Fragile

by Sarah Hilary

  ‘Get a fresh round in.’ Meagan pushed our empty cups at Joe. ‘Nell’s paying.’

  Joe looped two fingers through the handles of the cups and stood, swivelling towards the counter where Gilbert was watching. I kept my eyes on Joe, expecting him to come back for my money to pay for the drinks. But he pushed his hand into his pocket and fished out a plastic tenner. It sprang to life like a party trick. Gilbert took it from his palm.

  ‘Thanks,’ Joe said. The strip lighting gave him pink sideburns, his profile pale and wavering.

  He wasn’t even nineteen, but he looked ten years older. When he held out his hand for the change, light filled it and spilled over, staining the counter with the shadow of his knuckles. He fed the coins into the pocket of his jeans, fumbling, his free hand pressed to the counter as if otherwise he’d fold at the knee and never get back up. I stopped looking, focusing on Meagan instead.

  She nodded as if to say, He’s not your Joe any more. He’s not been yours in years.

  It was true, I finally admitted to myself. He belonged to her, not to me. She’d been slipping him pills at Lyle’s long before he met a proper dealer. Laying the groundwork for his addiction, stealing him from me in stages. He’d not been my Joe that day at the lake when we lost Rosie. And all through the police investigation, he’d been out of it. Giddy from the fear she’d put into him, or pacified by her pills and promises to keep him safe.

  I’d dragged him to London to get him away from her poison, but it had been too late. I’d been too late.

  ‘What’s wrong with him.’ I didn’t frame it as a question, afraid of the answer.

  ‘He’s sick. Been sick for months, I’d say.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Lots of things.’ She looked tired suddenly, picking at the dried crust in the corner of her eye. ‘Drugs, mostly.’ She flicked the crust away, hardening her tone. ‘And guilt. I’m surprised you’re not the same, but you were always the tough one. He may as well be made of wet paper.’

  Joe was waiting for our drinks. The curve of his spine moved me in the same way. I still saw summer and freedom. I still wanted to raise mountains to protect him, a hollow where gorse gave way to grass and he could sleep for hours, sheltered from the wind, soaking up the sun.

  ‘You were always the tough one,’ Meagan repeated.

  It was an accusation, and an order. How she’d loved to give me orders. Toughen up, show them who’s boss. Don’t let anyone take you for a ride.

  ‘How long’s he been like this?’

  ‘Since before you talked him into running away. You didn’t want to see it. Too busy laying your traps for the press, making sure I’d be up to my eyes in it after you’d gone.’ Her face buckled under the weight of her hate. ‘But he came and found me. I didn’t go looking, in case that’s what you’re imagining. I’d’ve been better off never seeing hide nor hair of either one of you ever again.’

  Yet we both knew what he meant to her. And here she was, blackmailing me.

  She hadn’t forgiven me for the stories I’d leaked to the press. She talked about money but it was revenge she really wanted. She wanted to see me suffer.

  ‘What is it you want me to do?’ I wasn’t looking at Joe but I could see him at the edge of my eye, and not just him. Rosie was there too, her blonde head lolling at his knee.

  ‘You’ve fallen on your feet.’ Meagan picked up her lighter. ‘Seems fair I have a part of it.’

  The flame sprang up then died. She dropped the lighter onto the table, not wanting to attract any more attention. She’d never liked attention, despising anyone who craved it. Some kids at Lyle’s had craved hers, making her gifts, pandering to her moods, telling her she was the best mum in the world – hard to believe anyone had ever done that. Plenty had clung to her, the way you’d cling to a rock face to save yourself from falling.

  ‘What kind of man is he? Dr Wilder.’ She nodded towards Joe. ‘The kind of doctor who can help with that?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘From what I saw of his wife, he’s not likely to do your health much good either.’ She hooked her mouth into a smile. ‘Are you so lonely you’ll take comfort from a man like that? But I’m forgetting.’ Her smile broadened. ‘You don’t mind the cold. It doesn’t bother you.’

  ‘The bloody towel was this.’ I touched the ends of my fingers to the star-shaped scar on my forehead. She’d brought up the towels, as if they were proof of some kind, instead of ancient history. ‘Joe was afraid to call an ambulance, afraid of the fuss. He didn’t want you to be angry at us.’

  ‘And the teddy bear?’ She tapped a finger on the table. ‘The bear you brought back from the lake that day.’

  ‘You gave it to another kid,’ I reminded her. ‘After the service.’

  ‘I didn’t want the police finding it. I was looking out for you, the pair of you.’

  ‘Oh please,’ I said. But she nodded as if the story was something I had to learn, as if we were rehearsing for a visit from Social Services. I remembered those rehearsals: You’re happy to help out, you love the little ones. You’d like to be a nanny when you’re older. I don’t let you do the dangerous stuff, but you love playing mum.

  ‘I’m looking out for you,’ she repeated grimly now. ‘Someone has to.’

  ‘By blackmailing us.’

  ‘It could be the police coming to your new home. Asking awkward questions, making that snooty cow look down her nose at you.’

  ‘Instead of Joe, you mean? But then your plan wouldn’t work, would it? Carolyn wouldn’t want to sleep with a policeman.’

  Joe was coming back towards us, a clutch of sugar sachets in one hand, concentrating on not bumping into chairs.

  ‘More than one way to skin a cat.’ I looked at Meagan. ‘That’s a trick you taught me.’

  ‘I taught you more than that, lady.’

  Joe sat at her side, his leg brushing mine under the table.

  What did she teach me, Meagan Flack? To be miserly with my affection and my trust. To cut corners. Lie and dodge, never answer a question directly, never stay in one place too long, shrug and move on without looking back. And to carry whatever burden she chose to hand me. Shame, grief, guilt. My body was heavier than it’d been in years, as if she’d reached across the table and stuffed my hands with wet sand and rocks.

  ‘Joe,’ I said, but he still wouldn’t look at me.

  Yesterday’s sleepy smile, the tilt of his head in the kitchen, had been for Carolyn, not me. No part of Joe was for me now. I ached all over. There was a burning at the back of my eyes, like unshed tears, grieving for the boy he’d been, for the pair of us.

  Gilbert brought the fresh drinks. I didn’t want mine. Joe tore the tops from the sachets of sugar and emptied all four into his cup. He drank tea now. Strong, the way Meagan drank it. He smelt like her too, of cigarettes and old jumpers. Were they living together? I pictured the house, small and dirty, plates crusting in the sink, blankets kicked to the bottom of the beds. In spite of the blackmail, I wanted to help them. My need to serve was so deeply ingrained; hadn’t Meagan raised me to make myself useful? I longed to take the train home with them to Wales, wash and clean and cook a decent meal. All the things I was doing for Robin, I wanted to do for Joe. But I was too late. And besides, Meagan had drummed more into me than subservience. Self-preservation, for starters. I wouldn’t survive this latest challenge of hers simply by following orders. I needed to be a part of it, exerting whatever small control I had over the situation.

  ‘I want you to invite us for supper,’ Meagan said. ‘Tonight. A farewell meal to your family. You can cook your ratatouille, Mr Wilder won’t mind that. Tell him you’ll pay for the ingredients yourself. We’ll eat in the kitchen. He’ll understand why you want to give us a good send-off.’ She paused. ‘Will she be there, tonight?’

  I nodded, ‘Yes,’ although I’d no way of knowing whether or not it was true.

  ‘That’s nice. It’ll be nice to see her again. Won’t it,
Joe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His leg moved against mine under the table. Its heat seemed more real than the rest of him, perhaps because I couldn’t see it.

  ‘On second thoughts . . .’ Meagan ran her index finger around the rim of her empty cup. ‘It’ll be cosier without me. Just you and Joe.’ She fixed her eyes on my face. ‘The pair of you, and the pair of them. That’ll be better, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Joe repeated. He’d have said yes to anything she suggested.

  ‘And then what?’ I forced myself to ask the question, wanting at least one of us to challenge her.

  ‘He can pay you for services rendered. That’s the usual way of things, isn’t it? And they can afford it.’

  ‘Why would they pay? I’m already in his employ.’

  ‘As a housekeeper.’ She smiled flatly. ‘I didn’t see anything in his rota about . . . personal services. From what soft lad here’s told me, you’ll need paying. They’ve got very specific tastes, the pair of them. Very specific.’

  Master of the house, Carolyn had called him. I remembered the rest of her speech from that day: You do know he’s a magistrate? Meagan was right. Robin would pay for my silence. He’d have to.

  ‘One night,’ Meagan said. ‘One payment. She was generous enough with Joe that first time, gave him the price of a first-class ticket home to me. I’m not greedy, given they’re so generous. You’ll see the back of me by this time tomorrow. Won’t that be nice?’

  I neither trusted nor believed her, but what could I do? Joe had handed her all the ammunition she needed. I had nothing left.

  We sat in silence after that.

  Meagan finished her tea, and Joe drank his.

  When they got up to go, I tried one last time to stop what was going to happen. ‘Joe—’ but his eyes slid away from me. He stood, waiting while Meagan buttoned her coat.

  They left together, my worst enemy and the boy I’d loved best of anyone in the world. The cafe door opened and closed, letting in a draught that ran up my legs and into my lap. I brushed it away with the palms of my hands as I climbed to my feet. I felt numb with cold, frozen inside. I needed to be moving, to get the blood to my brain. My body was heavy and clumsy, as if I’d been drugged. If I hadn’t been watching her so carefully, I’d have suspected Meagan of slipping something into my tea. But it was just her old poison – fear. I was afraid of what was going to happen next.

  In the cheese shop, another crowd had gathered in anticipation of a deli lunch.

  Bradley was making up a box of pie and pickles. I went to the back, where cartons of eggs were stacked. Opening a carton, I inspected the shells for imperfections. It was normal to check for breakages before purchasing eggs. I wanted to hold something fragile in my hands, to think very hard about what I was about to do. Lifting an egg from the box, I cradled it in my fist. If you apply pressure to the top and bottom of the shell, finding the points of greatest resistance, you can’t crush an egg no matter how hard you try. I held it to the light to see the place where life could be suspended, bound by a narrow cord to the skin of the shell. As I looked, I felt such a rush of love for Rosie it frightened me. I wanted to soar with her out of reach of everyone, to a place where the air was too thin to breathe, the land below us black and distant.

  Starling Villas was quiet on my return.

  Outside the library, I listened for the noise of voices then listened again outside the garden room. She was in the house, I could sense it. Carolyn and Robin were both in the house. My blood was hot; an image in my head of a rabbit skinned in a single scarlet piece, exposing its knobbly blue skeleton. I held on to the edge of the table where Carolyn’s lilies were overblown, petals peeled obscenely open. Bruising my hand on the marble, afraid of letting this moment pass without censor, without mark. What I was about to do, what Meagan was making me do . . . A wail was in my throat but I couldn’t let it out. I hadn’t wailed that night at the side of the lake. Only later in Lyle’s, my hands and face pushed into a stack of towels to muffle the banshee sound.

  The library door opened to my right.

  ‘Nell.’ Robin stood watching me with his serious smile. ‘I thought I heard you come in.’

  I straightened, making a pretence at tidying the vase. ‘They’re dead.’

  ‘The lilies?’ He came towards me.

  I wasn’t ready, it was too soon. Supper, Meagan said. ‘May I have the evening off?’

  ‘This evening?’ He put one finger on the marble, collecting a spot of pollen which he studied before looking at me. ‘Why?’

  ‘Joe’s going back to Wales tomorrow. I’d like to have supper with him.’ I summoned a smile. ‘Actually, I’d love to cook for him, here. But you might not like that. After what I told you, and because it’s not my place to invite guests here. It’s your house, I’m just the housekeeper.’

  I’d have kept on, stuffing the space between us with words, but he stopped me. ‘Of course you must cook him supper. We’ll eat out.’

  ‘No. Please. I wouldn’t want that. Let me cook for you both, too.’

  He scratched his cheek with his thumb. ‘What would you cook?’

  ‘Ratatouille. It’s the first dish I learnt to cook. We’ll eat it with crusty bread like – like French peasants.’ My smile was better this time. ‘If you don’t mind being a French peasant for the night.’

  He laughed. ‘I’d love it.’

  ‘That’s settled then. I’ll serve supper in the dining room for both of you. Then I’ll eat with Joe in the kitchen later, if you’re sure.’

  He hesitated, on the brink of inviting us to join them in the dining room, but it would never work. The two of us, perhaps. But not Joe and not Carolyn, not together. ‘Perfect. Thank you.’

  I dropped my head under the pretence of unbuttoning my coat, the press of tears in my eyes. His gratitude shamed me. When I looked up, he was walking away. Back to the library, to her.

  I wondered what she’d wear to supper knowing Joe was in the house. I would wear my black dress because it was all I had, but Carolyn had a suitcase full of dresses, silks and satins, crimson red and black, and shimmering silver.

  I listened again for the sound of voices from the other side of the door, but there was only silence made sticky by the pollen and the lilies’ dying scent.

  26

  Supper was a lie, like everything else. I didn’t cook ratatouille, I didn’t need to. It was in a lidded bowl in the freezer, put there the first night Carolyn came, after she instructed me to save the meal I’d prepared. Emptying it into a casserole dish, I set it on the stove on a low heat. I’d made a generous amount, planning on keeping some back for my meals. The bread at least was fresh. I wrapped a cloth around the loaf and set it aside to be warmed.

  After that, I climbed the stairs to my attic to change my clothes.

  Hungry’s smell clung to me, and Meagan’s smell too. In Lyle’s, once Rosie had finished her warm milk and was asleep, Joe would stretch on the bed. I’d lie next to him, breathing in his salted honey scent. Now he stank of Meagan, dry and stale and bitter, but even that wasn’t the whole truth. I was going to spend the rest of the day lying to myself, one way or another.

  As I washed my hands and face, I allowed myself the truth in small measure, to appease the nagging of my skin. When I shut my eyes, Robin’s smile was there. I wanted so much to lean into it but I couldn’t, not now. Joe didn’t smell of Meagan, or not only of her. He stank of vinegar and ammonia, with the floral scent of weed at the back of it all. Joe had been an addict since he was fifteen. After Rosie disappeared, he’d promised to quit. I’d let myself believe it because it suited me. I knew Meagan had been slipping him cash and pills to keep him dependent on her, and it pleased me to think he’d broken away. That he was my Joe, not hers. I’d been fighting her for him, and I’d wanted so much to believe I’d won.

  A gull skittered on the attic roof.

  I held my breath until I heard it again, edging along the tiles. Traffic droned below me.
For the first time, I noticed its vibration, each brass camel trembling on the tapestry, tissue paper trembling in the broken panel of the lamp.

  Starling Villas was old, too old to survive the onslaught of traffic and London’s relentless expansion. In another five or ten years, it wouldn’t be standing. I had no future here. The gull barked, wings thumping as it flew from the roof in search of litter.

  ‘What happened to your common sense?’ I repeated Meagan’s words aloud, looking around my narrow attic room. ‘Letting him punish you. Found yourself a gaoler?’

  Nine days ago, when I’d first set foot inside, I’d known what I was in his house. A slave, his slave. How often had I called myself that as I went about my business, obeying his every rule? Then he’d smiled at me, inviting me to share his breakfast. No – ordering me to. Was Meagan right? Had Robin broken Carolyn, and was he hoping to do the same to me? His sadness was such strange bait, but wasn’t that what first attracted me to him? The idea that I might be the one to assuage his sadness. Needing to be needed. You always wanted a place to call home.

  My black dress was limp at the hem, tired of being washed and worn. I longed for a gown like Carolyn’s, blood-red, with lipstick to match. Meagan’s plan called for a temptress, a siren.

  In the mirror, my eyes were hot and huge. Brilliant, as a book might say, with unshed tears. But it was a lie, like everything else. I had no tears, I was pitiless. Lifting my hair, I tied it in a knot, staticky against my neck. My throat was long and creamy, my lips blueish pale. I searched the rucksack for one of Joe’s stolen lipsticks, painting an arch.

  It was getting late. I had to set the tables, in the dining room where Carolyn and Robin would eat, and in the kitchen. Glasses for wine, red tonight. Shiraz, or Bandol Rouge, I pretended to know which was best, pretended all I needed was to stand the wine to breathe, polish the correct glasses. Carolyn would hate the supper, ‘A French peasant! She actually said that?’ so it hardly mattered, but it kept me from thinking of what came after the meal, when the house was settling towards night, all its rooms lit by lamps and the low chiming of its clocks.