Hell Hath No Fury

by Michelle Morgan

  Sometimes life is odd.

  Tom sits upright and stares out of the window, taking in every detail of the fancy road.

  ‘Wow, Charlie’s mum was right. These houses are huge!! Look! This one looks like the Home Alone house! Do you think they do have pools, Mum?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I imagine that Si… your dad… will show you if they do.’

  His house beckons on the right, and I pull over. They have an enormous driveway, and the gate is open – just as it was the day Zach and I visited – but it wouldn’t feel right to drive in there. It would feel as though we were friends or family or something, and we are not.

  Are we?

  I park on the street with the rest of the minions, cut the engine, and then turn to tell Tom to remember his rucksack, but it’s too late. He’s already grabbed it, is out of the car and rushing towards Simon and Monica’s drive. I wish I had half of his confidence. Where does he get it from?

  His father.

  ‘Tom! Wait for me. You can’t go in there alone…’

  ‘Tom! How are you doing, my friend?’

  I look towards the house and there is Simon, striding out to meet him. Monica hovers behind, covered from head to toe in designer wear, and smiling as though greeting a long-lost relative.

  Which is the truth, isn’t it?

  Kind of.

  ‘Simon tells me you work in the local school. How do you like it?’

  Monica puts a tiny fork of salad into her mouth and smiles. What the hell is she talking about? She knows where I work. We talked about it on that afternoon in the restaurant. I scratch my nose and as I look at her, Monica stares back and opens her eyes wide. Either she has a terrible memory, or she doesn’t want Simon to know that we already discussed it.

  I don’t quite know, but I’ll play along.

  For now.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I work part-time on the reception desk.’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ she replies. ‘I do think it’s important to still work when you have a child. It allows you to have a bit of independence. A little school job is perfect, isn’t it?’

  I swallow a piece of lettuce, and fight the urge to swing for her.

  ‘It’s more about necessity than independence, but yes, it’s pretty perfect.’

  ‘Good hours?’

  ‘Yes. Part-time, like I said.’

  Simon picks up a china bowl, full of roast potatoes, and offers it to Tom.

  ‘Tom, my man, do you want some more roasties? Looks like you’ve just about finished the ones you had.’

  My son’s smile spreads the breadth of his face. He can’t believe his luck that there are more than a handful of potatoes on offer. It’s four biggies or five little ones at my parents’ house, and rarely any seconds.

  Tom spears six more roasties, and stuffs one into his mouth before it’s even hit his plate. Just as he’s about to have another one, Betty the bichon jumps up onto his lap, and he offers her one as well.

  ‘Betty! Get down!’

  Simon waves his hands towards the dog, and it jumps down and drops the chewed potato onto the carpet. Monica smiles through tight, thin lips. I’m surprised she allows dogs into this posh, uptight house. Even though I’ve been past it a thousand times, nothing could have prepared me for what the house looks like inside. It’s unbelievable. Tom was right, it is like the Home Alone house, and every other John Hughes film come to that. My mum introduced me to Pretty in Pink years ago, and this house would put the posh kid’s house to shame.

  The entrance is large and bright, with shiny white tiles running from one end to the other. The moment we entered, I had to stop myself from skidding straight onto my face, and even Tom in his rubber-soled trainers, seemed apprehensive about stepping on them. How does anyone walk on such things? Thank goodness I won’t ever need to worry about that in my little semi.

  Rising up from the hall is a massive staircase that wouldn’t be out of place in Gone with the Wind. As I looked upwards at it, I half expected to see Scarlett O’Hara racing down after Rhett Butler. Maybe that’s what attracted Monica to this house. I bet she pretends she’s a movie star every time she comes down those stairs, and her resting bitch face could outshine Scarlett O’Hara’s any day of the week.

  The dining room resembles one of those set-ups they have in kitchen and bathroom showrooms. One wall is covered in grey wallpaper, with green swirls all over it. It’s too artsy for my taste, but I can hardly take my eyes off it. There are fancy paintings of cats, with multicoloured paint splashes over the top, and a television mounted to the wall, in case they get bored of each other over dinner.

  The furniture in this room is grey and modern with sharp edges, which gives off a cold and unwelcoming vibe. There aren’t even any photos of Monica and Simon – or anyone else for that matter – it’s all very clinical. Almost like a hotel room… if hotel rooms had large dining tables in them.

  I gaze up at the ceiling, and notice that there is a chandelier sparkling above my head. I used to have a small one in my bedroom when I was a teenager, but I never dusted it, and before long it was covered in spider’s webs and fluff. This one looks as though it’s made of diamonds, and I imagine that if a spider dared look at it, Monica would have a freaking breakdown.

  ‘Do you have a pool? My friend, Charlie, says that all of these houses have a pool.’

  Tom’s voice shakes me out of my daydream, and he looks wide-eyed at his father, begging him to answer in the affirmative.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Simon says, and Tom’s face falls.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We do have a gym though. I’ll show you it later if you like.’ Monica takes a sip of her white wine, and stares at Tom over the top of her glass.

  ‘No, you’re okay,’ Tom says. ‘I don’t like gym. We do it at school.’

  Monica laughs.

  ‘Gym class and a gym room are very different, Tom. I’ll show you it later, and you’ll see what I mean.’

  My son shrugs, while Monica plonks down her fancy wine glass, and traces her finger around the rim. She is humouring him, pretending that they’re friends, but I wonder what she thinks. Her husband had an affair – probably one of many – and the result was Tom; a child that she’s known about and kept quiet about for almost ten years. And now here she is, pretending to be his best friend.

  I don’t buy it.

  ‘You know, Tom,’ says Simon, ‘this isn’t our only house. We also have a house next to a lake, which we can maybe go to one day.’

  Tom’s eyes light up.

  ‘Does the lake have boats?’

  Monica laughs.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ she says. ‘But perhaps we can buy one just for you.’

  ‘Coooool!’

  Simon reaches behind him, pulls open a drawer on the wall unit, and grabs a brochure.

  ‘Here it is,’ he says, as he passes the glossy booklet to my son. ‘You’d be very welcome to go there one day.’

  Tom thumbs through the brochure, no doubt looking for a perspective bedroom.

  ‘You’ve got a book dedicated to your house? Fancy!’

  My sarcasm is not lost on Monica, but she’s not going to admit it.

  ‘The house belonged to Simon’s aunt,’ she says. ‘When she passed, it went to him, but we use it so rarely that we’ve decided to sell. We’re hoping it doesn’t go until the new year though, as we’d like to spend Christmas there if possible.’

  ‘Can I spend Christmas there too,’ asks Tom, and Simon laughs and ruffles his hair.

  ‘Tom!’ I snap. ‘Don’t be cheeky.’

  Monica waves off my comment.

  ‘Oh, he’s fine! If we still have the house by then, you’re more than welcome, Tom. But maybe not on Christmas Day itself. We wouldn’t want Santa to forget where you are, would we?’

  Tom pulls a face, while I stare at my glass of juice, and wonder if Monica really believes in her role as stepmother to my son. She’s doing pretty well so far, but honestly? I can
’t see it lasting.

  What is she up to?

  She doesn’t seem inclined to tell, and Simon is too busy basking in the ego of fatherhood to notice. What a weird set-up.

  And yet here I am, eating their fancy chicken and pretending not to notice Simon staring at me from the corner of his eye. What is he thinking about? What is anyone thinking about? The only person who doesn’t seem to be bothered is Tom. He’s too busy tucking into his dinner, and no doubt rehearsing his conversation with Charlie about how rich his dad is, and how he got to eat a hundred roast potatoes and no vegetables, except his beloved green beans. I look over and Tom smiles and runs his fingers through his strawberry-blond hair. It sticks up in all directions, but it just makes him all the more loveable in my opinion.

  ‘Can I please go to the toilet?’

  Tom stares at Simon, and Monica grimaces. No doubt the thought of a youngster using her polished toilet is too much to bear. She tries to hide her disdain, but it’s everywhere. All over her face.

  Such a fake, fake, fake.

  Simon gets up and points in the general direction of the shiny hallway.

  ‘It’s through there – beside the front door where you came in.’

  ‘Your toilet is downstairs? Ours is upstairs next to the bedrooms.’

  Monica purses her lips.

  ‘It’s called a visitor’s toilet,’ she says. ‘Our main bathrooms are upstairs.’

  Tom’s eyes almost pop out of his head.

  ‘Amazing! Just wait until Charlie hears about this! He’s got one toilet, like a normal person.’

  Monica flings her arms in the air, and laughs.

  ‘You’re so funny, Tom!’ she says, and my son shrugs. He has no idea what she’s talking about, but if there was an Oscar for the best attempt at fake humour, she’d be a clear winner.

  ‘I’ll show you where it is.’ Simon gets up and shuffles Tom towards the dining room door.

  ‘And after I’ve been to the loo, can you show me the garden? I bet it’s the size of Wembley Stadium!’

  Simon chuckles and pats his son on the back.

  ‘It’s not that big, but yes, I’ll take you out to see. Bring your coat. It’s nippy out there.’ He turns back to us and smiles. ‘Back in a minute!’

  Monica watches them go; a broad grin stuck on her made-up face.

  ‘They look so happy together,’ she says. ‘It’s wonderful that they’ve found each other, don’t you think? By the way, that’s a gorgeous necklace. I’ve never seen anything like that.’

  She reaches over to get a better look, and she’s so close that I can smell wine and cigarettes on her breath. It takes all my strength not to recoil, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop my eyebrows from knitting together.

  My hand shoots up to my necklace.

  ‘It’s just a cheap thing,’ I say. ‘I bought it in Skegness for a tenner.’

  Why am I telling her this? I bet her own jewellery is worth thousands.

  ‘It’s cheap but cheerful,’ she says, and when she smiles again, her wide mouth reveals a tiny piece of lettuce stuck between her two front teeth. I opt not to tell her.

  ‘Monica, what do you want from us?’

  The words bolt from my mouth before I can stop them, and she slumps back in her chair.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. I don’t want anything from you.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’

  ‘I swear I don’t… Except maybe your friendship.’

  She bites the skin around her thumbnail, which makes me feel even more uncomfortable than I did before. Is that a tear in her left eye? She’s a better actress than I am.

  ‘Call me suspicious, but I just don’t buy this being nice business. After everything that has happened in the past, I find it hard to understand.’

  Monica pulls out a pink handkerchief from the waistband of her pencil skirt, and dabs at her eyes. She reminds me of one of those socialite women from the fifties. She should be gazing into the window of Tiffany’s, not living in a tiny village, talking to the local school receptionist.

  ‘I’m trying to welcome you both into my life, because you – or your son at least – is a big part of my husband’s life. I’m a contrary human sometimes, I’ll admit. I know I did want to get Simon and Tom together in the beginning, but when my husband finally found out that he was a dad, it made me feel awkward and aware of all my failings. I don’t know why, and it’s humiliating to even admit it, since I was the one who wanted it to happen, but anyway, I panicked. I’m human, what can I say?’

  Her words sound more like a rehearsed sermon than a conversation. Learning lines was my speciality when I went to acting class, and my teacher thought I was so good at it that I would easily walk into an acting job after college. That all changed when I got pregnant with Tom, but now Monica seems to have acquired my talent for putting together words and phrases that masqueraded as her own. She runs her fingers over the embroidered table mat. Was she really aware of her failings when Simon reconnected with Tom? Did she really feel humiliated and awkward? Her words gather in the back of my brain and converge with my thoughts. I must not feel sympathy for this woman… I must not feel sympathy for this woman!

  ‘So, is that why you went to stay with a friend for a while? Because you felt awkward?’

  Monica nods, and tucks her sleek bob behind her ear.

  ‘Yes. It was ridiculous really, and I soon missed being at home. Strangely, once I came back and spoke to Simon, I realised how silly I was being. This was a chance for a new life for Simon and myself. It could all work out the way I wanted it to, if I was brave enough to give it a go.’

  Another profound speech. This woman should be a writer. She’d make millions.

  ‘Besides,’ she says, ‘since Tom has been in Simon’s life, he seems to be settling down a little, and that can only be a good thing, right?’

  There are those words again – settling down.

  ‘You mentioned wanting Simon to settle down when we met in the restaurant. Monica, are you still afraid that he is going to stray? Because if you are, Tom or any other child will never prevent that from happening. You know that, right? If you don’t trust your husband, then maybe you need to look at yourself. Get out of here and move on with your life.’

  Monica sniffs, dabs her nose and gazes towards the hallway to make sure her precious husband isn’t eavesdropping on our conversation. He’s already left for the garden, though, so the only thing he’ll hear for the next ten minutes, is a low-down of football and the latest YouTube sensation.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she says. ‘I can’t just walk away from my marriage, no matter how much I distrust my husband. I’ll lose everything I have, if I do.’

  Monica runs her ring-encrusted fingers over her fancy, gold bracelets. I’m not sure if this woman is in love with Simon, but she certainly adores the status of being Mrs Travis. Being the head of a multimillion company brings money, and what does money bring? Everything Monica has ever wanted. Except monogamy.

  ‘I think it’s time for Tom and I to be going home. We’ve taken up enough of your afternoon.’

  Monica rubs her neck. Her long, peach-coloured nails make a scratching noise that goes straight into my brain.

  ‘Please don’t rush off, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’

  As her words hang in the air, Simon and Tom return from the garden. My son bounds in like a baby deer; he’s so excited.

  ‘Mum! You’ll never guess what they have in the garden!’

  I break eye contact with Monica, and smile at my son.

  ‘No, I don’t think I will. You better tell me.’

  ‘A beehive!!’

  I’m confused. Simon doesn’t look the sort to don a beekeeper’s outfit and waft one of those smoke gadgets around, and there’s no way I can see Monica doing it.

  ‘You have a beehive?’

  I look at Simon, and he waves off my question and laughs.

  ‘It’s not ours, but we en
joy eating the rewards.’

  Monica stands up.

  ‘Do you like honey, Tom? We’ve got loads in the cupboard.’

  Tom rubs his stomach and licks his lips in a dramatic fashion.

  ‘Yum! Yes please. I can have it on my toast in the morning, can’t I, Mum?’

  I nod, and watch as he skips out of the room, behind his… what is she? His stepmother? It chokes me to think it, but I suppose she is.

  Simon shuffles from one foot to another, and a broad grin runs almost the length of his face.

  ‘He’s a great kid!’ He taps his temples. ‘Bloody intelligent, too. Smart as hell.’

  ‘Yes, he’s wonderful.’

  My ex-lover steps forward and touches my arm. I tense up and step back.

  ‘You’ve done a bloody good job,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’

  Thank you? Thank you for raising his child after he wanted nothing to do with him? There’s so much I can say in response to that, but I’m anxious to get out of here without a scene, so instead, I nod.

  It’s all I can do.

  Simon and Monica wave us off from their million-pound house, and we plod down the driveway, towards the road. Tom clutches his honey as though it’s a pot of gold dust, while I try to hang on to my sanity until we reach the car.

  We get to the gate, and Tom turns and waves to his new-found family.

  ‘Bye, Dad,’ he shouts.

  ‘Bye, son!’ Simon replies, and then Monica’s candyfloss voice comes wafting down the drive.

  ‘See you soon, I hope!’

  Tom waves again, but I keep walking, resisting the urge to march back in there and puke all over their polished doorstep.

  18

  Monday morning, and I’m back on reception. Margaret is out of school and as usual, Linda Turner is on the warpath.

  ‘Have you any idea when Margaret will be back?’ She presents it as a question, but it’s more of a demand. Get the principal back here or else!

  ‘No, I’m sorry. She’s gone to the dentist, so she could be out for the whole morning.’

  Linda tuts and touches her flower slide, which today is a blue pansy with tiny silver bells hanging off the petals. I’m sure that isn’t at all annoying to the other teachers in her unit.