by Fiona Gibson
‘That’s my little one there,’ Ellie explains, indicating a little girl who’s running around in a rainbow-coloured dress, multiple necklaces jangling around her neck. The half dozen or so children present are all in a state of giddy excitement. ‘There was no way she was staying with her dad this weekend,’ she adds. ‘She loves coming here.’ The talk turns to how amazing Meg’s parents are, with their famous parties, and then to children. Tom’s two are back home with his wife in Madrid, and Ellie is separated and her daughter has numerous stepbrothers and sisters; it’s becoming extremely difficult to keep up.
‘So, it’s just you and Arthur?’ she asks.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Shame he couldn’t be here too!’
‘Yeah, he’d love it,’ I say, wondering what he’d make of all these glamorous people, the hundreds of fairy lights and the grazing table.
Tom refills our glasses and I’m quizzed at length about teaching kids music, which I don’t mind at all; these people are friendly and fun and, before I know it, a couple of hours have spun by.
We go to fetch food – Meg’s prediction was accurate, her mother’s artful display has been ravaged – and as the four of us drift back to our table I glimpse the pack of kids who are all chasing each other around a tepee. It’s the kind that Katy, Arthur’s mum, always yearned to buy for him; she’d show him pictures of them in those posh toy catalogues where everything is made of wood or gingham and is utterly charming. But our four-year-old Arthur hadn’t wanted a tepee for Christmas. He’d begged for a garish plastic karaoke machine so she’d finally given in and we’d bought him that instead.
It had driven her mad, being subjected to the tinny backing tracks and raucous singing whenever Arthur had his friends round. ‘I’m sorry,’ she hissed eventually, ‘but that bloody machine’s got to go.’
I hadn’t believed for one moment that she’d actually meant it.
‘Anyway, Ricky,’ Ellie says now, ‘I heard Meg picked you up in a coffee shop!’
I laugh and turn to Meg. ‘Well … we got chatting, didn’t we? That’s how I remember it …’
‘Yes, I did pick you up.’ Meg giggles, eyes shining, looking tipsier than I’ve ever seen her before. A couple of wines is usually her max, but tonight the four of us have worked our way through a few bottles of wine already. ‘I saw him standing there,’ she adds.
‘Someone should write a song about that,’ Tom quips.
‘… looking so cute and a bit dishevelled,’ she continues, ‘with that whopping double bass. And I thought, oh, why not? Just go for it …’
‘Good for you!’ Ellie asserts, and I laugh, pretty tipsy myself now, although I’m trying to be sensible as the last thing I want is to seem pissed in front of Meg’s parents and a whole pile of strangers.
Ellie pulls a mock-furtive expression as she extracts a packet of cigarettes from her bag. ‘Just a little mummy cig,’ she says with a chuckle, and Tom lights it for her. ‘So,’ she goes on, turning back to me, ‘we still don’t know much about you, Ricky. How about we play the secrets game?’
‘Oh, God, do we have to?’ Meg groans, but Ellie insists that we do, explaining to me, ‘Basically, you have to tell the group something that none of us knows.’ She beams around at all of us, showing dazzling white teeth. ‘That’s harder for us. We know all our dirt, don’t we, Megsy?’ Ellie raises a brow and shoots her a knowing look.
‘Shut up, Ells.’ Meg sniggers.
It’s not that I’m an anti-games person. But in this kind of scenario, with no shortage of wine and food and conversation, I don’t really see the need for them. However, I try to get into the spirit as Tom ‘reveals’ that once, as a teenager, he stole his Mum’s make-up and applied a full face of it, ‘and I made such a mess of her stuff that I had to wrap it up in carrier bags and stash it at the bottom of the kitchen bin …’
‘And Mum blamed me,’ shrieks Ellie, ‘because a boy wouldn’t steal his mum’s make-up, would he?’
Everyone laughs until Meg points out: ‘That doesn’t count, Tom, ’cause Ellie knew about it.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘God, you’re such a stickler for rules, Megs.’ More laughter. ‘What about you, Ells?’ he prompts his sister.
‘Um …’ She frowns and bites her lip, and I’m thinking, actually, this has been fun but I’d like to go quite soon as it’s just the two of us tonight, with Arthur being away on a sleepover. And also: what was the ‘dirt’ Ellie referred to, that Meg clearly didn’t want to go into? ‘Okay,’ Ellie blurts out, ‘I once shoplifted a box of those candied lemon slices you put on cakes.’
‘That’s so lame,’ Meg declares.
‘Well, what about you, then?’ Ellie counters. ‘We’re all waiting, Meg.’
‘No, it’s Ricky’s turn,’ she insists, and they all turn to me.
‘Erm …’ I glance around the garden. The children have been herded indoors and most of the adults are now congregating in the conservatory. ‘Okay,’ I start. ‘I really don’t know how you’re going to take this, Meg.’
She looks at me, eyes wide. ‘What is it?’
‘Go on, tell!’ Ellie demands.
I clear my throat. ‘Well, um … often, when I’m working, and have to grab a quick lunch between schools, I … go to Greggs.’
‘Do you?’ Meg exclaims, looking genuinely shocked.
‘Yes, I do. And I have a sausage roll or a chicken bake.’
‘Ugh!’ She shudders.
‘Well, that’s your relationship scuppered, mate,’ Tom says, laughing, as Meg gets up suddenly, and grabs the table for support.
‘Oh my God, it’s a deal breaker,’ Ellie announces. For a moment I think: is it really? Is she storming off due to my secret fondness for puff pastry and saturated fat? But no, it isn’t that.
‘Sorry,’ Meg murmurs. ‘I don’t feel too well.’
‘Aw, she’s always been a lightweight,’ Tom observes as I jump up and put an arm around her shoulders.
‘I’ll get you some water,’ I tell her.
‘I actually want to go home,’ she announces, all in a rush. ‘No drawn-out goodbyes, please. Tom, Ellie, would you tell Mum and Dad that we had to rush off?’ She looks at me. ‘Just say it’s something about Ricky’s son …’ Then off we go, winding our way between glass-laden tables as I call a cab. It arrives swiftly and she leans into me on the back seat, murmuring, ‘You were lovely tonight. Sorry, darling …’
‘Nothing to be sorry for,’ I assure her. Unusually, due to Arthur’s social engagement, we’re staying over at Meg’s flat tonight.
‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ she mutters.
‘Yeah, I really did,’ I say truthfully.
She smiles squiffily. ‘You didn’t want to play that game, did you? The secrets game?’
‘I went along with it, didn’t I?’ I tease her. ‘But I did notice you didn’t share anything …’
‘Oh, I don’t have any secrets,’ she says as we pull up at her block. She lets us into her flat and zooms straight to the sink where she glugs an enormous glass of water. This, and the plain buttered toast I make for her, seems to straighten her out a little as we go to bed.
I probably shouldn’t ask. It’s not that I want to grill her, but still, I can’t help being curious. I mean, we’ve been together for almost a year and I thought I knew her pretty well by now. I turn towards her in bed. ‘What was that thing Ellie said? Something about some kind of—’
‘Uh, she’s just so vanilla,’ Meg mumbles, shaking her head.
‘Vanilla?’ I’m assuming she’s not referring to ice cream.
‘Yeah,’ she drawls, ‘and anyway, it wouldn’t have counted as a secret because she and Tom know.’
I stare at her, genuinely confused now. ‘What do they know?’
‘Just about stuff I used to do,’ she says blithely, and something shifts uneasily in my gut. I mean, I’m not judgemental. My upbringing might seem strange to her, so remote and cut off on the island, where the m
onthly disco in the village hall was as thrilling as it ever really got out there. But I have lived in Glasgow since the age of eighteen and met numerous musicians who often happen to be highly sensitive and extremely complicated individuals. And Arthur’s mum was hardly straightforward, to put it mildly.
‘Is it something you can tell me about?’ I ask hesitantly, although what I really want to ask is, What did you used to do? Are we talking some kind of fetish? Did you go to bondage clubs or whip people or throw cream cakes at naked men?
She murmurs something I don’t catch.
‘Sorry?’ I say.
‘I said—’ she reaches for the water glass on her bedside table ‘—I used to be Polly Amara.’
I stare at her. ‘You changed your name?’
She turns back to face me, her lips set firm as if trying to trap in a laugh. ‘What?’
‘Is that what you said? That you were Polly-something?’
Now she is laughing. ‘Oh, Ricky. You’re so sweet! So naive. Jesus …’ I sit up and try to unravel what’s happening here. Am I missing something?
‘I didn’t say Polly Amara,’ she says. ‘I said I used to be polyamorous.’ Her gaze meets mine as I try to fathom out whether I’ve interpreted the word correctly. I mean, I’m not an idiot – I don’t think – but now I’m worrying that, during my young adult life, when other people were busy being polyamorous, I was too busy practising my scales and arpeggios and I kind of missed what was going on. ‘D’you know what that means?’ she asks.
‘It means, er … you saw different people at the same time.’
‘That’s right.’ I almost expect her to produce a ‘well done’ sticker from the drawer in her bedside table. ‘But the actual definition is having more than one intimate relationship at the same time, with everyone’s knowledge and consent.’
‘Ah, right.’ I look at her, stuck for what to say next. After all, I knocked back quite a bit of booze myself tonight. For a moment I wonder if I’m in one of those weird, drunken dreams and when I wake up, everything will be normal and there’ll be no Polly-anything.
‘Otherwise, it’s just plain old infidelity,’ she adds.
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ I murmur, trying to ignore the creeping wave of sadness that’s washing over me. ‘So, why did you have that kind of, uh … arrangement?’
‘It was just fun, that’s all,’ she says, taking my hand and squeezing it. ‘But that was years ago. It just felt right at the time, for me and the guy I was seeing.’
‘Oh.’ I pause. ‘Who was that?’
‘Just someone,’ she says with a quick shake of her head. She tilts her face and looks at me. ‘You did ask, Ricky.’
‘Yeah, of course.’ It makes my sausage roll confession seem – to use her word – pretty lame. ‘But can I ask you something?’
She nods. ‘Yeah, sure.’
I inhale deeply. ‘Would you tell me honestly if that’s the kind of situation you’d be happier with now?’
‘Of course I’d tell you,’ she exclaims, ‘and no, it’s not. Not anymore, not with you.’ She sighs loudly to signify that she no longer wants to discuss it.
‘I just wish you’d told me before,’ I add.
‘It’s in the past, Ricky,’ she says firmly, ‘and, anyway, when do we ever get the chance to talk about anything in any depth? I mean, it’s not easy when Arthur’s around.’
I blink at her. What does she expect me to do, put him up for adoption? Oh, I know I’m swerving in the wrong direction here, and she’s right – I did ask. ‘Well, not when we’re at mine, maybe,’ I say, ‘but we do go out …’
‘Occasionally,’ she retorts. ‘Anyway, you hold things back from me too.’
I frown. ‘What kind of things?’
‘Important things. I mean, you’re fine talking about trivial stuff. You’ll tell me about your pupil’s dog trying to eat her violin bow and your dad being outraged when he saw a bag of shop-bought ice in your freezer and couldn’t believe you didn’t make your own—’
‘Meg,’ I cut in, ‘can we stop this now? It’s late and we’ve had a heck of a lot of wine and—’
‘You tell me all that,’ she barges on, ‘but the bigger things, the significant things, you keep tightly guarded to your chest. Don’t you trust me?’
I rub at my face, wondering how the hell we’ve got into this. I’d thought the dog-biting-the-bow thing was funny; that’s why I’d told her about it. ‘Of course I trust you,’ I murmur.
‘Can I ask you about something then?’
I look at her as it dawns on me what she’s going to say. But it’s not something I want to go into now – not with Meg, not with anyone.
It’s buried in the past and it’s staying that way.
‘Ricky?’ she says, sitting bolt upright as if primed for burglars. ‘Would you please tell me what happened to Arthur’s mum?’
Chapter Sixteen
Suzy
‘So, I should be back at around six,’ I tell Dee, ‘but I’ll call if I’m running late. Everything’s in the bag – food, bowls, poo bags—’
‘Stop fussing.’ She laughs. ‘I am capable of looking after him, you know. Although I can ping you hourly updates if you like.’
I smile, realising I’m acting like a parent dropping off her child at nursery for the first time. Dee’s day off coincided with my Rosalind meeting, and she insisted she’d be delighted to dog-sit on this blustery Wednesday afternoon. ‘I hope he behaves,’ I add, looking around her tidy yet inviting living room: stripped floorboards, slouchy pale blue velvet sofa, her two daughters’ graduation photographs framed tastefully on the pale grey wall.
She grins. ‘As long as he doesn’t try and make chips when my back’s turned. Anyway, just focus on what you have to do and don’t worry about anything here.’
I nod and swallow hard. ‘Whatever happens,’ I say, more to myself really, ‘the main thing is to hold it together and be strictly businesslike.’
‘That’s right.’ Dee squeezes my arm. ‘You can do it, Suze. You’re being proactive and brave and I’m really proud of you.’
‘Thanks so much.’ I pause and glance down at Scout. ‘I’m not going to get emotional,’ I add firmly, giving him a prolonged cuddle and several noisy kisses before heading off to see if this old friend of my sister’s – who’s never been mentioned before – can actually sort out my life.
As I drive to Leeds I try to make the mental shift from soppy pet kisser to someone who is consulting a professional and must therefore be the epitome of professionalism herself. Although I have already emailed over countless documents and spreadsheets to Rosalind (I must not call her Roz, I’ve decided), there are also reams of paperwork neatly sorted in folders, sitting expectantly on the back seat of my car.
Even though I’ll be close to Belinda’s house, I’m not planning to visit today; not even after my meeting when she’s likely to be home after work. The truth is, I’m not sure I could face Derek, who’s rolled out his ‘Paul couldn’t organise a piss-up in a distillery’ line too many times for my liking. Although he was correct on that score, it’s not as if he does anything particularly meaningful himself, as far as I’ve been able to gather. He doesn’t have an actual job as such. Instead, he has shares and stuff – investments – and makes a great show of conducting phone calls in a very loud voice. But I’ve always suspected it’s a front and that, once Belinda has headed off to work, he lies about scratching his arse all day.
As I arrive at the outskirts of the city, I push away negative thoughts and allow the satnav to guide me towards my rescuer. Dee was right, I reassure myself; I’m being proactive and trying to sort things out, a shift that seems to have coincided with Scout arriving in my life. In fact, I’m a little surprised at how much I’ve managed to achieve during the past four days, since I arrived home from Sgadansay. There’s been a flurry of notable people dying – a Seventies pop icon, a much-loved author and a celebrity hairdresser – and I’ve managed to pull together obituaries fo
r all of them. ‘They’re like buses,’ Paul once joked. ‘You wait for one famous person to peg it and seven come along at once!’
On top of all that I took Scout for a health check at the vet’s and felt inordinately proud as he behaved beautifully during his MOT. The vet pronounced him ‘a little underweight but otherwise in excellent health’. I’d have been no more proud of my boy (when did I start thinking of him as my boy?) if I’d been given a glowing report at parents’ evening.
And now, as I pull over to park, I try to picture things running just as smoothly at Rosalind Nulty’s office. After all, she is a leading insolvency expert, according to Belinda. I’m picturing a bright, toothy, captain-of-hockey-team type who’ll smile sympathetically and say, ‘Okay, Suzy, I can see it’s been a terribly stressful time for you. But now you can leave it all with me.’
I climb out of my car, gather up my files of paperwork and stride past a run-down computer repair shop and a nail bar with a young woman in a tunic smoking outside. And I think about all the things I’d rather be doing, like playing with Scout in the park or sharing a bottle of wine with Dee. Come to that, I’d rather be sluicing out the wheelie bin or having my spleen removed than this – but it’s not about what I want, but what I need to do.
The grey concrete block comes into view. It looks like a faceless government office or maybe a detention centre. Before going in, I pause and take a deep breath to steady myself. From the plaque on the wall, I can see that several businesses are housed here, none of which spark joy: PaydayLoans4U; J. Savage Debt Recovery; and: Nulty & Loaming Financial Solutions.
Can this woman help me, as my sister has promised? Don’t get emotional, I tell myself firmly as I push the door open and walk in.
Chapter Seventeen
Rosalind has short, feathery dark hair and berry-like brown eyes. Her dainty face, plus the tiny hand that shakes mine, brings to mind a woodland mammal like a shrew or a vole (my animal identification skills aren’t that hot – after all, I’d mistaken Scout’s whines for the yowl of a wildcat).
