by Ali Mercer
‘Viv? Who’s Viv?’ Annie wants to know.
‘Friend of Leona’s, I suppose,’ Susan tells her. ‘I shouldn’t think they’re going to get many takers, would you? It’s not exactly the kind of thing people would want to shout about.’
The blood rushes to Rachel’s face. Luckily no one is looking at her.
‘Quite,’ Annie agrees. ‘You’d have to be pretty bad not to get custody or whatever, wouldn’t you? Terry’s always said that if we decide we can’t hack it any more, I can have the house as long as he doesn’t have to have the kids. I think there are times when he quite fancies being one of those Saturday dads, not that I’m about to let him get away with it.’
Rachel moves her right hand across the keyboard and surreptitiously pinches her left wrist.
‘Is it a coffee morning or something?’ asks salesman Jim, breaking off from scrolling through the football results. Jim, who sits on Rachel’s right, is in his twenties and is treated with mildly patronising affection by Annie and Susan. Today, in honour of the festive season, Jim is wearing a pair of antlers that make him look like a slightly clueless faun.
Susan peers at the poster. ‘No, it’s an evening thing. Seven o’clock tonight.’
‘Isn’t it a bit sexist?’ Jim wants to know.
‘Come off it. How could it possibly be sexist?’ Annie asks.
‘Well, it’s mothers only, isn’t it? It’s just for women.’
‘What do you care? You’re not a dad yet, are you? Unless there’s something you’re not telling us,’ Annie says.
‘Yes, well, Leona doesn’t have any kids either,’ Jim retorts.
‘You’re a wally,’ Annie says. ‘Why else do you think she’s got involved with this group? She does have a kid, or she did. She gave her up for adoption.’
‘That’s pretty unusual these days, isn’t it?’ Susan observes.
‘I guess she must have been quite young. Maybe she wasn’t really up to looking after a baby.’
‘I wonder if she ever regrets it,’ Susan says.
Rachel pinches a little harder. Discomfort is distraction and that is good. This job is meant to distract her. It isn’t meant to remind her of just how badly she has failed.
‘Well, I still think it’s sexist,’ Jim says.
‘There’s nothing to stop the dads having their own group, is there?’ Annie says.
‘Yeah, and if they did, you’d be muttering about why mums aren’t invited,’ Jim says.
‘No, we wouldn’t,’ Annie retorts. ‘Who’d want to join a group of sad dads? I can’t think of anything more miserable. Other than a group of unhappy mums.’
‘It’s enough to make you grateful for what you have, isn’t it?’ Susan says, turning her back on the poster. ‘Even if our kids run us ragged, and then men aren’t much help. How about a cup of tea and a nice mince pie?’
‘Why not,’ Annie says, and gets to her feet. ‘Get into the mood for our Christmas lunch later.’
Jim locks his screen to hide the football results and stands, too. Susan says, ‘You coming, Rachel?’
‘I’ll pass, thanks,’ Rachel says.
The others wander off to the kitchen, and for the first time since starting work there, Rachel has the office to herself.
It takes a violent effort of will to keep herself from going over to have a closer look at the poster, but she manages it. It’s not as if she’s going to go, anyway, and there’s no reason why it should hold any significance or interest for her, let alone seem to be drawing her towards it.
At twelve-thirty the others shut down their computers and get their coats on ready to go for their Christmas lunch. The timing is ideal, as far as Rachel is concerned: she’s expecting something, and the fewer witnesses the better. But Leona doesn’t move.
‘Sure you don’t want to change your mind?’ Annie asks Leona. ‘I’m sure they could squeeze you in.’
‘Someone has to answer the phones,’ Leona says. ‘You could take Rachel with you, though.’
‘I’ll stick with my sandwich, thanks.’
Mike the boss breezes out of his office, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
‘Right then, who’s driving?’ he says.
Annie sighs. ‘Me again, as usual, I expect.’
They file out, and the office is quiet once more. Which is a good thing, all told. But also unnerving. With fewer bodies around, Rachel feels unpleasantly exposed. She hopes Leona will pop out for a walk round the business park at lunchtime, as she often does, but no such luck: when the external doorbell rings at half-past one, Leona is still there.
‘I think that might be for me,’ Rachel says, and jumps up to answer it.
The delivery man hands over the parcel and she signs for it and goes straight out to put it in the boot of her car, then hurries back.
‘Treated yourself?’ Leona asks as Rachel sits back down opposite her.
The words slip out almost before Rachel has time to stop them.
‘Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for my… I mean, it’s a present for somebody else.’
Leona studies her over the tinsel-draped barrier. She has large, clear, light green eyes, to which she never applies any make-up, and very long, very fine, very straight ash-blonde hair, like a child’s.
Leona says, ‘I’m not your boss, Rachel.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure I follow you…’
‘I know I’ve been explaining to you what you need to do. But Mike’s the boss. We’re just colleagues. Which means you can talk to me. If you want to. You don’t have to feel you can’t.’
‘I don’t. I mean, I don’t feel that way.’
‘OK. Good.’
There is a small but conspicuous pause.
‘You must have seen my poster,’ Leona says. ‘And I guess the others might have talked about it? So you probably know that I had a baby I gave up for adoption.’
Rachel nods. She can’t bring herself to speak.
‘I just think that sometimes groups can be helpful. A chance to get together and talk about the things we have in common, and maybe the things we don’t. And Christmas can be difficult. We thought we could make it a kind of anti-Christmas party.’
‘I have a daughter,’ Rachel says. The words sound strange. Not as if she’s lying, but as if she isn’t telling the whole truth. ‘She doesn’t live with me. She lives with her dad. That delivery was a new coat for her. For Christmas.’
‘I thought it might be something like that,’ Leona says.
Already Rachel feels as if she has said too much. She doesn’t want to get into explanations. Not here, not anywhere.
‘But I’m not really one for groups,’ she says. ‘Or parties, come to that.’
Leona stares at her sceptically, then retreats back behind the barrier.
Rachel makes a concerted effort to get back to work. But out of the corner of her eye she can still see the poster. And she can’t help but think of the person she used to be, back when she was so sure she was loved that no gathering, however full of strangers, held any fear for her.
Six
Rachel
Sixteen years before the loss
Rachel inspected her reflection in the tinsel-framed mirror mounted on the wall opposite the bathtub. The frost-white glitter she’d put on her eyelids was still in place, though the silver top she was wearing now had a red wine stain on it as a result of someone’s overenthusiastic dancing.
Music reverberated through the walls and floorboards, underlaid by a steady buzz of conversation. It was a good party: noisy, busy, full of people drunk on punch and festive goodwill. And yet she felt out of it. Everybody else seemed so carefree and so uninhibited, and so… young, even though they were mostly the same age as she was. Perhaps she should just get tipsy, too, and let herself go.
‘What do you think of Mitch’s girlfriend?’ someone said outside the bathroom door.
Oh no. Somebody in the queue was talking about her. And she probably wasn’t about to
say anything flattering.
‘She’s quite pretty, I suppose.’ That was Mary Smart, who was going out with Mitch’s old schoolfriend, Hugh Chadstone. ‘I hear his parents don’t approve, but then they’re probably not very happy with him dumping law and going off to Cornwall to study art, either. I guess you can see their point.’ There is the click of a cigarette lighter, a leisurely exhalation, and then Mary carries on. ‘She’s not a student, you know. I guess she decided not to go, or maybe she didn’t get in. She’s a secretary.’
‘Really? Where does she work?’
‘I don’t know. Somewhere in London. She and Mitch are long-distance. Sometimes I think that means things last longer than they would have otherwise, you know?’
‘Mitch is so gorgeous, though.’
‘Well, if that kind of bohemian look is your thing.’
‘So what about you and Hugh?’
‘Well, you know – treat ̕em mean, keep ̕em keen. Men are like animals, you have to let them know who’s boss. If you don’t they start thinking they’re the ones in charge, and then you’re really in trouble.’
The other girl laughed, and suddenly Rachel couldn’t bear to stand there and listen to them any longer. She opened the bathroom door and stepped out.
Mary and her friend, who were smoking a joint, stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment. Mary had on a red felt elf’s hat; her friend had come in white, and was wearing a halo and angel wings.
‘Nice party, Mary. Thanks for making me feel welcome.’
And with that she walked off. She was conscious of Mary and her friend watching her, still at a loss for words. The corridor and stairs were crowded, but people made way for her. In the hallway, Hugh accosted her: ‘Hey, Rachel, have you seen Mary anywhere?’
Hugh’s face was red with drink – Rachel had only ever met him when he was either sozzled or hungover – and his Santa beard was dangling round his neck like a woolly cravat. The rest of his party outfit consisted of a plaid shirt, red cords and desert boots. A fair few of the boys Mitch knew from his school, which had been a private one, dressed in a similar way – it was a kind of unofficial uniform, Rachel had decided. Mitch himself didn’t dress like that – he usually wore black, often second-hand, and increasingly threadbare since his parents had stopped giving him an allowance.
‘Mary’s gone to the bathroom. She’ll be back in a minute,’ Rachel said.
Hugh’s face brightened. ‘Oh good. Have you had much of a chance to chat with her or anything? It’s just that I’m a bit worried she might be going off me, and I was wondering if she might have said anything? I know how you girls like to talk.’
‘No, I think she likes you, she’s just trying to play it cool. Just don’t tell her I told you. Maybe you should try playing it cool, too?’
‘Well, thanks for the heads up,’ Hugh said. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Do you know where Mitch is, by any chance?’
‘I don’t, I’m afraid. I’m sure he’s around, anyway.’
Rachel squeezed past Hugh and into the living room. The lights were off, and people were dancing. She couldn’t see Mitch at first. Then she spotted him on the far side of the room, deep in conversation with a girl in a glittery catsuit. She couldn’t leave him for two minutes without him being seized upon by some opportunistic woman. She picked her way round the dancing in the centre of the room and joined them.
‘—so that was when I really knew that it was over,’ the glitter-girl said, and then saw Rachel and fell silent.
Mitch’s smile of greeting faded and was replaced by concern. ‘Rachel, are you all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ she said.
‘How about we go to the kitchen and see if there are any beers left? Nice to have met you,’ he said to the glitter-girl, as an afterthought. ‘Hope it works out.’
‘Sure,’ said the glitter-girl forlornly, looking daggers at Rachel.
The kitchen was quieter, further away from the music. There were a few people there talking – it was the stage of the night when people started having heated debates about nothing in particular, or committing to lengthy comic anecdotes, or crying. Mitch took a couple of the beers they’d brought out of the fridge and passed her one.
‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘You’re not upset that I was talking to that girl, are you? I think she just wanted to bend someone’s ear about her ex. He’s here, apparently.’
‘No, no, that’s all right. I know you’re irresistible to girls with sad stories to tell.’
She smiled at him, and he relaxed. He said, ‘So what’s up?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘It’s definitely not nothing.’
‘OK.’ She swigged a couple of mouthfuls of beer. ‘I overheard Mary talking about me.’
‘Oh.’
‘She said your parents don’t approve of me.’
Mitch looked horrified. ‘I’m really sorry, Rach. I promise you, I never said anything like that to her, and if it came from Hugh then he’s obviously got the wrong end of the stick. Which, to be fair, wouldn’t be that unusual for him. Anyway, we both know it isn’t true. It’s me they don’t approve of.’
‘You’ve always been really evasive about what they think of me—’
‘OK then, for what it’s worth, my dad says you’re a grafter and I could do with learning from your example. And my mother disapproves of everything I do on principle, but if that ever changes I’m sure she’d love you. But look, you don’t really care about what my parents think, do you? Because you shouldn’t.’
She shrugged. He moved closer to her, put one hand on her hip and gave her that wicked grin that meant he was thinking of what would happen between them later, when they were finally alone. She felt her irritation begin to dissolve: after all, what did it matter what anybody else thought? He was the only one who really counted.
‘My parents don’t know you, Rachel,’ he said. ‘And they don’t want to know me, at least not right now. But our lives are about us, not our parents. Right?’
‘Right. I know. But Mitch… Did you tell Hugh – or Mary, or whoever – that I’m a secretary? Because I’m not, actually. I was an executive assistant, and they’ve made me office manager. I mean, I know it doesn’t sound that different but it’s actually a step up from—’
‘OK,’ Mitch said. ‘I might have got a bit confused. But you know I didn’t mean anything by it. I would never put you down, Rachel. And if Mary was being mean about you in any way then she was totally out of order.’ He gazed at her fondly, reached up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear; the last traces of her annoyance disappeared. ‘You’ve got so much more going for you than she has, anyway. She’s exactly the kind of person who’ll get married to someone like Hugh and settle down to have kids in the country, and wake up in twenty years’ time and wonder where her life went.’
‘What do you think we’ll be like in twenty years’ time?’
‘What do you think we’ll be like?’
‘Well… you’ll be a famous and successful Turner Prize-winning artist, being exhibited here, there and everywhere.’
‘And you’ll be running an international business empire.’
She beamed at him. They often talked like this: it was a favourite game, and the way he’d tried to distract her and keep her spirits up in the aftermath of her dad’s death. He smiled back, relieved to see her happy again, and leaned in to kiss her – just fleetingly, but it was enough to give her that glorious hazy feeling that all was right with the world, as long as they were together.
He said, ‘Do you want to dance?’
‘Always,’ she said, and he stood back so she could lead the way to the living room.
Seven
Viv
Viv has hosted many different groups at Park Place over the years, from the church flower arrangers to the town square improvement committee. It never usually makes her nervous; she likes it – she likes to keep busy. But she’s nervous today, and so she does what she always does when sh
e doesn’t quite know how else to occupy herself: she bakes.
Pottering round her clean, orderly kitchen, listening to a nice bit of Mozart, she’s almost contented. She’s going to make barm brack, an old-fashioned loaf cake that she will serve sliced and buttered. The bowl of mixed dried fruit has been soaked overnight in sugar and tea, and is now dark, wet, tannin-scented and plump as if ripe again. She folds in the white flour and stirs it. Now it looks like the beginnings of a cake. All that is missing is a child to lick the spoon.
She pictures him the way she always does, conjuring him up, and the image is part memory and part a wish, and she’s comforted.
While the cake is in the oven she vacuums and dusts the living room – best to have everything shipshape. George, bless him, would have reproached her for fussing round like this. He had been crankier than ever after his retirement, and made her cranky, too, by being underfoot all the time, though she had tried her best not to show it.
It had been a bit of a nightmare, really, those last few years. The sneaking off, the lies, the constant niggling fear of discovery, and the worry about what finding out would do to Louise and Elaine – even though they were out of the house and living their own lives – and more particularly, what it would do to her husband. Because George would have known, then, that she wasn’t the wife he thought he’d had all these years: reliable, steady, honest as the day is long. Nope: she is – was – a deceiver, and their enduring and apparently successful marriage had, in fact, been based on a lie.
A necessary lie; a lie that had propped them up, given something to cling to, and shaped them. Because the more George had niggled and complained and condemned and sulked – almost as if he knew, deep down, that she was surreptitiously going against his wishes – the more she chatted and bustled and baked.
It hadn’t been fair to George, not really. Still, it’s far too late to do anything about it now.
