Single (ARC)

by K. L. Slater

  I think about the twin she should have with her, and my heart squeezes in on itself. It’s imperative we protect all our children; they’ve all been through so much already.

  * * *

  George texts to say he’ll be home early, so we can eat together. I assume this is his way of showing he wants to work at our relationship and doesn’t want me to leave. But I made it crystal clear what I expected from him. What I want is for him to take some official action, not just pussyfoot around the issue.

  I decide to say nothing yet about what happened outside school, to wait until he’s back. I don’t want him to know I’ve offered Opal money, but I have to tell him she’s made contact yet again and, more importantly, reinforced her intention to carry on with her intrusive and disturbing behaviour.

  There’s a clenching feeling in my stomach and it takes a while for it to give way to a calmer, more determined mood. I’ve decided that, no matter what George’s reaction is – and I suspect it will be more of the same ‘leave it to me to deal with’ – I will take action of my own.

  Whether that’s moving out with the boys or going to the police when George’s promotion is out of the way, I will make sure that Opal Vardy is not allowed to continue running the show.

  * * *

  Back at the house, so far as I can see, Maria hasn’t been in today. I’d left the note about picking the kids up from school and another saying I’ll be cooking George and the children’s tea and both are on the kitchen top, exactly where I left them.

  I make a quick veggie pasta bake and stick it in the oven, then take out some frozen garlic bread slices to help fill the boys up.

  While the food is cooking and Kane and Romy are doing their spelling words and Harrison his science homework, I pop upstairs to freshen up and change my top.

  I pull a brush through my hair and dust a little bronzer on my pasty cheeks. My face looks thinner than it did a few months ago, and it suits me. So many things are better now, since meeting George.

  In the mirror I can see the reflection of the padded velvet headboard and the peaceful, stylish neutral shades of the walls and soft furnishings.

  I love George and I love the life we all have together here. I feel a twist of anger at the thought that Opal will somehow win if we move out, but thanks to George’s stubbornness, I’m caught between a rock and a hard place: happiness versus my boys’ safety.

  It’s a no-brainer, and I will carry my threat through, if George remains immovable in his attitude.

  * * *

  Back downstairs, I stick the garlic bread in the oven and chop a simple side salad before taking the pasta over to the table and serving the children first.

  ‘Well, this makes a nice change!’ George takes a sip of his red wine and beams around the table. ‘Daddy Bear is back in time for tea!’

  Romy and Kane grin, but Harrison’s brow wrinkles as he pushes his pasta around his plate. He won’t like the fact that the ‘daddy’ reference has been applied to them all, although I know George won’t have meant it like that.

  ‘So, what have you lot been up to today at school?’ George takes a bite of the crisp garlic bread I place on the table and widens his eyes expectantly.

  ‘That funny woman was there again, wasn’t she, Mum?’ Kane says, loading his fork with food.

  I swallow the food in my mouth and lay my fork down, reaching for my wine. I haven’t had a chance to tell George what happened after school. I wanted to have a nice family tea together before everything gets ruined.

  ‘Was she now?’ George looks at me and I nod.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it later,’ I say quickly. ‘Romy got a sticker in her art lesson, didn’t you, sweetie?’

  She beams, and George begins to prise the details from her, as we always have to do. I glance over at Harrison. He’s jabbing at pasta twirls with his fork and chopping them into tiny pieces, eating nothing.

  * * *

  Later, when the kids are watching their hour of television before bed, George pours us another glass of wine and I tell him what happened after school, and the things Opal said.

  ‘She reckons I don’t know the real George Mortimer,’ I say, raising an eyebrow.

  George snorts. ‘I know one thing for sure – she certainly doesn’t! We were together such a short time, it can hardly be called dating, never mind a relationship.’ He takes a sip of wine and then frowns. ‘How come she knew you’d be picking the kids up today? It’s nearly always Maria.’

  I shrug, pushing my status bait from my mind. ‘It’s obvious she’s following us more than we realise. I’ve decided I’m going to collect them myself from now on. Something has to be done, George. Have you had any thoughts on your choice?’

  ‘Please don’t call it that, Darcy,’ he sighs. ‘Far as I’m concerned, there is no choice. You and the boys are my future.’

  I fall silent, sensing that nothing has changed in his attitude. Then he surprises me. He puts down his glass and scoots further across the seat cushion, sliding his arm around my shoulders.

  ‘Give me a week and the problem will be sorted,’ he says softly, nuzzling into my neck. ‘Can you do that? One week, and at the end of it, Opal Vardy will be history. Ask no questions and I’ll tell you how I did it once she’s gone. Deal?’

  ‘That sounds a pretty impossible undertaking to me.’ I frown.

  ‘Deal?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ I shrug, displeased at his somewhat cavalier attitude. ‘Oh, and there’s something else. Maria hasn’t been in today and it’s not her day off. Maybe she’s still smarting from her little outburst.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Maria, like I said I would,’ George says smoothly, inspecting the clean, short nails on his right hand. ‘You won’t have any more trouble. I fired her.’

  Fifty-Two

  I’ve had a restless night. My mind is just a swirl of worrying about Maria losing her job, but most of all, Opal’s words rattle around on constant replay in my head.

  I’m here to stay. So you might as well get used to it.

  Should I have gone straight to the police? Again, no evidence, no witnesses to hear her words, but I have to take the situation seriously and not give Joel’s family any opportunities to say I’ve compromised Kane and Harrison’s safety in any way.

  George has promised he’s going to finally take action, and for now, I have to trust he’ll do that. If not, I have only one course of action. I’ll get my boys out of here.

  He’s showed he’s a man of his word by getting rid of Maria. I tried to get some detail out of him about what had been said but I think he’s upset about it. Maria has been with him a long time. It’s hard to accept that someone you knew well isn’t quite the person you thought they were.

  The last thing I feel like doing this morning is to run a yoga class. But I’ve got no choice, and besides, this is a great opportunity to expand my classes.

  I slip on some black wide-legged yoga pants and a short T-shirt that rests exactly on the waistband. I’ve had these garments for a couple of years but stopped wearing them to class when the weight slowly crept on. Now, they fit perfectly again.

  I always keep my yoga bag packed and stowed in the car, so I just pull on my grey fleece and a light padded jacket and I’m good to go.

  My phone rings while I’m driving and the call comes through via Bluetooth.

  ‘Darcy? I know you’re probably on your way to your class, but I just had to tell you something.’ George sounds buoyant, excited. ‘The interview went great… I mean, great! There’s one more stage to get through, but I reckon the promotion is mine.’

  ‘That’s fantastic, George. Congratulations!’ I inject as much enthusiasm as I can into my voice. I just can’t process that this promotion means so much to him – on a par with the safety of his family.

  He ends the call quickly, as he’s off to a meeting, and I spend the rest of the journey thinking about where we’ll live if push comes to shove and I’m forced to carry out my threat and move
out.

  I arrive at the gym nice and early. I want to speak to the day manager and get the overview on how things work around here. I can teach a yoga class anywhere. I once ran one in a disused barn when a farmer’s wife asked if I’d do a few private sessions for her and three friends.

  I used to dream of having my own yoga studio, but gave the idea up a long time ago when I checked out rent and business rates and the cost of creating a calm, serene space. But hiring different places worked out well, and I’m now pretty much sorted with a mixture of classes that I run from various gyms and a couple of church halls.

  Getting a spot at the upmarket members’ fitness club Lanson’s, in Wollaton, was a real boon for me. It’s the premier private sports club in the area and great for my local profile. I explained to George how my job worked not long after we met, and he suggested the club, of which he was once a member, right away.

  ‘Manager there is a friend of a friend,’ he said easily one night as we sat nursing a coffee after dinner. ‘I can put in a word for you if you like.’

  I did like, and the result was that I’m running my first class here this morning.

  Meeting George has given me an insight into a life – a world – I never knew existed. How much easier things can be when you have friends with important jobs in every sector. And if not, then one of them is sure to know someone who can be of influence.

  I’ve had to battle for everything I have. Working hard and making my own opportunities where there initially appear to be none. It’s just how it’s always been, and I didn’t know there was an easier way.

  A man in his thirties wearing a suit is waiting for me when I enter reception. He holds out his hand.

  ‘Darcy? I’m Simon Fairbrook, the manager.’ He smiles at my surprised expression as we shake hands. ‘Your outfit and yoga mat sort of gave you away.’

  He leads me through the members’ electronic turnstiles and into the club. I’m pleased when I spot a poster in a prominent position promoting the classes with experienced and qualified local teacher Darcy Hilton.

  ‘I’ll take you to the room you’ll be using and I can answer any questions you might have.’

  I follow him through the café area with its comfy seats. Everyone here seems to be either looking at their phone or tapping away on a laptop. Through the double doors at the other end, we turn right into the gym.

  I see immediately that there are two levels: weights apparatus on the ground level and the cardio machines up on the mezzanine floor. The facilities here are very impressive. I don’t know how much it costs to join, but I’m betting it’s at least three times as much as the council-run gym down the road.

  Doors are dotted around the walls, and Simon leads me over to one. Inside, he snaps on the lights, and I see we’re in a large open studio space with walls that are mirrored from floor to ceiling.

  ‘It’s a sprung floor, and plenty of equipment for members to use.’ He points over to the corner, where yoga mats hang from a rack and a set of shelves are stacked with blocks, belts, cushions and anything else you might need for a class.

  The computerised music system is located inside a cupboard on the back wall. Simon touches a button labelled Yoga on the screen – one of many different activities – and a list of music loads.

  ‘You’ll have time to try a few of these tracks out before your class if you like, or there’s a wireless speaker if you prefer to use your own playlist.’

  I nod and glance around the ceiling, where there are flat speakers installed for surround sound. Certainly beats the cranky ghetto blaster I have to use at the church hall.

  ‘There’s no additional charge for clients to take part in the yoga classes,’ he explains. ‘They’re included in the membership. As you can appreciate, our customers pay a lot of money to use the facilities, and they can be quite demanding in their expectations.’ He smiles at me apologetically before continuing. ‘I’m required to spell it out to all new freelance instructors, and I suppose the easiest way to put it is that here at Lanson’s, it pays to remember that the customer is most definitely always right.’

  So don’t go upsetting anyone is the subliminal message I’m receiving loud and clear. Things have changed a bit since my days of managing a gym, where we supported and trusted our staff.

  ‘I understand what you’re saying,’ I reply. I won’t be giving an opinion on their policy.

  ‘You’ll be fine, I know it. You’ve got yourself a really good opportunity here, Darcy. If your classes are popular, the area manager will probably want to roll them out to our other branches in affluent suburbs of the city.’ He pats me on the arm as we walk into the centre of the room. ‘If you have a problem of any kind, you’ve only to speak to me or one of the other management team here. There’s always someone on hand if you get a situation that needs defusing.’

  ‘Well, fortunately I’ll be teaching yoga here, not body combat classes. People are usually chilled out by the time I’ve finished with them.’ I laugh, trying to lighten his task, which he seems to appreciate.

  ‘Of course! Well then, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck!’ And off he strides, pushing the door to behind him. Even the doors have regulated closers on them here, so they can’t slam shut. Every detail has been considered lest it offend the sensitive members.

  I smile as I unpack my bag. It’s a bit different to the draughty church halls with their gurgling ancient radiators that only ever get lukewarm to the touch even in midwinter.

  The class starts to fill up: mostly women, but there are a handful of men. Some people smile and come over to say hello to me as the new teacher; others head straight for the mats at the back of the room and claim a spot.

  When everyone is settled, I introduce myself, saying a little about how long I’ve been practising yoga and what my qualifications are. As I glance around, a couple of people smile at me, but most stare ahead looking a bit bored.

  ‘OK, well if there are no questions, then let’s make a start,’ I say, feeling sick and silently praying the class goes well. I don’t think I’ll get a second chance in a place like this, where they can have their pick of yoga teachers.

  ‘Let’s begin. Everyone lie on your mat in Shavasana. Legs long, feet apart and arms relaxed, away from your sides a little. Perfect.’

  I hear the door open behind me as I’m turning the yogic background track up a little before starting the class proper. When I glance back at the room, the participants are all lying on their mats as I’ve asked, and I see that someone has joined the class late. A woman.

  The background music forgotten, I find I can’t move as I watch her unroll her mat and take the last place on the front row, directly in front of where I’ll be teaching the class.

  The woman is none other than Daniela Frost.

  Fifty-Three

  I force myself to walk to the front of the room and begin the class.

  I feel her eyes on me the whole time, and I make a tremendous effort not to meet her gaze. But a couple of times, it’s just impossible. I feel myself drawn to look at her like I’m being pulled by a magnet.

  She doesn’t smile at me exactly, but her expression is pleasant enough. There’s no sign of malice or spitefulness in her face. I keep my own expression blank as I scan the rest of the class and turn my body away from her.

  It’s my habit to walk around while people are in the asanas – the yoga postures – adjusting their bodies here and there when required, praising good examples and encouraging everyone to do their best without pushing themselves too far. As I do the rounds, I try to blank her from my mind, but my plan doesn’t work. As soon as I stop to watch someone, my eyes flick up from the person on the mat to the mirror. I manage to view Daniela without her noticing several times.

  Slim, lithe and flexible, she looks very well and she’s competent in the postures. Her heels touch the floor in the downward dog position, and when we sit up and hold our toes to stretch forward, her torso lies flat on her legs. She’s obviously very
flexible, the only one in the class who can do it properly, apart from me, and in my opinion, she looks neater and more competent in her asanas than I do.

  I quickly remind myself that yoga is supposed to be non-competitive, with the focus firmly on one’s own practice, not on other people’s. I’m afraid I’ve already failed to achieve that basic aim today.

  I manage to avoid going to check on the people surrounding Daniela. I merely make a few encouraging sounds as I pass, keeping my eyes trained firmly ahead.

  And then it’s time for the five-minute yoga nidra relaxation, and I silently offer thanks to God that somehow I’ve managed to get through the class despite my trembling hands and weak knees.

  At the end, Daniela leaves her mat where it is and busies herself reorganising her bag. I feel disorientated, as if I can’t focus on anything properly. Why can’t she just leave?

  A couple of women have come up to ask questions about one of the postures we covered, and I have to ask each one to repeat what she says because I’m so distracted watching Daniela in the mirror.

  I finally get rid of the chatty women and most of the class file out, but I’m horrified when Daniela starts to move directly towards me. It feels like a fight-or-flight moment, yet I can’t cause a scene here and I can’t allow her to make a scene either, or they’ll never have me back.

  This is just what I don’t need. Another thorn in my side to magnify the worry of Joel’s family trying to take my boys away and the issues Opal is causing in my relationship with George.

  I crouch down and start rolling up my mat, hoping she’ll get the message and turn around again.

  ‘Darcy, could I have a quick word?’

  I look up at her, my face burning. I don’t say anything but I do feel a sudden bolt of fury at her butting into my life in yet another way.

  ‘I wonder if you and I could go for a coffee and a quick chat? I think this could be a good time for us to sort things out.’