by Jane Shemilt
She stops listening. He’d have been conspicuous in Paris, tall, fair-haired, a little fleshy. Handsome. The kind of looks that hold women in thrall, that can catch at her heart even now. He might have caught someone’s eye. Someone young, he prefers younger women. She pushes another piece of beef under the lettuce. She’s being stupid. He was there to be judged; he would have been on his best behavior, there wouldn’t have been time.
“. . . take Izzy to France with me on the next visit,” he finishes with a fond little smile.
Melissa puts her fork down. She’d looked forward to showing Paris to Izzy herself for the very first time. She’d planned it out: they’d go to the Eiffel Tower first then the Louvre; the next day there would be time to explore Montmartre and, after that, maybe clothes shopping from little boutiques.
“What a good idea,” she makes herself reply. “Izzy will love that.”
He comes out of his daughter’s bedroom an hour later, smiling to himself. He halts when he sees her hovering outside on the landing. “She’s shown me what she did today. She’s tired now. Best leave her be, my love.”
She hesitates, disappointed. She had wanted to see the work, put her cheek against her daughter’s, kiss her good night. She daren’t insist.
“I’ll take the day off tomorrow.” He takes her arm very gently; his breath in her ear makes her shiver. “We might go to the sea.”
She spends half an hour in the gym before bed, aware of Paul’s voice murmuring in the kitchen next door, Lina’s quieter answering one; hopefully he’s thanking her for supper and not ordering her about. He’s asleep by the time she’s finished on the treadmill. She slides in beside him and lies still, keeping her breathing very quiet, but he wakes and reaches for her anyway. He turns on the light and runs his hands over her body, her stomach and thighs, as if assessing her flesh. Her muscles tense. He likes women slender, very slender. She closes her eyes. After a while he asks her to turn on her face. She keeps very quiet; they mustn’t disturb Izzy, she’s probably asleep. It’s over quite quickly. He falls asleep but she lies awake in the dark, tears sliding from her eyes. Tomorrow there’ll be waves and a beach, she doesn’t care which one. She’ll watch Paul and Izzy playing together, Paul holding his daughter close, lifting her over the waves in his arms like a baby while she waits on the shore. He’d do anything for Izzy, nothing else matters. The father-daughter bond she never had, that’s the important thing. Izzy’s lucky, Paul adores her. Nothing must get in the way, least of all her.
The house is quiet when she wakes the next morning, though it’s past nine o’clock. The sky is cloudless, already bright. She overslept. Paul must be loading the car, Izzy showering. She dresses quickly, winding a soft blue scarf around her neck, blue for the sea and the sky. The scarf is new and patterned with little flowers. Paul prefers block colors, but she’d been unable to resist. Patterns on a scarf don’t matter, they won’t count, surely.
In the kitchen Lina is spooning cat food into a bowl while the kitten winds around her long skirt, purring loudly. Lina looks tired, there are shadows beneath her dark eyes; she might like a break from her routine.
“We’re going to the sea today, Lina,” Melissa says cheerfully. “Why don’t you come with us?”
Lina shakes her head, her cheeks redden.
“Please, sweetie. You might enjoy it and I’d love your company.” She means it; it would be comforting to have Lina’s calm presence on the blanket next to her while Paul and Izzy swim in the sea. She’d love to see Lina enjoy herself for once. They could stroll along the beach together eating ice cream; well, she’d pretend to eat hers. They’d breathe in the salty air and look at the boats. She opens the fridge. “I’ll make the picnic. What would you like? I’m certain we had some Manchego—”
“Mr. Chorley-Smith said they’ll buy something on the way.” Lina studies Venus, who is eating her food with small, savage bites.
“On the way?”
“They left an hour ago.” Lina doesn’t look up.
The kitten steps away from the bowl. The sun is pouring through the windows, illuminating the dirty metal; fragments of leftover cat food are squashed at the edges of the bowl. The sea will be very blue in this light, very clear. The kitten twists her head to lick her sides, it looks as though she’s turning herself inside out. Melissa closes the fridge and walks from the room, unwinding the scarf as she goes and letting it fall to the ground. She phones the clients in Chelsea to let them know she is free today after all, she can bring the curtain fabric to their flat to try against their windows at any time that suits them. The walls in Melissa’s upstairs studio are painted black; the darkness works well as a background, colors glow, things stand out. You have to be careful with your choices, though; dark materials tend to recede. As she assembles the bolts of fabric, she catches sight of her reflection in the mirror; in her black shirt and jeans she seems to be disappearing into the walls.
Blake’s actually looking forward to going back to Eve’s house. That first time was way better than he thought it would be. The garden especially, you can get lost in that garden and no one knows where you are. There were ants and stuff under the leaves, balls of rabbit poo. The mud was sticky like some kind of cake. He was good at making cake, his was the best, Eve had whispered. He can’t remember being the best at anything before. That first time he’d pushed his fingers into the mud and smeared it on his face, like a soldier tracking people in a forest. Next time he could make a shelter with the branches. He could kill rabbits for food and skin them, like that guy on TV. He could make a fire then spear the rabbit and cook it. He’ll share it with Izzy. She’d gotten a knife especially for him, though he’s gone and lost it. For you, she’d said, smiling. She made him feel good, like he’s important or something. He’s looking forward to going to Eve’s again, mostly so he can see Izzy.
Poppy crosses off the days in her homework diary: five, four, three. She starts to feel excited. She used to hate Sundays, but it’s different now; everything’s different. She doesn’t care about coming last in spelling anymore, or having to work on her own because no one wants her to be their partner in science. She goes back to the woods after school to see the place where Izzy had been lying under the conker tree, her arms and legs spread wide. She had lain down next to her; the leaves had looked amazing, patterns and shapes she hadn’t seen before. After a while they’d heard her mother calling. It was funny because she’d sounded panicky and she never panics—she hasn’t got the slightest clue where she and Sorrel are most of the time. She was probably only worried because of what the other parents would say if everyone was lost. Poppy had looked at Izzy. Izzy had been looking at her and she was smiling; Poppy had smiled back. She felt brilliant. She had actually felt like bursting out laughing. Today the wood is very quiet. It’s getting a bit dark. Poppy lies down in the same place and closes her eyes. She stretches out her arms and legs as widely as she can. Three more days. She feels happier than she’s ever felt.
3. June
Eve
The weeks have settled into a shape, the days tilting toward the Sunday lessons. At least once a week Eve walks the half mile to the bookshop in Dulwich Village. She collects a basketful of children’s books, glancing at a copy of Martin’s in the adult fiction shelves. The new jacket carries a photo of him from fifteen years ago, looking like a young Harrison Ford. She sees the assistant watching and shuts the book with a snap, replacing it on the shelf.
Then it’s Sunday again, the fourth session. After a game of letter snap, she scatters photos on the table in front of the children. Jamie Oliver, Tom Cruise, Steven Spielberg, Richard Branson, Joss Stone, Keira Knightley, Holly Willoughby. “They all have dyslexia,” she explains. “But they’ve all got to exactly where they wanted to go.”
Blake is quiet, his eyes flicking between the faces. Poppy inspects the women closely, but Izzy glances at them briefly then laughs. Poppy laughs quickly, joining in. Eve takes the photos away and hands around the set of words she has c
ut up for them to use in their writing. Blake chews his pencil and begins to work; Poppy frowns, writing slowly. Izzy scrawls a few sentences then gets down from the table and starts to play with Sorrel, whispering behind her hand. Ash reaches to touch her shiny fall of hair; he looks dazzled, as if staring at a bright light.
Eve calls Izzy back to the table for the math session. Izzy and Poppy sit side by side, so close they are almost touching; her daughter’s face looks soft with happiness. Eve wants to tell her to be careful, hold back a little, she’s been hurt so often. Blake stares across the table at Izzy, looks down when he senses Eve’s gaze, then looks up again; Izzy exchanges little glances with Poppy. After half an hour, Blake stops writing and puts down his pen. Poppy looks out the window toward the trees.
“Break time!” Eve says quickly.
They run into the garden like puppies off a leash, Ash stumbling to catch up. Eve watches from the door, she mustn’t interfere. This is what she’d hoped for, all the children playing together; after half an hour she calls them back for painting, then at the end of the morning they rush outside again. As Eve is clearing up paint pots and washing brushes, fingernails tap against the window like the rattle of little stones; Melissa arriving early. Eve looks up, smiles and waves. Few people call in at the house; it’s set far back from the road, the grandeur is daunting. Her father had liked the peace; the idea that his children might feel lonely had never occurred to him. She takes a tray outside and they sit on the grass, sipping coffee. Melly’s red MG is parked in the drive, the top down.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Melly says, catching her glance. “It’s lazy of us not to walk, but Paul gives Izzy lifts all the time, she’s got used to it. He spoils that child.”
The air is lime-sharp with the scent of grass. The noise of Igor mowing the meadow merges with the children’s voices from the wood. Melissa shades her eyes, staring across the garden. “Listen to them,” she says wistfully. “A whole family of children having fun.”
“A bigger one than I’d planned for, counting Charley and my little ones—they’re here more than I thought they would be. I don’t teach them, but they join in the games afterwards.” Eve touches her arm. “I should charge you less; that’s only fair.”
“You don’t owe me a penny. Izzy’s happy, she adores everyone. I think it helps, having the younger ones around. Paul says her homework’s improved. He checks it every night.” She tightens the scarf around her neck. “I’m not allowed.”
“He does the homework?” Eve raises her eyebrows. “Gosh, the perfect husband.”
Melly shakes her head, smiling faintly; her eyes glisten.
The children appear soon after that, shrieking as they scatter across the lawn, chased by Izzy. Ash tumbles into his mother’s lap, laughing hysterically. Izzy stops in her tracks when she sees her mother, then stalks off to wait in the car.
“We better go.” Melissa stands up. “Paul’s home; he gets lonely without us.”
“You’re covered with grass.” Eve helps her brush off the clinging fragments; as they walk to the car together she stoops to pick a bunch of red peonies from the border and when they reach the driveway she puts them into Melly’s hand.
“Thanks.” Melissa clutches the flowers. “For everything.”
The children are silent after Izzy’s departure. Sorrel leans against Eve as she picks Ash up and wraps her spare arm around Poppy, but her eldest daughter shrugs her off. She walks down the drive, staring at the grooves Melissa’s car has scored in the gravel as if she wants to follow them to her friend’s house.
“I really want to do something for Melly.” They are clearing supper, the children settled in bed. “She seemed down today, a little tearful. I imagine Izzy’s a handful at times.” She passes Eric the plates, which he loads into the dishwasher. “It’s Ash’s birthday at the end of term, let’s have a party. I’ll invite Charley, Blake, and Izzy. Melly and Paul can come, Martin too, of course, and Grace if she’s free.”
She’ll lay out a feast, buy a new dress, wear makeup for once. She hasn’t bothered for months, years even. Eric has never liked makeup. He thinks it makes her look like someone else; she is prettier without, he told her. At the time she was charmed, but she can’t help thinking it would be fun to look like someone else for a change.
“What about Ash’s other friends?” Eric takes a glass from her hands.
“I think he likes these ones the best. He likes their parents as well.”
Eric rinses the knives without replying, then slots them carefully into the dishwasher basket.
“All right, I’m fond of them too. It’s not like we know masses of people round here.” Eve addresses his back; she bends to stroke the dog’s ears. “It’s strange, but I feel as if we’ve known them for years.”
He nods without replying, so she stops talking, and they continue to stack the dishes side by side in silence.
Grace
“How was it today?” Grace asks.
“How was what?” Martin is comparing the prices of organic and ordinary bananas and doesn’t look up.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Grace puts a giant bag of potatoes in the cart and pushes it on down the aisle. Martin hurries after her.
“Do what?”
“Pretend you don’t know what I mean.”
He knows she’d want to hear about the session, she always does. She had wanted to see the children’s work for herself, and though she won’t ever admit this to Martin, she’d wanted that friendship with Eve. She’d met her before Martin did, but she can’t say that either, it would sound so childish. Back in the winter, when she was first considering whether to put Blake’s name down for the sessions, she went to Eve’s house to meet her. Eve had flung open her door and taken Grace’s hand in both of hers, her great ring flashing red in the frosty December sun. She’d seemed larger than life somehow, more colorful, more friendly, than most people Grace had met in England. “Hi, I’m Eve Kershaw,” she’d said, smiling a warm smile. “I’m thrilled you got in touch. I’m certain I can help your son.” She’d brought Grace into her brightly lit kitchen. She’d been brimming with hope and ideas; the hope was infectious. Grace had handed over the cash for a term’s worth of sessions there and then.
“We’ll chat after each lesson,” Eve had promised. “I’ll fill you in as we go.”
But then the sessions turned out to be on Sundays to fit with the children’s commitments. Sundays were workdays for Grace, extra long because of double time. That first visit was her only one; Martin takes the children instead and collects them too.
Grace pays for the groceries at the register and they wheel the bags to the car.
“Blake’s doing fine,” he tells her as they fill the trunk with the shopping. “Just fine.”
“You always say that; you said that about the knife in his shoe—”
“And it was fine. A friend had lent it to him as I told you; he wasn’t going to use it. I believed him, I thought you did.”
“I just wish I shared more of his life, Charley’s too, rather than a few minutes at the beginning and end of the day.” She dumps a box of washing powder in the trunk. “I feel excluded somehow.”
He hefts in the potatoes, slams the trunk, and gives her a bear hug. “Why not do a few of the school pickups? Melly and Eve share some already; you’d feel more included then.”
“I thought of that, but I wouldn’t have time to get round to all those schools,” she replies, getting into the car.
“They’ll be at the same ones soon.” Martin sounds surprised that she doesn’t know, but that’s exactly the point; she’s never there to know. “When Blake starts at the Charter next term, he’ll be with Poppy and Izzy; Charley’s already with Sorrel at Dulwich Hamlet.”
“Okay.” She stares out at the parking lot as Martin starts the engine. At least that way she’d get to exchange a few words with Eve, be part of it somehow. “I’ll try to swap for more early shifts.”
At home t
hey make the journeys in the lift up and down until there are just a couple more bags left in the car. Charley and Blake beg Martin for one of his made-up bedtime stories. She watches them sprawl on the sofa, cuddling close to their father as he begins to weave a magical tale involving a heroine and dragons. She’ll manage the last things on her own; they look so happy together. She descends in the lift, hurries outside, then stops abruptly. The tall guy with the green-soled sneakers is standing near the door, a foot against the wall behind him. He turns to look at her, his eyes cold; menace seems to throb in the air between them. There’s a smaller boy by the path and another in the parking lot; there could be more in the shadows. She walks to the car, heart thumping, staring straight ahead. She takes the bags from the trunk, locks it, and walks back. The boy by the door has moved; now he’s blocking her way, head lowered, like an animal about to charge. She steps around him, catching a guttural laugh, more of a growl than a laugh.
She reaches the doorway and, once inside, runs into the lift, pressing the button to the thirteenth floor. She leans against the side of the lift as it rises; her legs feel separate from her body, as though they might give way. Martin needn’t know. He’d tell the landlady, though there’s really nothing to tell; things might get worse. They put the shopping away, then Martin goes to bed, but she makes herself reach for her notebook. Her fingers are still trembling, so it’s difficult to form the letters at first, but gradually she becomes absorbed in the world on the page. The only sounds she can hear are the familiar ones of her husband snoring, Charley breathing, Blake muttering in his sleep; her family close by, practically within touching distance. The threat outside fades as she writes; gradually it becomes something she might have imagined, almost as if it had happened to somebody else.
Melissa
Melissa paces the landing waiting for Paul to emerge; she is determined to see Izzy this time. The sparkly “I” on Izzy’s door glistens in the security lights shining through the landing window. It’s getting late. Her footsteps are silent, cushioned by thick carpet. Their home was designed for quiet and she tries to quiet herself. The house won an architecture award the year it was built, but when Melissa returned from Eve’s a few hours ago and went down to the kitchen, the gray walls had closed around her like a prison. Eve’s kitchen is chaotic, her colors clash, the red of the sofa against the orange walls and the faded pinks of the Persian carpet. Cookbooks are piled on the table along with recipes torn from magazines, children’s drawings are stuck to the walls, clothes are left on chairs. The windows are flung wide; the garden was alive with the noise of children today; Ash had been laughing joyously. Strange to think she can’t remember Izzy laughing at that age, but then she hadn’t spent much time with her, at least in the day. They’d had an au pair so Melissa could work; at night she’d sneak from their bed and lie down next to her sleeping child, breathing her in.