I’m justified in ignoring the ringing the second time: I’d have to wash my hands and dry them before I could pick it up, and there wouldn’t be time to answer.
But when after ringing twenty times before stopping, it shrills into life again, I know I have no choice.
I refrain from shouting, “What the hell do you want?” in case it’s an emergency—one of my girls injured, and this is the number they’ve given in their stricken state.
And then, with weak knees, I’m certain that’s what it will be. Of course, Imogen isn’t in the Mini, but does she wear her seatbelt in the Range Rover when I’m not there?
Frantic now, I slip on oil spilled from my cooking efforts. Sliding into groin injuring splits, I grasp the handset and thrust it to my ear in a breathless, desperate, “Hello?”
It takes me a second to recognise her voice, and when I do, I’m angry.
“Eliot, darrrling?” she coos. “Don’t hang up. I know you’ve been avoiding me, but I really have to talk to you...”
Seething, I can barely bring myself to be civil. “You just don’t get the message do you? I’m not interested. We’re through, we should never have started!”
Cold panic chills me as I become aware of movement in the hallway. Who’s there and what have they heard?
Phone poised between ear and cradle, I strain to recognise the sound. From the distance of a few inches, I hear Uma’s voice, tinny through the speaker, “I’ve left Colin. We can be together!”
Click. I’ve put the receiver on the cradle just as Jess walks into the room. She stares at me as guilt drips down my face. “Okay, hun?” I say as she throws her school bag on the floor. She stands awkwardly.
I’m expecting her to ask who was on the phone. When she doesn’t, to break the silence, I shake my head and sigh, “Bloody PPI!” But she’s gone. Her footsteps echo softly as she scurries upstairs. I detect her bedroom door close, and then nothing.
Shit. She definitely heard. What did I say? Did I incriminate myself? I can’t be sure, but I must have for her to react like this.
But, what should I do now? Go and talk to her? Reassure she’s misunderstood? If I was actually innocent, what would I do? I don’t know. I feel faint.
The Range Rover’s wheels spray shingle up the drive as Imogen pulls in. With no other idea, I whack the fish into the pan, their sizzling covering up anything else, the smell purging.
“Something smells good!” she says, blowing air kisses to me as she removes her coat. I smile, unable to speak. “Jess home?” she asks, I nod, and in recognition of dinner’s imminence, she calls upstairs. When she receives no answer, she bounds up to get her.
Heart in my mouth, I fail to notice the fish burning. When they both walk in together, I’m frantically prizing the over-crisped skin from the ridges of my pan. As I plop it unceremoniously onto plates, Imogen smiles at me. “I like it crispy!” she says. I smile back.
I can barely swallow. Jess is certainly being strange. She hasn’t said a word and is prodding her fish as if it might still be alive. Imogen catches my eye and circles hers to Jess. ‘What’s up with her?’ she’s saying.
I shrug.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
My heart stops.
“Have you had words with Amy again?”
Jess shrugs. It gives me hope. Of course, I assumed I knew what was wrong: that she’s overheard my conversation, but I don’t know, do I?
“Or are you having problems at school, or,” I venture on a limb, “is it ‘boy trouble’?” The glare I get from her now is inconclusive. Does she hate me for what I’ve done to my marriage? Or because I’m prying where I’m not welcome in her personal life? Whichever, her distaste for me is undeniable, and I feel sick.
What can I do? Should I try to get her alone and get to the bottom of what is wrong? If I don’t, and it is what I first thought, and she talks to Imogen, the game could well be up. And despite my past guilt, that seems unfair. Because I’ve chosen them. Not Uma, even though she wants me. I’ve chosen my family.
As Jess pushes up from the table, my instinct is to follow, but a restraining hand from Imogen stops me.
“Leave her,” she says. But I can’t help feeling there’s an unspoken undertone of, “I’ll speak to her.”
Clearing away with Imogen, to keep her in my sight more than to be helpful, I decide to put her off speaking to our daughter.
“You’re right, you know.” I begin. She looks up at me from her stance bending over the dishwasher.
“What?”
“About Jess. We should leave her to it. For now. You saw how she reacted when I questioned her?”
Imogen shrugs. “I suppose. She knows where we are if she wants to talk.”
“Exactly!” I enthuse. “We don’t want to make it worse.”
We watch mindless telly before dragging ourselves off to bed. In the last few twitches before sleep consumes me, I know where I’m headed. I almost welcome it.
The phone is ringing. It’s our kitchen phone, but I’m not in the kitchen. I’m in my classroom at school. But it’s not really my classroom. It’s much bigger. The phone is far away on the other side, and too high for me to reach.
I count a hundred rings before I heave a chair under it to stand on. Perching on tiptoes on the chair, I extend my reach to the phone. My fingers just graze the edge, wobbling it in the cradle. With a supreme stretch I push it further and prepare to catch it as it tumbles from its place.
Clutching it deftly from mid-air, I bring it swiftly to the side of my head. “Hello. Who is this?” I demand.
“Eliot... Eliot Armstrong,” the voice hisses from the earpiece. Bringing it away from my ear to stare at it, as though that will tell me who it is, I jump back, toppling from the chair to land with a thud on the floor.
Scurrying backwards, I don’t take my eyes from the telephone as slowly something crawls out of it.
An ethereal grey mist takes on the form of a human leg, pale and blue-veined, but human. The limb is joined by others, making up a complete hominid form, rotting, grotesque.
As it limps closer, my fleeing is thwarted by the end wall of my class. I have nowhere to run. The disgusting corpse wraps the cloak of The Angel of Death around its shoulders before continuing hobbling towards me.
When it reaches me, I press into the wall, wishing I could become a part of it. Stooping, the creature leans into me. I can smell rotting flesh on its breath.
“Eliot... Come.”
With a rush of air, like an unseen trap-door has opened to a free-fall, I’m whirling, giddy and disoriented.
With a bump, I’m in the all too familiar place, in the driving seat of my Mercedes. Tapping distractedly on the steering wheel, the car lurches from side to side, tears streaming down my face.
With a jolt, I’m bolt upright in bed, gasping for air.
“Eliot? You okay?” Imogen is rubbing my back, coaxing air into my chest.
I nod. “Fine,” I splutter.
When my lungs allow normal breathing, Imogen settles back down with a reassuring pat of my arm.
I don’t settle. Staring resolutely at the ceiling, I am unwilling to venture back to the land where my nightmares terrify me.
When Imogen’s alarm shrills to signify dawn, she leaps straight out of bed. Seeing I’m awake, she smiles down at me. “I’m going to wake Jess. See if she wants to talk yet.”
“No!” I cry. “You’ll be late for work. I’ll go and have a word with her. I’ve got plenty of time.”
Imogen is frowning at me, trying to decide what’s going on. “You two had a row?”
“What? No. But you saw how she was. I don’t think it’s fair you get the teenager treatment before work. I see it all the time.”
Reluctantly, Imogen agrees I’m the best person for the job, and goes to prepare breakfast. I have no option but to make good on my promise and talk to our daughter.
Heart in my mouth, I knock firmly on the door—this is your father. I’m c
oming in, the knock says.
She’s up and dressed. I’m not sure if she’s got up early, or if she’s slept in her clothes.
“Er, Jess? Is anything the matter?” Without answering, she pushes herself from sitting on the bed and squeezes past me in the doorway.
“Jess,” I call, trotting after her. This is it. She’s going to tell Imogen. But she doesn’t. She jogs down the stairs, grabs her coat and bag in one seamless movement and storms from the house. The slamming of the front door a full stop.
“That went well,” Imogen says, staring up at me from the bottom of the stairs, arms folded.
Grinning sheepishly, I mumble, “She doesn’t want to talk about it, I guess.”
I can’t face food, again. Thankfully, Imogen is unaware the bacon croissants she’s prepared are going to waste. “I’ll take one for lunch,” I say to myself, rummaging for where we keep sandwich bags.
Her car is there. Gleaming in the autumn sunshine. Great. I have to doubly avoid her today after last night’s heinous phone call. My mind immediately plunges into turmoil. How much does Jess know? And how can I convince her she’s got it wrong? I must speak to her tonight before Imogen gets home.
The temptation to run my key along Uma’s gleaming paintwork is hard to resist. I wonder if I should confront her, but there’s little point. She must have got the message by now.
And what’s she going on about, ‘We can be together?’ No, we can’t; because that would mean ruining my marriage. And as tempting as she might be in a certain sort of way, I do know I don’t love her. I’m aware I say it a lot, but it isn’t denial. I’m just a red-blooded male with a delicate ego. Particularly delicate right now, but, hey. I’m under no illusion.
Clutching my briefcase with its croissant cargo makes me smile. With the flask I also prepared, I can stay out of sight all day.
“Assembly today, Eliot,” Alix informs me the moment I walk through the door.
I can’t hide my grimace as I answer, “Why? What for?”
She shrugs. “Something important, no doubt,” she declares with a roll of her eyes. I smile and amble towards the hall. Just when I thought I could keep to myself, I’ll be sitting opposite Uma again. Shit.
The purpose of this unusual Wednesday morning assembly is unclear. It’s just like any other, with Mrs Monotone sending me into a coma. I’m expecting to hear that a school rule has been flouted: perhaps a uniform violation, or overuse of mobile phones. Whilst similar things do get a mention, it’s not with the verve I would expect to justify the entire school’s presence in the hall.
The reason, when it comes, shocks me to pale silence.
“... And it is with great sadness and deepest regret that I must announce we will be saying goodbye to our beloved Home-Economics Teacher, Mrs Taylor ne Yazbeck.”
“What?” I mouth, staring straight at her. She isn’t looking at me, but is grinning at the children who have turned as one to gaze at her.
“She will be leaving us at the end of this term... for... er personal reasons.”
For fuck sake! Is this her attempt at jolting me into action? Personal bloody reasons. Yeah, I know. “Oh, I just find it impossible to stay here after all that has passed between us,” I can just hear her now. Well she can think on. I won’t take the bait.
Striding back to my classroom, I can feel her eyes burning into me, but I refuse to even glance back. I stomp to my desk and thump it hard. “Shit!” I hiss under my breath.
Slumping in my chair, awaiting the arrival of my class, I sigh. “Well, at least she’ll be out of my hair in a few weeks.” The realisation makes me giddy. She’ll be gone by Christmas!
Maybe I should come clean to Imogen? With the danger passing, perhaps a clean slate would be good. I immediately decide against it, but it is ammunition I can use to persuade Jess. I’ve lost count of how many times I have reassured myself of the same thing, but today, more than ever, I’m certain things will be okay.
The croissant goes down a treat as I bite with a self-satisfied chomp. Half a flask of coffee later, I’m prowling the classroom like a caged tiger.
“Ah, 11G, do come in, and get your homework out. We’ll mark it in class.”
They groan. It’s a shame this particular form group experience my wrath two lessons on the trot, but it must be fate. Perhaps it’s their Karma.
Each of them in turn come to the front of the class to read out their essays. They cope well, and I reward them with higher grades, and no homework, so they’re happy in the end (even if they might have hated me for a minute.)
“Keep this up, and you’ll sail through your GCSE’s.” If they care, they keep it to themselves as they file out for their buses and lifts and walks home.
I relax in my chair for a few minutes to let the bustling die down. Pouring out the rest of my coffee, I sigh as I hug the cup to my chest.
As I bend to replace everything into my briefcase, I hear Uma’s voice in the corridor outside my classroom. There’s no reason, except for the obvious, that she would have any business in the history department.
I don’t want to speak to her. Hastening from the back door which opens onto the playing field outside the sixth form common room, I’m locking the door when I see her stroll in.
Pretending I haven’t seen her, I trot away. I‘m in a sudden hurry to get to my car. As I round the corner past the tennis court, I hear her calling me. If she ran, she’d catch me up. She doesn’t, but judging by the screeching of my name, she’s not pleased.
“Eliot Armstrong! Just you wait and talk to me!”
But I have nothing to say. Revving the engine, I throw the gear shift into reverse and zoom from the car park.
Uma successfully dodged. I take a deep breath. Next, I have to tackle Jess.
Driving too fast, the usual afternoon traffic forces me to slow. I pass the normal landmarks in a blur of thought, playing over and over the scenario I’m about to experience with my daughter.
I wish I could remember precisely what I’d said to Uma, so I could know what she might have heard. Pulling into the drive, I open the front door, already deciding against a calming dram of whiskey.
Sitting in the hallway, I try various poses in the mirror, wondering how best to greet Jess when she arrives home.
I detect the note of Amy’s Fiat 500 as it slows outside. She pulls briefly onto our drive to turn around and beeps her horn as she speeds away.
My heart thumps in my chest. This is the most important conversation I’ll have this year. Maybe my whole life. Not just to get me off the hook with Imogen, but to restore my relationship with my beautiful daughter. We’ve always been so close.
There she is, her silhouette visible through the glass. I’ve opted for a stern, confident expression whilst leaning elbows on knees and chin in my hands.
She knows what’s coming as soon as she steps in the door. From her face I think she’s wondering if she should walk straight out again.
“Jess. Come and sit.” It’s said as an order, but with a pleading look in my eye. She wrestles with her desires and her obligations. Eyes flitting between my own and her wringing hands, she takes a step towards me, and I rise to go into the lounge.
I assume she wants to know the facts. To tell me off for risking her happy home, but before I venture my version of the truth, I want to be sure that is what’s wrong.
As we sit facing one another at opposite ends of the couch, I rub the middle cushion, hoping inspiration might flow out like a genie from a lamp.
“Jess. What on earth is bothering you?” I ask, in a good impression of mystification.
“Oh, god. You know what!” She pushes herself up to leave.
“Wait! Wait,” I plead, patting the cushion beside me. From the look of thunder on her face, I have made this far more difficult for both of us. “Okay. I do know what’s wrong.”
She sits back an inch on her seat, not committed, but not leaving.
“The phone call?”
She nods, then
adds, “Not just that. Before then. On ‘Film Night,’ and at Grandpa’s and Grandma’s. She phoned you then, didn’t she?”
I nod slowly, in contrast to my mind which is racing to come up with a plausible explanation that doesn’t paint me as the philandering villain. “Yes, poppet. She has been a bit of problem.”
“Who is she? Is it Uma?”
“You know about her?”
“I’ve heard her name.”
I nod again. “Yes. She’ll be gone soon. Out of harm’s way. Leaving at the end of term for ‘personal reasons.’” Jess says nothing.
“She only got married last year. I think she may have had an affair with one of the other teachers, I don’t know for sure.” I’m talking about Karl King, not myself. A lie works best if it’s as close to the truth as possible, I always find.
“She has made her interest in me worryingly clear. On film night, she sent me some rather compromising photos in a message.” Jess’s face reddens. This must be excruciating for her. “I was worried when we were in Wales that she might do the same. Don’t worry, I’ve deleted her from my phone now—hence her phoning on our landline the other day.”
I rest my hands as I rest the case for the defence.
“But you said, ‘We’re through,’ and ‘We should never have started.’ So you must have started something.”
Did I? What can I say? She won’t fall for an obvious lie, but I can’t risk the truth. “You’ve got it wrong,” I say. “Nothing happened. If I said that, I was talking about our friendship. She’s abused my friendship which I wish I’d never started. I don’t remember, but that’s what I must have meant.”
Her face wants to accept it. Whilst I’ve worn her down, I find out what I need to know. “Have you told your mum?” She shakes her head. “Don’t worry. I’ve told her a bit of what I’ve told you. It’s hard though. I don’t want her to worry. She works so hard.”
Jess grins. It makes sense to her and everything is right in her world. Her wonderful dad has just been trying to save everyone’s feelings; even the difficult woman from work.
“Shall we cook something nice?” she suggests.
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 74
