Single (ARC)

by K. L. Slater

  I shake myself now, stretch my arms above my head and give myself a little talking-to in an effort to pull myself out of the doldrums. We’re on the threshold of a new life with George and Romy; why spend time mired in painful memories, when I can look to the future with renewed optimism and hope?

  * * *

  We arrive at George’s house just before eleven.

  The electric gates are already open as we approach. I glance in the rear-view mirror and see the removals lorry is right behind me.

  I flick on the indicator and swing the car into the driveway, parking over on the far side of the gravelled frontage.

  The front door opens and George steps out onto the tiled front porch. Kane jumps out of the car and races over to him. Harrison ambles over, hands in his pockets, head lowered. I watch, my eyes prickling, as George gathers them to him, one in each arm, regardless of Harry’s lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Welcome to your new home!’ he announces just before the diesel rumble of the removals lorry drowns out any further hope of hearing anything.

  George looks behind him and little Romy inches past them, clutching a huge bunch of lilies in her arms. She smiles and says something, but I don’t catch it as the roller shutter on the side of the lorry is being lifted.

  ‘Thank you, Romy,’ I half yell as I take the beautiful bouquet from her arms.

  I dip my head and inhale the pungent scent of the lilies, several of which are in bloom. ‘Thank you,’ I mouth to George.

  The boys wriggle free of George’s hug and disappear into the house with Romy. He slides his arm around my shoulders and speaks directly into my ear, his discreet spicy aftershave filling my nostrils and giving me a little shiver of pleasure.

  ‘Thought the flowers were a nice touch,’ he says cheekily. ‘Starting as I mean to go on.’

  ‘Sounds like a good plan.’ I grin.

  ‘We’re ready to start, love,’ barks the grizzled removal guy, checking his watch. ‘All in through the front door?’

  ‘Best to come around the back way,’ George answers. ‘The bifold doors are open and I’ve cleared a space for the boxes. Just leave them all there.’

  ‘Champion.’ The man’s expression brightens as he realises they’re not required to traipse up and down stairs delivering the marked boxes to each room.

  ‘Come on.’ George leads me down the side of the house. ‘I’ve something to show you.’

  The narrow walkway opens out into the mature back garden. I gasp when George points to the large expanse of grass, where two sets of bright shiny goalposts have been installed.

  The upstairs window opens and Harrison and Kane appear there, whooping and calling down their delighted thanks to George. I’m so heartened to see Harrison has perked up.

  ‘They’re permanent goalposts and really good-quality ones too,’ he says. ‘We’re going to have some cracking matches out here, you just wait and see.’

  ‘George, I…’ I sniff and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘Thank you. This will mean the world to them.’

  He nods and takes my hand as the removals men emerge from the side of the house, laden with boxes.

  ‘And this… is for you.’

  On the other side of the garden, behind the cluster of apple trees, a new, small patio area has been laid. On it is a set of beautiful, modern outdoor furniture consisting of a dark wooden corner suite with pristine cream cushions, and two matching chairs. There’s also a glass-topped table on which stands a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two glasses.

  ‘I had to put the furniture out for effect’ – George grins – ‘but we’ll freeze to death if we try and use it today.’

  ‘George, I…’

  I’m speechless. That with his mega-busy life, he would even think about doing this for us.

  ‘It’s your own peaceful reading spot, Darcy.’ He tucks his fingers under my chin and moves my face gently towards his, planting a soft kiss on my lips. ‘You deserve it, and I want you to feel relaxed and have your own space in our home together.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper, bewildered, as he pops the cork on the champagne and pours us two glasses. ‘All this… It’s wonderful you’ve done this for us, George. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ he says, handing me a glass. ‘To us all.’

  ‘To us all,’ I echo, and our glasses chime prettily as we toast our new beginning. I take a sip of the pink fizz, enjoying the pop of the bubbles across my tongue.

  ‘Oh no!’ George exclaims, and pulls a jokey expression of horror as our three kids suddenly tumble out of the open doors into the garden, screeching and hollering with delight. ‘Looks like our romantic moment just got hijacked.’ He grins.

  ‘And I couldn’t be happier,’ I say, my heart full of the hope and happiness I thought I’d never find again.

  Thirty-Nine

  Despite my worries about it being far too cold and there being far too much to do, the three kids and George pull on gloves and scarves and head out to the garden for a knockabout between the new goalposts.

  I roll my eyes and grumble, to their delight, but secretly I love the fact that George is doing this. It’s what the boys have been missing in their young lives: a fun father figure who isn’t nearly as sensible as me. I’m forever warning them about catching a chill, or nagging them to eat properly and tidy their rooms. But sometimes they don’t need that. They need someone who’s there to remind them how to enjoy themselves again.

  I check my phone and see I’ve got a missed call from Steph. I stare at the notification. I’ve tried to keep in touch and suggested meeting up to talk through everything but she’s snubbed me so far, not returning calls or texts.

  There are a thousand things I need to do right now and I think she and the rest of Joel’s family have treated me unfairly. Brenda and Leonard keep in contact just enough so they can arrange to have the boys but there’s no love lost there, either. But they’ll always be my sons’ family so I have a responsibility to maintain communications. I press a key to call her back and Steph answers right away.

  ‘Sorry I missed you,’ I say as friendly as I can manage.

  ‘Hi, Darcy, thanks for calling back. I hope your move is going well.’ Her tone is on the cool side. ‘I called because this is just silly, I feel like we’re avoiding each other. You’ve made a decision and that’s your business. It doesn’t stop us meeting up now and again for a quick coffee, does it?’

  The way she says it, it’s like I’m the one who has broken contact! Typical Steph.

  ‘I agree,’ I say magnanimously. ‘Let’s put something in the diary.’

  And we do. For the next day, even though I could keep ridiculously busy unpacking boxes for at least the next week.

  But I do feel a bit uneasy when we’ve ended the call. Although there’s nothing worse than a niggling worry at the back of your mind that there’s an unresolved disagreement with a family member, I don’t want to slip back into doing everything Steph asks. I feel in some ways I’m sending out the wrong message in agreeing to meet up like we used to do.

  While George and the kids are still outside, I capitalise on the undisturbed time I have and start tackling some of the boxes he’s brought through to the hallway.

  I’m unpacking our shoes and shaking out coats before storing them in the large under-stairs cupboard with George and Romy’s outdoor things when the doorbell rings.

  I smile as I approach the front door with its ornate panes of coloured glass. Someone is standing there with a huge bunch of flowers. When I open the door, a cheery delivery driver hands me the bouquet and wishes me a nice day before disappearing away in his van.

  The flowers are gorgeous. Roses, gypsophila and lilies, hand-tied in their own gold presentation box. Romy already presented me with flowers when we arrived, so someone else must be wishing us well in settling in. After Steph’s call, I find myself hoping they’re from Joel’s family, a peace offering of sorts, but the smile melts from my face when I pull ou
t the small, sombre card inside.

  In silver script against the backdrop of a black rose are the words: With Deepest Sympathy.

  A small gasp of surprise escapes my mouth, and I drop the bouquet. It lands on the floor with a dull thud just as George walks into the hallway.

  The smile on his face disappears.

  ‘Opal,’ I whisper.

  Forty

  She knew all about George’s new girlfriend way before Darcy Hilton was even aware that Opal existed.

  She knew where she taught her yoga classes and she knew all about her two boys, too.

  It was imperative she made it her business to track George’s life to the nth degree. It was the only way she was ever going achieve her ambition. And achieve it she would. No matter what he or his new little Rottweiler did to try and shake her off, one day Opal knew she would get what she wanted.

  Or die trying. That was how serious it was for her.

  It was surprisingly easy to track someone’s every move. The secret to it was recording data. She kept detailed spreadsheets on their movements, along with photographs and video footage taken on her phone. She imagined that police or security officers might be tricky subjects, but ordinary people like George and Darcy were so wrapped up in their own lives, they barely looked further than the ends of their very own noses.

  Nobody ever seemed to do one thing at a time any more. To look around them or take notice of the small things and the strangers who constantly hovered around them within inches of their most precious assets.

  Their trust in others was staggering, so secure were they of their own infallibility. They really believed they were the masters of their own universe.

  Until somebody came along and showed them otherwise.

  It was all too easy to write someone like Opal off as crazy, a stalker, a nutball… and a thousand other insults. She’d heard them all, but she was none of those things.

  She was organised and focused and, most importantly, she felt a love that could not be shaken by anyone.

  What she was doing was powerful and right. Noble, even. No matter what anyone thought or said, her intent was pure.

  She had given George so many chances to sit down and talk things through with her, to put the past behind them and make a new start, but of course he had denied her every time. He had often been scathing and unnecessarily cruel in his dismissals too.

  Once, when she’d pleaded with him to admit they had something special together, he’d looked at her as if she was crazy.

  ‘Special? We have nothing together, Opal. We’ve never had anything more than a bit of fun.’

  All she’d wanted was to make him understand on some level what torture it was to live life without the person you adored more than anything in the world. She wanted to explain how it ripped her apart to see the one she loved with another woman every day.

  But George would have none of it. Since he’d met Darcy Hilton, he wouldn’t even acknowledge Opal now, much less speak to her. And that made her angry.

  It made her very angry indeed.

  She suspected he had instructed Darcy to ignore her. He had liked to pretend Opal did not exist for a long time now. But that simply wasn’t going to work any more.

  ‘Let’s see how easily Darcy Hilton can ignore me when I get friendly with her boys,’ she murmured to herself, smiling into the mirror.

  Forty-One

  The next day, I sit in the middle of the café, feeling a bit hemmed in by the cloying hot bodies and the noise level. It’s busy, but I quickly satisfy myself that she’s not in here. It’s comforting to know that if Opal Vardy wanted to confront me, she’d have to do it here, in front of all these witnesses.

  ‘You seem really quiet. A bit jumpy, even.’ Steph puts two lattes on the table and sits down, unhooking her handbag from her shoulder. ‘Did everything go well with the move?’ She studies my face but I lift my cup to my mouth so I feel less scrutinised.

  ‘Yes thanks, everything went fine. George made a real effort to make us feel welcome; he’s put up goalposts for the boys as a surprise. They were delighted.’

  I swear her face drops but she manages what, to me, seems like a rather disingenuous smile.

  ‘They’re also both getting on fine at their new school, Harry’s already been picked for the football team.’

  It doesn’t seem to be the sort of thing she wants to hear.

  ‘And how are you feeling? I know you get stressed easily and the boys will no doubt pick up on that.’ She sips her coffee smugly and I feel like standing up and telling her it was a mistake to meet up.

  My body feels heavy and tired and I can’t think of anything to say. I feel a bit sad as Steph has been my main confidant, my only friend, really. If it was a few months ago, I’d be telling her all about Opal and all the weird things that are happening and she’d be advising me and coming up with good ideas of what to do about her, no doubt.

  But to tell her this stuff now feels like I’d be arming her with evidence to whine on about the boys’ welfare and how I should never have got involved in a serious relationship so quickly. So I stay silent and keep my worries to myself.

  ‘I can see you’re not happy with me, Darcy, but it’s important you understand I just feel protective of you and the boys. That’s all it is,’ she says. ‘Nothing’s changed; we’re still best mates.’

  But I know things have changed and deep down, she knows it too.

  ‘Everything is fine,’ I’m forced to say after taking a sip of coffee. ‘It’s just a lot of change to deal with in a short space of time but at least it’s scuppered Daniela’s plans to buy our home.’

  Steph seems to be her usual caring self, but I can’t help but feel that for some reason she’s trying to get as much information out of me as she can. I think if I told her the truth about how worried I am about the Opal Vardy situation, I suspect she’d combust with pleasure. But she can pass on my gleeful comment to Daniela with pleasure.

  ‘Mum was saying it must be difficult for you right now. Everything new and happening so quickly.’ Steph’s voice has softened into a sympathetic tone that doesn’t ring true. ‘She wants us to go over to the house for lunch on Thursday. Just you, me and her, when Dad’s at golf. Like the old times. What do you say?’

  Steph knows my yoga class schedule. I can’t use that as an excuse as we still share a diary on Outlook. It’s been so difficult to knock these things on the head without upsetting her. With our recent tensions, refusing her access to the diary would be akin to terminating someone as a Facebook friend and it would just make a bad situation even worse. So I’ve solved the dilemma by putting new appointments relating to me and George in a separate diary.

  ‘That sounds nice,’ I say non-committally.

  She starts telling me something about the summer holiday Brenda and Leonard are planning, and I zone her voice out, taking the opportunity to scan the coffee shop again for any sign of Opal. There are people coming in and out all the time, so she could easily slip in without me being aware. Observe me from a table on the other side of the room.

  I can’t shake the feeling she’s out there somewhere, watching me. She seems to know our movements and what we’re doing, like the fact my car would be parked undisturbed for a couple of hours at the trampoline centre and arranging for funeral flowers to be delivered on the exact day we moved in.

  She probably knows I’m here with Steph right now… and frankly, it creeps me out.

  I pick up my cup and try to focus on what Steph is saying.

  ‘You seem… different,’ Steph remarks. ‘Sort of uptight.’

  I take a bite of the complimentary shortbread biscuit on my saucer. I’d dearly love to confide in her about Opal, dissect everything George has told me and discuss what I have in mind. But that can’t happen. George would be furious if I told anyone else about the situation; he’s adamant he’s in control of it. But I’m really not so sure.

  I might struggle with Joel’s family at times, but I can’t
deny them their role in the boys’ lives. Sadly, that’s in direct conflict with the fact that George and I need to try and move on without them having too much influence on our own affairs.

  There’s literally no guidance to be had on this situation. No self-help manuals on what to do when your spouse dies and his family are a great support and then you finally move on and their goodwill disappears.

  What’s supposed to happen then? How does this stuff work?

  I become aware of Steph’s voice again, changing the subject.

  ‘Mum and Dad were wondering…’ She sounds hesitant. ‘If you still want us to pick the boys up when you’re busy and stuff… perhaps you can get us a key cut for George’s place? If he doesn’t mind, that is.’

  ‘That won’t be possible,’ I say quickly, before I get cold feet. ‘George would never agree to it.’

  Steph’s helpful expression turns sour. ‘Then how are we going to see the boys when we want to, or help you out with childcare now you’re holed up in his mansion?’

  It’s an interesting comment. I gave Brenda George’s address for emergency contact purposes and they’ve obviously checked the property out from the road.

  ‘We can make our arrangements week to week,’ I say, choosing not to rise to the bait. ‘It won’t be a problem.’

  What I really want to say is that we can have a normal, healthy arrangement that other families enjoy, where Steph and her parents don’t just turn up when they feel like it.

  She’s off talking about something else now, but I can see by her tight mouth she’s miffed at my reaction. I nod here and there to make it look as if I’m still listening, while discreetly flipping my phone over in my handbag on the chair next to me and taking a quick look at the screen to see if George has texted about getting the cinema tickets for tonight.

  There’s nothing from George, but there’s an Instagram notification informing me that DanDan_Frost93 has added a new post. I get that unwelcome feeling in my chest again. Part nausea, part excitement.