It takes me a moment to work out exactly what she means by ‘the study’.
‘You mean the spare room with the desk in one corner and the exercise bike in the other? And two seconds ago, you said that you’d only seen Simon twice. Why are you still seeing him? And more to the point, why are you lying about it?’
‘He’s very nice,’ my mum says. ‘And I said we’d seen him a few times, which I think means three.’ She picks up her magazine again, flicks through the pages in an attempt to look unconcerned, and then drops it onto the coffee table. ‘To be honest, we don’t see anything wrong in keeping in touch with our grandchild’s father. It would be stranger if we didn’t want anything to do with him, really.’
Is this a joke? My parents have continued to see Simon behind my back, and now they approve of his plans for Tom’s tenth birthday? This is bullshit! I spring up out of my chair, but my legs are shaking so much that I’m not sure how I can keep upright.
‘Why would you do this? What gives you the right to stick your noses into my business?’
My dad glares at my mum, his chest rising and falling in tune with his deep breaths.
‘I told you we should have told Charlotte we were keeping in touch with him,’ he says, and my mum tuts again.
‘You wanted to keep it quiet just as much as I did, so don’t give me that!’
My dad gets up and tries to hug me, but I shrug him off.
‘We just want to make sure that you and Tom are safe,’ he says. ‘You’ve got to understand that it’s difficult for us. After having you both all to ourselves for so many years, it’s not easy to let somebody else in, without knowing him for ourselves.’
I have so many words to say, but they’re all stuck in my throat. I can’t do this. I have to get out of here. I grab my handbag, and my parents look dumbstruck.
‘Where are you going?’ my mum asks, as if that isn’t obvious.
‘Home. I’m going home, where my private life can remain just that.’
She goes to hug me, but her knee catches on the coffee table, and sends her tea flying all over the carpet.
‘Ugh! Bernard! Get a cloth!’
My dad is rooted to the spot, unclear what to do. Family drama is not his thing. Normally, he’d be headed to the allotment at the slightest hint of an argument. I throw my handbag over my shoulder.
‘Don’t mention anything to Tom about Simon taking him to London,’ I snap. ‘Whatever you think, he’s not going.’
‘I’m going to London?!’
I spin around, and there is my son in the living-room door, muddy football under his arm and mouth agape.
Brilliant.
It’s a rainy day in Bromfield, and I have no plans to go out before the school run. Instead, I cradle a cup of tea and wonder if the carpet really does need vacuuming or if it can last another day… Or two. Is my suspension making me lazy? Probably, but in my defence, this whole period has been one long journey into depression, and if I didn’t have Tom, I don’t think I’d even bother getting up and showered in the morning.
My hair needs a wash, but I can’t be bothered to do it. I have tied it back in a ponytail, but I’ll have to wear a hat to school later, to hide the fact that I’m inept at taking care of myself right now. I can’t bear any more daytime TV, so instead, I am watching a video of Tom that was taken when he was at nursery, aged three. It was shot by a visiting production company, who popped the kids on a pretend tractor in front of a green screen, and had them wave at all kinds of imaginary animals and people. Tom needed no encouragement to act out his role of Farmer Giles, and the result has entertained me ever since.
As my little boy waves at a cartoon cow, the doorbell goes. I’m expecting a parcel for Tom’s birthday, so I’m not too concerned about what I look like, but as I open the door, my heart plummets. It isn’t my package at all. It’s Monica.
My ex-lover’s wife wears a bottle-green raincoat with the hood pulled tight around her face. Clumps of black hair poke out over her forehead, and water dribbles down into her eyes. She’s shaking and holds her arms around her chest, as though trying to comfort herself. Her short, black skirt sticks to her legs like an old dishcloth, and her tights glisten with moisture. I’m sure her outfit cost hundreds – maybe thousands – of pounds, but right now she looks like a mess. But still more glamorous than me.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Please can I come in? It’s really coming down out here.’
I shake myself out of my daydream, and move aside.
‘Sorry, I was miles away for a moment.’
Monica comes into my tiny hallway, takes off her coat and shakes it outside before hanging it onto my wall hook. The remaining raindrops run down the fabric, and drip onto the floor, while Monica kicks off her shoes and rubs her skirt.
‘You want a towel?’ I ask, although I hope she says no, since the chance of me having any clean ones is remote.
‘No, it’s okay, thanks,’ she says. ‘Listen, I can’t stay long, but I wanted to have a word with you about London.’
My throat contracts. Why did I know this would happen? Ever since Tom found out about Simon’s plans, he has been begging me to let him go. One minute he’ll be doing chores in an effort to win me over, and the next he’s stamping his feet and telling me how much he hates me. He even texted Simon to tell him how much he wanted to go, and the two of them went back and forth as to the fun they could have if only I’d let them. I know this not because I stalked my son’s phone (although I frequently do), but because Tom showed me the conversation in another attempt to get me to comply. All it actually did was earn Simon a phone call from me, telling him to stop winding my son up.
Things wouldn’t be so bad if it was just Tom that wanted the trip to happen, but my parents are so taken in by Simon that they think no harm can come from it at all. I’m surprised they haven’t booked themselves on the trip just to spite me, and I can’t believe how hypocritical they are. They wanted to kill Simon for what he did to me, but the moment he went sniffing around them, he won them over. How do they think that makes me feel? They don’t seem to care.
But now here comes Monica, with another attempt to change my mind.
‘Monica, I’ve already said no, and I meant it.’
‘I know,’ she says, ‘but I’m hoping I can change your mind.’
I assure her she won’t, and then close the living-room door for fear that she’ll see the state of my carpet. There is a small wicker chair in the hall, which my parents gave me when they upgraded their conservatory, and Monica takes no time in plonking herself on there.
‘I never had children, as you know,’ she says. ‘So, after my initial reservations, I was all for Tom coming into our lives, because I knew it would make Simon happy.’
This again. Didn’t we go through all this when I was in her house for dinner? The only difference with this conversation, is that she’s saying she wanted Tom in her life because she knew it would make Simon happy? Didn’t she previously tell me it was to provoke him into settling down?
Whatever. I can’t keep up with her.
I can’t keep up with anything.
I look at my watch and grimace. I really need to change Tom’s bed, and if I don’t get it done before the school run, it’ll never happen. Monica sees my face crinkle, and stands up.
‘I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from something.’
‘It’s okay. I just have a few bits to get done before Tom comes in from school.’
‘Of course.’
She sits back down and plays with a tiny piece of wicker that sticks out from the arm of the chair. It breaks off in her hand, and she drops it onto the floor.
‘Look, I know this could be a difficult situation, but it doesn’t need to be. We would love to take Tom to London for his birthday, not only as a celebration for him, but as a well-earned break for you.’
I bristle at the idea that I would need a break from my own son, and my sharp intake of breath causes Monica’s eyebrows to shoo
t upwards. She knows she’s pissed me off, and before I have chance to reply, she carries on talking.
‘Simon has missed out on so much during the past decade – yes, his fault I know – but he is desperate to make up for it now. I promise we’ll take good care of Tom, if you’re willing to give us the chance.’
I brush some imaginary fluff from my trousers in an effort to seem unconcerned, but I’m sure Monica can tell that I’m not happy with this request. You’d have to be brain-dead not to know it.
‘Monica…’
‘Please! Just think about it, okay? I know I might not come across as the most maternal of people sometimes, but that’s only because I’m not used to being around children. But having said that, I do enjoy Tom’s company, and he does make Simon happy. That’s so important to me, because it’s a rare occurrence for my husband to feel like that about anything.’
She emphasises the words my husband, and then gives me a tiny, thin-lipped smile. I rub my temples. I feel a migraine coming on, and I need to get this woman out of my house.
‘Listen,’ I say, ‘if I tell you I’ll give it some thought, will that make you happy?’ Monica’s face lights up.
‘Definitely! And if you do decide to let him come, you won’t regret it, I promise.’
‘I better not,’ I say. ‘Because if my son is ever hurt or upset while in your care, your world won’t be worth living in anymore.’
She rolls her lips into her mouth, and wafts her long, damp eyelashes up and down.
‘I believe you,’ she says, and then goes out of the door.
21
A week later, and I have admitted defeat on the subject of Tom’s birthday celebration. It seemed that out of everyone I know, I was the only one who thought it could be a bad idea. The only one who understood my hesitation was Zach, but then as Tom reminded me, our neighbour has no say on what he can and can’t do.
But anyway, the conclusion of over a week’s worth of agony, guilt and begging from my son, is that Simon is getting his way. A week before Tom’s real tenth birthday, there will be a London weekend. Or a birthday extravaganza, as he calls it. Not only that, but my son will have a sleepover at Simon and Monica’s home, the night before they go. That way they can head to London early on Saturday morning, and then they’ll have all day to see the sights before the show. Big Ben, the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace… All the places I would love to take Tom for his birthday, if only I could afford it.
But now as Monica and Simon remind me, I don’t need to worry about paying for such a trip, because they’ve got it all sorted out.
Lucky them.
It’s the day of Tom’s sleepover, and there’s a freezing wind racing around the school playground, as I wait for him to come out. Beside me, a group of mothers discuss a true crime show that has just launched on Netflix. I try to tune into their conversation, but before I’m able to decipher which programme they’re talking about, I see Geraldine Butler, racing towards me, waving her arm off.
Geraldine has two girls at school called Fifi and Levi. We call them Kylie and Danni, because of their celeb status in Years Four and Five. If there’s a club to join, they’re there; if there’s a band to play in, Geraldine’s buying them a trumpet; and if there’s a play to perform in, Fifi and Levi are first in the queue for auditions. If they don’t get the main parts in each end-of-term production, well God help the teacher who made that decision. Tom became fond of Fifi a year ago, but when he asked if she’d like to play Roblox with him, Geraldine almost fainted.
‘We don’t do computer games,’ she squawked. ‘The girls are too busy planning their creative careers.’
If those girls leave school and work in an office, I swear Geraldine will have a nervous breakdown, and I just hope I’m around to see it. The woman bounds towards me; her long red hair swinging from side to side, and the tassels on her coat vibrating all around her. She looks like a demented, wintery flapper girl.
‘Charlotte! Is it true that you’ve been fired? I can’t believe it!’
The mothers next to me stop their conversation and stare, and I feel as though the entire playground is watching me.
‘No, I haven’t been fired,’ I say. ‘I’m just taking some days off, for personal reasons.’
Geraldine throws her hand to her chest, and gasps. She’s going for an Oscar with this performance.
‘Oh, thank goodness! When Fifi told me you’d gone, I panicked. Nobody takes care of reception like you do, and don’t get me started on how incompetent Margaret Holmes is, when she tries to fill in for you.’
‘What do you mean? Margaret never fills in for me on reception. If I need anything, I have to put the phone on silent and run. I’d never think of asking her to cover.’
Geraldine stuffs her hands in her pockets, and shakes her head.
‘Well, she was definitely on reception a few weeks ago. I went in to see if there had been any more thought about my idea of a macramé club, but you were nowhere to be seen. Margaret was there, though, and she had a pile of envelopes in her hands. When I pressed the buzzer, she dropped the whole lot, and a tonne of money rolled out of the envelopes and went all over the floor. It looked like a scene from a Vegas casino, where some high-roller is lounging on the bed with their winnings. I hope she managed to find it all again. I hate to think of how much money must have rolled under the counter…’
Geraldine continues her rant, but my ears tune her out. I’m too busy wondering why Margaret would be handling envelopes full of money on reception. It’s never been her job to do so, and why was she jumpy enough to drop it all over the floor when the door buzzed? Thoughts spin around in my head, and pool in the centre of my brain.
Could Margaret be the one who put the money into my bag?
No, that’s crazy. She wouldn’t do that.
Would she?
Tom bursts out of the Year Five door, and before he knows what’s happening, I’ve grabbed his hand, and the two of us are queuing up outside the main reception doors, waiting to be buzzed in by Amy.
‘What are we doing, Mum?’ Tom asks. ‘I need a wee, and I need to get ready for my trip!’
‘You can go to the loo when we get into reception. I just need to talk to Amy.’
Tom tuts and grabs his phone from his rucksack.
‘What have I told you about bringing your phone to school? If your teacher finds it, she’ll confiscate it.’
He ignores me, and bursts into laughter at some meme or gif that has popped onto his screen.
Ten minutes, and seven parents later, it’s our turn to go inside.
‘Amy, please. I need you to give me access to the CCTV files. It’s important.’
‘I’ve already told you. I can’t do that. Margaret could come out at any moment, and I’ll get fired.’
I roll my eyes. Tom has disappeared into the toilet, and there’s a matter of minutes before he’ll be back again.
‘I know that Margaret has already left. I saw her driving off before school had even finished.’
‘Oh.’
The door flies open behind me, and one of the dads comes in, with a toddler wrapped around his shins.
‘I’m just here to drop off Joshua Brown’s karate slip. Shall I pop it here?’ He points to the shelf, and without a word, Amy sticks her hand out of the glass partition, and takes if from him. He nods and disappears out of the door, trying to get the toddler to give up her clutch on his leg.
‘Amy, I swear… I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t important. Somebody has set me up, and I need to know who. It’s going to cost me my job, and if that happens, I won’t be able to afford to live. Please! Please, help me.’
Amy purses her lips, and pushes her hair behind her ears.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘I can’t let you into reception, but I suppose I can give you the disk of files.’
I clap my hands together, but Amy responds by wagging her finger in front of my nose.
‘You must promise me that you’ll
put the discs through my letter box by Sunday morning at the latest. That way I can get them back here and nobody will ever know.’
I cross my heart and smile.
‘You’re a lifesaver. Thanks so much!’
Amy hands me an envelope, full of disks.
‘Stick them in your bag, and for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone that I gave them to you. And don’t ever mention this to me again!!’
‘No problem,’ I say. ‘No problem at all.’
‘Right, Mum, I’m off! I’ll see you on Sunday night! I don’t know what time though. Simon says we’ll be busy all day, so it’ll probably be late. About midnight I’d say!’
Tom bounds down the stairs with his rucksack over his back. God knows what he’s got in there, except for a Doctor Who colouring book and his toothbrush. He rushes past me, and straight out of the front door, where Simon is waiting.
‘Hey! Don’t go without giving me a kiss.’
My son groans, but lets me plant my lips on his cheek.
‘You be a good boy, okay? Do whatever Simon and Monica say, and do not wander off.’
I hand his little suitcase to Simon, and he nods and smiles.
‘He’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry, I lived in London for years, and I know every inch of it. Tom will be perfectly safe.’
Tears spring to my eyes, but I blink them away. This is the first time my son has been out of town for the night without me, and it’s hard. Even more so since he is spending time with the man who didn’t even want him in the first place.
As if reading my mind, Simon brushes my arm with his hand.
‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I promise he’ll have the time of his life. I’m not the enemy, you know.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’
Tom climbs into the car without giving me a second look, and Simon throws the suitcase onto the back seat.
‘Seriously, please don’t worry,’ he says. ‘My only concern is to give my son a trip that he’ll remember forever… For all the right reasons. Plus, I’ll text you when we get there and you have my number, in case you want to speak to Tom or me, or Monica.’
Hell Hath No Fury Page 19