You're All Mine

by Ruth Harrow

  'Heather, you're not that famous. If you can still make it around Waitrose without being asked for a selfie in the condom section, then you're probably safe.'

  I giggle and Nicole smiles weakly too.

  'Look, Nic, I know you don't want me to tell you what to do, but do you think you should see a doctor? Get the pregnancy officially confirmed?'

  'I've already taken one of those home pregnancy tests. They are pretty accurate. I don't think you can even get false positives.'

  'Yes, I understand that. But, isn't making appointments, sort of, the next step?'

  'I suppose.' And with that, Nicole picks up the phone and arranges to see a doctor.

  She takes a deep breath as she puts down her phone. 'That's it all sorted then – oh, shit!'

  'What?'

  'I'm supposed to be picking up Lilly from school on that day, I'll have to reschedule.'

  'I can pick Lilly up from school. I'm free on Thursday, so I can get to her school no problem.'

  'Are you sure? Thanks, Heather. You're a real lifesaver.'

  'It's fine. By the way, I brought you something.' I lift the gift basket onto the table.

  Nicole eyes it with some distaste. 'A second-hand gift from someone else's husband?'

  'Don't say it like that. James and I wanted you to have it. I was only really interested in the coffee anyway – there are some nice biscuits in here. I guess you're eating for two now and all that. Anyway, your text made it sound like you needed cheering up.'

  'That's very thoughtful of you, Heather,' she says, taking out the shortbread and helping herself to one.

  She hands me the packet, but I refuse. 'Are you sure, Heather? You look like you need it more than me.'

  'Honestly, I'm fine.'

  'Your loss.' She shrugs. 'You know, I thought I saw James's car for the first time in ages.'

  'Yes, but he's gone now. He is staying away on another trip.'

  'Again? Never around when you want him is he?'

  'Maybe. Look, Nic, I've got to get going. I'll have to go and find some more fabric to replace the ruined batch. We'll speak again soon. I'll see you when you pick up Lilly from mine.'

  We both get up and move down the hallway.

  Nicole pauses, hand on the front door latch. 'Heather?'

  'Yes?'

  'You don't think it was James, do you?'

  'Do I think what was James?'

  'That damaged your parcel this morning?'

  My stomach plummets – the same thought had briefly crossed my mind earlier, but I hadn't said a word. 'Why would you say that?'

  'I don't know... he has always seemed a little resentful that you have your own career, hasn't he? Is he all right with you working all the time?'

  'Of course he is OK with it. Everything is fine.'

  43

  I roll over with difficulty – I'm hot and ensnared in my sheets from an unsettling nightmare I was having. Just moments ago the details had been so vivid and bright that I could have painted a picture. Now that I'm fully awake, however, the only thing that sticks with me is the thought of James and how he is slipping away.

  The red digits of my alarm clock burn brightly back at me in the darkness. It's past four am, but only just. My heart beats steadily and obviously in my chest, as though I have just dropped into bed after being out on a run.

  If it wasn't so cold and dark outside and I was feeling a little safer, I might even venture outdoors and actually go for a jog. Not that I need to lose any more weight.

  Out of habit, I check my phone, but there is nothing but a handful of Instagram notifications that I can live without.

  Silence presses in on me as I lie in the tangle of sheets, staring at the dark ceiling. Expensive furnishings from high-end retailers and tasteful, painstakingly chosen colour palettes mean nothing in the dark when they can't be seen.

  There is just an empty space beside me where my husband should be. The bed feels far too big without him.

  My hand reaches for my phone to check it again and I throw it back down with a groan as soon as I see my notification space is empty.

  I need to keep myself busy.

  I get up and take a shower. It's so early, but I disturb no one with the hum of pipework and the stream of water splattering loudly in my otherwise silent bathroom.

  Hair dried and dressed by five, I move in front of the mirror where the steam has already dissipated and apply some makeup.

  As I apply some blusher to my thinning cheeks, something catches my eye and I'm aware of my reflection pausing and reaching into the small wicker basket above the sink.

  My lost hand moisturiser is back. I stare at the small green tube, resting blatantly atop the contents of the basket.

  I reach for it and lift the cap; the fragrance is just how I remember it. Memories of the last time I used it rush over me, and in my mind, it is once again just before I left for Milan.

  Only I'm alone now.

  44

  My mother had always told me not to worry about the school bully – that she would never do well for herself as I would.

  But it turns out that wasn't true.

  She has chosen the exact same profession as me – landed herself on the same project even.

  Was it really just a coincidence?

  Another traffic light change causes me to stop. My fingers tap erratically on the steering wheel as I wait, red light burning into my unfocused eyes.

  I glance at the screen on the dashboard. I'm way too early for my lunchtime meeting with John, but I've been up since the early hours of the morning. I've mainly been doing little jobs around the house, but there are only so many times I can vacuum and put the rubbish out and I was anxious to get out.

  I must have picked up my phone to text James so many times, I'd lost count.

  After what feels like mere moments, the traffic lights change, water droplets on my windscreen glow green and I roll the car forward again.

  To pass some time, I decide to put the car through the nearby car wash, choosing the lengthiest option which only equates to a disappointing ten minutes of spent time. I'm still way ahead of schedule, so I take a different route on the way to Jones and Stanton.

  As I drive on, small streets with shabby shops become narrow roads separating blocks of uniform housing.

  Now I'm on familiar ground.

  The place is lifeless and still apart from the steady movement of an adult here and there walking a child to school.

  I turn onto the road I am looking for and slow as I had done before. The household is awake. The glow of a yellow lamp illuminates the front bedroom upstairs as my car prowls by unnoticed by anyone.

  I slow to a halt and let my mind wander for a few minutes.

  It meanders up the front garden path and along the narrow hallway I know so well.

  What kind of a reception would I get if I was to follow my imagination up the path and actually knock on the door?

  A shadow moves across the window upstairs.

  It's time to move on.

  Once I'm in the brightly lit waiting room of Jones and Stanton, I feel a million miles away from the housing estate I left behind this morning.

  But I feel as though the spirit of the place wrapped its arms around me as I sat, safe and secure in my car – and it hasn't let go.

  Despite the shining downlights and glossy surfaces abundant in John's office as he calls me through I feel tainted still.

  And even worse, I sense everyone can see it.

  'Come in, Heather. Please, take a seat.'

  'Thank you.'

  I spot Lisa as I enter the room and I settle myself in one of the unoccupied seats on the other side of John's desk and give her a polite smile.

  'Hi, Heather. Just asking John to sign these. You know what it's like – forms coming out of our ears.'

  She looks across at John. 'It's lucky I live so close by in the city. I can't imagine having to email my forms in like Heather does.'

  'Yes, well I t
hink most people are used to doing everything online these days. It's not unusual,' I say, as I focus on smoothing the front of my coat down unnecessarily. I know I'm here to explain in person why there are delays at the properties. The flooring should be complete by now. I suspect Lisa is the one that brought this about by interfering with the original order.

  But I can't do a thing to prove it.

  She looks back down at the file in her hands.

  'So, Heather,' John smiles weakly. 'Ian tells me we have had some issues with the flooring over in the apartments. Ian says you had to reorder, but I can't quite work out what happened exactly?'

  John's thick eyebrows tense, awaiting my answer. I had explained everything in the email to Ian. What could be the confusion?

  'Well, it's like I told Ian – I made the initial order to the flooring company, as I was supposed to. The measurements were all correct – I checked in my notebook. But at some point, the company seems to have confused the order details and they sent each carpet in the wrong size. Every single one was too small.'

  John sighs and interlocks his fingers on the desk. 'That's a real pain, Heather. It's going to put back the completion time – and I already have people that made appointments to view on the opening day.'

  'I understand, John. I'm as annoyed as you over this – probably even more so. I definitely wouldn't use the company again.'

  He nods. 'Yes, well the thing is, Ian called them after you sent him your email. They say it was you that updated the measurements after your initial order?'

  I glance across at Lisa flicking slowly through the document wallet in her hands. She is doing a good job of pretending not to listen to the conversation, but she has neglected a vital detail – her eyes aren't moving.

  I shake my head. 'There was a mix-up. I think they confused someone else's order with mine.'

  'But Ian said the message came from your email address?'

  'No, that wasn't my email address. It was similar, but certainly not the same.'

  'But the sender's name was yours, wasn't it?'

  'No – well, yes, it was. But... well, Ian has my official email address and so do you. You must know it isn't the same. Someone was just playing a prank.'

  'A prank?'

  'Well, I would call it sabotage if you want to go down that road. Someone deliberately ruined the order. As you say, someone used my full name.'

  John holds up his weathered hands and looks at me questioningly with a cock of his head. 'Now, Heather. I'm sure it was probably just a misunderstanding. A coincidence, if you will.'

  I glance across at Lisa, who has forgotten to be engrossed in her file and is staring at me with a similar expression to John's, except she seems more amused.

  I look back across at John as he lowers his hands and addresses me.

  My own hands are grasped together, cold and clammy.

  'Now, Heather, I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this. Especially when the company is asking for us to pay for the first order.'

  'What? But that's ridiculous. They said they wouldn't charge us for the ruined order – the manager was very apologetic. He was nice about it when I was in their office.'

  'Was he? It seems he has had a change of heart. He sent a message explaining how they are a small, family run business and all that sort of thing.'

  'But so are you!'

  John looks up at me.

  'Well, I mean, you're not small,' I say, my mouth very dry. 'I just meant...'

  'Yes, I understand. But it is what it is. It's just an extra expense we hadn't budgeted for, that's all. The thing that bothers me the most is being behind schedule.'

  Lisa pipes up. 'Well, I've done my bit, John. The plumbers finished the last bathroom yesterday. I guess I chose my workpeople better, eh, Heather?'

  In my lap, my redundant hands ball together into tight fists. I feel a savage pleasure when a stinging pain in my palms tells me my fingernails can go no further.

  I wonder how different the situation would be now if I had done things differently back in secondary school.

  If I hadn't chosen to act as I had on that day.

  Would Lisa be quite as gleefully vindictive right now? Would she have done this to her professional rival, no matter what had gone on in the past?

  Something tells me she wouldn't be any different.

  Or is that just my guilty conscience?

  45

  The traffic slows during the lunchtime rush in the city leaving me frustrated and replaying the meeting with John over and over in my mind.

  Lisa's smug face and words keep coming back to me. But the thing that bothers me most is John's expression when I suggested the order had been sabotaged. I'm angry with myself for saying it in front of Lisa too.

  Does she think that her sneaky trick has worked?

  Well, it sort of has been effective if the flooring company is charging twice.

  John looked so stressed. And the look he gave me makes me worry about our future endeavours. I get the feeling this mistake is a black mark against my name.

  I have to make a sharp turn off the motorway to avoid missing my junction.

  I'm not going home.

  I'm planning to make a spontaneous trip to James's workplace. It is not too far out of my way to drop in at his office.

  Hopefully, I should just catch him as he is going out for lunch.

  James always eats out at lunchtime. He used to refuse my offers of packed lunches, even when I showed him pictures of the beautifully presented picnic meals I could have made for him on Pinterest.

  'Why would I want to eat salad out of a glass jar?' he had said. 'It's just not practical, Heather.'

  The wheels of my four-wheel-drive roll smoothly over each speed bump leading into the car park of my husband's office building.

  I check the time. A flutter of panic rises in my stomach at the thought that I have just missed James. But a few moments later I am relieved to see the gleaming dark grey of his car parked neatly under a tree.

  I switch the engine off once I am angled into a space close by.

  My fingers grip the steering wheel as I wait. I notice how dry the skin around my nails has become in the absence of my usual moisturiser.

  Then I remember that I rediscovered it this morning and slipped it into my handbag.

  I still can't believe I hadn't seen it before. How odd that it was resting on top of everything else all along.

  Hiding in plain sight.

  I shake my head and slip out the little bottle. It must have been the stress I've been under.

  My eyes sweep the revolving doors of the shiny glass building again before I squeeze a generous dose of white cream onto my thirsty hands.

  The fragrance takes me back again and if I closed my eyes I could almost believe I am back in December before my last chance to maintain a normal marriage had slipped away.

  But I don't let my eyelids shut.

  I keep watch on the main entrance of the building as I work the cream into my skin. James can't get past me and across to his car without my notice.

  I drop the moisturiser bottle back into my bag and when I straighten up, I see my husband.

  Only he isn't alone.

  He walks side-by-side with Gemma. They are clearly deep in conversation and don't glance across to where I am parked just twenty-feet away.

  If James looked directly up now he would see me, but he doesn't.

  He strides purposefully towards his companion's blue Jaguar and moves straight into the passenger seat.

  The car is facing forwards, but I see the pair reflected in the mirror glass of the office building.

  Gemma sits in the driver's seat and looks across to James.

  She reaches out with one of her perfectly manicured hands and squeezes my husband's strong forearm.

  The gesture is familiar, reminding me of how she had squeezed my own arm when she had entered my house. But this is different now.

  Now it is a gesture of familiarity. Years
of understanding.

  A close relationship.

  I scratch the back of my hand mindlessly.

  I blink and the moment appears over as Gemma reaches forward and brings the powerful engine of her vehicle to life.

  She backs out of her parking space and the vehicle glides smoothly past up ahead of me, leaving me staring stupidly after them.

  46

  After a few moments of staring at the space that had just occupied my husband and his ex-girlfriend, I come back to reality.

  Diving into my handbag, I pull out my phone and call James.

  It starts ringing, but then stops and goes straight through to the answerphone.

  My hand tingles with an infuriating itch and I scratch at it angrily.

  I tear the phone away from my head and tap call again audibly hard.

  The annoying drone of the answer machine message buzzes into my ear and I groan out loud.

  The intense itching in my left hand now spreads to my right and I scratch at it roughly, trying to shake it off.

  Looking down, I see the back of my hand is scored with angry red fingernail tracks.

  The tingling spreads onto my palms and pads of my fingers.

  What the hell is happening?

  I rub my hands desperately onto my trousers to no avail.

  Pulling out my bottle of Evian and pouring the remaining dregs of it over my hands helps very little.

  I glance through the windscreen at James's workplace and decide against venturing inside in search of a toilet.

  Some of the staff would point me in the right direction. They would recognise me. But is that a good thing? Gemma looked very much like she was consoling James the way she was touching his arm like that.

  What has he told her?

  Heat rises in my neck and cheeks and my eyes sting as I turn the key in the ignition and pull away from the office building.

  I'm on the motorway and still scratching at my now-burning hands when I take a wrong turn.

  I swear.

  I need to find a public toilet.

  A pocket of relief erupts inside my chest when I see a sign for a supermarket in Cheadle Hulme. I don't think I've ever been more pleased to see an Asda.