by NJ Moss
“Because I’d kill you.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
He sits back and picks up a piece of bacon, shoving it into his mouth and grinning over at me. I laugh, shaking my head at how dorky he looks. I know this silly side of him is just for me. Maybe I was reading too much into him staring across the garden. I know his job can be very stressful.
“We’ll go and see him,” he says. “And you can take as many photos as you want. The old prick might as well come in useful for something. That’s why you want to go, right?”
I fold my napkin and dab at the corner of my mouth. “It isn’t about the photos. But thank you. I will. It’s about raising awareness. Lots of my followers are in the same position as us, with a sick family member, but they aren’t fortunate enough to have my platform. They want to know I understand where they’re coming from. It’s about making a connection.”
“I know, I know.” He holds his hands up. “You know me. I’m an old man when it comes to this stuff.”
“Yes, but you’re my old man. In fact, I think I see a few grey hairs.”
“Ha-ha-ha. Imagine if I said that to you. I’d be face down in the pool.”
“Yeah, and that’s if you’re lucky.”
We laugh together and go on eating, and I think about ways to frame the visit to Frederick on my Instagram. One of the big influencers – a real pro who goes by the name Zany Zora – recently posted about her grandfather dying from, or with, Alzheimer’s. In any case, the hashtags all somehow related to the disease. The photos were intimate and real. Brutal. Transformative.
She gained fifteen thousand followers in three days and the post became her third-most liked.
I don’t want to visit Frederick for the sole purpose of taking photographs though. That would be tacky and mean. Jamie doesn’t make enough of an effort with his father. If I can bring awareness to the issue in the meantime, I think that’s a win-win.
I study my husband’s face, the way he smiles at me, sort of wolfish. I study his gleaming eyes and I wonder if there’s more going on. But Jamie and I don’t lie to each other. We never have. Our bond is too deep. Even about the nasty stuff – the evil stuff – we tell the truth.
I meant what I said. If he ever cheated on me, I’d do something drastic. I’ve given myself to him when many of my friends are single, jet-setting, partying. But we found each other. We chose each other.
Nothing matters but him and me. In a marriage a wife has to demand respect.
10
Jamie
I hate visiting my old man. I hated it before he got ill and I hate it even more now.
He’s old. He had me when he was sixty and he was always too old for my mum. She was around twenty-five. I’m not one to judge a man for having a younger girlfriend, but there’s something sick when it’s my own mother. He reminds me of my childhood, which I don’t like thinking about.
He sits in his armchair next to the window, looking out at the poxy communal garden. He’s wearing a brown shirt that hangs off his skinny frame. He used to be a meaty son of a bitch, scary-looking, but now he looks like a beanpole. I used to think it would bring me some relief, seeing him broken like this. But it doesn’t. I don’t want to be here.
I still have no clue what happened in Cardiff with the photos and Millicent and that whole mess. During the two weeks I was there, I kept expecting her to pop back into my life. I wanted to come back to Bristol for the weekend, but Ray needed me to work, so I worked. Then I’d return to my room or hit the gym. I steered clear of the club.
I can still smell the guts and the rest of it, the reek of all that gore. I can still see those photos.
“Jamie,” Hazel whispers from beside me. “Say hello. Don’t be rude.”
She’s got her phone clutched in her hand. Her eyes have got a hungry, determined look. Nobody could call my wife unmotivated.
I walk over to him and he turns, but not enough to see me. His eyes settle on his old brown shoes tucked neatly beside his bed, the same way I arrange my shoes when I go exploring. That was a real pain in the arse, walking the streets of Cardiff in my socks.
“Dad?” I sound like a child. I hate this shit. “Dad, it’s me. It’s Jamie.”
“Umberto? Bertie? Eh?”
“Who’s Umberto?” Hazel whispers.
She has her phone on silent, but I can hear the tap-tap-tap of her thumb against the screen as she takes photographs. She’ll have at least five hundred by the time we leave.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, keeping my gaze on Dad. “He’s never mentioned him before. Maybe a character from a TV show or something?”
“Bertie.” A watery smile spreads across his face. Part of me is certain this is an act. Any second now he’ll leap from the chair and smack me across the back of the head. “I knew you’d come back. Come on. Sit down.”
“Sit down, Jamie,” Hazel urges, walking off to the side to get a better angle.
She’s not going to quit, so I take the seat next to Dad. “It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”
“Oh, aye. Lovely day. Nice and sunny. Can’t complain when the weather’s like this, can we?”
This is the worst part. He’s smiling. His voice is friendly. He sounds like he loves me. He never sounded like this before he got ill. Every time I come here, I’m somebody else, names I don’t recognise.
“No,” I say. “I guess we can’t.”
He smiles and lets his head fall back, gazing at the sunny garden. Then the smile becomes a leer and he gets a look I do recognise. It’s almost comforting to see the real Frederick come out to play. “She knows what she’s doing, don’t she? Walking around like that. Strutting her stuff. Oh, aye, she knows what she’s doing, the sweet little thing.”
I want to grab the loose skin around his neck and tear it until it peels away.
The sweet little thing he’s talking about must be Mum. He has no right to talk about her like this, to degrade her with his perverted look.
“Nice day,” he says a moment later, settling down.
“Nice day,” I echo.
“Can’t complain, can we, Bertie?”
“No, sir.”
Sir. I don’t even call Ray sir.
“Such a polite lad. Such a good lad. You’re going places. I’m telling you. You’re the best of the bunch. You’re a real good boy, you are. You’re like me.”
“Sure.”
I’m nothing like you, you pathetic old fuck. You lived in a two-bedroom flat with damp creeping over the walls. You spent half your waking hours complaining your benefits weren’t enough to buy you the cigarettes and booze you wanted. You wouldn’t survive a goddamn second in my world, so keep your mouth shut.
“Can’t complain,” Dad says.
“No. We can’t complain.”
I raise an eyebrow at Hazel. She peers at me over the top of her phone. My wife is good at reading me, even if I don’t share every single thing with her. But I can tell she knows how much this is bothering me. She nods toward the door.
“All right, Dad. I only popped in to say hello.”
His eyes flicker closed. “We had some fun, didn’t we, Eli, old boy? Yeah, we had some damn good times. You’re a good man, Elijah.”
I’m barely listening as I rush for the door. When we’re in the hallway, I pace as quickly as I can without worrying the staff. I head for the reception and sign out, muttering something to the receptionist when she asks about the visit. I think I tell her it went well. Whatever I say, it’s a lie.
I stride across the car park, past the cheap-looking cars to my glittering Range Rover. It looks like a tank. It promises safety.
“Jamie, slow down.” Hazel walks up next to me.
This is my life. My wife in her pink yoga leggings and pink hoodie, in her expensive trainers. Her red hair is tied back and without any make-up on, she looks so beautiful, so naturally gorgeous. Her freckles show in the spring sunlight.
This is what I am. Not that. Not him.
“I just want t
o go, H.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you come.”
I’ve recently had my tinted windows cleaned and they’re shiny, reflective.
That’s how I see Millicent, standing on the other side of the street. She’s leaning against the bus stop, arms crossed over her middle, looking right at us.
It is her, isn’t it? She has the same fringe. She’s the same height, the same build, the same everything.
“It’s fine.” I pull Hazel into a hug and stare into the window, wondering if I’m going mad. I kiss my wife on the cheek, squeezing her close to me. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Okay, whatever you want. I love you.”
“I love you too. Come on.”
I walk around to the driver’s side and open the door, and then I peer over the roof at the bus stop. There’s nobody there except a mother with a pushchair, one hand rocking it back and forth and the other idly scrolling on her phone. I keep staring for a few moments. Maybe Millicent will pop back into existence if I look hard enough.
“Jamie,” Hazel says. “Is something wrong?”
I’m not going crazy. I’m not seeing things. I’m not being hunted.
“No.” I climb into the car. “Everything’s fine.”
11
Hazel
I link my arm through Jamie’s as we walk toward the glittering entrance to the hotel function room. Ray has pulled out all the stops for his birthday, even laying down a red carpet and putting up barriers like we’re celebrities. The champagne we drunk before the limo arrived – the limo – makes my whole body hot and bubbly.
I try not to let my imagination go wild, but I can’t help but think this is what it’ll be like when I’m Insta-famous. The only thing we’re missing is the paparazzi. I pause to take a quick selfie.
“Who knew fifty-seventh birthdays were so special, eh?” Jamie says, tickling me in the side, as we keep walking.
I slap his arm. “Don’t be a grumpy-kins tonight, Jamie.”
“Grumpy-kins, me?”
I lean up and whisper in his ear as we near the door, the doorman holding it open for us. “Jamie, I need to tell you something.” I know my breath must shiver across his neck. I feel his body get stiff and tense. I know the power I have over my husband, and I love using it. “I’m not wearing any underwear.”
Jamie glances at me, and then at the doorman. He tries to say thank you but it comes out as a jumbled mess of words. I laugh and he smiles.
These are the nights that make it worth it, that prove – to the world and ourselves – Jamie and Hazel Smithson are going to be okay in the end.
“You’re never going to stop driving me wild, are you, H?” His hand presses against the small of my back, burning through my dress, as we walk across the marble floor to the sign-in desk. Champagne is laid out on a long table, twinkling in the lights, glasses and glasses of it. It’s so elegant.
“Nope,” I say. “Even when I’m one eighty and you can hardly stand to look at me.”
“Never gonna happen.” He leans down and lays a soft kiss on my forehead.
“Hey.” I shoo him away. “Don’t ruin my make-up.”
“Forehead make-up’s that important, is it?”
Jamie turns to the man at the desk. My husband looks tall and handsome and dashing in his tuxedo. His time in the gym has paid off, his shoulders broad, filling the suit jacket sexily. He’s shaved and it makes his jaw look square and strong.
“No, no,” somebody shouts from beyond the desk, causing the guests to turn their heads. Some of them scowl, but when they see it’s the birthday boy pushing his way through the crowd, their scowls become indulgent smiles and eye-rolls. “I will not have my best worker standing out here like some commoner. Jamie, mate. Come here.”
Ray swaggers around the desk, tottering. His hair is grey and patchy, combed-over in an effort to hide the bald spot. His sweaty grin is genuine when he faces Jamie. I can tell it means a lot to Jamie for an older man to show him this sort of affection, even if he’d never put it in those terms. It’s not like he ever got any from his dad.
“All right, boss.”
Ray throws his arms around Jamie, hugging him in drunken good humour. He steps back and bows clumsily. “Gorgeous as always, Mrs Smithson.”
“Thank you, Ray. This is really wonderful. A red carpet. You’ve gone all out.”
“Fifty-seven, it’s an important milestone.” He leads us deeper into the room. We each pick up a glass of champagne as we pass. “You know why? Ask me why.”
He walks slightly ahead of us. He doesn’t see Jamie cock his eyebrow at me. There’s a question in his glinting greens. Reckon he’s pissed? I mask a laugh with a mouthful of champagne. I can tell Jamie doesn’t find it entirely funny though. Ray was sober when Jamie first started working for him, but he’s relapsed several times since then.
“Why, boss?”
“Because it’s been seven years since I divorced that back-stabbing whore!” He knocks back the entire glassful of champagne and then stares down at the glass, as though expecting it to refill itself. “But you two, you’ve got something else. You’re a rare breed, Mr and Mrs Smithson. A happily married couple.”
Jamie loops his arm over my shoulder, squeezing me close, kissing the top of my head. “I’m a lucky man.”
I lean into him, and then step away so he doesn’t mess up my hair. I swear he’s on some sort of mission. At least he isn’t in a mood like he was after visiting his dad. All day, he’s been mopey, sitting around the house watching TV and eating salted nuts. Maybe he just needed a drink.
Ray leads us to the other end of the room, to the toilets. Even the sign for the toilets is fancy, inlaid with golden lettering.
“Any reason we’re standing outside the loo, boss?”
“She shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Who shouldn’t?” I ask.
“My new squeeze.” He chuckles. “She’s the most amazing thing that’s happened to me in a long time. She’s—For fuck’s sake. Does it ever stop?”
He pulls out his phone and glares at the screen.
“Work?” I ask.
“Always, right, kid?”
“No comment.”
Ray laughs. “No comment. Yeah, I like that. I won’t be long.”
He wanders off to the corner, barking into his phone. I take in the full majesty of the room. The ceilings are high and the chandeliers are bright. There’s a stage at the far end, but the curtains are drawn. “Is there going to be a band?”
“Yeah,” Jamie says. “Jazz, I think.”
He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. I tilt my head toward the movement. I love that he knows how much I like this. I love that he makes the effort to do it.
“I see you, Hazel Smithson.”
“Are you trying to make me cry?”
“I see all of you.”
“You’re an evil man.”
“You’re never invisible with me.”
“I’ve got half a mind to throw this champagne in your face. First the smooching and hair touching, now this? You really are trying to ruin my make-up.”
“Everything you do, everything you are…”
Goosepimples prick my skin as his voice gets husky.
I remember how he stared into me at the altar, truly seeing me in a way I’d never felt before. Even if we had over a hundred guests, it felt like we were alone, floating above the world. I wish we could get married again. Wives should get a wedding a year with the stuff we have to put up with.
“I’ll always be watching,” we whisper at the same time, leaning close, our lips magnetised.
“Sorry about that,” Ray says, interrupting the moment. “Ah, here she is.” He waves a hand at the toilet. “My angel.”
Jamie drops his glass and it smashes loudly on the floor, champagne spreading across the hardwood, the shards sparkling.
“Shit, sorry. I…”
“Butter fingers,” the woman says. Her stylish black
hair is cut into a fringe and she’s wearing a dress with gemstones inlaid into it. She’s thin, like ultra-thin, all sharp edges. And she’s at least twenty years younger than Ray, but that’s nothing new for him. “This must be the famous Jamie, darling. You didn’t tell me he was so clumsy.”
12
Before
Constance – the woman who had lived a miserable life and had become homeless and had been saved by Charles Maidstone – lay on a pile of blankets in the middle of the candlelit living room. The room was empty of furniture and decoration, and this made the light swell with even more fervour, the expansion of the light colliding with and joining with the Comrades’ voices.
She cried out and sweat glistened on her forehead and she was naked, utterly naked on the blankets, her belly shifting as she tried to push her child into the world. The faces of the Comrades were shiny with tears of joy, for this was the first colony-born child, the first who would be raised entirely in this brave new world.
“Ahhhhhhh,” Constance wailed.
“Ahhhhhhh,” everybody echoed, except for Charles who sat in the corner and smoked a tobacco pipe and stroked his beard contemplatively.
A man sat on one side of Constance and a woman on the other, for Charles had insisted both sexes participate fully in the birth. But it was clear the woman was doing most of the work. She had been a nurse in her previous life, before she went to work at the factory where most of the Comrades were employed. Factory work was humble work. Nursing was part of the societal lie people had been born into, presuming to nudge the scales of life and death. Still, it was useful here, for she knew the necessary procedures that came along with the bloody business of birthing a child.
What harm could one more hypocrisy cause?
Charles rose to his feet and immediately all noise ceased, even that of the woman in labour. He paced up and down the room in his bare feet and his raggedy brown corduroys and his ill-fitting sullied shirt. To wear clean presentable clothes implied a person thought appearances reflected spirit, and that was another lie.
