by Hayley Doyle
‘Greg,’ Abi repeats. ‘You know what time it is.’
Nick throws himself against the front door, his fists pounding the pinewood frame. Abi plants her hands on his shoulders and steers him away, turning him towards the stairs. As if I’m a ghost, utterly invisible, she gives him a hefty push up the first few steps.
‘It’s time for you to pack your bags,’ she says, as if telling a child to go and brush his teeth. ‘Now. Right now. You’ve got exactly fifteen minutes. Then leave this house, keep walking and don’t ever come back. I’m filing for a divorce.’
My lungs tighten sharp with each breath, as if an elastic band is being wrapped around them. I have to get the fuck out of here.
‘Where are you going?’ Abi asks.
It’s a struggle to get to the door. Although just feet away, I can’t get through it. As if stuck in a nightmare, one where limbs feel like lead, feet defeated by quicksand, I just cannot coordinate my fingers to find the door handle and pull. Once again, my army jacket is sliding off my shoulders, but now it’s Abi grabbing it with both hands, pulling it off in an attempt to stop me escaping. Wriggling my arms free, I open the door, run.
The grey white sky is brighter than I expect. I hear Abi call out ‘Oi!’ and she’s behind me. She yanks the straps of my pinafore, pulling me backwards, like a toddler in reins, and the sudden force makes me cough. I’m pushed onto my front, thrown down onto the garden path like a bag of trash being hauled into the garbage shoot. Face down to the ground, my lips take in the taste of tiny, rain-soaked stones. A claustrophobic warmth presses down upon me and Abi’s breath is hot in my ear.
‘You’re not the first,’ Abi says. ‘Or the second, or even the third.’
I push back, but it’s no use.
‘You’re not special. I know you probably think you are, but you’re not.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Shut up.’
Abi’s fingers weave into my hair and she pulls hard. This time, it hurts. I cry out.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I had no idea. I had no …’ But my lips taste more stones.
‘That’s what they all say!’
Then Abi releases me. I sit up, spitting the dirt from my mouth. I wait for her to say something else, to come at me again, but instead she starts to cry. This is not only my worst nightmare, but it’s clearly hers, too. With every sob, every moan, every inch of lost dignity, I connect with her more. We’ve both been burnt, both been duped, we’re both kind of in this shit together. So, I touch Abi’s back, guiding her upwards. Without a second thought, I hold her. For a beat, both of us relax within each other’s embrace, and there’s a short silence.
‘How long?’ Abi asks.
‘Six months,’ I admit.
‘Six months?! That’s not possible, he’s hardly left the house.’
‘Oh, it’s not what you think—’
‘You have no idea what I think.’
‘Of course, I’m sorry. But, we were only talking online, we never—’
‘Online, eh? Well, that makes it alright, then, doesn’t it?’
‘Maybe?’
‘Maybe.’ Abi’s eyes widen, then she raises her voice. ‘Oh, yeah! “Maybe” my arse!’
Abi shifts, pulls away, our moment of sisterhood now passed. She’s growing taller, slowly, towering over me. Closing my eyes tight, I prepare for pain, but, Oh! I’m being elevated instead. First my hands are pulled, followed by my arms, and then my feet are dangling in the air as I flop at the waist from up high. I’m on the move, my whole body bouncing further and further away from Abi, from Nick Gregory … well, Greg. Clifton Crescent becomes smaller and smaller, as if I’m flying on the back of a slim drone.
Around the corner, I’m lowered to stand on my own two feet. My knees are shaking, my palms chafed, a ladder runs down my black tights revealing scraped skin. A continuous thud hammers away in my chest, unbearable and ever so present.
But I’m safe. Jim has saved me.
18
Jim
A massive part of me is hoping I’m still in the Titanic, in that massive bed, having a massive fucking nightmare. I open the passenger door and stomp back round to my side of the BMW.
‘Get in,’ I say to Zara.
She doesn’t move. She not only looks like the victim, but she’s acting like one, too. I mean, yeah, it mightn’t have been polite of me to get involved; whatever was going on over there is Zara’s mess. But I can’t just watch someone get the shit kicked out of them, even if I’m dealing with a loose cannon here. With Zara. This girl I’ve had the pleasure of knowing for a grand total of, what? An hour and ten minutes? Christ, that’s not even the length of a film. Still, I imagine she was taught not to get in a car with a fella who commands, ‘Get in.’ I certainly wouldn’t want any daughter of mine to comply.
‘Zara, love. Get in the car.’
‘It’s okay, you can leave me here,’ she says.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I mutter.
My whole face itches. I crouch down to look in the wing mirror. My eyes, no longer stinging rouge, are framed with purple shadows. This hangover is kicking me in the face.
‘What you doing now?’ I ask, my attention drawn to Zara who’s lugging her bags and suitcases out of my car. Her haste is impressive. She slides that bloody mop out and, holding it upright, stops and lets out a moan.
‘What’s up?’ I ask.
‘My jacket,’ she says. ‘My favourite jacket, my army jacket. It’s lying in the hallway of Nick – I mean, fucking Greg’s – house.’
The mop falls from her hands, the wooden bounce of its handle echoing through suburbia. Zara sits on the largest of her suitcases, reaches into one dress pocket, and then into the other. She’s patting herself all over, like she’s trying to zap a wasp.
‘Fuck!’ she yells at the top of her voice.
The bungalows opposite seem to shudder. I shoot my arms out, as if the ‘whoa’ that escapes me stands a chance of calming her down. I’m guessing her phone was in her jacket pocket. She’s going to need that.
‘Do you want me to go and get your phone back?’ I ask.
‘You’d do that?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t recommend you going back to get it, love.’
‘Don’t laugh at me!’
‘I’m not—’
‘You are. You’re dying to laugh at me.’
And I do laugh, unintentionally. Shit.
‘Look, Zara, do you want me to—’
‘NO! God, no!’
‘Okay, okay, calm down.’
‘God, I need to eat something,’ she mumbles.
Is right, love. Me too. That butty she bought me in the cafe was good, but not enough. Between sad, winter-drained rose bushes and painted wooden fences, everywhere around us is beginning to grow a little halo of light-headed fuzz. I’m so hungover, I think I might faint. Zara’s pacing is making me dizzy, back and forth she’s going, and Christ, it’s giving me anxiety. I need to get out of here, away from this soulless little pocket of nowhere, some brick estate smack bang between the city and the motorway. I didn’t even see a pub close by on the way. The nearest thing that isn’t a cul-de-sac is a retail park with a Next and a Costa and PC World. Just what everyone needs. A smart shirt, a mocha and a Mac.
‘You can go,’ Zara informs me.
‘Can I?’
‘Yes. Just go.’
‘I’m released then, am I?’
‘Don’t be such an asshole. I’m not in the mood.’
‘Oh, I’m the arsehole?’
‘This has got nothing to do with you.’
‘Yep. You’re right. This has nothing to do with me.’
‘Stop being so sarcastic.’
‘Stop being so bossy.’
‘I’m not bossy.’
‘You are.’
‘I’m not!’
‘You are quite possibly the bossiest little madam I’ve ever met in me life.’
‘Well, forgive me for forgetting how super
sweet your life is, Jim.’
‘Okay, I give up. I’ve stuck around. I’ve listened to your shit. I’ve tried to help. I’m done, Zara. I’m completely and utterly done. You want me to leave you here? Fine. You can find your own way to wherever, whatever. I’ve got me own shit to deal with.’
I get inside my car. Then, noticing one of her bags, a flimsy material thing with some sort of cartoon print on the front, I open my door – yet again – and go to hand it over to her.
‘You left this on the back seat,’ I say.
She reaches out to accept the bag, but whoa, I get the distinct impression she’s about to vomit. Her tanned skin turns white as a bloody ghost, her huge brown eyes gloss over. Her hand misses the straps of the bag and it crashes to the ground. As does Zara.
And now, I’m sitting in a rocking chair, in the dark corner of a house that resembles my nan’s, God rest her soul. A rose-pink lampshade decorated with dusty pink tassels stands beside me, the light on, giving the feel of evening, not lunch time. The floral wallpaper is busy with oval frames of sheep dogs, of birds, of horses. The cushioned chair I’m sat on gives off a musty scent. A huge golden clock in the shape of the sun hangs above a grey-green tiled fireplace, its electric fire giving off the sort of intense heat that my ma’d give a thumbs up.
I mean, seriously. What the fuck am I doing here?
Zara stirs. She’s lying on the settee like Sleeping fucking Beauty. She falls back down as quickly as she tries to sit up.
‘Sip this,’ Mary says to her, and a china teacup is thrust towards her lips.
You might be thinking who’s Mary?
Don’t worry. I’m thinking the same bloody thing.
19
Zara
‘Sip this,’ a soft voice says to me.
The warm, sweet liquid tickles my throat and I gulp a little more. Sugar in English breakfast tea is delicious.
An older lady is standing over me. She takes my hand in hers. The bumps of veins feel smooth and comforting against my fingertips, like the crepe paper I used to make costumes during summer camp as a kid. I glance at the lady, taking her in from head to toe. Slippers that match her many lampshades encase her feet, but she isn’t short of glamour. Eye shadow and lipstick bleed into her ageing skin, small gold hoops dangle from her ears. This is like being served tea by Elizabeth Taylor’s sister.
‘Am I dreaming?’ This would be so typical of one of my insane dreams.
‘You’re not dreaming, queen,’ the lady says. ‘You fainted outside me house.’
‘Queen?’ I ask, still a little parched, despite the tea.
‘Just a term of endearment,’ the lady laughs. ‘Where’s this one from? You talk like you’re in a film, got one of them American accents, haven’t you? Here you go, queen. Eat a biscuit.’
As I munch on the biscuit, half awake, I try to figure out what brought me into this house, why I’m here at all.
‘That was quite a commotion you created out there,’ the lady says. ‘I’m Mary, by the way. And I won’t bite. You don’t look very tasty.’
I cough up a little bit of biscuit. Mary laughs, a hearty but raspy laugh, roughened with years of smoking.
‘I’m only kidding, queen. Jesus Christ, you look ill. And I bet you’ve got a lovely tan when the blood comes back to your face, you’ve got that gorgeous sort of dark skin, haven’t you? You wanna thank your lucky stars you haven’t got Irish blood swimming around your bones, I only have to think about the bloody sun and I fry. Where are you from?’
I’m having some difficulty answering questions.
‘Do you remember where you’re from? Oh Jesus, queen. Do you even know your name?’
I nod. ‘Zara.’
‘ZZZara? Or SSSara?’
‘ZZZara.’
‘Very posh. Like Zara Phillips.’
‘And I’m half American, quarter Lebanese, quarter French, not that any of that means anything. I can’t even speak French. It just explains the skin thing.’
‘Ooh, the state of you. Very exotic.’
‘Not really.’
‘Do you wanna tell me what happened, queen?’ Mary asks, taking a seat in a cream armchair moulded to fit her slender frame. A tabby cat jumps onto her knee and nuzzles in. The TV has been simmering with mild laughter and information about how to win thirty thousand pounds plus a holiday to the Maldives, but mutes as she points a remote at it. The large wall clock tick, tick, ticks.
Blinking a few times, I come into a comfortable sitting position. My canvas tote bag is hanging off another cream armchair, my holdall is on the seat with my laptop poking out through the broken zip. Both suitcases are in the centre of the room, the mop lying by their side. I’m warm, I’m rehydrating, I feel – hope – that I’m safe. It’ll do me good to talk, to make sense of everything that has just happened.
‘You see, queen. When the kids are on their school holidays, they ride their bikes up and down this road and make a right racket. But, they’re not on their school holidays, are they? When I’m just sat here watching a bit of Philip and Holly, I’m not expecting to hear shouting and screaming coming from out front. That chap filled me in, said you’re a nice girl who’d had a bit of a bad morning, so I couldn’t leave you outside. Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?’
My mind can’t move on from the part where Mary mentioned ‘that chap.’
Jim? Where is he? Well, at least he hasn’t left me completely alone. As far as bad situations go, I could have definitely woken up in worse places than Mary’s English den. Jim could have left me on the street. Abi might have been watching from Clifton Crescent and come running after me with a knife.
Oh, God. Abi! Nick! No, not Nick. Fucking Greg.
‘I fell in love with the wrong man,’ I say.
‘Don’t we all?’ Mary sighs. ‘Go on. Spill.’
I tell Mary about how I met this man in Dubai who told me his name was Nick Gregory. Without going into detail, I spoke about our long-distance love affair and how I’d flown over here to surprise him for his birthday.
‘I just found out today that he’s married,’ I conclude.
Mary leans in closer. ‘You only just found out today?’
‘Yes. His wife beat me up outside their house.’
‘But, hold on a second, queen. You honestly only realised today that he was married?’
‘Yes. I’ve got the bruises to prove it.’
‘No, I don’t doubt you got a beating. But I doubt you didn’t know he was married.’
‘I’m not lying, Mary.’ I stand, but a head rush sends me back down again.
‘Listen, queen. I’ve done a lot of cruising over the years. The Med, the Caribbean. And when you’re sailing the seas on a ship, my God, the world seems like such a big place. Sometimes you have to get through one hell of a storm just to reach a spot of calm, sometimes you have to avoid the storm and endure a longer journey to see any hint of dry land. But, Zara queen, me daughter lives in New Zealand. And I love the bones of her. I can’t bear the fact that she doesn’t live down the road from me anymore. So, when it gets too much, I go and see her. And I’ve got her in my arms in just over one day. It’s not cheap, but it’s worth it.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at,’ I say, hoping I don’t sound rude.
‘Flying makes the world a much smaller place. Why did it take you six months to come and see him?’
‘I wanted to come sooner, but he was working on a large contract and wouldn’t have had time to see me. Then, he was supposed to come to Dubai on business again, but that was cancelled. Then, he had a family wedding and lots of duties, and it was a couple of months ago that he had this horrid bout of tonsillitis so he didn’t want to pass it …’ I trail off.
‘You’re saying your entire relationship developed over a computer?’ Mary asks.
‘Uh-huh.’
And other than those selfies in Nick’s car, I never even saw beyond his ‘office’. Although I don’t tell Mary that. I might
as well borrow one of Mary’s lipsticks and write STUPID across my forehead. It probably won’t make me look any smarter if I tell Mary how I’d believed that my love for Nick was old-fashioned, as if he were away at war and we were writing letters to one another, except our exchanges were on messenger chats instead of paper.
Messenger chats. Oh my God, he must have set up a bunch of social media accounts under his fake name. Then again, it only takes seconds to create one, doesn’t it?
‘So,’ Mary says, waving her arm. ‘Where does this fella fit into all this?’
‘What fella?’ I ask.
Mary stands. The cat jumps down and darts from the room. ‘Him.’
I twist around to look over my shoulder and see who Mary is pointing at. A shrill yelp escapes my throat. Sitting in a large wooden rocking chair, half shadowed like the Phantom of the Opera and reading a tattered old book, is Jim. He glances up, looking between me and Mary, not at all impressed with having to suddenly become a part of our conversation.
‘How long have you been hiding there?’ I cry.
He sighs, he stretches, he yawns. He closes the book, keeping his index finger sandwiched between the pages, and leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. A slight shake of his head answers my question; he’s been there the whole time.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ I snap.
Jim looks at Mary, perhaps for help.
‘He didn’t have anything to say,’ Mary says. ‘How’s the book?’
‘Yeah, it’s not bad, Mary,’ Jim says, that smile appearing from one side of his mouth. ‘I don’t mind this sort of crime thriller stuff now and then. It’s like crack on paper.’
‘But it won’t kill you,’ Mary laughs.
‘You’re not wrong there,’ Jim laughs, too.
‘Take it with you.’
‘You sure?’
‘I won’t be reading it twice. Do you wanna top up?’ Mary lifts the teapot from the oval table beside her armchair. ‘Another biscuit?’
‘Oh, go on then. You’ve twisted me arm.’
I sit frozen on the edge of the sofa, my hands hanging onto my chest. What’s going on here? Jim and Mary are acting like the best of friends, completely at ease within each other’s company. Now they’re talking about the book again, and other similar ones they’ve read, and I’m just getting lost listening to them, for they’ve somehow switched their chit-chat onto the area of Liverpool where Jim is from. Apparently Mary used to live down that way, going back about forty years. Jim says she must have done alright for herself, to get a house up this way. Mary says it was the only perk of being married to an accountant.
