by Frances Pye
“…there’s lots of us thirty-somethings have been married. And divorced. And don’t want that again. Look at the husband I had.”
“That’s Clive Morris?”
“The man who broke the original story. Yes. I threw him out years ago when I discovered he’d been having an affair, spending my money taking his lover on a skiing holiday. He’s still trying to get back at me.” Lily grinned and winked. And the audience laughed. In that one gesture, she’d dismissed Clive as an irrelevance.
“We’ve all had the love and the dependence and the quarrels and in some cases the violence, and we’ve come out the other side determined not to get into it again. To stay independent. But we still want men for certain things. Sex. Sperm. An escort, maybe. Help with a difficult son. Household maintenance, perhaps. Just not there all the time, expecting attention and servicing and feeding.”
She was fighting back. And she was winning.
“So sharing one man seemed like the obvious answer. Why not? We would get what we wanted. And so would he.”
“Did he? Get what he wanted?”
“You tell me. Look at us. We may not be in our twenties, but I think we still look pretty damn good. We’re bright, interesting, unusual people. What man wouldn’t go for a situation where he got to be with all of us?”
“Are you advocating this for everyone?”
“It’s about independence. Me and my friends, we don’t need to be looked after by a man. We don’t need to be supported. We don’t need to pretend to be the weaker half. Maybe if we all weren’t so hung up on finding the right partner, we’d all be happier.”
Clive’s editor jumped up. “Okay. Seen enough. We need to reflect all this. And try to recoup. Too late for tonight, but first thing tomorrow. Brian, get some quotes. Anti. Pro. A vicar, maybe. Anne Widdecombe ought to be good for something if you can find her. Steve, go talk to the friends if you can. Get their side. I know Clive had trouble getting to them, but maybe they won’t feel so bad about you. Mikey, you try Lily. She likes them handsome. Maybe she’ll share you if you play your cards right.”
Brian, Steve, and Mikey scuttled off. Leaving Clive and his editor.
“What about me?” asked Clive.
“Ah, yes. Clive. I’ve got a very special story for you. It’s round here somewhere.” The editor riffled through the pile of paper on his desk. “Yes. Here you go. There’s a potato on an allotment in Hackney looks like the Pope.”
“But…but…Lily? The story’s mine. I found it, I broke it.”
“Yes. So you did. Brilliant. I loved the way you so cleverly realized the implications of what had happened. And used the newspaper to pursue your own agenda. You’ve made us a fucking laughingstock.”
“What? But it was a huge success. Circulation went up by a hundred and fifty thousand. I know it did. You told me.”
“And how much will it go down by tomorrow? How many people will have been alienated? You’re an idiot, Clive. You had the greatest human-interest woman’s story in years and you turned it into smut. Lily’s a heroine. Every single woman in the country who saw that show will admire her. Hell, not just the single women. Plenty of married ones will also. She’s taken what she wanted and enjoyed it. And she’s proud of it.”
“But men will hate it. Being used like that.”
“All fun and no responsibility—I don’t know a man who doesn’t dream about that. And most of them’ll be drooling at the idea of her and her friends all rolling round in bed together. Sure, I know they never did that, and so do you, but this is fantasy time.”
“But, Nige. No one would have known if it wasn’t for me.”
The editor shrugged. “That was then. This is now. You fucked up big time, Clive.”
“I can walk out of here and get a job on any paper I want.”
“Yesterday you could. Today? There’s not an editor on Fleet Street will touch you with a barge pole.”
“Think of the stories I’ve found for you. The scoops I got. I was great. You know I was.”
“You’re not being fired, are you?”
“You can’t send me out on vegetable call. I haven’t done that since I was first here.” It was the bottom rung of the ladder. New-boys’ shift.
The editor held out the info about the potato. The implication was clear. It was that or nothing.
Clive stared at the piece of paper. And finally grabbed it. He needed to keep his job. After this fiasco, he wasn’t likely to be offered another in a hurry. Because Nige was right. Editors had very short memories. He’d seen it happen to other reporters on other papers. Their previous triumphs wiped out by a single disaster. In the tabloid world, the past was just that. The past.
seventy-three
“And this is the garden.” Mara walked out of the back door, followed by a perky young man with a perpetual smile and wearing a cheap suit. It was a bright, clear, cold winter day. Apart from a number of cabbages, red and green, and some Brussels sprouts, much of the ground was still bare, waiting for spring planting.
“No flowers?” the young man asked, his words an accusation.
“No. No, we’ve used the space for vegetables. As you can see.”
“Self-sufficiency, eh? The good life?” He laughed at his own non-joke.
“Yes. If you like.”
“Hmm. No one wants all that work. A patio and a few pots is the thing now.”
Mara flinched. The garden was the one part of the house of which she was proud. It was neat, weeded, productive, the result of hours and hours of toil. She might not have been able to do anything about leaks and crumbling masonry and the like, but she had improved the property in her own way. Or so she had thought. But there was no point in her saying anything. He wouldn’t listen.
In the last few minutes, she’d found out that all the stories about the awfulness of real estate agents had a solid basis in fact. Not only had he mocked her beloved vegetable patch, but he’d also made rude remarks about her tumbledown furniture and complained about the smell of spices in the kitchen. Anything she’d tried to say to him had passed unnoticed.
She had decided that it was time to sell the house a few days after she’d learned the truth about Jake. There didn’t seem any point in hanging on to it any longer. Without her illusions about her perfect marriage, she could see her home for what it was: a badly run-down, old property that was becoming more and more uncomfortable to live in by the day. And that she needed to get rid of whilst it was still worth something. Lily and Jules’s incredible gift had made it a more cozy place to live, but there was still the roof and the walls and the damp.
She had been nervous about telling Moo and Tilly, but they hadn’t seemed to mind. In fact, they’d been excited at the idea of moving to a new place, a flat with a proper roof and a modern kitchen and, hopefully, a bedroom for each of them. Plus, the daily spectacle of reporters hanging around the door, hoping for a word with their mum, tended to drive all other thoughts out of their head. When the press had first turned up, Mara had been worried that the girls would want to know exactly why, but they’d accepted that it was all something to do with their aunt Lily and concentrated on enjoying the spectacle and boasting to their friends about their famous mother. Luckily, no one had shown them the newspaper. And the talk show was on too late for them or their friends to watch.
The Moores, of course, would have lapped it up. Even though Mara had been treated lightly in the newspapers, they’d have seen the whole Sean story as more proof of her unfitness for motherhood. She’d heard nothing from them since their letter to her lawyer saying they intended to sue for custody, but it could only be a matter of time. Which made the move to a waterproof flat as soon as possible even more important.
“So what do you think, Mr. Black?”
“Can we go in?” Without waiting for an answer, he led the way into the living room. “The property is rather the worse for wear, Mrs. Moore.”
“Yes, I know.”
“The market is good at the mome
nt, of course, but no one wants to pay any more than they have to. And it would take a considerable amount of work to do this place up. Roof, walls, windows, kitchen, bathroom…You’re basically starting from scratch. In many ways, it would be cheaper to build new. So you’ve got to factor that in. A reasonable price, someone will jump at it. Nice street, nice area, opportunity to put their own stamp on the place. I’d say one-eighty. Maybe put it on the market for two, two-ten. See if anyone bites. But be prepared to accept one-eighty.”
“One hundred and eighty thousand pounds?”
“Something like that. Maybe a little more.”
“A house up the street went the other day for three hundred and forty.”
“I heard. In perfect condition. With a loft conversion.”
“But it can’t be worth only one hundred and eighty thousand. This is Chiswick.”
“You may get more, of course. But you said you wanted a quick sale.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” But would the price he was suggesting leave her with the money to buy anything close by? It sounded like a considerable sum to her right now, but was it enough? “That’s less than I thought. After I pay you and the solicitor, I’ll only have about one hundred and seventy thousand. And I don’t want to leave the area, you see, my daughters are at school here and—”
“We’ve got a nice flat for one-seventy. Two bedrooms. On the railway line, but you can’t have everything.”
The railway line. Okay, the girls were old enough for her not to worry about them wandering out onto the tracks and being hit by a speeding train, but still. What about the noise? However, it didn’t sound like she had any choice. Yes, she could go north into Acton or west into Hounslow, but then Moo and Tilly would have to move school as well as home. And she didn’t want them to do that if she could possibly avoid it.
James Black walked toward the door. “Think about it. I can show it to you anytime.”
“I will. Thank you for taking a look at the house.”
“You’ll have other agents coming round, but they won’t say any different. One-eighty would be close to top whack for a property in this state.”
Mara showed the man out. She was sure he wasn’t trying to con her; what he said about prices made absolute sense. Unless she found someone desperate to live on her street and willing to pay extra because of that, she was unlikely to get more than £180,000.
But she had to sell. And quickly.
seventy-four
“Paul? Are you home?” Terry shouted as she walked through the door, her hair dusted with melting snowflakes. It had been coming down since lunchtime and the whole of London was now sprinkled with white, like confectioners’ sugar on a restaurant dessert.
“Here,” Paul replied as he emerged from his room. “Everything okay?” He looked worriedly at his mother. It had been two weeks since the article in the newspaper and ten days since Lily’s appearance on TV. Reporters had given up hanging around their door only the previous evening, having finally accepted that they were not going to get anything.
Terry appeared all right on the surface, but Paul sensed that underneath she was still hurting. A lot. But she wouldn’t talk about it. Instead, she maintained a sort of forced jollity that might have fooled a stranger but not anyone who knew her well.
And at night, in bed, she cried. Though she tried to hide it, Paul had listened at her door and heard her muffled sobs. But whenever he mentioned Sean and what had happened, she clammed up.
“I stopped and got us some fish for tea.” Like that.
“Mam, I don’t care about fish.”
“It’s cod. Your favorite.”
“Cod, tuna, what’s the difference?”
Terry headed for the kitchen. “Lots. One’s white, one’s pink, for a start.”
Paul knew this was supposed to be a joke, but he didn’t smile. “Aren’t you going to change?” he asked. His mother had always, always gotten out of her uniform the moment she got home. For as long as he could remember. But now she didn’t bother. Instead, she had stayed in the black serge jacket and wool trousers every evening for two weeks. Since that day.
Terry ignored the question. “Roast, I think,” she said, and proceeded to bustle about the kitchen, pulling out pans, chopping vegetables, trimming fish. Keeping herself busy.
“Why won’t you talk about it?” The question burst out of Paul.
“About what, love? Don’t you fancy fish? I think there’s some soup left in the fridge and I could make some cheese on toast—”
“Mam, stop it. Fish is fine. Why won’t you talk about Sean?”
Terry froze, her knife poised above the board, a carrot half sliced. She was delighted that she and Paul were once more getting on together. Since they’d cried together, they’d felt as close as they had before Finn appeared. And she was touched that her son cared about how she was feeling, but this was not a conversation she wanted to have. Holding herself together in public was hard enough without talking about Sean.
“I know you’re upset.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. Look at Minnie.” Paul pointed to the little dog, who was just that moment slinking in the door of the kitchen, her tail between her legs. She walked over to Terry, sat down, and leaned against her leg. For comfort. “She knows you’re miserable.”
“Oh, Minnie.” Terry leaned down to stroke the little dog. “You’re a love. But I’m fine.” She took a deep breath and carried on chopping. Maybe if she said nothing, Paul would give up.
“I want to help. Let me help.”
No such luck. Terry put down her knife and turned to face her son, a tear already trickling down her face. “You can’t.”
“I thought girls liked to talk. That’s what they always say.”
“Sometimes it’s too hard. I’m sorry, love. I know you want to make it better, but some things people’ve just got to suffer through on their own. I messed up. I know I did. And there’s no getting it back or making it come out right. But it’ll get better. It will, I promise. In time. Things always do, don’t they?”
“Mam. You’re just as unhappy as you were when it happened. Look at you.”
Terry brushed her tears away with a corner of a tea cloth and dredged up a watery smile from somewhere. “It’s only been a couple of weeks. Give it a month or so,” she said, privately thinking no way was she going to get over Sean that quickly, but keen to reassure her son. “Just let me deal with it in my own way. All right?”
“I suppose.”
Terry leaned over the table and kissed Paul on the cheek. “Thanks, love. I have you, you know. And that makes up for a lot.”
seventy-five
Surrounded by dusty boxes, Sean stood in the center of a poky room whose low ceiling and fake oak beams only added to the airless feel. Outside, in a suburban street, a team of men was unloading furniture, pictures, and yet more boxes from a large truck and carrying them inside. Sean had long since given up telling them where to put things—a lot of the stuff had been in storage since he’d moved to the loft in King’s Cross, and some of it he didn’t even remember having had. Where, for instance, had that hideous overhanging glass-and-chrome floor lamp come from? Had he bought that?
Once he’d gotten Mark and Ben back, he’d had to move—the loft was no place for kids. Besides, he wanted the boys to be close to Ray and Babs and their kids, to have some sort of family outside himself. If he could, he’d have gone back to the large semidetached house he’d bought after he and Isobel split up, but it was leased and so he’d had to find an unfurnished, three-bedroom house in South East London to rent. At short notice. It had not turned out to be as simple as he’d hoped, and this cramped, dark excuse for a home had been all he’d been able to get.
Mark and Ben dashed into the room.
“Dad, Dad, my bedroom’s great. It’s got its own sink in the corner and there’s a fireplace with an electric fire….” That was Ben, talking faster than a speeding bullet.
“And yo
u can see the woods from mine and there’s still some snow and there was a fox in the garden….” Mark was animal crazy, determined to be a vet when he grew up.
Sean grinned at his overexcited sons. If they were happy with the place, then he’d live with it. Strange how kids found different things pleasing. It would never have occurred to him to think that a sink in a bedroom—a sign of the tasteless fifties to Sean—was worth getting enthusiastic about.
“Can we go look at the woods?”
“Yeah, can we, Dad?”
“Okay. But put your coats on. And don’t go too far.” And they were gone, out of the house and off to the woods at their regular speed of nine hundred miles per hour.
Sean smiled after them. Thank God for Mark and Ben. He couldn’t imagine how he would have coped without them. They kept him sane, his joy and relief at finding them and the pure pleasure of their company balancing the other side of his life.
No one could be continually unhappy with such whirlwinds around. At least not while they were there.
But when their energy and excitement and noise had gone, and Sean was left to himself, he could no longer avoid his thoughts and memories of Terry. Though her lies had destroyed the relationship, images of them together, bits of conversation, things she’d said and done kept coming to him unbidden.
He forced them out of his mind as soon as they did, refusing to accept that he still felt something for her. But they continued to appear. Giving Terry up felt like giving up smoking had the one time he’d tried it. It was a continual struggle that never seemed to get any easier.
seventy-six
Terry shut the newspaper and added it to the growing pile on the kitchen table. Paul had been bringing all her favorites home for her every day, hoping to reawaken her interest in the horoscopes she had once read so intently. But though she skimmed through them to try and please him, her heart wasn’t in it. No astrologer could send Sean back to her, and all their talk of patience and a surprise being around the corner and romance in the air couldn’t persuade her that she should be positive about the future.
