by K. L. Slater
She’d called him a lot worse than that when he was alive. Night after night, when his drinking pals would take an arm each and drag him up the path at gone midnight, I seem to remember that Mum was often very oversensitive herself.
‘It still hurt,’ I mumbled, sipping my drink and wishing I’d asked Shaun to come instead of her. ‘Whether he meant it or not, it’s stuck in my head all these years.’
‘Perhaps you ought to be thanking him instead,’ Mum said tartly. ‘Maybe in a roundabout way it was your father who gave you the drive to achieve something in your life. Like you’ve done today.’
My graduation day was about the closest Mum has ever got to congratulating me.
Mum’s never been very open with her affection. I can remember criticisms, pieces of advice and curt nods to acknowledge various achievements at school, but that’s about it.
There’s a lot of stuff that happened back then that we’ve never talked about.
I suppose some things are better off forgotten. For now.
Chapter Two
I open my eyes from my musing just as Maisie emerges from the dance school entrance.
I love moments like this, when she’s completely absorbed in her friends, her life, and doesn’t know I’m watching her.
Her face is ruddy from ballet class, her smile bright and alive as she skips down the steps clutching her new pink and silver dance bag Mum bought her last week. She spoils her.
Maisie is flanked by Sandeep and Zoe, her two best dance friends. She has a lot of categories of friends: school friends, dance friends and performance art friends. Several of them overlap.
Sandeep goes to Maisie’s school but Zoe goes to an independent school out of town. Her family lives in the big house with a corner plot at the end of our street.
I’m on friendly terms with lots of the mums, but because of my recent studies and working full-time, I rarely find time to meet for coffee or tea at one of the many café bars in the centre of West Bridgford, as lots of them do.
Zoe shows the other two something on her phone screen and they collapse into giggles.
Then they’re hugging and waving and going their separate ways. Sandeep’s mum crosses the road to meet her daughter and waves to me as Maisie flies towards the car, her dark curls bouncing as she runs. The passenger door is wrenched open and suddenly she is next to me, breathless and vibrant, filling the small space with her zinging energy.
I kiss her on the cheek and start the engine.
‘Good class?’ I ask, checking the mirror and pulling out onto the road, sounding the horn as we pass the girls and their mums, who are deep in conversation.
As usual, I can’t stay to chat, I have to get back home to work, but everyone looks up and waves as we drive past, including Miss Diane, who always steps outside to chat to the parents who collect on foot.
‘Yes, it was a great class, Mum. And guess what? Piper Dent did all her steps wrong and tripped up and hit her head.’ The delight in Maisie’s voice is obvious.
‘Maisie,’ I say, elongating her name with mild reproach. ‘It’s not nice to gloat. Anyone can stumble, including you.’
An impish smile plays on Maisie’s lips.
‘But she wasn’t using her eyes and ears, Mum. She told Miss Diane she already knew the steps and she didn’t want to wait for the rest of us.’
Use your eyes and ears is a phrase the young and impossibly slender Miss Diane tells her dance students repeatedly. It has struck a chord with Maisie and she often uses it in jest to reprimand me or her father if she feels we aren’t paying her full attention.
‘Did Piper hurt herself?’ I ask, thinking of Joanne’s intolerance of people’s mistakes at work and how that might translate into her role as a mother.
‘She said her ankle felt sore and her head hurt, so Miss Diane said she couldn’t join in with the barre exercises, which are her favourite. She had to sit on a chair and just watch for a while because of health and safety. The second we finished class, she ran out crying and her mum came back inside and said she wanted a word with Miss Diane.’
‘Oh dear,’ I say, feeling a pang of sympathy for the teacher.
I feel duty bound to mute my true reaction to Maisie’s tale and say all the right parental things, but privately, I know just what a spoilt little diva Piper Dent is.
Joanne is a powerful influence in the area. As well as being a partner at Walker, Dent and Scott, she owns a portfolio of commercial buildings across the city, including the one the dance school rents.
We’ve all witnessed Piper, who is ten years old, the exact same age as Maisie, having a full-scale tantrum in the middle of the street. On one occasion, she emerged from the dance school raging, kicking her mother’s gleaming white Mercedes, which is always parked on double yellow lines at the end of a class.
If Joanne happens to forget a post-exercise snack for her daughter, says no to an impromptu sleepover request or a trip to McDonald’s after class, there is always hell to pay.
I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be usurped by one’s ten-year-old daughter. For all Joanne’s professional achievements and tough nature in her court cases, she seems thoroughly incapable of handling the girl.
Piper turns up to the modest dance classes each week wearing the most exquisite tulle creations, sparkling with hand-sewn crystals. The cost of such garments I can’t begin to hazard a guess at.
At the end of class, she’s often to be found outside, twirling and preening whilst a circle of girls, including Maisie, look on in awe, dressed in their own rather dull dance uniform of grey leotard and pink tights.
Rumour has it that at the beginning of the autumn term last year, Miss Diane plucked up courage and broached the subject of Piper wearing the dance school uniform. She was apparently told in no uncertain terms to never mention it again or she’d be looking for new premises for the studio.
So I can kind of understand Maisie’s glee in Piper coming unstuck; my daughter is only human after all.
‘There’s a banana and a carton of orange juice in the glove compartment,’ I tell her. ‘Just to keep you going until we get home.’
‘Ooh good, I’m starving.’ She clicks it open and takes out the food. ‘Mum, can you, me and Dad all watch a film together again tonight, like we did yesterday?’
She glances at me. She has detected something is different at home, but isn’t quite sure what. Shaun argued that she was old enough to understand our decision, but I managed to convince him to wait a while. ‘Until the dust settles a bit,’ I suggested.
‘We’ll not be watching a film tonight, but we will again at the weekend,’ I tell her. ‘Your dad is cooking tea and he’ll be with you later while I’m working.’
‘Working where?’
‘In the spare room.’
A faint scowl settles on her forehead as she finishes peeling her banana and takes a bite without answering.
The traffic lights change as we approach and I slow down to join the queue. While we wait, I turn to Maisie.
‘You like spending more time with your dad during the week, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but…’ She thinks for a moment. ‘I’d like you to be there, too.’
‘I will be there, only I’ll be upstairs. And I’ll see you before you go to bed.’
She looks out of the window and I can no longer see her face.
I’ve promised myself I’m not going to feel guilty about this. It’s a far better arrangement than we had before and I’m confident Maisie will soon get used to it.
Shaun and I now rota the whole week, alternately caring for Maisie during weekdays and scheduling one family activity at the weekend. Simple things like watching a film or walking around the nearby park and feeding the ducks together.
It’s all stuff we never seemed to manage to get around to doing before. Up until now, the majority of Maisie’s care fell upon me, while Shaun got to disappear at least three nights a week.
He works as a freelance photogra
pher and currently gets most of his paid work from a small local newspaper. He also sells some of his photographs to photo libraries, magazines and other periodicals.
When I first met him, he fostered ambitions to get regular work for one of the big nationals. Sadly, over time, he seems to have trimmed down his expectations to the extent that he no longer believes he’ll get there.
‘Social media has killed journalism,’ he complains regularly. ‘Nobody wants good old-fashioned reporting any more. By the time you’ve got the lowdown on a story, some eighteen-year-old kid working for a news website has already tweeted it together with a pic emailed in from a member of the public.’
That said, the truth of the matter was that he often scooted out of the house at a moment’s notice when he heard about a scoop. This resulted in me getting behind on my studies on occasion, leaving me no choice but to make up the time at weekends, scuppering any chance of family time.
Maisie has lost out before, but this way, we all win. Especially her. It’s a much fairer arrangement and it seems to work on all levels despite it being contentious in the eyes of some.
OK, I’m talking about my mother.
I haven’t told her everything, but I had to tell her something. The bare bones of it.
‘I’ve never heard anything like it,’ she said curtly when I tried to explain. ‘You two need to sort yourselves out and make it work. Me and your father were married for forty years and it wasn’t all wine and roses, I can tell you that.’
It’s true that Shaun wasn’t as keen as me in the first instance, but even he has now admitted the extra time he’s spending with Maisie is paying dividends.
‘I feel like I’m getting to know her on an emotional level I didn’t really have before,’ he told me. ‘I do miss us, Emma, you and I. But I can’t deny there are advantages to what we’ve done.’
From my own point of view, I feel less tired, less stressed, and without question, I’m less snappy now with both Maisie and Shaun.
We share the housework, having drawn up a rota for duties like the laundry, cleaning the house and food shopping. Theoretically we were supposed to share this stuff before, but somehow it always seemed to fall to me to fill in on the numerous occasions Shaun forgot or was called away on a local story. Now, it all feels far more equitable.
Aside from the bickering between us, mostly about his career, I’d always encouraged him to keep at it, to keep trying. It was the waste of talent that bothered me. I just couldn’t understand his lack of ambition. It annoyed and concerned me in equal measure.
On top of that, we could have done with the money any extra work might bring in. We’ve always managed, but it would have been nice to have a little spare after we’d paid the household bills.
‘You need to find a way of getting the stories other people miss,’ I suggested on more than one occasion. ‘Sniff them out like a terrier and be ready and waiting for the big snap. Don’t worry about stepping on other people’s toes, just go for it.’
Just a few encouraging words, I thought at the time. I didn’t have a clue he’d actually take any notice of them.
But the last couple of weeks, there’s been another development I didn’t expect. Something that could complicate and scupper everything we’ve planned to achieve a stable and balanced home life.
I think Shaun may be seeing someone else.
Chapter Three
I turn left onto the driveway and shut off the engine.
‘I like our house, it’s got a nice friendly face,’ Maisie says, leaning forward and looking up wistfully.
I smile and follow her appreciative stare. I know what she means. The house is nothing special, just a red-brick Victorian semi in Ladybay, a desirable area – according to local estate agents when we bought it – located just three miles from the city.
It has attractive symmetrical windows and a smooth brown PVC door with stained-glass panels. The small front lawn is edged with neat borders and we have two terracotta pots containing topiary trees, which Maisie herself helped us choose, that perfectly frame the entrance porch.
She particularly loves her bedroom, which overlooks the long, narrow garden at the back and, crucially, has a walk-in cupboard complete with shelving for all her soft toys.
‘I want to live here forever,’ she sighs, and looks at me. ‘Promise we can?’
Icy fingers tickle the back of my neck. I can’t lie to her.
She can’t know how close Shaun and I came to splitting up and selling the house. It was one of the options we discussed before deciding there was a better way – until Maisie is a little older, at least.
‘Well, we’ve no plans to leave it any time soon,’ I say briskly, opening the driver’s-side door. ‘Now, make sure you’ve got all your stuff and let’s go and see what Dad has rustled up for tea, shall we?’
I walk up the short path, push the front door and am surprised to find it locked. Rolling my eyes, I fumble in my oversized handbag for my keys.
It’s happened a few times in the last couple of weeks: Shaun isn’t home when he’s meant to be and reappears at his leisure with no offer of explanation. The whole point of our new arrangement is that we’re supposed to have parity in our parental duties, each of us giving Maisie equal shares of our time.
Just lately, Shaun seems to be either unwilling or unable to grasp this fact.
Inside, the house is quiet. At this time of day, Shaun would usually be home and watching the news headlines on television. Seeing as it’s his turn to make tea, I would at least expect to hear him pottering around in the kitchen.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve had the distinct feeling he’s being distracted elsewhere.
‘Hello?’ I call out into the silence. No response.
‘Where’s Dad?’ Maisie frowns as she follows me inside. ‘I thought he was supposed to be looking after me tonight while you’re working?’
‘Perhaps he’s had to go out on a quick job,’ I say lightly, making a real effort to swallow my irritation. She’s had to listen to enough sniping between us over the last year. ‘Close the front door behind you, poppet.’
I toss the car keys on the console table in the hallway and glance around there and in the kitchen for a note, but there’s nothing.
Perhaps I’ve been too willing to believe Shaun is as invested in our new arrangement as I am. We only agreed on this week’s rota yesterday and he seemed more than happy to look after Maisie tonight. He volunteered to, in fact.
‘I’m starving,’ Maisie grumbles. ‘Can you make tea tonight instead, Mum?’
‘Course,’ I say. ‘Go and get changed out of your dance gear and I’ll rustle something up.’
When I hear Maisie skip lightly upstairs, I ball my fists and let out a silent scream.
Tonight, I’m scheduled to listen to a company webinar about very important legislative updates as well as new case law. I’m due to give an outline of my findings in the morning at our 8.30 staff meeting.
I know Joanne sees it as a chance to appraise my analytical skills and gauge how I can communicate my findings effectively with the team. For me, it’s a valuable chance to impress her and the other two partners in my new capacity as paralegal.
And Shaun knew this. He bloody well knew it.
Joanne had given me an entirely reasonable seven days to listen in to the session. I’d initially planned to do it over the weekend, but Shaun had to pop out to shoot a local football match on Sunday so asked me to cover his usual time with Maisie.
‘I’ll cover the whole of Monday evening when you get back from dance, so you’ll have plenty of time to get done what you need to,’ he assured me.
He might at least have texted me to say he’d be home late or something, I grumble silently to myself.
I grab my bag, realising I haven’t actually checked my phone for a while. Maybe he has sent me a text. On the second foraging attempt, I find it wedged right in the bottom corner beneath a mountain of useless stuff: school letters, emp
ty headache tablet foils, tissues… the list goes on. It’s rubbish I’m always meaning to throw away.
The screen lights up instantly and I see I have indeed missed a call, a text and a voicemail.
I listen to the message, praying it’s not Shaun saying he’ll be out all night. But it’s not from my husband at all.
‘Hi, Emma, it’s Joanne from the office.’ My boss’s clipped, efficient tone fills my ear. ‘Listen, we’ve just had a big job come in, it’s all hands on deck here. This is going to be the perfect chance to flex your new paralegal muscles.’ She pauses, as if she’s trying to control her excitement. ‘If you can get in by six tonight, I’d be immensely grateful. Otherwise, I’ll have to get one of the other paralegals in… OK, thanks.’
I immediately speed-dial Shaun three times, but each time it goes straight through to voicemail. I wonder if he’s run out of battery, because he never turns his phone off – even in the cinema – in case new jobs come in. He usually just turns the ringtone to silent if he doesn’t want to be disturbed.
I stare into space as my fingers rake through my hair. I feel light-headed with frustration. I swear, it will be all I can do not to go for his jugular when he finally gets home.
It’s 5.35 p.m., but I still have time to get into the office on Mansfield Road by 6. It’s only an eleven-minute drive from home if there are no delays. I pick up the phone again and call my mother’s landline. She lives on the way into the office, on Radcliffe Road. It’ll be easy to drop off Maisie and then whizz across the city if Mum is around.
The phone rings but then goes to voicemail. I leave a harried message.
‘Mum? I have a bit of an emergency at work, they need me to go in urgently and Shaun is out.’ I take a breath, aware that I must sound a bit manic, speaking so fast. ‘I can’t stress how important this is, Mum. Can you call me back right away, please?’
I also call her mobile phone. Again, it rings and I leave another message.
That’s all I can do for now, and it’s killing me.
