Hell Hath No Fury

by Michelle Morgan

  While I worried about how I would break the news to Simon, in the end I didn’t have to, because he never came back to the theatre. The director made an announcement that he was leaving our marketing work to a client, while he pursued other projects. Simon said he was sorry that he wouldn’t be able to see us shine in our future productions, but – just like in a failed job interview – he wished us the best in our future endeavours.

  As the director read Simon’s prepared statement, several people gawped at me. I knew what they were thinking. We must have had some kind of lovers’ tiff, and he’d gone back to his wife. I never commented on it. Instead, I just wondered how pretentious you had to be to prepare a leaving statement for a student theatre production. I had been so wrapped up in Simon that I hadn’t seen how egotistical he was, but now it all made sense.

  What a wanker.

  I wondered for several weeks if I should tell my lover what I had done, but then decided it was best not to. After all, he had arranged the termination, dumped me at the clinic, and then disappeared from my life. What possible good could come of him knowing that I was going to raise his child? Besides, I realised that in spite of the ‘love’ we held for each other, he had never shared his home address with me, and his phone was a pay-as-you-go, which was switched off the moment he left the show. There was a method in his madness, my mum said, as I cried on her shoulder and explained – with minor details – what had been going on with an unnamed, older man.

  ‘You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last,’ Mum said. ‘But you’ll be fine, and so will my grandchild.’

  My dad paced the room and seethed.

  ‘If I get my hands on him, I’ll end up in prison,’ he snapped. I couldn’t help but smile at that remark. God bless my five-foot-six-inches, skinny dad. He wouldn’t stand a chance against Simon Travis, but it made him happy to imagine that he did.

  That was over ten years ago, and now here I am, with a beautiful boy, who I have never regretted keeping. Not even when he was teething, or throwing himself on the floor in the middle of Tesco, aged two. No, not ever have I regretted having Tom. He’s my everything, and even though I gave up my acting aspirations as soon as that production of Oliver Twist was over, I couldn’t care less. Acting has given way for a part-time job as a school receptionist, dreams of living in a mansion in Beverly Hills have turned into the reality of a tiny rented cottage in Bromfield-on-the-water, and the idea of a fulfilling love life is just that – an idea.

  But in spite of the sacrifices I have made over the years, I can honestly say that I am happy and I am content. If I have any regrets, they’re few and too small to talk about, but I do know this – I have never regretted declining to tell Simon about his son.

  Not once.

  Not ever.

  But now, in one trip to Waterstones, the life I’ve created for my son and I over the past ten years seems fragile. What if Simon knows about Tom? What if that’s why he’s back in Northamptonshire? No, I don’t think that’s possible. I never named him on the birth certificate, I never discuss Tom’s father with anyone at all, and the one time my son asked about him, was when he was five. I explained that his dad was somebody who chose not to be in our lives, but assured him that it didn’t matter; that me and his grandparents loved him more than anything. He has never asked about him since, though I’m sure one day that will change.

  My mind whirrs, trying to think of other ways Simon could have found out. Not from social media. I don’t have Twitter or Instagram, I don’t use my full name on Facebook, and I limit my posts to real friends and family. There are no photographs of Tom on my account, and my parents know not to tag me in any posts they may put up, so that my page remains anonymous to the outside world, as far as I’m aware.

  If I think about it, there is no reason for Simon to know about Tom, and the chances of him returning to Northamptonshire for that reason, are miniscule. He was last seen speeding away from me, and if he had the slightest inkling about Tom, I’m sure he’d continue to head in the opposite direction.

  At least I hope he would.

  ‘Mum, is dinner ready?’

  My thoughts are interrupted by Tom, leaning on the door frame, holding a book about Al Capone, with his school uniform awry. I shake myself back to reality, and smile.

  ‘Not yet, I was just about to make it,’ I say.

  Tom licks his lips.

  ‘Don’t forget to put on extra cheese, please,’ he says, before darting out of the door and sprinting up the stairs.

  ‘Change out of your uniform, and stick it in the wash,’ I shout, as his bedroom door slams closed behind him.

  I go into our tiny galley kitchen and gather together everything I need to make a lasagne good enough for my son. Cheese, pasta sheets, white sauce, tomato sauce… What else do I need? Mince. You can’t cook lasagne without mince. I stoop down to take the meat out of the fridge, and as I do so, there’s a terrific crash from outside. I jerk and the packet jumps out of my fingers and back into the fridge. Good catch.

  I shut the fridge and then open the back door. It’s beginning to get dark, and the familiar feel of autumn is in the air. Damp twigs, and the heavy smell of burnt leaves, makes me want to reach for a dish and make pumpkin pie. If I knew how to. Baking has never been my strong point.

  Over the fence, I can hear the voice of my neighbour and friend, Zach.

  ‘For God’s sake, Trevor,’ he mutters. ‘What the hell have you done?’

  ‘Are you okay?’ I pop my head over the rickety old fence that separates us, and see Zach standing in the middle of what looks like the remains of a tornado. He’s wearing a T-shirt with rock band Kiss emblazoned across the front, and his black hair sticks up in all directions. His jeans are torn at the knees, and for reasons unknown to me, they are tucked into his electric-blue socks. He’s a mess, but a friendly, welcoming mess.

  ‘Hi!’ He flashes a smile, and then grimaces. ‘I thought I’d do good and shove all the remains of the old shed into a bonfire, but Trevor had other ideas.’

  Trevor is Zach’s crazy Labrador, and – it would seem – creator of the tornado. The dog stares at me from the patio, a plank of wood in his mouth, and his tail wagging as though about to take off.

  ‘I’d watch him if I were you,’ I say, gesturing towards Trevor. ‘If there are any sharp bits on that wood, you’ll be worrying about more than an abandoned bonfire.’

  Zach takes a step towards the dog, and it swerves him and heads off to the bottom of the garden, slowing only to manoeuvre his way around the old apple tree.

  ‘I’ll have to get it when he’s calmed down,’ Zach says. ‘He’s worse than having a kid sometimes.’

  ‘Ha, wait until you have one of those, and then come back to me.’ I smile and wonder what it must be like to be in your mid-twenties with just the responsibility of a dog instead of a child. But in all honesty, I can say that while Tom has had his moments over the years, he’s never ran through an unlit bonfire, and sprinted off with a plank of wood in his mouth. Thank goodness.

  Trevor bounds up to Zach, and the two embark on a tug of war with the timber. I watch for a moment, before a voice catches up with me from the upstairs window.

  ‘Mum!’ Tom shouts. ‘When’s the lasagne gonna be ready? Hi, Zach!’

  Zach looks up and waves, while Trevor sees an opportunity to make a run for it.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘But you can come over later if you like? There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

  Zach stoops down to gather up the bonfire wood again.

  ‘Sure. I’ll bring some wine.’

  I guess at this point I should explain something about my neighbour. Zach has lived next door for a couple of years, and we’ve been friends ever since Trevor came charging through the fence and joined the picnic that Tom and I were enjoying in the garden. Once we’d got over the shock, Zach joined us for the afternoon and we’ve been friends ever since.

  Some people may wonder if w
e’ve ever been a couple, or have even come close to getting together. The answer is no. Kind of. Sometimes. It’s a bit complicated, as they say. We’re both single, and we have got ‘together’ a few times over the years – normally after a drunken evening in front of Netflix. I guess that’s what they call friends with benefits, or something. Anyway, we don’t give it a label, or even talk about it. If we end up in bed together, we just pretend like it never happened, and then get on with our friendship. Is that healthy? Probably not in the long run, but it works for us. For now.

  I bid my neighbour goodbye, and leave behind the damp air and smell of conkers and pine cones, as I head back into the warmth of the kitchen. As I go to close the door, there is a rustle in the bushes at the bottom of the garden. My heart leaps into my mouth, and then the ginger cat from down the road launches itself onto the bird table.

  ‘Shit!’ I throw my hand up to my chest, and grab onto the sink. Damn Simon Travis. He’s got me scared of a cat now. I slam the door before the feline finds its way into my kitchen, and then I lock and bolt it. Just in case.

  ‘So, what did you do when you saw him there? I bet you almost shit yourself!’

  Zach throws his feet onto my little green stool, and takes a large glug of rosé wine. He’s heard little bits about Tom’s dad over the past two years, and to hear that he’s back in Northamptonshire has got my friend intrigued to say the least.

  ‘Shush! I don’t want Tom to hear our conversation.’

  My friend gestures towards the ceiling.

  ‘His music is on full blast. He can’t hear his own voice, never mind ours! What is that anyway? It’s just a noise to me.’

  I laugh, and reach for the bowl of chilli crisps on the coffee table.

  ‘You sound like an old man. It’s some kind of rap thing. I think his friend told him about it.’

  Zach grimaces and holds his hands to his ears.

  ‘Awful,’ he says. ‘I hope it’s just a phase, or you may not see me for a while. Anyway, back to what happened earlier. How did it feel to be in his company? It must have been a shock at the very least.’

  ‘To be honest, it was terrifying. I’d got more than used to not having Simon in my life, but then there he was, standing right in front of me with his wife of all people. The one he was supposed to be leaving when we were involved with each other. I tried not to show any kind of emotion, but I’m sure he was well aware of my discomfort.’

  ‘Ooh, what was she like?’

  I untie my hair, and it flops down to my shoulders. I need to get it cut, but Tom needs new shoes this month, so it’ll have to wait.

  ‘Slim, bobbed hair, forties… Dressed like someone you’d see on one of those old eighties programmes, like Dallas or Dynasty.’

  ‘Have no clue what they dress like, but wow anyway.’

  Zach crosses his arms, and his nose wrinkles.

  ‘I wonder why Simon left London. If you like, I can see what I can find out about him. Do some digging in the databases.’

  My friend is a reporter, who sees everything as a potential story. His research skills come in useful for things like advance concert ticket sales, or finding out who is turning on the Christmas lights, but I’m not sure how he could help in this scenario. I shake my head.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, but no, it’s okay.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. To be honest, I was hoping he was just here for a visit, but then Monica mentioned picking up someone called Betty, who I think must be their daughter – so maybe it’s more than a visit. Who knows? Either way, I wish he’d never shown up in Northampton. It’s far too close for my liking, and I’ve been anxious ever since.’

  Zach leans over and pats my shoulder, as though I’m a little puppy on the way to the vets.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘Everything between you is ancient history by now.’

  ‘Not everything.’ I gesture upwards, where Tom’s music is still thudding through the ceiling. Zach waves my comment away.

  ‘Listen, you have no reason to worry about Tom. As far as Simon Travis knows, Tom doesn’t even exist.’

  ‘But is that true though? Maybe he’s found out, and that’s why he’s back.’

  My voice cracks, and I bite down on my lip in an effort not to cry. I’m too emotional sometimes. It’s my biggest flaw, according to my mother.

  ‘Hey!’ Zach says, ‘Simon does not know about Tom, and if he did, don’t you think that Northamptonshire would be the last place he’d be? He doesn’t sound like the sort who would step up to his responsibilities.’

  ‘I did think about that earlier, but then I don’t know if I’m kidding myself.’

  Zach grabs my glass of wine from the table, and hands it to me.

  ‘You’re not kidding yourself, and you know it. That guy has no reason to be back in your life. Today was just bad timing, that’s all.’

  I lean back into the cushions, and feel comforted as they swallow me up. Zach’s right.

  He is right.

  Isn’t he?

  4

  The weekend passes with the usual routine – Saturday morning I stand on the sidelines and cheer Tom in his under elevens football match, and then lunch is a pizza from Asda. Pepperoni and pineapple for me, and double cheese for Tom. Then Sunday we head to my parents’ house – the same house in Bromfield, where I was born and raised.

  After dinner I help my dad with the dishes.

  ‘Are you okay, love?’ he asks, as I dry a never-ending stream of pots. I look down the hall towards the living room, and hear Tom and my mum laughing over a game of Scrabble. Should I tell my dad that Tom’s father is back in the county? My dad’s getting no younger, and I’m not sure how he’ll react to the news. I decide not to risk it, and instead, I opt to tell him about my mundane village life.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night. I woke up at 1am and Tom was watching television in his bedroom. He had woken up and couldn’t get back to sleep, so he decided to watch Gardener’s World on some random DIY channel. Gardener’s World! Who would watch that at 1am?’

  ‘Your mother!’ Dad laughs, and then reaches into the sink and wrenches out the plug. The water gurgles down the hole, and leaves a trail of dinner bits behind. Dad blasts the water into the sink and waggles his finger into the plughole until they’re all gone. He has the hands of an old man now. The hands I used to see on my granddad, have now jumped onto my dad, and it makes me nervous. My mum and dad tried for years to conceive me, and finally did when my mother was thirty-eight and my dad forty. But while it was a miracle for them, it is now a constant worry for me, because I can’t cope with the idea of them becoming old… and the alternative is even worse.

  While my dad puts the last of the pots away, I can’t help but gaze at him. His grey, thinning hair that sticks up at odd angles, the wrinkles beneath his eyes, and the jowls at the sides of his mouth, that disappear when he smiles. But in spite of their age, my parents are still active, happy and – apart from my mum’s high blood pressure – in relatively good health.

  ‘So, who do you think is going to be on I’m a Celeb this year? Your mum reckons they’ll snap up that woman who chaired that parish council meeting, but I’m not so sure.’

  I laugh and shake my head. While I’m here worrying about my parents getting older, they’re more concerned with what semi-famous folk will be going into the jungle – or the castle – or wherever they choose to hold the show this year.

  This discussion is all so normal for a Sunday afternoon, and yet everything seems different, after the events of Friday. What if Simon is thinking about me right now, while I’m yapping to my dad about silly reality shows? What if he’s wondering how to approach me about our former relationship… or our son… or both?

  My paranoia is disturbed by Tom, who sprints into the kitchen, arms flying around his head.

  ‘Mum! Granddad! I beat Grandma at Scrabble!’

  I turn and give him the biggest smile I c
an manage.

  ‘You did? Well done!’

  My dad gives my son a high-five and a cheer.

  ‘I spelled out zebra for a triple word score!’ Tom shouts. ‘Z… E… B… R… A… zebra!’

  ‘Fabulous,’ I say. ‘And how many points did you get?’

  Tom shrugs.

  ‘I dunno, but it was enough to beat Grandma!’

  He rushes back into the living room and I can hear him demanding another game from my already tired mum. My dad chuckles.

  ‘What a great age. No worries, except beating his grandmother at board games!’

  I nod. No worries, indeed. I just hope it stays that way.

  I’ve only been sitting in the school reception for twenty minutes, and already I’ve had a rabid parent on the phone, a child throwing up in my wastepaper basket, and a teacher complaining that her register is covered with cake crumbs. I turn the parent over to the principal, send the child home with his mother, and deny all knowledge of the crumbs, before I sit down and tally up the cash that’s come in for a trip to see a local pantomime. The rest of the world may now be run by online payments, but here at Bromfield Primary School, we still like our cash in envelopes, thank you very much.

  As I go through the never-ending supply of twenty-pence pieces and other shrapnel, Tom appears in front of my counter. Most of the time my son avoids me when I’m in my role of part-time receptionist, but when he needs something, I’m the in thing. His friend, Charlie, loiters behind, hands in pockets, pretending he can’t see me.

  ‘And what can I do for you, young man?’

  Tom grimaces at my fake, old-school secretary voice.

  ‘Year Four are doing a cake sale after assembly, and I don’t have any money.’