by Clare Boyd
Carefully, she took the three African masks down and laid them next to the mirrored elephant at the foot of the stairs, and returned for her axe.
‘Prosti menya, Deda,’ she said, looking upwards, imagining him in the heavens looking down at her.
Then, squeezing her eyes tight shut, she swung the axe at the bare wall, just below the three nails. Bits of debris flew at her face, her shoulder jarred and the axe left one jagged hole in the plasterboard.
The next blow created a hole big enough to see through, right through into the grey sitting room. It was a shame to have wrecked the new paint job.
By the time the wall was a mess of rubble, Sophie was sweating and excited, wishing she could knock another wall down. The violence had been cathartic. Nobody was writing that advice in self-help books.
She made herself a cup of tea in an Ikat-patterned mug and took a few photographs of the destruction, satisfied that it was bad enough to show a solicitor, guessing it would be sufficient to justify a break in their six-month tenancy agreement.
After knocking back the last dregs of her tea, she scrolled through her contact list to find the solicitor’s telephone number and gathered some tears into her throat. It would be so much more authentic if she cried.
‘… when they first moved in,’ she explained to Henry, the solicitor, ‘they’d asked me if they could knock through to the kitchen, to make it open-plan, and I told them absolutely not. I just can’t believe they’ve gone ahead and done it. They seemed so nice. I just can’t believe it,’ Sophie wept.
Henry was not emotional, but it was clear that he was sympathetic. He expressed shock when she emailed him the photograph, confirming that she would be able to keep their deposit and break the lease agreement on the grounds of damage to the property.
Sophie understood that there was a risk the Etheringtons would try to prove their innocence by fighting her in the small claims court. It would be hard for them to win, considering how highly improbable it was for a landlady to break apart her newly decorated house only weeks after agreeing to their tenancy. It would be their word against hers, and it would cost them more in legal fees than their lost deposit to have this confirmed in court. Sophie guessed they would accept that she had beaten them, cut their losses and leave her house in their woolly, mild-mannered way.
Sophie did feel bad about them. They seemed like good people. If she had needed tenants, they would have been ideal. But they were in the way.
Filling herself with tears again, she made another phone call.
‘Adam…’ she spluttered.
‘Sophie? Are you okay? What’s happened? Dylan’s right here. Do you want to speak to him?’ Adam asked frantically.
Sophie let the sobs subside a little. ‘No, no. I don’t want to upset him. It’s just…’ And she explained the whole story of how Martha and Kenneth had knocked the wall down.
‘What a headfuck. They seemed so chilled.’
Sophie could hear the crash of crockery in the background. ‘Is Natalie there?’
‘No, Sophie,’ Adam sighed. ‘When Dylan’s here, she stays at her mum’s. You know that.’
This had been an arrangement that Adam had wanted, insisting he wasn’t ready for Natalie to meet Dylan, which had pleased Sophie greatly.
‘He doesn’t need any more crap right now. Especially after the Etheringtons. He was getting to know them quite well. They’re physically so close to us, and then they do something like this. It’s really scary.’
‘You have to get them out of there as soon as possible.’
‘Yes. I’ve been on to my solicitor already. He’ll be contacting them on Monday.’
‘On their holiday?’
‘You think I should wait?’
‘No. Get them out.’
‘What am I going to do about this wall?’
‘Use the deposit to fix it, I suppose.’
‘I need that to live off.’
There was a long pause. Sophie could hear Dylan’s game bleeping near the phone.
‘I’ll drop by next week and take a look, see if there’s anything I can do, okay?’
Sophie smiled to herself. ‘Thanks.’ She sniffed. ‘I really appreciate it, Adam.’
‘No problem. See you tomorrow. Do you want to say goodbye to Dylan?’
‘No, no. Don’t disturb him. I’ll let you go.’
‘Okay. Bye then.’
‘Bye. Love you,’ she said automatically, and then hung up, flushing. She had not meant to say that.
* * *
On Monday afternoon, she decided to read through Naomi’s blog posts on Wine O’Clock. There was an article titled ‘Too Much of a Good Thing’ that offered tips on how to drink better-quality wine and less of it. For example, putting a hand over the glass if someone threatened to pour that third large one. Another post focused on Dry January and Sober September, and weekday summer ‘Mocktails’. Last month, she invited a variety of contributors to discuss the risks of binge-drinking. In the past few weeks, she had written an article about her distaste for alcopops or any alcohol sold to look more like a soft drink. There was another article about how Europeans drank better than we did, called ‘Je Ne Regrette Rien!’ Sophie decided she was a secret agent for Alcoholics Anonymous, and began to jot down some ideas for ramping up the fun side of drinking.
Sadly, most of the advice Sophie had given Naomi so far, to boost business, had been ignored. After Sophie’s needling, she had begrudgingly changed her profile photographs and blog opener, replacing Naomi in a vineyard in France with one of Sophie and Naomi together, clinking Prosecco in short dresses. The ‘About Me’ drop-down tag had been renamed ‘About Us’, and included the biographical paragraph Sophie had written up.
Her creative flow was interrupted when she received a call from a mobile, prefixed with a French dialling code. Her instinct was to let it ring out. She was busy with a new list: a weekly vlog, some collaborations with targeted retailers and some small changes to her Instagram feed, stolen from other social media influencers. With this knowledge, she would plan a meeting with Naomi.
Her phone rang off, making her decision for her. But then the same number rang back half an hour later. At some point she would have to face the Etheringtons. She picked up.
‘Sophie speaking.’
‘Sophie. I’m so glad you’ve taken my call. I think there’s been a terrible mix-up,’ Kenneth Etherington began.
Sophie interrupted him. ‘It’s best you speak directly to my solicitor about this.’
‘But you have to believe us, we didn’t knock that wall down, Sophie. We love living in your house. You’ve been so good to us. You must have had a break-in, or something.’
Sophie’s throat constricted.
‘There has been no break-in, Mr Etherington.’
‘But I don’t understand… I… We’ve been good tenants. I don’t know what’s going on, but…’ his voice began to break, and he coughed, and then there was a rustle. A younger male voice came on the line. ‘Hello, Mrs King? This is Tony Etherington speaking, Kenneth’s son. We’ll be engaging solicitors to deal with the legal side of things, but I’ll be sending a removal van to pack up their stuff at the end of this week.’
Sophie was shocked that they were moving so fast, and she began to worry about Tony Etherington’s legal intentions. ‘The end of the month will be fine, honestly. Until they’ve found somewhere else.’
‘Do you really think I’m going to let my parents go anywhere near your house again, after what you’ve done?’
‘I’m not the one who has done anything wrong here.’
Sophie scrolled up and down Naomi’s website, seeing the photographs of sunshine-filled glasses whizz past; of smiles and sips at picnics, on boats, beaches and balconies. Every shot of happiness came with an enticing wine. Sophie wanted a drink for the first time since she had given up, and she zoomed in and out of each photograph, enlarging the dewy droplets on a glass of rosé as though this might give her a vicarious
hit.
‘Dad is giving you the benefit of the doubt. He can’t believe anyone could be so devious and dishonest, but I’m a young cynic, I’m afraid, and I know you’re up to something. I don’t know what that is, and, to be frank, I don’t care, but I would like you to understand this: my father was gravely ill last year, and this move out of London was meant to be a fresh start, an easier life for them both. The stress you have put on him and Mum at this time in their lives is unforgivable. If we had the money, we’d fight you on this all the way to court.’
‘I’m the victim here, you know,’ Sophie replied weakly, trying to keep the wobble out of her voice.
‘I honestly don’t know how you sleep at night,’ he said, and the phone line went dead.
Sophie threw her phone on the sofa and slammed her computer closed and then burst into real tears.
She had not wanted to cause any hurt or stress to Kenneth and Martha. If only she could explain that her circumstances had changed, that new opportunities had arisen. If they’d had the same chances for their own son, when he had been eight years old, wouldn’t they have grabbed it, just as she was doing for Dylan? Wouldn’t they have done anything they could to give him a better life, a better home? Maybe they had. Maybe they had made decisions for Tony that had been selfish, and maybe those decisions had affected other people in ways they had no idea about. It was easy for them to judge her, but Sophie wondered how hypocritical they were being. It was her choice for Dylan. She was a single mother and she wanted him to have a proper home to grow up in, with central heating and a bedroom of his own, and she had now found the money to make that happen. What good mother would deny their child this better life?
This was how she had talked herself down, but for the rest of the week she had moped about, vacillating between regret and defiance.
By Friday, when the removals men arrived to pack up the Etheringtons’ possessions, it seemed a weight had been taken off her shoulders. Her days of being a landlady were over. It had not suited her. She couldn’t work people out. People had needs and demands, they made noise and expected kindness. Isolation was what Sophie wanted; was why she would never want to move from this secluded woodland plot.
But when she burst into the empty cottage, wanting to hug its walls and say sorry for the damage, she felt a rush of coldness, as though there was a draught coming up from the floorboards. Suddenly, the house was too empty. A sense of aloneness ached in her bones. She wanted Adam to clutch onto. She wanted Dylan to hold. If she took one step further into the house, she worried she might fall into a black pit, unable to climb out. Before now, the cottage had only ever provided comfort. It didn’t make sense. She had everything she wanted, now, but something fundamental was missing.
She sat down on the doorstep, half in and half out, and put her head between her legs to send the blood back to where it should be.
At first, she wondered if she should have another baby to fill this emptiness. The very thought scared her rigid. She couldn’t share her love between two. And then she thought of paws scuttling around on the empty floors, barking and filling the space with energy and joy. Adam and Dylan had always wanted a dog. It would give her an excuse to go out for dog walks with Naomi. She would get a bigger, better dog than Harley.
As soon as the idea had entered her head, she was determined to make it happen. She pulled out her phone and clicked on to the Battersea Dogs Home website, where she could find a cheaper dog and skip the puppy phase. Within half an hour she had registered online for the rehoming process.
Adam was wide-legged, arms crossed, assessing the damage like a real builder, reverting to how his father – a real builder – used to stand when he had been alive.
‘Wow! Those two old hippies did this?’ Adam exclaimed, whistling.
‘Did you see her muscles?’
He laughed and his eyes turned to hers.
‘It’ll cost ya,’ he teased.
Looking at him, listening to his breathing so close to her again, Sophie felt the heat build between her legs. She cocked her head to the side. ‘How much?’ she flirted.
His expression rearranged itself back to sensible. ‘I’ll need money for materials.’
Sophie was reminded of the long game. She couldn’t push him.
Through the gap in the wall, she stared through to the grey sitting room, whose three other walls were undamaged. Before Adam’s arrival, she had hoovered the dust from the coral sofa, placed fresh roses from the garden on the windowsill and positioned brand-new scatter cushions and coffee table books decoratively.
‘When you’ve fixed it, I’m going to live here with Dylan.’
‘But you need new tenants for the rental money. I don’t have enough to…’
‘Don’t worry. Things have changed.’
‘You’ve got a job?’
‘I have.’
His jaw dropped. ‘Seriously?’
‘Why is that such a surprise?’
He stammered. ‘I… It’s not… I’m happy for you.’
She moved over to the roses in the vase and breathed in their scent. ‘This is the life we always dreamt of, Adam,’ she whispered, playing with the strap of her dress. ‘I wasn’t ready before. But I am now.’
He shook his head, his lips parted. ‘No.’
‘I’m not drinking any more.’
His eyes glistened as he stared at her, as they locked onto her, mesmerised, recognising the change in her in this new space. The sun was beating down from the windows, forming the shape of the panes on the floorboards at her feet. She imagined him stepping across them towards her, and the spots of sunlight shattering like real glass under his feet.
‘It’s a lovely room now,’ he rasped.
‘I’m thinking of getting a dog. You always wanted one.’
His eyes lit up. ‘A collie?’
‘Maybe. I was thinking about a rescue dog.’
‘Sure. As long as it’s good with young kids, I think it’s a great idea. Dylan will freak.’
‘There’ll be loads of collies to rescue.’
‘Whatever. It’s not up to me.’
‘Why don’t you stay for a couple of days?’
‘Why would I do that?’ he asked, but it was obvious he was considering it.
‘While you’re fixing up the stud wall, it would make sense.’
‘No.’
‘Because Natalie won’t allow it?’
He tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear. ‘She has got nothing to do with it.’
‘Come upstairs,’ she said.
‘I’ve got to get going.’
‘Please.’
‘Quickly,’ he sighed, looking at his watch.
As she led him upstairs, she brushed her hand across the back of her dress, pretending to hide her knickers.
They arrived at her old bedroom door, which she opened.
‘Look. Dylan is going to have his own room at last.’ She lay down on top of the duvet and tucked her hands behind her head and crossed her ankles. ‘I’m going to paint it racing green and fit stripy blinds.’
Her dress had large black buttons all the way down the front. The split where the buttons stopped revealed a little too much thigh. She arched her back and exhaled. ‘I still miss it.’
‘What do you miss?’ he asked, staring down at her greedily. She felt like a package, ready to be opened by him.
‘I miss this room,’ she said, rising, kneeling on the bed in front of him, looking up to him like a little girl at an altar. ‘You could stay here when you’re fixing the wall. It’s comfy.’
‘I know for a fact that it isn’t.’
‘It wasn’t made for two,’ she laughed, remembering how they had panted and giggled together in this bed once.
‘I can’t stay here. It’d be weird.’
‘It’s weird for a married couple to sleep under the same roof as their son?’
‘A separated married couple.’
‘Details,’ she chuckled, shrugging her
shoulders, reaching out to touch the top button of his shirt.
He pushed her hand away.
She tucked the tips of her fingers into the pocket of his jeans. Through the material, she could feel the blood pumping through his flesh.
‘What’s the job?’ he asked, pulling her hand out.
She flopped back on the bed. ‘I’m going into business with Naomi.’
‘What?’ he spluttered, jamming his hands into his pockets where hers had been.
‘She wants input from a new partner, someone whom she can bandy ideas around with. She’s sick of working alone.’
Adam’s lips puckered up to one side as though twisting off his face. ‘Right. Okay. Sure.’
The energy between them fizzled out. She had lost him.
Sophie shot up to standing. ‘You don’t think I can do it, do you?’
‘It’s not that, it’s just, you don’t have any experience. I’m surprised that Naomi…’ He broke off. ‘I’m surprised, that’s all.’
‘You’re all the bloody same. I’ll prove it to you. Just you watch me!’ she cried, flouncing out.
Nobody had any faith in her. Nobody understood. But she would prove her worth to both Adam and Naomi. She would force them to drop their doubting, smug smiles.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Please, turn it off,’ I insisted, wincing at the vlog Sophie had shown me on her phone, cringing deep inside, disturbed by the woman in Utah who had revealed her breasts in a Jacuzzi while describing the acidity of the white wine she drank from.
‘That’s how not to do it,’ I said, dropping a pinch of the tobacco on the grass, making a mess. More mess. It didn’t matter. Sophie had insisted on this meeting about Wine O’Clock, not me. I was beyond fighting her. I was beyond anger. I was trying to position the filter on the cigarette paper.
‘I dunno. She got twenty-three thousand hits,’ Sophie said, tapping pause.
‘You’re not seriously suggesting we get our boobs out, are you?’
‘No. Of course not. But there’s no harm in a bit of sexiness. We’re both attractive women. There’s that Insta woman in California who always wears low-cut tops. In a classy way,’ Sophie said.
