by Lucy Diamond
Saffron looked down at her plate, feeling chastised. ‘Sorry.’
Eloise sighed. ‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just . . . all over the place. Don’t take any notice of me.’
Looking at her plate had been a mistake, Saffron realized in the next moment, as her eyes locked onto a large, crispy-looking roast potato and refused to move. Her stomach rumbled. Her mouth felt wet with anticipation. Sorry as she was for her weeping sister – and she was sorry! she could not have been sorrier! – Saffron was absolutely ravenous by now. Being pregnant meant that whenever hunger struck, she felt as if she could kill someone with her bare hands if they were standing in the way of her food. Surreptitiously she cut the roast potato in half and shoved it in her mouth, while everyone else was still absorbed with poor Eloise. Then she almost choked as she discovered just how volcanic the temperature was.
‘Darling, I wish there was something we could— Oh, Saffron, are you all right?’
At her mum’s prompting, everyone let go of Eloise and turned to see Saffron, purple-faced, trying to gulp down water fast enough to cool her burning mouth. ‘Fine,’ she spluttered. ‘Absolutely fine.’
It broke the spell at least, and everyone picked up their cutlery. ‘Better eat this while it’s hot,’ Simon said, looking somewhat relieved. He speared a sprig of broccoli and looked at it with what could only be described as fondness. ‘Very mathematical vegetable, the humble broccoli, you know,’ he said to nobody in particular. ‘Amazing fractals.’
Eloise blew her nose. ‘So with me being barren, and Zoe being gay,’ she said, ignoring her husband’s musings, ‘I guess the continuation of the family line is down to you now, Saff.’
Oh, Christ. Couldn’t they talk about broccoli and fractals a bit longer? But no, Ewan was already guffawing as if this was hilarious.
‘No pressure, love! Don’t pay any attention.’ He swished a forkful of lamb through the puddle of mint sauce on his plate. ‘Poor old Saff,’ he said affectionately. ‘Let her find a fella first, eh?’
Poor old Saff? What was all that about? ‘Who says I want a fella anyway?’ Saffron asked, smarting. Why was it that every time she was with her family she ended up feeling as if she was fourteen years old again, gauche, pimply and this close to storming out of the room in a strop? However hard she tried to convince them she was a grown-up now – a responsible adult with a perfectly good job and her own flat in London, thank you very much – she was reduced to feelings of inadequacy within ten minutes of being in their company. Every bloody time.
‘Or a girlfriend like Zoe, of course, we don’t mind. But seriously, love, Eloise is only joking, all right? Your mum and I will be fine without grandchildren, if you don’t want to go there.’
‘Is there anyone nice right now, though?’ her mum asked, unable to disguise the hope radiating from her face. She might as well have been holding up crossed fingers. ‘Some special chap you want us to meet? We haven’t been introduced to any boyfriends for a while.’
‘Not since Neal,’ Eloise put in. She seemed to be cheering up all of a sudden. Nothing like a bit of sister-baiting to put her in a good mood. ‘God, he was a bastard, wasn’t he?’
Saffron glared at her. Neal was her maverick ex-husband, the one she’d been madly in love with right up until the moment she discovered he’d bankrupted them both after a string of disastrous business deals. She was done talking about Neal with Eloise, thank you very much.
‘Only I thought Zoe was hinting at some piece of news on the phone the other day,’ Lorraine went on encouragingly, her grey eyes still fixed on Saffron. ‘She asked if I’d spoken to you recently, and when we were going to see you next. It was almost as if she knew something we didn’t.’
‘Oooh,’ Simon said cheerfully. ‘Don’t keep us in suspenders.’
‘Yes, what is it?’ Eloise asked, glugging back her glass of wine. ‘Don’t tell us you’re having a fling with one of your “celebrity” clients?’ She made little speech-marks with her fingers, to show how much she valued society’s idea of fame.
‘Of course I’m not!’ Saffron snapped, just as her dad started whistling ‘Here Comes the Bride’.
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ Eloise teased.
‘Look, it’s nothing,’ Saffron said doggedly. ‘Can we change the subject?’
‘Sounds like something to me.’
‘All right, let’s leave it, I don’t think Saffron wants to talk about this – whatever it is.’ There was Mum, the peacemaker, as she’d always been when they were growing up and fighting over stolen nail varnish and ‘borrowed’ clothes.
‘Pour her another drink – we’ll get it out of her later,’ Eloise said, laughing, and then her eye fell on Saffron’s glass of orange juice and she went very still. ‘You’re not drinking?’
A strange look passed between the sisters and Saffron felt jittery with alarm. Oh God, Eloise had guessed. She had worked it out. Bluff it. Blag it. Don’t tell her anything. Not today. ‘Well, no, because I’m driving, aren’t I?’ she said, but Eloise was still giving her that measured, calculating look, and she could feel her face growing hotter by the second.
‘You could have one, though. You can have one glass of wine,’ Eloise said. Her voice was silky smooth, but her gaze was steely. ‘Couldn’t she, Dad?’
‘Well, she could, but she doesn’t have to,’ Ewan said mildly, but Saffron barely heard him. The room had shrunk down to her and her sister and that look in Eloise’s eyes.
‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you? That’s why you’re not drinking.’ Eloise’s tone was brittle, her mouth a taut line.
Oh fuck. Saffron swallowed, her heart thudding in panic. Here goes nothing. ‘Yes.’
‘You’re what?’ cried Lorraine, dumbfounded.
‘She’s kidding us. Aren’t you, Saff?’ Her dad rubbed his beard – his nervous tic. ‘Don’t say things like that if it’s not true.’
‘It is true.’ Saffron covered her eyes, unable to bear the expression on her sister’s face for a moment longer. How could you do this to me? Eloise’s face was saying. You traitorous bitch. That should have been my news, not yours!
‘What? Are you serious? You’re having a baby?’ Her mum’s voice rose higher with every question.
‘I didn’t want to tell you like this.’ She forced herself to turn back to her sister. ‘I’m sorry, El. I know how much you wanted—’
She reached out, but Eloise recoiled as if Saffron’s touch would contaminate her. ‘Don’t,’ she hissed, pushing her chair back from the table and getting up. ‘I can’t believe you’d do this to me. I hate you. I hate you!’
And then she was gone from the room and they were all staring at each other in varying degrees of shock.
‘I’ll go after her,’ Simon said awkwardly.
‘A baby,’ Lorraine exclaimed, goggling. ‘Oh, Saffron. I can’t believe this!’
‘Nor can I,’ said Saffron miserably. ‘Nor can I, Mum.’
Chapter Sixteen
After seeing Caitlin, Gemma went straight home and googled ‘concussion’ and ‘personality change’. She read through the symptoms: irritability, depression, anxiety, aggression, mood swings, apathy, lack of motivation . . . yep. That little bundle sounded horribly familiar. Even more troubling was the fact that Post-Concussion Syndrome, as it was known, could apparently last for weeks, months or even more than a year. A whole year of Spencer’s surly moods and general bad temper made her feel frightened. Did she have the patience, the stamina, to bear it that long? Yes, he was still her husband, but he definitely wasn’t the man she’d married, the man who had welled up on their wedding day, who’d made her feel like the happiest woman alive. How could you stick with someone if they were continually horrible to you? Should you put up with it, just because they’d once loved you? Other people would, she was sure. Nicer, stronger people than her would tough it out, because that was what you did when you loved someone. She felt guilty for even questi
oning it, as if she’d been caught out in the Wife test. Not loyal enough. You failed.
It wasn’t only Spencer who was in the doldrums. Darcey had fallen out with her best friend and was in floods of tears half the time. (‘The only thing that would make me feel better is a pony or a kitten,’ she’d sobbed, with a hopeful sidelong glance at Gemma. No chance, love.) And Will was monosyllabic and grunting these days, a far cry from the little boy who’d followed her around the house with a book of facts not so long ago, saying things like, ‘Mum, did you know, you could fit all the people in the world into Los Angeles, if they stood shoulder-to-shoulder?’ ‘Mum, did you know, seventy-seven per cent of men in Yemen smoke?’ ‘Mum, where is Yemen?’
No facts any more. No ‘Mum, did you know’s. There was nothing other than a crash as he came through the front door, then a thump as he dumped his school bag in the hall. She would delay him there with a few questions about school: did he do anything nice, how was that maths test, what were they doing in PE today, did he want a snack? You could tell he was desperate to get away and hook up on his iPod, though, his eyes sliding past her, his very stance impatient. Worse, he looked so tired all the time, so defeated, as if life in Year 8 was too much for his narrow shoulders to bear.
‘Will, are you home?’ she called on this particular afternoon, coming downstairs from her tiny sewing room. In an attempt to cheer up Darcey she’d pulled out some of her fabric and they’d measured up for curtains in Darcey’s bedroom. They didn’t have enough money to buy paint yet, but Darcey had chosen a cheerful pale-blue fabric with a red cherry print, and Gemma reckoned there might just be enough left to make a matching duvet cover and pillowcase too. While Gemma cut and hemmed, Darcey had used the leftover scraps to make tiny cushions and pillows stuffed with cotton wool for her dolls’ house, and they’d had a good old chat and a laugh, particularly when Darcey got her mum to say ‘Dan Gleeballs’ three times as fast as she could. (‘Darcey Bailey, who told you that?’ she had spluttered, trying not to giggle.)
‘Will?’ Gemma called again as she reached the hall. No answer, and no school bag. So he hadn’t slunk in silently then – he hadn’t come in at all. And she hadn’t even noticed! As well as being the worst wife in the world, she was doing a good impression of the worst mother too, right now. She checked her phone, wondering if he’d gone to a mate’s house, or whether the school bus had broken down again. What if he’d texted her asking for a lift and she hadn’t heard the beep? But there was nothing.
The first pricklings of alarm coursed through her. Usually he was home by four-twenty at the latest, but now it was getting on for five, and dark outside. Where was he? She’d drummed it into him that he had to keep her informed of what he was up to, that he couldn’t just go off and do his own thing without telling her. He’d always been good about that in the past. Maybe he’d lost his phone. Yes, that was possible. But still . . . why hadn’t he come back?
Spencer was glued to the Xbox, driving a car through a desolate apocalyptic wasteland on the plasma screen. ‘You haven’t heard from Will, have you?’ she asked. ‘He hasn’t phoned to say he’s going to be late or anything?’
‘Mmm?’
She snatched the controller from his hand, panic making her impatient. ‘Spencer! Will isn’t home!’
‘Oi! I was in the middle of that! Give it back!’
‘Has Will phoned you?’
‘Give it back, I said!’
He grabbed it roughly and she staggered, almost losing her balance. ‘Spencer!’ she cried. Why couldn’t he see how important this was? ‘I’m trying to talk to you. Have you seen Will? He isn’t home.’
Spencer paused the game, and at last silence fell. ‘Will? No, I haven’t. I thought you were . . . ’
He broke off, and Gemma filled in the gaps in her head. I thought you were the responsible adult around here, the one who noticed things like that.
Just then they heard a key turn in the front door. Thank goodness. ‘Panic over,’ Spencer said, rolling his eyes and getting back to his game.
Gemma ignored him and rushed to the hall as Will came in out of the darkness. ‘There you are! I was starting to worry! Is everything all right?’
She had her arms out to hug him, but he pushed past her – too cool for hugs these days – and chucked his bag on the floor. He looked pale and dishevelled, his hair standing up and – not again! – the school badge on his blazer pocket hanging off at a drunken angle. ‘Fine,’ he muttered. ‘What’s for tea?’
What’s for tea? That was all her family seemed to think she was good for: cooking bloody tea. ‘Will,’ she said firmly, ‘where have you been? It’s gone five o’clock, you know. It’s dark!’
He pulled a face as if to say ‘Duh!’ and walked past her into the kitchen, where he shoved two slices of bread into the toaster. ‘It’s fine,’ he said again.
‘It’s not fine,’ she snapped, then sniffed the air. Cigarette smoke and chewing gum. Oh no. ‘Have you been smoking?’
There were purple rings under his eyes, she noticed, as he took out a plate and butter, and started buttering a third piece of bread, too impatient to wait for the toast. ‘Mum . . . Just leave it, will you? I’m not in the mood.’
‘You’re not in the mood? Well, I’m not in the mood to be worrying about you, coming back at all hours, stinking of smoke. I need some answers. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing! Back off, Mum. I’ve just walked through the door.’
‘Yeah, forty minutes late, pal. What have you been doing? Were you with Jack?’
‘Nah.’ His eyes hooded, he turned away, fiddling to pull a tangle of earphones from his blazer pocket. Then he plugged them in, a deliberate gesture of I don’t want to talk any more and bit into his bread and butter.
Gemma watched him, anxiety clenching in the pit of her stomach. It’s me – I’m on your side, she wanted to say. You can tell me, I only want to help.
But she knew it was pointless. Like father, like son. Neither of them was letting her in right now.
‘Not stew again. Ugh, Mum, this is like totally rank. I thought we were having chips?’ Darcey’s face was a picture of indignation as Gemma served up plates of vegetable stew and mashed potato half an hour later.
‘I never said that. You were the one who kept talking about chips. Anyway, this was all I could find in the freezer.’
‘There are chips in the freezer.’ Darcey’s mouth crumpled into a pout and she stabbed a fork into the orange-brown stew with a look of sheer disgust.
‘Well, I’m sorry, young lady, but this is what we’re having tonight.’ Gemma never thought she’d be the kind of person who called her children ‘young lady’ and ‘young man’, but there you were.
‘Yuck. I hate stew. Dad, can’t we get pizza again?’
Don’t you dare, Gemma thought, catching her husband’s eye across the table. If he went and undermined her again, she’d go ballistic.
‘Don’t whine, Darcey,’ he said curtly. ‘Eat up and be grateful you’ve got anything at all.’
Well, that was some improvement on dialling out for a takeaway at least, Gemma supposed, but his tone had been unnecessarily sharp and now tears were glistening in Darcey’s big brown eyes.
‘Start with your mash,’ she said in a kinder voice. ‘Come on, while it’s hot.’
‘Can I get some new trainers on Saturday?’ Will said after a few moments’ silence. He was still plugged into his music player and talking extra-loudly as a result.
‘I only just bought you some!’ Gemma said in surprise. ‘Can you turn that music off, please, while we’re having dinner.’
‘Yeah, but the ones you bought were cheap crap,’ he said. The sneer on his face was habitual these days. ‘Like, totally embarrassing, naff ones. Anyway, I’ve lost them.’
‘You’ve lost them? Oh, for heaven’s sake. Have you looked in Lost Property at school?’ There was a shiftiness about him that was unconvincing. Had he even heard her? ‘Will, I’m talking to you
, turn that music off. Have you really lost them? Because I’m not buying you new ones just because you don’t like the others. They were perfectly good trainers, Will.’
‘What – from British Home Stores? Do you want everyone to take the piss out of me, or what?’
She glanced at Spencer for back-up. Was he going to let Will speak to her like that? Apparently he was.
‘Don’t be so rude,’ she said, flushing. ‘There’s nothing wrong with those trainers. And I—’
‘He’s got a point,’ Spencer put in over her, and she whirled round accusingly at him. ‘What? The lad’s got a point. I wouldn’t want to go around in trainers from British Home Stores, either.’
‘Exactly!’ Will was triumphant.
‘But . . . ’ The words shrivelled on her tongue. So much for a united front. So much for spousal solidarity! ‘The thing is, Will, the trainers I bought you cost about fifty quid less than Nike ones, or whatever it is you want.’
‘I’m not having my son go to school like some kind of—’
‘And we don’t have that extra fifty quid right now,’ Gemma said loudly, ignoring Spencer’s unhelpful interruption.
‘Right, so I’m meant to do PE in socks, am I? Great. Thanks a lot.’
‘I’m sorry, love. I wish I could give you the best trainers in the shop, but the problem is that we’ve got to watch the pennies.’
‘Yeah, I know, you’ve said about ten million times. Why don’t you just sell some stuff, then? Like that bike you never use. Dad’s Mazda. All your—’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Gemma said, exasperated, before he could list any more possessions. ‘Look, Dad’s owed a lot of money and, until that comes through, we need to—’
‘Oh,’ Spencer cut in. ‘I meant to tell you.’
Gemma turned towards him, not sure she wanted to hear what he was about to say. ‘What?’
‘They’ve gone bust. Melvilles. Stu rang the other day. They’ve done a bunk, the site’s closed down, nobody’s getting paid.’
‘What?’ Gemma’s heart almost stopped. ‘But they can’t do that! They owe you nearly ten grand – I worked it out. What are we going to do?’
