by Randal Eliot
Chapter Ten
At the bottom of the stairs, on a folded white sheet mottled and dashed with several shades of paint, a battered, black guitar case leant against a classic, fifty watt Marshall amplifier. The guitar case was covered in discoloured, peeling stickers of your friendly neighbourhood super heroes, relics of a breakfast cereal promotion that everybody's TV had raved about with snap, crackle and pop back in the day. At the side of the amp nearest the shoe rack, which was a striking display of newish leather and fashion labels, a dozen books were neatly piled, the largest at the bottom, the smallest at the top. A shiny harmonica rested on the top book's cover; its position seemed to underscore the publisher's boast that Jack London's very best short stories were printed on its pages, now yellowing with age.
In the kitchen, another famous genre of words could be heard - final instructions from parent to son. Presently, a frowning Davie Randall pushed through the door. Dressed in skin-tight jeans and an electric blue T-shirt, he strode across the hall, claiming a seat on the amp like a head roadie with an attitude. He cooled it. Unwillingly smiled. Opening up the guitar case's oxidising latches, he attentively lifted out a polished, sunburst Telecaster. Wow! For a moment, it seemed he had stopped breathing in his reverence. Putting the leather strap over his shoulder, Davie rested the edge of the guitar's body across his lap exactly as real players did. What next? His nails tapped the white scratch plate. Though he'd spent over an hour conscientiously cleaning the instrument the previous evening, its strings had been a problem: all six had rusted to some extent and produced a guileless, flat discord whenever he lightly strummed them. Surfing the internet to learn about tuning up had proved fruitless - the information he'd found made sense to his eyes but not to his ears. It's only rock and roll and he couldn't do it.
Mum stepped into the hallway: stopping at the bottom of the stairs and treating Davie to a look that might as well have said, 'Don't you dare catch the music bug,' she called, 'Alicia, are you ready, love?'
'In a minute!'
'Why do you have to go out because Dad's coming? He hasn't any bad feelings about whatever Alicia did.'
'She didn't do anything, Davie. Will you get it into your head?' Mum gently crow-pecked her son, emphasising her point. He rubbed the spot on his skull though it didn't hurt. 'It's a shame Alicia has to venture out, but it's unavoidable. She wants to be at her most dazzling to sing at a wedding reception tonight. People expect an extra effort for their big occasions.'
Mum was wearing her black, wool blend coat that draped down over the tops of her black, thigh high, stack heel boots. Davie considered that she looked dressed for a kinky funeral. He said nothing, however, letting the guitar strings tunelessly ring out like a feeble substitute for tolling bells. How big was this occasion, right here, in this house?
Mum's leather boots squeaked as she turned back towards the kitchen. Seconds later, Alicia bounded down the stairs. She grabbed her quilted black coat from the hanger over the shoe rack, snatched her Ugg boots, and - as if Davie didn't exist - also made for the kitchen. 'You don't have to go, Alicia, Dad's cool,' her brother said, softly. She glanced witheringly over her shoulder before disappearing through the door.
She doesn't need to buy a thing, Davie scornfully reflected, and escaping for the meantime will solve nothing. But that was his sister all over - a stickleback darting about in a scummy beck, pretending she's a dolphin elegantly gliding on the surf of a beautiful, turquoise ocean. As soon as anything reminds her of the truth, she dives and hides amongst weeds and corroding junk.
Davie returned to the guitar. How do you make the strings sing?
'Right, Davie,' Mum called, 'we're off. Get something from the fridge for dinner. Don't make a mess. Pass our regards onto… Your father.'
'Yeah.' Twang! The back door clicked as it closed. They'd really gone. How sickening, thought Davie.
Mum dropped a gear and cruised behind a white van. They were descending the steep hill leading to another of the town's arterial roads. 'You didn't say what you need, Alicia, babe. Where's it to be first?'
'I was thinking that I won't be able to get them in town. Can we ride out to Leeds?'
'I'm intrigued. What's so special? You're after a bit of razzle-dazzle, aren't you?'
'You know as well as I do that the shops in the town stock hardly anything worth buying.'
'I'd hoped we wouldn't be all day. And my boots aren't suitable for a longish drive. Isn't there anywhere closer that's good enough? What do you want? I might be able to make a suggestion.'
Alicia adjusted her seat belt as if it had been too tight.
'You're not expecting a full outfit? We can't afford one right now.'
'Not an outfit just…' Alicia stared through the windscreen at the grimy registration plate of the white van. It braked for the traffic lights on the approach to the bridge over the rail tracks. No coded message existed in the registration plate's letters and numbers that would help her. Just another incoherent jumble. 'Some things.'
'Come on, like what?' Mum asked, braking.
'I'll know when I see them.'
'You expect me to drive all the way to Leeds to… Hold on - I knew it - Davie's right. You're avoiding your father.'
'Don't be silly!'
'You've behaved strangely ever since you knew he was due to visit.'
'That's not true.'
'This must be the very first time you've sat in the passenger seat and haven't tried to blast out a CD on full volume. It's not you.'
'I won't want to go anywhere with my eyes puffy and messed up.'
Alicia's emotional whine caused Cathy to blow a huge sigh, her head rocking back into the cushioned head rest. What use is a green light if you don't know where you're driving? She accelerated nonetheless. Alicia turned her head to hide her face. It was no view out of the side window - they were passing the crumbling, high, red brick wall of the largest scrap yard for miles.
At the knock on the front door, Davie propped the neck of the guitar against the radiator and got up off the amp. He swung the door open. In spite of the harsh nip in the air, Dad was without a coat and in his best blue and red check shirt, newest jeans, and those posh brown shoes he got last Christmas and had never previously worn. 'That was quick, Davie,' he said, with a grin he might have copied from a TV ad. 'Oh, I see - you've been rocking on the dark side of the door. Or something along those lines.'
'Hardly. I can't get it in tune. I hope you're not bothered about me having a go. Me and Mum went up into the attic and sorted through everything.'
'She said she'd do it when I phoned. Is your mum there? Can I come in?' Having to ask stirred a strange, angry melancholy. Ian clapped his hands and rubbed them together, generating heat. 'I won't keep her for long and you're letting in the cold keeping me stood here.'
'You can come in, obviously. It's your house. But they've gone out to get some stuff for Alicia's show tonight.'
Like a black cloud disappointment scudded across Dad's face.
'Er… Shall I make a cup of tea?'
Dad's eyes were blank, his thoughts elsewhere. Then he snapped out of it - his gaze focussed on Davie, if his smile didn't return. 'Make one for Uncle Dan as well. Same as mine. I'll go drag him out of his car.'
Davie looked beyond Dad's shoulder: a maroon saloon was parked alongside the kerb. The driver wasn't visible from the doorway. 'Ok. I'll shut the door. Come straight in when you're ready.'
Dad turned to the drive to fetch his brother.
As Davie stepped into the hall balancing two cuppas in his right hand, Uncle Dan greeted him by feigning eye-popping shock: 'Jeez, look who's grown since I last saw him. How long is it?'
Davie had no idea, and he jolted back, spilling burning hot tea over the sides of the cups. He pulled a face at the just about bearable pain. So this unshaven, strapping mountain in a leather biker's jacket, torn jeans, and concrete crusted boots was Uncle Dan. He smelled funny. Patchouli. How come a man like that got
a gun licence? No wonder people said the world's mad.
'It's far too long, Dan, that's what it is. And you'll have to pull those boots off - soil the carpet and Davie's life won't be worth living. Keep the great clumsy things on the sheet she's put the amp and stuff on.'
'I'll do it for the kid, not for you.'
While sipping char in the living room, Uncle Dan regaled his brother and nephew with his bad ass biker exploits. It was plain that Ian was gutted because his wife and Alicia had gone out - Dan's enthusiasm was about covering up the situation's awkwardness as much as anything, or at least it was initially. He got so carried away with his dream to ride hard and fast across the US that he bragged his Harley would be ready for some throttle in a week or so. 'And that's when you look out of the window, Davie, and see a great flock of pigs flying by,' Dad commented, reining Dan in.
'Just when it was getting good,' laughed Dan, slapping his knee.
'Never mind, Uncle Dan,' said Davie, thinking he's a nut, sort of likeable, but a nut all the same.
'Although I'd like to, we can't stay long,' Dad explained now Dan's tales of high living on the road had run out of gas. 'Your uncle has to finish building a brick wall, no rest for the wicked or Satan's Slaves. I thought I'd be saying hello to you kids, arranging a date to have you over, and ironing out one or two things with your mother. Was it too much to ask that they stay in this once? They could have gone shopping afterwards. It's only eleven o'clock as it is.'
'Yeah, well…' Surely Dad understood some of what was going on in Alicia's head? But there again, perhaps not: a great deal was being kept in the dark. 'I thought that as well.'
'It's out of order,' offered Uncle Dan. 'Love and money - who invented them?'
'I've seen you so it hasn't been a complete waste of time. While you're here, can you play a tune?'
'Things sure as hell need lightening up,' chortled Uncle Dan. 'And I've forgotten how bad you are!'
'We haven't got time,' Dad stiffly, evasively retorted.
'We can make it,' Dan insisted, his eyes glinting mischievously. 'A few bricks can wait a little to be put into a wall.'
'Twist my arm any further up my back and I won't be fit to do anything.'
Dan held his rough paws in the air, protesting his innocence and smirking provocatively.
'Go get it, Davie. But don't drag the amplifier in - we don't want your neighbours rioting. And that's before we fret about your mother's floors.'
'Thank your lucky stars our old lady isn't here,' Dan reminisced. 'She was Rocker Randall's biggest fan as I recall.'
'Old Nick's favourite tunes weren't to her taste, that's all.'
'Old Nick?'
'Some used to call rock and roll the devil's music, Davie. Old Nick's another name…'
'For the devil. I get it. And the amp's no use right now, anyway. The guitar lead didn't work. I threw it out.'
'You'll want to throw him and the guitar out once you've heard music massacred,' quipped Uncle Dan.
'That's it, bro, laugh at your own jokes. No one else will.'
Davie handed Dad his axe and plonked down beside Dan on the opposite sofa. The lad watched with a kind of mortified awe as Dad's fingers fumbled, shaping a chord. Everybody grimaced when Dad's comeback strum was a dull, scratchy flop. 'Right, it's that out of tune,' he said, pretending to be surprised. Turning the tuning head of the deep E, he plucked the rusty string and it vibrated mutedly. 'That'll have to do. Now for the A string.' Dad compared its sound to that of the E string held down with his index finger at the first, second, third, - Davie counted - fourth, fifth fret. Whatever Dad was trying to do, didn't seem to be working. 'My ears are shot,' he complained.
'You lost what you never had.'
Davie wanted to tell Dan to shut it.
Boing-urrr!
'Wait!' Dad exclaimed. 'That's more like it. Getting there. Yes. Just like riding a bike.' Dad smugly laughed in his brother's direction. He proceeded to tune the remaining four strings, not without problems. When he'd finally done, he strummed a chord. 'I've still got the A, hip-hip-hooray!' But his bullishness wilted when he tried to change chords. 'My fingers are like planks of wood.'
'Nothing changes.'
'Oh yeah?' Dad's scowl seemed to say. He awkwardly ran up and down major and minor scales, gradually freeing his fingers so that they might eventually flow. In his intense concentration, his tongue curled out of the corner of his mouth. Dan clapped and hollered, and Davie sheepishly sniggered along, mentally praying to some unknown god of music that Dad would prove his too loud brother wrong. Davie was fast revising his opinion of Uncle Dan!
'Right,' Dad said, determinedly. 'I've got it. Here we go. One song only.' It was only when he tapped a foot four times on the laminate floor that Davie noticed Dad's socks were odd; one black, the other blue. 'Back when I was younger so much younger than today…'
Cathy watched a pair of swans effortlessly sailing over choppy waters to the edge of the municipal park's lake. Waves lapped against, and splashed up onto, the cracked, subsiding concrete bank. The icy breeze that swept across the lake stung her face's flesh and scythed through her body no matter how tightly she pulled her black coat around her. Strands of blond hair were blown in and out of her eyes. Oblivious to her discomfort, one of the swans dipped its head underwater, searching for food. Its mate looked into the breeze, paddling webbed feet against the waves, treading water.
'Remember the story of the ugly duckling? You've grown into a beauty, too, but you've always been loved.' She put her arm round Alicia's shoulder and whispered into her ear: 'Your eyes are dry now. How about getting into the car and trying to get back in time to see Dad? Davie wouldn't have said everything is fine if it isn't. And I can sense that all's well.'
'I daren't!' Alicia wriggled and shook off her mother's arm. She hid her face in her hands. 'I don't know what he thinks of me.'
'That you're his daughter, and our love as parents is unconditional. It's his wife he'll never forgive.'
'You don't want to be forgiven,' Alicia sullenly countered, her hands dropping.
'I don't need to be forgiven by him or any man. I'm concerned about you, and how you might look back on this when you're older.'
'So it's about your image in my eyes? How do you think I see myself? I know I've done wrong. He's my dad - I'm some sort of monster. I hate myself.'
'Oh Alicia, stop punishing yourself,' Cathy implored. 'Didn't I cheat?' There, she'd said it out loud. 'How can it be your fault? If you'd said something straight away…'
'The moment I caught you behaving like a slut!'
'You'd have felt terrible for causing us to row,' Cathy soldiered on, despite the piercing thrust of her daughter's words. 'We'd very likely have broken up back then. Don't you see? I should have ended it. I should have seen the type of man Michael was when he offered a naïve young girl money. Don't blame yourself for what I've done and what I've failed to do. Your father can be a reasonable man. He'll see the position I put… Now - up on our feet - let's get into the car.'
'I'm scared.'
'Once you've spoken to each other you'll wonder why you ever worried. It's always the case.'
'These things you say to make me feel better make me feel worse!'
'You overcome something by defeating your fear of it. You can be as brave as anyone - just try.'
Alicia's eyes scanned the lake's choppy waters. Last December, in an especially severe cold snap, a chronically depressed middle-aged woman had driven to the park around midnight, abandoned her car by the gates, and walked in the darkness through the avenue of oaks and horse chestnut trees, across the race course, and down to the lake. It must have been the loneliest final journey - the woman threw herself through the thick ice and drowned. Alicia knew that she could never do such a thing, yet she sometimes believed she most easily understood people who couldn't go on. Why was everything and everybody so difficult? Over her ankles, then up to her knees, her waist, her neck, Alicia envis
aged walking out into deepening, murky waters until she was submerged. A duality of terror and morbid comfort caused her to shudder, her skin erupting with goosebumps. She blinked, her head turning, as if evading her own imagination. The swan lifted its head above the water. Unperturbed by the icy depths, the beautiful white birds swam away from the bank. Alicia wondered, would she ever be strong?
'It isn't just this business, is it? What else is worrying you?'
Rather than answer, Alicia watched the swans climb out of the lake onto the manmade island. They waddled into the copse of leafless trees and towards the duck houses. And then in a tremulous whisper, she confessed: 'I thought show business was about inspiration when it might be the sleaziest thing on earth.'
'Babe, the best made plans sometimes need tearing up. No one is going to criticise you for not yet knowing what you're going to do with your life. You're so young.'
'My teachers, the careers officers, my tutors - they've all said we should know what we're aiming for by our age. What if they're right and I get left behind? If I fail as a singer, I'll have doubly failed because my college work is suffering.'
'Those late nights, especially on weekends, are doing you no good, babe. At your age you need your rest. Why don't you shelve singing until you've finished college? And now we're being frank, I've got to say that man is detestable.'
'Bogeyman Boden?'
'The one and the same. I wanted to stop you dealing with him, only with everything else going on, I thought any intervention might seem controlling. You are eighteen.'
'And I had the crazy idea that being an adult was going to be cool.'
'Why don't you take the pressure off and sing for fun instead of treating it as a career? Join that noisy rock group at college that wanted you to front them. I'm sure they're nice boys.'
'Mostly.'
'What do you mean 'mostly'?'
'Boys will be boys.' Alicia pulled a face. 'I'll think about it.'
'And what about tonight?'
'It's a wedding. I can't let people down on their big day.' Alicia stood up, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her quilted coat for warmth. 'We'd better go.'
'That's my girl.' Cathy locked her arm into her daughter's and they trod along the bank towards the path to the car park.
Across the football pitches, under goal posts, a man in a fishtail parka threw a stick for his golden Labrador to fetch. Other dog walkers hadn't strayed so far from the car park; while their pets ran and sniffed around, they mooched along the race course rails with their hoods up or their hats pulled down. A husky drifted onto the deserted playground; it cocked its leg and pissed at the bottom of the slide. Cathy tut-tutted and shook her head. 'I've been thinking,' Alicia said, too preoccupied to be disgusted by dogs or their owners, 'can you remember saying you'd pay for a portfolio?'
'Modelling?' Cathy asked with some surprise.
'Would you still help out? Maybe it's my way forward. I might even get music business contacts through it. Everyone knows I've some chance at modelling. Even the bitches.'
'I don't know why you resisted the idea before,' Cathy said, her face paling at the thought of a portfolio's expense. The change in their circumstances demanded that the household tighten their belts. Drastically. And what if, when everything settled down, Alicia had another change of heart? It would be typical of her. Yet who else would invest in her daughter's future? Her kids each had one chance to grow and develop. 'We'll get you a portfolio,' Cathy stoically promised. 'Right now, however, I'm more interested in getting the kettle on. By now your father will likely have gone, anyway…'
'That's mega cool, Dad. Show me some more lead guitar.'
'I'm afraid Uncle Dan won't get paid until he finishes his job.' Ian had noticed his brother repeatedly glancing at his mobile in the last few minutes.
Dan drained his second cup of tea and, rising from the sofa, looked apologetically at his young nephew. 'Another time, Davie, huh? Time to put my big boots on and my back into it.'
'Did you get the card off the dash before you came in?'
Dan produced an envelope from the inside of his leather jacket. He handed it to his brother who handed it to his son. It was addressed to Alicia in Dad's best handwriting. 'Make sure your sister gets that.'
'No problem,' Davie said, nodding earnestly.
Holding the harmonica between his lips, Ian lifted the amplifier and squeezed sideways through the front door. Dan followed with the guitar in its case. That left the small pile of books to Davie, which he packed in the boot beside the amp. Dan laid the guitar case across the back seat as his brother blasted a melody on the harmonica. Davie recognised but couldn't name the tune. 'Love Me Do, kid,' his dad grinned.
'You and the bloody Beatles,' scoffed Dan. 'They were out of date when we were kids.'
'That doesn't stop you listening to Cream and Hendrix.'
'Tch. Catch you later, Davie.' Uncle Dan opened the driver's door. 'Have fun.'
'Yeah. See you.'
'I'll be in touch again soon, my son.' Ian gave Davie high-fives. 'Make sure Alicia gets her card. Ta-ra for now.'
As they drove off, Davie's nonchalant wave disguised a rolling, rocking sea of emotion within. He went back through the gate.
Dan's motor turned the corner to leave the street as Cathy turned onto it. Ian instinctively waved. 'Going in opposite directions. What a mess we've made,' he said, regretfully. 'Did the kid wave back to me?'
'She'll come round the same as Davie,' Dan counselled, accelerating.
'It'll work itself out,' Cathy reiterated to Alicia, pulling up outside the house.
'You've just missed Dad,' Davie said, coming from the living room and following them into the kitchen. 'He left a card for you.'
'For me?'
Davie bit his tongue, cutting off a swipe of sarcasm.
'Take it and open it,' Mum said, encouragingly.
Alicia tentatively took the envelope from Davie's hand and unzipped her shoulder bag.
'Read it, missy!'
'Like now?'
'Yes, like now!'
Alicia slowly tore open the envelope with the enthusiasm of a spendthrift confronting a suspected debt. A big red heart was embossed on the silvery card's cover.
'What does it say?'
'Give me a chance,' Alicia hissed, opening the card. 'To my one and only daughter,' she read out, her eyes wide and her voice shaking, 'love you now and forever. Dad.'
'There you go. That's lovely.'
'What did I tell you? Do you ever believe me?'
'That's enough, Davie.'
'I best start preparing for tonight,' Alicia managed to utter before the lump in her throat took away her voice. She couldn't get out of the kitchen fast enough.
It seemed to Cathy that the house had regained some equilibrium. She reached over the kitchen sink, opening the Venetian blinds and letting in what felt to be rare sunlight, for the clouds were breaking up somewhat, sharing touches and patches of beautiful, crisp azure. Briefly, she fancied that the windows were the house's eyes, winking at her, approvingly, forgivingly. How it's possible to delude yourself! Cathy had previously fancied that the walls were sagging, slowly caving in, when they could actually shelter her for the rest of her time. If her money troubles were resolved. The place had been bought long before the mad boom that led to the insane crash - thank God she didn't have a 'modern' mortgage! Her challenge was getting on top of everything else. Stupid, rotten plastic. Stupid, rotten cost of living. However she tried to do the sums, nothing added up. Each letter that now dropped onto the doormat had only a fifty-fifty chance of being opened. Did the world want her to get out there and sell her body?
That morning she'd known it was vital to discuss money matters with Ian, but had judged her daughter's emotional needs to be more important. And that wasn't all. Her husband's desire to salvage old things from the attic was unnerving. Memories can be so haunting. Damn! What had her husband made of her absence? His opinio
n of her was already likely so low that he'd want to rush through a divorce. Was he thinking about selling up? Surely he'd want the kids to have a secure home? It made sense to take everything one step at a time, and up on her tiptoes if need be. Ian would have to understand she'd aided Alicia's healing process that morning, yes, that's what she'd say. She'd phone him soon enough and persuade their daughter to say hello. That would make up for it, wouldn't it? And worrying only breeds panic attacks.
Keeping herself busy, Cathy ironed Davie's school uniform and mopped the kitchen floor, letting out tension by improvising hums and la-la's to Alicia's pop music that carried down the stairs. Ian's card seemed to have woven magic - the music wasn't loud enough to thunderously articulate anger, and it wasn't quiet enough to console like a lullaby. For his part, Davie was flopped across the sofa watching a programme about Vikings. Although Cathy might have appreciated some help, she left him to it; at least it was educational. The kids hadn't exactly stopped doing their favourite things since her and Ian's break up, but resentment - and not just the usual teenage cheek - had become part and parcel of everyday communication. And projecting her anxieties onto situations hadn't helped. It had to stop. All was not lost. Ian's loving gesture towards Alicia, and her response, had generated a warm glow with the potential to lead them both out of the darkness. In the future, some sort of peace might touch and bless their relationship. Maybe, in the long term, everything would be for the best.
Cathy allowed Alicia time and space, and then popped her head round her daughter's bedroom door. The card stood beside the Winnie-the-Pooh lamp on Alicia's bedside table. 'Everything fine?' Cathy cheerily asked.
'I can't find my silver necklace with the heart pendant.' Alicia moved away from her desk in the corner, looking round. Miniature Tigger peered over several text books as if to say, 'Thank gawd, the whirlwind's gone.'
'The one your dad got you for your birthday?'
'I really want to wear it.' Alicia started rooting through the tops in her top drawer.
'Is it likely to be in there?'
'It must be somewhere!'
'What about where you last put it?'
'That much is obvious. The problem is I don't know where I last put it.'
'You can't see for looking, babe.'
'Where is it?'
'Round Pudsey's neck.'
'Excellent!' Alicia beamed at the bandaged cuddly toy on her pillow like he'd been given a clean bill of health. 'I remember now,' she said, carefully unfastening her jewellery from round Pudsey. 'I wasn't sure if… Oh, it doesn't matter. And I'm sorry for saying… awful things.'
'Words don't hurt when I know you're fine.' Cathy stepped through the doorway and squeezed Alicia tight. A little love sometimes goes all the way.
After everything that had happened, a period of contemplation and regret was perfectly natural; nevertheless, life doesn't stop moving, teaching new lessons to those who are capable of learning and growing wiser. Hadn't Cathy discovered that she didn't exist solely for the benefit and pleasure of any man? How many years had she dressed up to fit in the man's world? And what had it achieved? They'd considered her to be a doll - a mere plaything - to be used and abused as they saw fit. Well, there was to be no more of that. From now on, she'd do everything for herself and her children. If that meant going without make up or knocking about in raggedy-ass but comfy jeans, then that's what she'd do. And if she wanted to wear the most gorgeous gown, then she'd wear it for herself and be herself. Disguises were out! Already she could hear people talking and judging her, 'Hasn't she let herself go?' or 'Who does she think she is?' And the simple answer and truth? 'I am Cathy'.
The gloom of hard, bitter reality threatened to kill off the tender buds of her hopefulness. Independence? How can you be truly free and owe so much? People like her were trapped in dreary routines so the bit they'd got in debt to have wasn't taken away. Oh, she might have lost herself in dreams of grandeur, but she wasn't so far-gone to be an eternally sleeping beauty. Most recently, while surfing the Web for solutions, she'd read enough to reckon two plus two equals life is one big con. Take it from her, the greedy bastards could keep their dirty, fiddling hands off her family! The great irony was her bloody taxes had bailed out the bigwigs when they'd messed up! Who was going to bail her out? Money? Burn it! It made common folk miserable. You needn't look any further than her own house for proof of that. She and Ian had slaved and borrowed to build a perfect place to raise a family, a lifestyle that drained the loving soul out of them and rewarded them with a stone cold show house.
Had it been wrong or simply human to look again for the love that can exist between a woman and a man? Why was she being punished? Her search had poisoned other intimate relationships and threatened to tear the roof from over her kids' heads. How vindictive did life aim to be? Huh! She'd fight it! One way or another, she'd find a way to keep their home afloat and become free. Yes, free, that's what she was going to be!
For now, the concept of freedom seemed vaguely connected to the pleasurable indulgence of her habits - something nice to eat and a couple of bottles of wine wouldn't break the lousy bank any more than it already was. Wouldn't the rest of it - whatever freedom is - come to her naturally if she rejected some of the straitjacketing roles she was expected to play? No, I'm not just a skivvying mother or eye-candy! In a state of rebellious excitement, Cathy resolved to suggest that Alicia get a taxi home from her gig. Wasn't she always asserting that she's 'a big girl now'? And think how relaxed Cathy might feel when she popped open a bottle and put on a movie! Pure bliss!
Splashing soapy water over the few dishes, Cathy stood them in the drainer, dried her hands and shouted to the kids that she was nipping out to the supermarket. They didn't respond. Before they figured what they wanted, she grabbed her purse, leather shoulder bag and keys, and slunk out of the door. She sped out of the estate towards town, singing along to a track on her favourite rock compilation. 'Born to be wild!'
Have we all taken leave of our senses? She wryly smiled, rising above Saturday's mid-afternoon madness – supermarket aisles so tightly packed with punters slow cooking life's stresses they could be tinned and classified as stew. One flabby man's porcine mush had such a raw flush he looked like he'd been spit-roasted. His sweat dripped like fat from a cheap joint as he sharply angled his trolley - stacked full with value bog roll and disinfectant - round a chest-high pallet of baked beans. He pushed on, squeezing between the loaves and a petite, doddering old lady's trolley with such desperate urgency Cathy was obliquely reminded of the news of refugees fleeing war. And evidence of another conflict could be seen. The price war. Two thick crust pizzas for the price of one, an offer that bombed another stores' most recent plan of attack, courtesy of TV and a gold-winning Olympian's voice-over. Everywhere everything was dictated to by the one and same thing! Why keep getting burned? What purpose did it serve?
In some parts of the world people drank from and washed their rags in filthy rivers - think of those poor buggers she'd done a fun run in aid of a few years back - but just because somebody has it worse doesn't mean you've got it good. And that isn't the point, anyway. Everybody should have it easier with the mind-blowing technology in the world. And what is it used for instead?
As much as anyone else, Cathy knew she could vouch that all the gadgetry and flashy gimmicks on the market don't make you feel any better. They gave you a short-lived kick, then you wanted another, and another, until you resembled an addict funded by money that doesn't really exist. Luckily for her - and unbeknown to Ian - not everything had been purchased on plastic cards or interest free for X months, oh my word, how deep might be the hole she was in? What a bitter blessing that Michael's vanity wouldn't allow him to be seen dead with a less than perfect mistress, or to spend time in a place that too uncomfortably lacked class. She'd replace that disgusting deluxe mattress as soon as she had the cash. Several pairs of silk sheets and the most expensive lingerie had already felt her wrath and her
scissors. Wasn't it a shame she couldn't take them to certain dangly things and get away with it? Men's stinking world was so unfair! To hell with them, she'd no longer ingratiate their system! As if it signified some form of revolt, Cathy casually picked her way with her hand basket through the slow-moving trolleys, glancing across shoppers' shoulders at the bright packaging in the freezers and on the shelves, no, none of that, thank you! You never knew what they put in it, what with everything you heard and read. Horsemeat, for Christ's sake! Cathy had attributed Alicia's recent nattering about vegetarianism down to her fusspot inclinations, but, when you thought about it, maybe her girl was right. Is a veggie diet expensive?
Cathy finally went for a handsome, seasoned plaice, broccoli, baby sweetcorn and new potatoes. Any special offers on wine? Reading the label of an Australian red that had a few quid knocked off, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Megan Roberts worked in the wages department at the factory. Although Cathy had never had much to do with her, she'd heard of Miss Robert's reputation - the woman of many faces was on the polite end of the descriptive continuum. Cathy half-expected to see fangs when Megan's glossy, scarlet lips twisted into a smile. Her thick foundation had cracked like barren land in a drought. But wasn't it wrong to judge her on other people's words or her ghoulish appearance? Plenty were probably putting in their tuppence about Mrs Cathy Randall and her failed marriage. 'Hiya,' Cathy smiled.
'Hiya,' Megan replied, giggling flightily. Her blue eyes were mocking, spiteful marbles. 'Returning to work shortly?'
'Everything's on the mend. Thanks for asking.'
'I was going to say, someone comparing the prices of wines isn't ill in my book.'
'But you never studied the books that would make you a qualified doctor.'
Cathy's quick wit dimmed the lustre of malice in Megan's eyes. But only fleetingly:
'I suppose you need a drink after being dumped by mucky Michael. That must have been sickening enough.'
Cathy's hand basket clattered to the floor. Half-dazed like she'd been walloped, she shoved the bottle of wine onto the wrong shelf. It chinked against a bottle of Chilean red.
'Come on, you're never too ill to carry that bit of shopping.' Megan had the knack of purring whilst simultaneously scratching with her claws. 'And it appears your appetite is healthy enough.'
'What the hell has it got to do with you?' A pointless question if ever there was one; some people live to mind everybody else's business:
'We'll be seeing you at work on Monday? Wouldn't want anybody to start telling tales, would we?'
How Cathy later wished she'd minced the interfering cow or stuck an out-of-date label on her rump! Instead, she pushed through the queue to the nearest checkout - 'Hey watch it!' 'Excuse me costs nothing!' - and took a tortuous escape route in and out of the steady procession of shoppers pushing their groceries to the exit. Outdoors, she took a great gulp of cold air tinged with nauseous petrol. Plucking her mobile from her bag, she dialled Michael's number. Had she ever been this humiliated? He deserved to pay with more than a piece of her mind! It rang twice, and then his recorded, smarmy voice gave her the option of leaving a message. She cut the line dead. He wasn't getting away with it that easy. She'd managed to get his home number when, at the height of his romantic pretensions, she'd forced a discussion about emergencies. He'd made her promise to use the number only for matters of life and death. Right now, she could certainly murder him! It rang four times:
'Hello, Victoria speaking.'
His wife. Did Cathy have anything to say to her? How much did Victoria know? Cathy started striding across the car park - the people waiting for lifts with their carrier bags by the supermarket's doors weren't entitled to a free show.
'Hello there. Is something wrong with the line?'
To Cathy's ears, Victoria sounded like a Victorian ma'am. She possessed the type of posh voice that couldn’t be used on advertisements for fear of alienating common consumers.
'This isn't particularly amusing. I'm dreadfully busy. Who is it that's fooling around?'
'Your dirt bag husband. Or at least he was. Is he available to speak or is he busy, having lied his way into another poor girl's bed?'
'You.' Silence. Had Victoria hung up? No, and she returned with spiky sang-froid: 'I wondered when the scorned woman's harassment would commence. Hasn't my husband told you that it's over?'
'His word is actually worth something?'
'Never mind that. What do you want?'
A damn good question. Such a phone call couldn’t achieve anything, and Victoria knew it:
'If you think for one minute that my husband is about to resume his sordid affair with you, you had better think again.'
'Trust me, lady, I've discovered I'm allergic to insects, especially the big creepy-crawlies.'
'Why make a pest of yourself with such an impertinent call, then?'
'Does he realise the trouble he's caused me?'
'Are you pregnant?'
Cathy visualised Victoria's sudden tense posture, as if two hundred volts had bolted her upright. Her tongue and lips sparked and cracked:
'Are you?'
'Mothering farmyard animals isn't quite my thing.'
'So you were at least sensible enough to use contraception.'
The patronising, hoity-toity bitch! And she got worse:
'I believe you need putting straight. You never had Michael. You were his toy. One that was always going to lose its novelty.'
'He's grown up into a big boy? No longer likes games with girls? You're very lucky not to have your hair pulled even if he is pulling something else.'
'How lame! Like a child who can't get her own way! Don't be so eager to blame Michael for everything. A married woman who messes around with another lady's husband is doing all she can to cause her own grief.'
'I know about that, lady, thank you very much.' Cathy had lost the moral high ground the moment Michael's wife had answered, and the cast-off mistress struggled to reposition herself: 'But does he think he can trample over people and get away with it, just like that?'
'Don't be so stupid, you frivolous woman. How little you understand!'
'Just tell him from me…' What? That stupid Megan Roberts had provoked and rattled her to do this! '…Tell him…' Think of something!
'Hadn't you better tell him yourself? It's time we met up for a chat, don't you think?'
'How cosy.'
'Quite,' Victoria tartly replied. 'Can we arrange to meet somewhere tonight?'
'Are you crazy?'
'I might more appropriately ask you the same question. You've phoned my home and invaded my privacy with your stinking attitude and only after fucking my husband!'
Cathy's knees went wobbly. She leant on the boot of her car for support. In her anger, she'd forgotten that this woman was more than a victim of Michael's transgressions - she herself had intended to ruin Victoria's marriage.
'All things taken into consideration, shouldn't we ensure that these wretched shenanigans are irrevocably laid to rest? You choose the venue. We'll make it.'
Cathy froze, unable to speak.
'Michael suggests The Golden Lion - I presume you know it?'
It was the pub a mile or so down the road from the motel where they'd sometimes met up.
'Is eight o'clock suitable?'
'I…' What's going on? Cathy's head was spinning with dark possibilities. '…Don't know.'
'If you don't know, no one does!'
'Make it eight-thirty.' Why had she said that? 'It's… far more convenient.' She could drive over to the pub after she'd given Alicia a lift to her gig.
'Eight-thirty it is. We'll be there. Goodbye.'
It didn't make sense. Why hadn't Victoria simply insisted that she stay away? Irrevocably laid to rest? What on earth were they hoping to say or do? Would it be safe to meet them? It might be much wiser if, this time, she stood Michael up. Whatever, Cathy couldn't stand about in the car park like a lost shee
p. She got into her motor. Clicked on her seat belt. Turned the key in the ignition. Made a decision.
Cathy absently hung her bag on the hook for the house keys. Mercifully, the kids were up in their rooms, out of the way. Reaching for a mug, an impulse to throw them all, one by one, at the wall came over her. Everything was getting too much and… Stop it. Right now. Take slow, deep breaths. A spoonful of coffee. Two sugars. A splash of milk. Stir. She carried her drink through to the room, put it on the coffee table, and fell into the sofa. Oh her rotten, exhausting days! Sinking into the cushions, she massaged her temples, closed her eyes, and imagined somewhere faraway…
Her coffee was stone cold when Alicia's singing brought her round. How long had she been out of it? Hours! Darkness reigned both outside and inside. Her head was thick and some shadowy recollection of an ugly dream ghosted across her consciousness. She got up, half-heartedly stretched, and turned on the light. It was six o'clock. She went through to the kitchen, drowsily skirting round Alicia and the ironing board. While Cathy made a fresh coffee, Alicia said something. 'That's lovely, dear,' Cathy murmured in reply. 'You'll have to start getting ready soon.'
'That's what… Drink your coffee, Mum.'
'I'll have a quick shower before you jump in. I've only one foot in the land of the living.'
No matter how many times he'd been told, Davie wouldn't stop leaving the shower set so that it might spray steaming hot water onto whoever was next naked and forgot to be vigilant. The prank was largely unsuccessful; nevertheless, his sister had twice been reduced to tears in as many years. Butter wouldn't melt, the lad had claimed that there had been an accident on both occasions. 'You don't have the shower boiling hot!' Alicia sobbed vehemently after he'd made his excuses the second time round.
'You could have scalded your sister!' Cathy shouted, scoldingly, dismayed by her daughter's sore-looking flush.
'I thought I'd turned it down,' Davie explained through gritted teeth, as if deeply offended by such unjust insinuations.
'You know how clumsy bloody teenagers are, with their heads in the clouds,' Ian grumpily interjected, defending and admonishing their boy in the same breath.
'It'd better not happen again,' Cathy stormed. 'Or else!' What? She'd take a turn at stepping through the curtain and into the shower, the sudden raw heat shocking her shoulders and chest? She half-screamed, half-yelped, and leapt back towards the dry end of the bath, almost losing her balance on the slippery enamel. 'The little…' One of these days Davie would be in for it! Slowly calming down, Cathy examined herself, diagnosing survival. Leaning against the wall tiles to avoid the burning stream, she reached out and adjusted the control. Ah, that's better! The gentle heat spread inwards, warming her through, as if holding a spiritual torch to the bottom of her heart, challenging whatever treachery lurked in the shadows, for Cathy realised she could no longer afford to be her own worse enemy.
Refreshed, wide awake, Cathy further reasoned that no one was better than her and no one and nothing should be allowed to get to her. That callous, interfering cow, Megan? That stupid phone call? They meant nothing… What? Cathy's dream of echoing voices in dark, claustrophobic, mirrored tunnels surfaced from her subconscious. Hadn't she had the same dream the very day she'd revealed to Michael that her marriage was over? Had it been some kind of premonition? Why had it recurred? Trying to fathom it out in relation to the day's events, Cathy conceded that Megan Roberts, loathe her or hate her, wasn't entirely wrong. She needed to get back on full pay or else wolves would be prowling round her door.
While Alicia showered, Cathy slipped into a pair of faded, figure-hugging jeans with bell bottoms and an old blouse with a pattern of white lilies. If she aimed to show them who's really classy, they'd take it that they were worth impressing and special, and that was strictly no-no. Nonetheless, Cathy studied her full-length mirror for its advice; sometimes it was the sole reliable thing in her life. 'You look great, babe,' it silently promised. But were dark rings developing round her eyes? Did it matter? She'd go to hell rather than hang around Michael and Victoria for too long. Just hear out their rubbish and then hoorah, toodle-pip, good riddance. She wouldn't even remove her coat.
It was incredible that she'd agreed to the meeting; it was designed purely with their interests in mind. And wasn't that the danger? How desperate were they to keep up their pretence of a happy marriage? Cathy pondered over the conundrum again, and again concluded that they wouldn't dare take huge risks in such a public place. She'd be safe as long as she didn't let herself be lured somewhere more secluded.
If they or the suspense weren't going to kill Cathy, she'd do it herself if she wasn't careful - reaching for the black and white photograph of her mother on the end of her bookshelf mounted on the wall, she clumsily sent several hardback novels toppling towards her head. Springing back, her calves caught on the foot of the bed and she fell back onto the mattress. 'What next?' she moaned, feeling stupid, pushing herself into a sitting position. Eyeing the untidy, open books on the carpet, Cathy thought maybe that was her problem - she'd read and viewed so much trash she expected sensational twists and turns when nothing of the sort ever actually happens. Michael and Victoria would probably bore her to tears with self-pitying self-righteousness, not for one moment considering she'd also endured heartache. Still, you never could tell. She'd better be on her guard. In its grubby small-mindedness, reality seldom guaranteed happy endings.
Let the little shower-meddler complain about sliced bread! Cathy scanned the fridge and pulled out a packet of processed ham. A smudge of Branston? When Davie's sandwich was cut into triangles, she put a bag of salt and vinegar crisps and a Mars bar on the plate. She hated the kids eating in their rooms, but just this once she'd relax her rule - too much was going on to worry about a few crumbs.
'Room service,' Cathy sweetly called before pushing against Davie's bedroom door with her shoulder. The curtains were drawn tight; her son's television flickered and flashed, dimly illuminating the room, on and off. It reminded Cathy of a strobe and the singles' disco that evening fictional Mr Cutterford had done Michael's dirty work. What about the 'arrangement' and the money she'd accepted that night? She hadn't signed anything and it had been spent while she'd got over things on the sick - her former lover wasn't getting it back! Tough luck, Mikey boy. With a bit of luck, he'd be fuming that she'd gone back on her word. A taste of his own bitter medicine would cure him of any ideas that he had any control over her.
Cathy considered her son sprawled across his bed, entranced by the game on the screen. In the game of life would he turn out to be that type of hollow man? She observed his gung-ho onscreen character fire laser beams as he tore through a gloomy warehouse full of sealed boxes with 'CONFIDENTIAL' stamped on them in red. The strobe light effect was caused by the explosions when each shot hit or missed its target. A lesson in creating havoc? Sheer ruthlessness? Murder? 'What's the object of that game, Davie?' she asked, crouching to put the plate of food on the carpet by the bed.
'Saving humanity from alien invaders.'
Cathy reached for the door handle; did anything in the world make sense?
'You've forgot a drink.'
'Beam one up or come and get one yourself.'
Driving across town to the hotel hosting the wedding reception, Alicia pumped up the volume to drown out Mum's ominous silence. What had she got her knickers in a twist about? She'd better not start accusing her of something she hadn't done! Mum would usually be spinning encouragement like she had a religion that preached the sky should never be the limit as far as self-belief goes - you can be your own goddess up there among the twinkling stars! So what if the clouds concealed them tonight?
'I'm actually getting quite excited. Do you think they'll like me?' Alicia asked, fishing for an explanation and compliments. She glanced at Mum out of the corner of her eye.
Cathy turned the music off. 'They won't just like you - they'll adore you, babe. As long as you know that if you don't want to
sing, you can always let them dance to some other tune. And that goes for everything in life, always remember that.'
'This is a real audience,' Alicia boasted, 'not mucky old men and their sour, grotty wives. Everybody is turning up to honour a young couple on the best day of their lives. It doesn't get any more romantic.'
'I'm sure you'll do everybody proud.'
Was that it? Wasn't it going to be the greatest show they'd ever seen performed by the prettiest girl? Something was up, but at least the blame seemed to belong elsewhere. Ha! The thought that Davie was heading for the dog-house instantly fashioned a smirk on Alicia's lips.
Cathy indicated, slowed, and turned off the main road, passing a hoarding advertising succulent-looking Sunday roasts at under eight quid per head. The black, starless sky merged with the forms of stark, towering trees, creating an eerie sensation of blindness until Cathy flicked the headlights on full beam. For a moment or two, they crawled through a tunnel of sturdy tree trunks and bushy evergreens, emerging onto a gravelly courtyard illumined by dainty, Victorian-style lamps. Alicia pressed the button to lower her window as if the glass somehow spoiled her view. While cold air invaded the car, the muffled beat of pop music drifted out of the hotel. Cathy swung round and braked alongside the five or so steps that climbed up to reception's double doors, which were beneath a mock-classical entablature supported by a pair of ionic columns. Ivy crept up and over the red brick walls, thickening under the gutters as if it was regrouping, figuring where to go next.
'I wish you could stay,' Alicia said, warily eyeing two young men in suits who were smoking cigarettes at the top of the steps and peering down into the car. 'It's going to be a fantastic night.'
'They won't want strangers sitting in on their wedding celebrations, babe. You'll be fine.' In all the times Michael had escorted Cathy to the hotel, she'd seen a spot of bother just the once, and it had been efficiently dealt with.
Alicia wasn't persuaded. Shouldn't her mum want to cheer her on? Dropping her off like this amounted to saying her routine had grown tedious.
Noting Alicia's sullen expression, Cathy leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. 'They'll want at least five encores. I heard you singing while you were ironing - your voice is in peak condition.'
'Do you mean that?' Alicia forgot the young men.
'You'll have them dancing on the tables. Now go and enjoy it. Give me a ring if you've any problems with your taxi later.'
That was more like it, though there wasn't enough of it - praise that sounded like she meant it. Alicia embraced and held on to her mum.
'You'd better go sock it to 'em, babe.'
'It'll be my greatest performance yet,' Alicia vowed, unhooking herself from her parent. She inspected her reflection in the wing mirror before getting out. Opening a rear door, she carefully lifted her stage clothes and her bag from the seat. Her outfit was on hangers and protected by bin liners, and it was fortunate that she was too busy reliving the moment her mum had said she looked stunning in her glittery dress to hear one of the young men bitch: 'Least she knows she's tarty rubbish.'
From the top of the steps, ignoring the young men's brooding lust, Alicia blew a kiss and vanished through the doors. And now, Cathy thought, it's time to face my very own audience. One she'd love to knock dead.
The finest drizzle fell onto Cathy's windscreen, was wiped away, fell again, was wiped away, fell again, as she sped back across town. Under hazy orange lamp-light the wet roads glistened. Only once did she slow to a standstill; to allow pedestrians over a pelican crossing near hostile-looking high-rise flats. Not to return until Monday morning, the rush hour traffic had long since petered into a steady trickle, and Cathy arrived at her destination a quarter of an hour early. She'd last visited the pub years ago when, as a married couple, she and Ian had been invited to the birthday bash of one of his gobby, halfwit workmates. Not up to sitting alone with strangers' beer-goggles poring over her, she decided to wait in the car. And there was more to it, of course. The approaching moment of truth or of lies would test anyone's nerve, and it felt like Gothic ravens rather than butterflies were flapping their wings in her belly. Almost as bad as the time she'd discovered a gristly lump in her left breast. Miraculously, it had turned out to be benign, but there was no hope of anything mild about tonight's encounter. What was the point?
Cathy squinted, trying to see beyond the glare of a motor's headlights as it entered the car park. It was revealed to be a dark coloured, classic BMW as it manoeuvred round, and she believed she caught sight of Michael in the passenger seat. She wiped her sweaty palms on her foamy steering wheel, and then grasped it as if the action might help her get a grip on her fear. Instead, the years abruptly stripped away and Cathy vividly remembered, as a little girl, crying on a pavement. She'd wandered out of a baker's shop and been overwhelmed by the terrible uncertainty of becoming lost. Having paid for a loaf and a gingerbread man, her mother found her as soon as she stepped onto the street, mopping up Cathy's tears with a handkerchief that smelled of lavender… But that was then: who could she depend on now? Her intense shakiness prevented her from starting up her motor and roaring away.
The BMW pulled over in the dark, far corner of the car park. The silhouettes of two people getting out - one on either side of the vehicle - were barely perceptible. They moved towards the pub. Cathy identified Michael for definite when they stepped under the buzzing glow of the lamppost near the entrance. He wore a familiar grey suit. Under the pub sign that featured a golden king of the beasts resplendent with a crown, the couple paused to speak. Cathy had found courage by muttering a prayer to her mother, wherever her soul rested, and, as Michael glanced at his wristwatch, she felt nothing but a curious revulsion. Like watching a sizeable spider crawl up a wall from a safe seat on the other side of a room. She couldn't have loved him, could she? The pair went into the pub before Cathy took a good look at Victoria.
If Cathy had never loved him, had he really betrayed her? And did that mean Victoria was the one and only injured party? No good could come out of such a meeting, Cathy said to herself: who'd heard of such a thing? Why willingly walk into a fight? Especially when you're outnumbered. And then she thought again. Public warring wasn't Michael's style. All urbane charm to your face, he worked behind the scenes, patiently waiting for a perfect moment to leave his knife in your back. Michael cared too deeply about the sophisticated, affable image he'd cultivated to let things get messy in a public house. And didn't the Cutterford incident prove he was far too much of a dirty fighter for common thuggery? One thing was beyond question - if Cathy was going to return to work, she'd have to deal with him at some point. Now she'd made the phone call, it would be far better to meet first on neutral territory. Force of habit, she touched up her hair in the rear view mirror, got out, locked up, and started walking.
With half-sunk, frothy pots on the bar, four likely lads noisily debated the value of players on the transfer market. Shaking his head disbelievingly, Boss-eyes climbed down from his stool, retreating towards the toilets and waving down the refrain of banter that pursued him. The horsefaced, foulmouthed strawberry blonde in a green adidas tracksuit top grinned impudently when Cathy caught his eye. She looked away and around: where were they? By the disused fireplace, a man with nicotine-stained fingers and thin grey hair slicked back over his crusty, pink scalp somehow concentrated on his newspaper; a pint of Guinness was also on his table. That was it. Her meeting would take place in the lounge. She ordered a red wine. The landlord looked big and handy enough to eject wrongdoers, and she gave him her sweetest smile as she paid. He flirtatiously winked. Though there was no particular reason it should be, she made sure her long black coat wasn't creased. In her matching flat shoes, she stepped toward the lounge door, holding up her head.
Sat side by side, facing the doorway and Cathy, they had a table in the far corner. There was one other couple, at a table in the corner to Cathy's left: they were youngish, in their own starry-eyed world. Mr
and Mrs Michael's eyes chilled Cathy's heart. 'You dared to show!' his foul, accusing stare exclaimed. For a second, his anger seemed to fill the room like a spectral explosion. Victoria critically measured up her former rival, an experience as creepy as being mentally undressed by some decrepit perv. Cathy sipped her wine to lubricate her dry mouth, and strode across the room. She took a seat opposite them as if she'd turned up for an interview she didn't have a cat in hell's chance of passing and, like an alley cat, couldn't care less. Could they see through her bravado? Her pulse pounded like her life was on the line.
'This unpleasant business needn't take long. What was the meaning of your phone call to my house?'
'Pleased to meet you, too, Victoria. I've heard so much about you. Isn't it a coincidence that your perfume is my favourite? Did Michael buy you it?'
Cathy's gaze clashed with Victoria's bright, blue-eyed glare. She picked up her glass and sipped her red wine and Victoria did the same with her white. A tempest of anger, sorrow, envy, relief, disgust, disturbed Cathy. She was ready to fight even if slugging it out had been the last thing on her mind when she'd entered the Golden Lion. She glanced at Michael; he only had hard eyes for her now.
Cathy had worried that she'd be unable to control the emotion in her voice, yet she sounded cold and sharp: 'I'm sorry that you expect a jolly picnic in the park after your husband exploited my feelings, but…'
'I've already heard enough of this foolish woman's talk.'
'I'm sure you have, Michael. By the way, how's your great friend Mr Cutterford?'
'I don't know who you're talking about,' he said blankly, leaning back in his chair. 'I've never met a man by that name. Victoria, do we have to tolerate this nonsense? Haven't I promised?'
'You've previously derived pleasure from her company - I'm sure you can stick it one last time.'
Victoria spoke so tensely to her husband that Cathy caught a clear glimpse of how he had made the woman suffer. Her knuckles were white around her wine glass. Mrs Randall inched her seat back, gaining a little more room; the illusion of a comfort zone.
Michael muttered and studied his watch. What, Cathy asked herself, had she ever seen in such a despicable swine?
She supposed Victoria was around the same age as her excuse for a husband - about a decade older than Cathy - and it had to be said she'd worn well. Despite deep crow's feet and the crease of a frown, Victoria's beauty shone radiantly, and - from Cathy's side of the table - she appeared to have upheld an elegant, slender figure. Few women would get away with the silky, frilly, deep purple blouse that Victoria wore with assured grace. In their youth, she'd be the most precious brunette on Michael's horizons. Pity he couldn't resist the legendary fun that blondes offer and enjoy.
'I'm fully aware of the details of my husband's fling. With that in mind, we'll get straight to the point.'
'I'm positively thrilled.'
'It'll go over the bovine woman's head, Victoria.'
'I'm an educated woman,' Victoria started regardless. 'I fully understand the pressures on women in society. No doubt you understood that 'getting in' with a powerful man would improve your social status and fortunes. I'm not as offended by you as you might expect. As a feminist, I know that many women have to bend the rules of an uncaring, unforgiving world to get anywhere...'
'Darling…'
'Michael, not now!' Victoria shot him the sternest glance. 'As for my husband's behaviour, I'm certainly not shocked. I don't know if you're aware, I'm a doctor of literature…'
'Bully for you.'
'…Although I specialise in feminist texts, I always admired that rebellious rogue Byron. Michael's apparent similarity to the poet was one of the things that attracted a bright young student to him. I've come to understand that there are many ways in which the men differ, but they're of no consequence to you.'
Though Victoria wasn't shocked by her husband, Cathy was stunned by his wife. How was it possible to discuss your husband's affair with his mistress so… so… mechanically? Perhaps Michael hadn't entirely lied. Maybe everything was purely academic to Victoria, as if she had no emotional investment in anything. No, that wasn't right. Think of her tone when she spoke to him, and then those fiery eyes she treated him to. Marriage to Michael, once you really got to know him, would be enough to turn Venus into a shrew or a mannequin. Or drive a good woman insane. Cathy realised how lucky her escape had been.
'Now, without further ado, you phoned for a reason. What do you want?'
'I'm not sure now I've discovered where the bard here got his lines of romantic poetry. Ha! A man of culture? Do you get by reading the parts Victoria's underscored? Michael, you're such a fraud.'
'You came here to exchange insults? You're more easily satisfied than I imagined. Michael's standards are slipping.'
'You've spent too much time with your head in books, lady, if you think he's at the top of the pile, looking down.'
'How very insightful,' Victoria said, ironically. She savoured the taste of her wine. 'One wonders how and why a sharp, streetwise woman would fall over herself to get to a man she considers so unworthy. Ah yes, we've already discussed social climbing. Sorry to have smashed in the rungs above you.'
Cathy's eyes stung as she fought back tears.
'I've had enough, Victoria.' Michael knocked back his brandy and emphatically put his glass down, not quite a slam, but it meant the same thing. 'Let's just leave her amongst the dregs.'
'Finding it unbearable? Ha! Take the car keys. I won't be long.'
'Is it wise to be alone with her?'
'You certainly thought so,' Cathy snarled, unable to stomach his snobbish sanctimony. She felt like throwing her wine over him. Instead, she angrily pointed out: 'You're the guilty one, remember?'
'I'm sure,' Victoria said, affording a cynical smile at her husband's expense while stabbing at Cathy, 'her bark is worse than her bite.'
With some difficulty Cathy let the insult pass; who was the bitch to call her a dog?
Victoria dropped her car keys on the table and Michael moodily scooped them up. She watched her husband leave the room before she went on. Her tone had changed; by no means softer, it was less combative. 'I suppose you feel very aggrieved. You've lost your marriage, your lover - everything you might have hoped for. Do you see that you were out of your depth and always going to lose? Perhaps there are some lessons in this that you need to learn.'
'I'm not one of your students, doc.'
'Just as well. You'd be failing. Your prettiness is only a weapon as long as it has some novelty, and it isn't any weapon at all when you're dealing with most other women. Michael wanted to ditch you long before he did.'
'That's his story?'
'One that I believe. And I'm expert at analysing words, written or spoken. He'd had his fun; why would he want to stick around you? You've no education and no class. Just another pretty woman, and there are thousands of you around.'
If Cathy had been able to get over the woman's conceit and temerity, she might have slapped her.
'All the same I can sympathise - woman to woman: what did society ever want you to be? You're the doll of its creation. You might be a cheat, but I suppose you've no idea how the world has cheated you.'
Was the woman for real? Rather than slap her, Cathy wanted to reach out to see if she could touch flesh.
'I don't want an explanation or an apology. I simply want you to understand that it is over. From now on, we behave like it never happened. Michael is arranging for you to be transferred when you return to work - I understand you've been ill. You'll be moved to a department where he will least cross your path. Now,' she reached in her designer handbag and produced a wad of twenty pound notes, 'this is the first and final offer. Three thousand pounds is yours to do with as you please if you can guarantee that the episode is erased from our lives.'
Cathy eyed the money on the table as if she was being offered poison. Despite her airs and graces and her education, Victoria was relyi
ng on hard cash's brute power. She was no better than Cathy, no matter what she might think.
'Are you going to take it? It's most advisable. There will be no other offers and there's no way back for you as far as Michael is concerned.'
As if, thought Cathy, I want a way back. She continued to stare at the money. It seemed very doubtful that any fine feelings or high principles - romance - was left in the world outside of books and films.
'I must have your word before you take it.'
It was a demand, and one with a despairing edge. Victoria had expected Cathy to snatch at the cash.
'Please agree and take it.'
'There's more to this than you're letting on, and we have no understanding until I know everything. Michael's already proven to be lower than a snake's belly.'
'Our son…' Victoria stopped herself. She was under pressure.
'Your son?' Another new one.
'Yes, our son,' Victoria confirmed, her voice unsteady, 'is soon to be married.' She gathered herself. 'I do not want any upset leading up to the big day. He means the world to me.'
Victoria's eyes had a glassy sheen and Cathy could see the truth in them. Mummy wanted to stand with daddy on the big happy family wedding shots. So much for the gender warrior in the man's world. Yet, woman to woman, Cathy fully understood. When they were of age, would she want Alicia or Davie's special days to be threatened? She discreetly put the money in her handbag. 'You have my word,' she said, softly.
'Thank you.'
Cathy looked at the cream wall as Victoria got up, hurrying to get away.
She took her time over her glass of wine; they'd have travelled miles when she stepped into the car park. She had no desire to look either of them in the face again. What a squalid business from start to finish. It certainly didn't make her feel good to accept dirty money, but why should she lose out every which way? Victoria's 'gift' would keep some of her creditors happy for a while. It was about time she started totalling things up, rather than screwing correspondence up. My, my, how the other half live! What was it like to be able to pay off everybody? What sort of marriage did they have when money had an easy answer for everything? A comfortable one, probably, if that's possible without trust. That class were probably used to secrecy, weren't they? Oh, hark at you, Cathy Randall! What about the secrets she'd kept from Ian? At least she and Ian could change for the better. Victoria clearly didn't know about the payment Michael had made through 'Cutterford'. The thought of which brought a smile to Cathy's face - Michael had doubtlessly had his moment about her breaking the terms of that 'contract'.
Looking over her shoulder, Cathy wondered when the youngish couple had left. The best of luck to them. They'd need it. She put down her empty glass, collected herself, and got up. Perhaps she'd catch Alicia's show, after all. Her girl was one of the few things she'd really got.