davie's close encounters with 'the game'.
'I delete them,' he said, his mouth stuffed with saucy battered chicken balls. 'More or less what Victorian society did, so it seems.'
'Refusing to communicate with them isn't exactly…' Didn't the thousand pounds in her bag say everything about Michael's attitude to her? Was his 'payment' a deliberate swipe at her reputation? 'But you are right to point out,' she started again, her voice emotionally cracking, 'that many women aren't treated well even in modern times.' She stopped; cleared her throat. 'That's why it's doubly important, Alicia, that you do well at college and don't lose your head in the clouds. Pop stardom doesn't come to many.'
'My feet are firmly on the ground,' Alicia asserted in a huff that her mother's distant, watery gaze instantly snuffed out. 'Are you…?'
'I'm fine, babe.' Cathy forced a smile.
Alicia snatched the remote control and changed channels. Heavy metal on MTV - the end of the discussion. Something really is going on, thought Davie, sitting up, as Alicia volunteered to do the dishes. She collected their plates with a stony concentration that provided her brother with no clues. 'I'm too tired to continue with Monopoly,' he said, faking a yawn, watching his sister leave the room. He wasn't going to learn anything of importance tonight, and everything would come to he who times his move and picks an ally like Grandma. In the meantime, he'd work to do. 'You'll put the game away?' he said, through another yawn.
'I will, darling.' Cathy turned the TV off. 'Go to bed, love. Sleep tight.'
'Goodnight.'
'Sure you're all right, Mum?' Alicia asked, entering the room a few minutes later.
'Yes, babe, and thanks for washing up. It was very considerate of you.'
'As long as I've got my mum, I'm happy.'
They hugged on the sofa.
'I'm going to shower and then read in bed.'
'That sounds like a fabulous idea. Your education really is important. Goodnight, darling.'
'Are you sure there's nothing I can do?'
'Positive.'
'Goodnight, then.'
Alone again, Cathy poured a glass of red wine and packed away the game. Had she sincerely doubted that she was capable of loving? The things that sometimes enter your head! She'd always cherish them both. And she and Ian had enjoyed a better run together than she often cared to admit. How terribly sad that some flames burn out.
The thought that Michael might be amused by her anger stopped her sending a vitriolic text. The slimy liar had played deceitful games right up to the end - a Google search could not find a Mr Rodger G. Cutterford of any Cutterford & Nash. What sort of creep is willing to act out a scene like that? Did he owe Michael money? Was he one of the old boys' network, scratching a back or getting his kicks through an unscrupulous wager? Far more to the point: what sort of man hasn't the courage to do what he has to do? Or did pathetic, privileged excuses like Michael consider that the ends always justify the means? Perhaps honesty, pluck and right and wrong are for the lowly fools of this world. Cathy realised that an opportunity to exact revenge would probably never present itself. Men like Michael get away with murder.