The Storm

by Amanda Jennings

  His desire was momentarily interrupted by the dread in his stomach.

  He swore.

  ‘What?’

  He swore again. ‘Fuck. Fuck. I haven’t got a condom. I meant to go to the chemist but I forgot. Jesus. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her voice was thick with disappointment. ‘So we can’t do it?’

  He hit the deck of the boat with his fist.

  ‘Let’s do it anyway. Just…’ She hesitated. ‘Come out. Before you… you know.’

  He didn’t reply for a moment or two. They couldn’t. It wasn’t worth the risk. But then her hand went to his crotch and she stroked him gently as she ran the tip of her tongue over his lips.

  ‘Yes,’ he rasped. ‘Yes. OK.’

  Chapter Nine

  Hannah

  I’d woken early, so slipped out to walk Cass while Nathan and Alex were still sleeping. On my return I can hear them shouting at each other from across the fields. I glance at my watch. It’s not even seven-thirty and yet here they are, already at each other’s throats. There’s a crash and I swear under my breath as I break into a half-jog and cross the lawn to the back door. When I walk in they glance at me briefly before returning their attention to each other. Nathan’s mouth is set in a tight, thin-lipped grimace. Alex is red-faced, nose flaring, chest heaving up and down. I scan the kitchen for what might have caused the crashing noise, but can’t see anything out of place.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask when neither offers any explanation for their fight.

  Nathan’s face contorts into a grotesque snarl. He is about to speak but Alex blurts his words out first.

  ‘He wants to take my phone.’

  Jesus. Really? This is about a phone? I purse my lips and take a breath in an effort to conceal my exasperation, which will only infuriate Nathan and make Alex more defensive, and certainly won’t help de-escalate the argument.

  Nathan’s fist clenches. ‘For God’s sake! I’m not taking his phone. He—’

  ‘You are though! You just said it.’

  ‘This is ludicrous. I didn’t say I was going to take it; I said I didn’t want to see him on it at the awards ceremony this evening. And then he exploded and now here we are. If he’d been reasonable to start with then we wouldn’t have got to this. He completely overreacted, and was incredibly rude and aggressive, and he has to understand there are consequences. Now he loses his phone and that’s his own lookout.’ Nathan stares hard at Alex with unveiled challenge. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell your mother I walked up to you and tried to confiscate your phone just like that?’

  Alex’s brow furrows as he retraces the steps of their argument. His confusion is familiar. It’s impossible to argue with Nathan who is as slippery as wet soap and will twist and manipulate every word uttered, then add questions, an incredulous tone, wrap it all up in lawyer-speak, and blind you with a rewritten version of what you clearly remember, leaving you speechless with self-doubt.

  ‘That’s not true,’ Alex tries, ‘you said I wasn’t allowed to take it tonight and I asked why, and then the next thing you said was you’d confiscate it. I said no and you said I couldn’t have it back.’

  ‘That’s not how it went, Alex. You know that full well. As if I would take your phone because you asked for simple clarification. You’ve not only misremembered but I find it hurtful you’d think I would do something like that. You spoke to me rudely and without respect. You didn’t look me in the eye. You snapped. You showed absolutely no interest in what is, I’ll be honest, a very important evening for me. But all that’s irrelevant now. The fact you’ve got so worked up, that you’ve managed to get yourself into this hysterical state, supersedes the original grievance. You’ve proven how addicted you are to that damn contraption and, well, I’m afraid I can’t trust you not to look at it tonight. The last thing I want is my son at the town hall, in front of the mayor no less, glued to a screen like a dysfunctional zombie.’

  Alex’s mouth moves silently as his fists open and close at his sides like a pair of beating hearts.

  I step towards Nathan. ‘I’m sure Alex wouldn’t have looked at his phone during the—’

  Nathan interrupts me with a scornful snort.

  Alex juts his chin forward, eyes narrowing to slits beneath his heavy brow. ‘It’s my phone.’

  ‘You paid for it, did you? And it’s you who pays for the monthly line rental?’

  Alex hesitates and glances at me, but all I can do is lower my gaze.

  ‘It was a birthday present,’ he says quietly, his voice wavering.

  ‘You know, I think—’

  ‘Be quiet, Hannah. This has nothing to do with you. I told you we shouldn’t get him a phone and I was right. A whole generation of children are unable to have conversations or look people in the eye. They have no attention span, no opinion that isn’t force-fed to them. I can’t risk him sitting in the corner staring at his phone at the ceremony. How would that look? How would that reflect on me?’ He reminds me of a politician giving a stirring address at a rally, with neat, disorienting soundbites, an assertive thumb, and bulldozing arrogance. ‘I want him to be a young man we are proud of. Not just another entitled, disengaged snowflake who believes life owes him everything on a polished silver platter.’

  ‘Nathan, please. Stop now,’ I say wearily. ‘Alex needs to get to school.’

  ‘Stop now? You have a problem – Hannah – with how I’m parenting him? You think I don’t have the right to discipline him in my own home? Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?’

  There’s something buried in his words. An accusation. I straighten myself and face him, about to speak, about to placate him, but he silences me with a raised hand like a policeman directing traffic, then holds his other hand out towards Alex. ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Give me your phone or I’ll—’

  ‘You’ll what?’

  ‘Alex,’ I say calmly. ‘Give him the phone. You can have it back tonight.’

  ‘He’ll have it—’

  ‘He’ll have it back tonight, Nathan.’

  Alex’s hand twitches. He looks from me to Nathan and back at me. I give him a nod of encouragement and a small, almost undetectable, smile. He hesitates, then looking as if he might kill both of us, he pulls his phone from his back pocket and thrusts it into Nathan’s outstretched hand.

  Nathan smiles with undisguised triumph. ‘Thank you. Now get yourself to—’

  ‘I hate you.’

  I watch in horror as Nathan is possessed by a scorching anger which distorts his features and turns him ugly.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘You hate me?’ breathes Nathan. ‘For what? For providing you with a beautiful home? Food? Money for things you want? Giving you a phone and paying the bill each month? You hate me for caring what you do with your life?’

  ‘Please. Both of you. Enough.’ Though my voice is firm, I can’t disguise its tremor. I walk to Alex and rest my hand on his arm, and as I do I’m filled with self-loathing. I should be taking his side, defending him, but I know from years of experience there’s no point. You cannot win against Nathan. He’s too good. Too well practised. So instead of standing up for my son, I tell him to apologise.

  ‘What? Why? He’s—’

  ‘You need to say sorry.’ I drill my words into him. ‘You cannot speak to your father like that.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Now!’

  The sudden shout makes Alex flinch and I immediately regret it. I can’t remember the last time I raised my voice to him. The shock on his face is clear but fleeting, as he rapidly regathers himself and turns back to Nathan.

  They stare at each other for a moment or two, tomcats sizing each other up, both wound tight and waiting to see who’ll pounce first. But then Alex appears to relax. His fists unclench. He gives a half-smile and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to apologise.’

  He picks up h
is school bag and slings it over his shoulder before reaching for the kitchen door. I say his name, but he ignores me. Then the door closes behind him and he’s gone.

  I move to follow him, but Nathan grabs me. His fingers dig into my arm.

  ‘Leave him. You said he needs to get to school. Well, he can get himself to school this morning.’

  ‘He doesn’t have bus money.’

  Nathan smiles. ‘Then he’ll have to walk, won’t he?’

  Tears threaten and I breathe deeply to stem them.

  ‘I have to say, that wasn’t the start to the day I needed. Maybe if you’d been here when he woke up this morning, rather than out having a jolly walk, he might not have lost his temper like that.’ Nathan tugs on the cuffs of his shirt, puts his suit jacket on, and brushes himself down. ‘He’s been difficult for a while, but his behaviour is definitely getting worse. Do you have any idea what’s got into him?’

  The look he gives me is loaded, a knowing glint, something he’s withholding. It’s a trap.

  I have no idea what’s wrong – if anything – with Alex and don’t answer.

  ‘So? Do you? Any clue at all?’

  Nathan is staring at me, waiting for me to speak, but I know better. Anything I say will be taken as ammunition, perhaps not for now, but certainly at some stage.

  ‘Nothing to say? Nothing at all?’

  I shake my head and his face slowly assumes a smile. He leans forward to kiss my cheek.

  ‘We need to be ready to leave at six tonight. I’ve laid your clothes out. Why don’t you wear your hair loose?’

  The outfit is laid out on the bed as if a woman was lying there, fully dressed, and combusted to nothing, leaving only the clothes. He has chosen my navy skirt, patterned with tiny white birds, a white blouse with three buttons on each cuff and a scalloped collar. A pair of navy patent leather court shoes rest neatly on the floor beneath the skirt, obediently waiting side by side. He has even put out a matching set of underwear, white with a delicate lace trim, finishing off the Sunday school teacher look he’s gone for, virginal and pure, buttoned-up. But the instruction – not a question – to keep my hair down means he wants a touch of sexiness. He wants his wife to look chaste but desirable, the perfect woman for a man of Nathan Cardew’s standing. I stare at the outfit and fantasise about leaving it there, laid out on the bed, and going to the town hall in jeans and a sweater, hair in a scruffy ponytail, wellington boots, and getting so drunk on cheap wine my speech slurs and my make-up runs down my face in grubby black smears.

  To the casual observer it might seem that allowing him to choose my clothes is a pitiful relinquishing of my identity. Honestly though? It doesn’t bother me. I’ve no interest in clothes and it’s a battle I have no intention of fighting. Nathan cares about aesthetics, as he calls it. He likes expensive watches and sharp suits and shoes with genuine leather soles. I don’t give a toss. I grew up in a chaotic, untidy house, filled with laughter, dog hair, and clutter on every available surface. I wore things we could afford, hand-me-downs, coats and skirts from charity shops. Mum always said what mattered was people, not things. Nathan would disagree. He has disdain for most people but loves beautiful things. Most of the gifts he gives me for my birthdays or Christmas – a piece of art, a first edition book, or an ornament, maybe – are actually bought for himself. He gave me a painting a few years ago. He said it was expensive. It depicts a hunting scene, a group of men in caps and tweed, faithful beagles at their feet, gathered around the bloodied body of a stag, its dead eyes open, tongue lolling. After a lot of holding it up here and there around the house, going through the motions of deciding on the perfect spot for it, he told me it looked best in his study. I agreed. It’s an awful painting and I’m glad I don’t have to look at it, glad it hangs in his study with the photograph of his dead sister and the ghost of his drog-polat father.

  Not caring is another form of self-protection as well, like the small rebellions I use to claw back some control. These seemingly insignificant acts are my oxygen. Like, every Sunday, while I cook the roast dinner and Nathan reads in the sitting room, I pour a large glass of the red wine he’s decanted to breathe. It might be a St Emilion or a Châteauneuf-du-Pape, something expensive, bought with care and deliberation from the by appointment only wine merchant in Padstow with whom he’s on first name terms. Then I top up the decanter with cheap cooking wine and tip the glass of expensive stuff into the gravy pan. Later, when we’re sitting at the table, I’ll watch him ceremoniously pouring the wine from the decanter, smelling it, rolling it around the glass, sipping it then announcing how delicious it is. Sometimes I buy reduced economy lamb mince as well as the butcher’s best he likes. I’ll use the cheap stuff for the shepherd’s pie and cook the good stuff for Cass. It means juggling the receipts or paying for the cheap mince with coins I’ve squirrelled away, but I’m an expert at that. Then of course there’s the smoking. God, he hates smokers. It’s absurd how angry he becomes when people smoke near him, huffing and puffing as if he was a twenty a day smoker himself. When we got married one of the first things he said was and you won’t be smoking anymore? The question mark was a red herring. It wasn’t a question. It was another instruction. Part of our marriage contract. I picture his reaction if he found out about the packet of Marlboro Lights hidden in the utility room in a tin behind the washing powder and smile.

  Chapter Ten

  Hannah

  The ornate room is rumbling with voices. There must be at least a hundred and fifty people gathered to celebrate Nathan. He floats effortlessly through the crowd, greeting people warmly, shaking hands, lowering bashful eyes in faux-humility.

  ‘You must be so proud of him.’

  The woman’s voice is as soft as her cashmere sweater. She is gazing across the room at Nathan, her fingers fiddling with the delicate silver chain which encircles the loose folds of skin on her neck. ‘He is such a wonderful man. You’re very lucky.’

  The woman fawning over my husband has dull brown hair, greying at the roots, cut into a sharp and practical bob, and an upcountry accent. She’s an incomer, an escapee from whatever grey, uninspiring suburb she’d been miserable in before scurrying down here for a ‘life by the sea’. I imagine she lives in a tastefully updated granite farmhouse with a distant sea view and just adores it when the grandchildren come to visit for two weeks over the summer.

  She glances at me expectantly, eyebrows raised, waiting for a reply.

  I remain quiet and sip my wine which has turned acidic in the heat of my hand.

  What is there to say?

  Yes, he is wonderful, isn’t he? Award-winningly wonderful. I’m proud. I’m lucky. Who wouldn’t be in my position? The wife of a solvent, handsome lawyer in a tailored suit who gives so much back to the community. I turn my head to seek him out and see he is entertaining a small group of people, gathered around him, hanging on his every word like dutiful dogs waiting for a treat. A sudden wave of hatred barrels through me. It happens every now and then, not often, but when it does, like now, it can be breathtakingly fierce. I watch him gesticulating with his hands as he entertains them. Those hands. Fuck. I hate how soft his hands are. Delicate hands, moisturised, with clean nails filed into perfect curves that turn my stomach.

  As I stare at him, I picture him jerking as if electrocuted. He clutches his chest. His face drains of colour and his eye widen in fear. When he collapses, the crowd in the room silence, turn to watch, impassively, then return to their animated conversations as he lies there twitching…

  The woman in the cashmere sweater smiles. She’s given up waiting for a response.

  ‘He’s an amazing man,’ she says, her attention drawn back to him like a magnet. ‘So clever. I hear he does pro bono work as well. And, of course, the fundraising! We’re so grateful to have him on the board of governors. He was instrumental in raising the money we needed for the new gymnasium. On top of all that I just found out he ran the London marathon last year. And for Great Ormond Street, too. What
a kind, compassionate man.’

  ‘Three years ago.’ I place the rancid wine on the trestle table behind me.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The London marathon. He ran it three years ago. Not last year.’

  ‘Oh, but a marathon!’ Her exclamation causes a number of people to cast looks in our direction. ‘John can’t even make it to the fridge without needing a week’s rest.’

  She guffaws sharply – the noise not unlike a braying hyena – before patting my arm and congratulating herself on her joke. When I give her a tight rather waspish smile instead of laughing, her face falls and her eyes narrow as she decides she dislikes me. It was bound to happen. I suspect I’m rather easy to dislike. It wasn’t always this way. I used to be likeable. I made friends easily and enthusiastically. I was easy-going and loved a good time. I didn’t have a care in the world. I had no idea how lucky I was. Stupid me for taking something so precious for granted.

  The woman drifts away and I’m left alone, stranded on an island in an ocean of people celebrating the virtues of my husband. I want to walk up on stage. Take the microphone. Tell them all how naive they are to be taken in by him.

  ‘This man doesn’t do good things for other people,’ I want to shout, ‘he does them only for himself.’

  The messianic smugness painted on to his face as he wanders among his disciples like Saint fucking Nathan of Cornwall is nauseating. Am I being a bitch? Is Nathan a truly good man with a truly good heart? Has my opinion of him become warped? After all, he did run a marathon for Great Ormond Street. Even if it was three years ago and he walked half of it.

  I turn my back on Nathan and check the entrance again. Where is he? Nathan is fuming. Alex was supposed to come home from school, grab a sandwich, then travel in the car with us so we could arrive together, Alex and I either side of Nathan, doting wife and beloved son.

  The perfect family.

  Of course, I made excuses for Alex’s no-show. I fabricated a convoluted story about me not remembering he’d told me he had an after-school revision session that he was reluctant to miss. He was very sorry. He would meet us at the town hall. You know me, I’d said. Always forgetting things. But Alex still isn’t here and, as the minutes tick by, I’m filled with a growing suspicion he isn’t going to show. This will send Nathan into a rage-induced sulk for days, the thought of which is exhausting. I could throttle my son; a few poxy hours was all he needed to give me.