The Year of Taking Chances

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘Aw, Gems, come on, it’s Sunday. Give us a break.’

  ‘Will?’

  Will glanced over his shoulder at her, then across at his dad, clearly torn. ‘Can’t Darcey do it?’

  Gemma was damned if she was about to teach her daughter to peel spuds before her much older son learned to do so. ‘I’d really like a bit of help,’ she said steadfastly.

  He sighed and paused his character onscreen. ‘Oh, all right then,’ he muttered, getting up with exaggerated reluctance.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, but we all need to muck in now,’ she said.

  Spencer rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, yeah, we know. Now that you’re the power-mad businesswoman, you don’t need to remind us.’

  ‘I’m not power-mad,’ she replied, taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. ‘I’m only asking our son to peel the carrots for Sunday dinner. It’s hardly the end of the world.’

  ‘Yeah, and me to mow the frigging lawn, even though it doesn’t need doing . . . Just because you’re busy, Gemma, don’t start bossing everyone else around.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she protested, but he was already getting to his feet, one hand to his back, to show her how painful his injury still was, just to rub in how unreasonable she was being, forcing an invalid to move.

  ‘Course you’re not. And now I’ll go and mow the lawn with my bloody front teeth, shall I? Because you told me to. Fat old nag.’

  Gemma’s jaw dropped. She actually felt as if she’d been slapped. ‘Wh-what did you call me?’

  His eyes were hooded and sullen. ‘You heard.’

  Yeah. She’d heard, all right. And it was pretty much the worst thing he could have called her. He knew full well the angst she’d suffered over her size in the past, how she’d lived on thin air and black coffee when she was young and self-conscious, how she’d made herself sick if she ever weakened and gave in to a doughnut or a bag of chips. She had battled so hard to overcome those feelings of low self-worth, and he had helped her through, by telling her she was beautiful, that he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

  Until now, that was. Until he’d just thrown that word at her as if it had all been a lie.

  ‘Well, if that’s how you feel, maybe you should find someone else to try and look after you,’ she said, her voice cracking with hurt. ‘If that’s how you feel, maybe you should get lost!’

  Back in the kitchen, Gemma’s hands shook as she put the potatoes on to parboil, Will sulkily hacking away at the carrots and parsnips beside her as if he was enduring some kind of Guantanamo torture. She couldn’t believe Spencer had called her that. Her very least-favourite word. And he knew it was, too. He had said it deliberately, as if he couldn’t care less. It was the worst thing he’d ever done in the fifteen years they’d been together.

  Will clumped out again, vegetables done, but Gemma’s unhappy mood continued as she set the potatoes roasting, mixed the bread sauce, basted the chicken and chopped broccoli florets. Of course there was no whirring of the lawnmower to be heard outside. What a surprise, she thought bitterly. Spencer was definitely spoiling for a fight.

  She slammed the plates into the warming drawer of the oven with unnecessary force, and crashed the cutlery around as she laid the table, unable to help banging out her frustration. Well, she thought, if he was going to start name-calling, she was not about to take it lying down. She would not be made to feel bad in her own home – she wouldn’t!

  Just as she was crossly wiping a splatter of gravy from her left boob, the doorbell rang and her eyes swung up to the clock in horror. What? It was only ten past twelve and they had definitely agreed on half-past. Surely her dad hadn’t broken the habit of a lifetime and turned up somewhere early for once, had he?

  Gemma let out a groan. She was still in her oldest jeans and a horribly unflattering sweatshirt, smelling strongly of roast potatoes and now splotched with gravy. The plan had been to change into something more attractive as soon as the chicken was out and resting under its foil blanket, and the Yorkshire puddings were gently fluffing up in their tray (the childrens’ favourite – they had Yorkshire pudding with every kind of roast). If her dad had been on time, she could have answered the door to him looking composed and sane; as it was, she had no make-up on, and instead appeared red-faced and scruffy. This was not the Superwoman image she’d intended.

  ‘Hello, love, sorry we’re a bit early. We were going to pop into the garden centre, but there was such a queue to get in the car park, we couldn’t be bothered.’ Her dad enveloped her in one of his mammoth, crushing hugs. ‘Judy’s been telling me off, saying that nobody wants early guests, but I said you wouldn’t mind. You don’t, do you?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Gemma laughed a bit too heartily. ‘Not at all. Excuse the state of me. I was just going to change, but . . . ’ She shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. ‘Hi, Judy.’

  ‘Hello! What a lovely big house! My goodness, it’s like something from Footballers’ Wives’. Judy pressed a bunch of gladioli into Gemma’s arms.

  ‘Well, not exactly . . . ’ Gemma said weakly. She doubted any of the footballers’ wives these days had Artex ceilings and peeling wallpaper, but whatever. ‘Thank you.’

  Judy’s charm-offensive had already moved on. ‘And you must be Darcey, what a pretty face! It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Grandad’s . . . friend,’ she said coyly, batting her eyelashes. ‘Now I’ve got a present for you somewhere.’ She dug a hand into her bag. ‘Where are they? Ah. Sweeties!’ She produced a large bag of Percy Pig sweets and Darcey’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Not before lunch,’ Gemma found herself saying, although Darcey was already skipping away, apparently struck by selective deafness, judging by the way her hands were tugging eagerly at the opening of the bag. ‘Darcey! Did you hear me? Don’t spoil your lunch!’

  ‘And where’s William? And Spencer? I’ve been so looking forward to meeting the fellas,’ Judy gushed, with that annoying, toothy smile.

  Gemma could guess exactly where they were: locked in battle once again on the Xbox, the lawn pointedly left untouched. It could be three feet tall by the time Spencer deigned to give it a mow. Sod it, she would have to do it herself, she thought crossly. Like everything else around this bloody place. ‘Spence! Will! Come and show your ugly mugs,’ she yelled, annoyed that they hadn’t the manners to end the game at the sound of the doorbell. ‘Let me take your jacket, Judy,’ she said after a moment, as neither of them appeared. Brilliant. Thanks, guys. ‘Come on through.’

  She left the flowers on the worktop as she filled the kettle. ‘Spencer! Will!’ she shouted again in exasperation. Where were they? ‘Sorry,’ she muttered as she clattered down four mugs and the box of teabags. ‘I’ll go and track them down in a minute.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry! No rush at all. Can I help with anything?’ Judy asked, hovering expectantly. ‘Everything smells absolutely wonderful. Barry’s been saying what a great cook you are.’

  ‘It’s just a roast,’ Gemma said. Dad’s favourite, thank you very much. ‘And I think it’s pretty much under control. The chicken’s due out in a few minutes and then . . . ’

  ‘Mum.’ It was Will, looking wired and twitchy.

  ‘Oh, there you are. Will, this is Judy, and . . . ’

  Judy was already coming over, her hand outstretched. ‘Lovely to meet you! What a handsome lad you are!’

  ‘Mum, it’s Dad,’ Will said urgently, side-stepping Judy.

  ‘What do you mean? Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  Gemma stared at him. ‘What do you mean, he’s gone? Gone where?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. He just said he was fed up and went out.’

  Barry cleared his throat. ‘I thought I noticed the garage door was open.’

  Gemma’s head was jangling from all this strange and unwanted information. ‘What, he’s gone out in the car? He’s not meant to be driving yet!’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘What’s he playing at?’
r />   ‘Was the thought of having us for lunch really that bad?’ Judy joked, but nobody laughed.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Gemma turned dazedly to her dad. ‘I don’t know what he’s thinking.’

  ‘Don’t worry, love. He’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘I mean, he’s been in a strange mood for weeks. We had a bit of a row this morning, but . . . ’ She stopped, not wanting to air any dirty laundry in front of Judy. ‘What exactly did he say?’ she asked her son. Maybe Will had got it wrong, misunderstood somehow.

  ‘He said . . . ’ Will cleared his throat, looking agonized. ‘Er, he said . . . ’

  ‘What? For goodness’ sake, spit it out. What did he say?’

  Will squirmed miserably in the limelight. ‘He said, er, “Eff this for a life. I’m off. See you around.”’ He hung his head. ‘That was about it.’

  Gemma’s mouth fell open, then shut. Fuck this for a life? ‘Oh God,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Where will he have gone?’ asked Barry. ‘Do you want me to drive around, see if I can find him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gemma replied. She didn’t seem to know anything any more. Her marriage, so rocky since the accident, appeared to have cracked wide open in the space of a few minutes. If that’s how you feel, maybe you should get lost! she heard her own voice shrieking, and a cold sensation trickled down her back. ‘I just don’t know.’

  Spencer didn’t come home at all that day. Gemma phoned and texted him numerous times, until she discovered he’d left his phone at home. She called Harry and his other mates, but nobody had seen or heard from him. He’d taken the Mazda and vanished. She could hardly bear to think about what could have happened.

  ‘Has he shown any suicidal tendencies?’ Judy had asked unhelpfully, eyes wide, as the kitchen filled with the smell of burning roast dinner.

  Gemma had felt like slapping her at the time – I’ll give you suicidal tendencies in a minute, Judy – but the words refused to dissolve and disappear, hours later. Was he suicidal? He’d certainly been depressed for a long time, there was no doubt about that, but she hadn’t thought things were that bad. What if he felt so desperate, though, that he’d gone out in the car and deliberately crashed, ending it all?

  ‘Where is Daddy?’ Darcey asked at bedtime, her little face screwing up in confusion. ‘Where has he gone?’

  That was the question Gemma couldn’t answer. ‘I’m sure he’ll back soon,’ she told her daughter, hugging her close and kissing the top of her head.

  She wished she could believe her own reassuring words. Lying in bed that night, she couldn’t sleep for terrifying visions of Spencer, wild-eyed, ramming his sports car at top speed into a brick wall and collapsing over the wheel. The knock at the front door, police officers with their caps removed, eyes sorrowful. ‘Mrs Bailey? I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news for you.’

  Has he shown any suicidal tendencies?

  Where is Daddy?

  If that’s how you feel, maybe you should get lost!

  Tears leaked from Gemma’s eyes as she grabbed Spencer’s pillow and breathed in his scent. She bitterly regretted losing her temper, but the words had burst out before she could hold them in. She hadn’t meant it, though! She didn’t really want him to get lost! She just wanted him to love her again, to look at her and smile as he used to do.

  ‘Oh, Spencer,’ she wept, wrapping her arms around the pillow and wishing it was him in her embrace instead. ‘Please come home. I’m sorry. Please just come home.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘Bloody Nora, Gemma, you look terrible. Are you all right?’

  Caitlin herself had had a sleepless night following the discovery of the adoption papers in Jane’s bedroom, but Gemma looked like the walking dead; her eyes bruised-looking, her skin pale and puffy.

  She steadied herself against the hall radiator as she took off her coat. ‘Spencer’s gone,’ she said, her voice wobbling.

  ‘He’s gone? What do you mean, he’s gone?’

  ‘He’s left us. Walked out. Just disappeared yesterday: no note, no phone call, nothing. He hasn’t taken his medication or his phone, he hasn’t even taken his toothbrush.’

  ‘Shit. Have you phoned around? Has anyone seen him? He might be with Harry.’ She blushed as she said his name, like a stupid teenager.

  ‘I’ve phoned everyone. I’ve even phoned the hospitals around here. Nobody’s seen him.’ Tears broke free of Gemma’s lashes and spilled down her cheeks. ‘He’s taken his car, the stupid idiot. When he’s not even meant to be driving again yet.’

  ‘Oh God. How come? Did you have an argument or something?’

  ‘Kind of. I lost my temper with him when he . . . ’ She looked at her feet, her rosebud mouth turning down. ‘Well, he called me fat, and it was the last straw. I did shout at him a bit.’

  ‘Oh, Gemma.’ Caitlin put her arms round her, feeling Gemma’s tears wet through the jumper she was wearing. This was horrible news. Gemma and Spencer had once seemed the golden couple of the village. He wasn’t supposed to say things like that to her! ‘I’m not surprised you lost your temper. You’ve had the patience of a saint, you really have. And you’re not fat anyway, you’re absolutely bloody scrumptious.’

  Gemma sagged and Caitlin could tell she wasn’t convinced. Gemma was the bubbliest, most cheerful and lovely person she’d ever met, but today it was as if there was a dark cloud hanging over her. Head-injuries or no head-injuries, right now Caitlin felt very much like giving Spencer a good old slap.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, squeezing her friend before letting go, ‘let me remind you of one of the perks of being your own boss. In times of crisis it is perfectly feasible – in fact, I’d say, essential – to eat cake at nine o’clock in the morning and not even think about rushing on with work.’

  Gemma’s lips quivered, then turned upwards at last in a little smile. ‘Yeah, stuff it, I’ll get even fatter just to spite him,’ she said. ‘I’ll be the fattest woman who ever lived. Then he’ll be sorry.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Caitlin bracingly. ‘That’ll show him.’

  They discussed the Spencer issue over the first cup of coffee and then Caitlin talked about her own trauma over a second, her hands shaking on the mug as she relived the moment when she discovered that she wasn’t the person she’d always thought. Now it was Gemma’s turn to look concerned and dish out a comforting hug.

  ‘Oh, love. I know you were wondering, but all the same, what a shocker.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s really thrown me. I feel like my whole childhood was a lie. I mean, none of it was what I thought.’ She gazed out at the garden where the cherry tree was in full pink bloom now, bright and beautiful. Jane had loved that tree, she remembered with a pang. Spring’s on the way!, she would say every year when it flowered.

  ‘It wasn’t a lie. They did love you and, from what you’ve said, they were great parents. And yes, they probably should have told you – they definitely should have told you – but . . . ’ Gemma spread her hands. ‘People do make stupid mistakes. I bet they thought they were protecting you by not saying anything.’

  ‘I kind of know that. But oh . . . ’ She clutched at her heart. ‘It feels so raw, you know. So painful. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive them.’

  They were silent for a moment. ‘Are you going to try and trace your birth mother? Is she still alive, do you know?’

  ‘No idea.’ Caitlin got to her feet and changed the subject. ‘We’d better get on with some work. Isn’t What’s-Her-Name coming round later, that actress?’

  ‘God, yes, I’d completely forgotten. Look at the state of me! And I’ve got my new orders to be getting on with before then. Right. Come on, Gemma. Come on, Caitlin. Let’s find some happy music on the radio and get stuck in. We’ll get through this, you know. We will.’

  ‘We damn well will. To work!’

  The afternoon fitting turned out to be great fun. The actress was in her twenties, beautiful and exuberant. Some
how or other her niceness hadn’t been knocked out of her, and she arrived with a box of colourful macarons and lots of excellent EastEnders gossip. Like Bunty, she ordered not one but two evening dresses, one in a rich plum-coloured shot silk, another in black velvet, and both Gemma and Caitlin ended their working day feeling more cheerful.

  After Gemma left to pick up her daughter, the house fell silent, but Caitlin refused to allow the demons back in. Instead she kept herself busy clearing away all the shattered glass she’d left on Jane’s bedroom floor, and wrapped the broken mirror in sheets of newspaper and parcel tape so that the bin men wouldn’t slice their fingers on it. She tidied the pile of secret papers and put them in a big envelope on the chest of drawers, to be looked at when she felt strong enough.

  Gemma’s question kept playing on her mind, though. Are you going to try and trace your birth mother? Is she still alive?

  Caitlin was curious, there was no denying it. Would they have anything in common, she and Alison Wendell? Did Alison ever think about Caitlin and wonder what had happened to her daughter?

  She poured herself a gin and tonic and turned on her laptop again.

  I just found out I was adopted she typed into Google and a long list of forum posts immediately appeared.

  I am still in shock.

  I am devastated.

  Help!

  Why didn’t they tell me?

  I found out on Facebook.

  My aunt told me.

  Everybody knew except me.

  Oh Lord. This was awful. There was a whole world of bewilderment and betrayal out there, so many thoughtless parents making bad decisions. She felt like reaching an arm into the Internet and scooping up all the people who’d been let down, like her, for the most enormous group hug. Me too. I understand. It’s shite, isn’t it? I just don’t know who I am any more.

  There were stories of people tracking down their birth mothers and, to a lesser degree, their birth fathers. There were also stories of lost siblings, half-brothers and sisters, even twins who’d been adopted by different families. Who had thought that was a good idea? They should be strung up for it!