by Emlyn Rees
‘I’m fine,’ she snapped, ignoring his sympathetic scrutiny. The last thing she wanted was a heart-to-heart.
‘Will you come down the bottle bank, then?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Before the evening rush.’
The new out-of-town supermarket lay just off the recently completed ring road. Its sprawling car park was only half full as Russell Driver drove the white van he kept for such purposes to the large steel bottle skips at the far end.
Verity sat miserably next to her father. From up here, the new road stretched away like a string of yellow fairy lights. Beyond, the town lay in a twilit glow, before a wedge of dark sea cut the lights abruptly. Way in the distance, a ship hovered in the darkness, transient as a star.
Russell, always eager to smooth things over after a row, was acting like a dog trying to get attention. He whistled cheerfully as he humped the boxes out of the van and laid them out in a line. Then he opened the passenger door and smiled at Verity. ‘You do the reds and I’ll start on the whites, eh?’ he suggested, gesturing to the box.
Verity got out of the van. She loved her dad and always would, but he hadn’t turned out to be much of a role model for her, she thought dismally. It would be OK if he stood up to her mother once in a while, but the fact that he let himself be bossed around annoyed her. But then, who was she to judge? She didn’t stand up to her mother either, so she could hardly blame her father for opting for an easy life.
‘Nice evening, isn’t it?’ said her father, as she picked up the first empty bottle.
Verity posted the bottle into the rubber-lined hole in the side of the skip, twisting the bottle bottom with extra force, so that it smashed deep inside. She could tell her father was watching her closely, but still she kept silent.
Eventually, Russell coughed loudly and Verity looked over at him. He was standing looking at the label of an empty bottle of champagne. ‘You know, your mother and I were young when we met,’ he said, glancing up at her.
Oh God, please don’t, thought Verity, wishing that he would just leave it alone.
‘There were plenty of setbacks for us at first, you know. Our parents never stopped interfering.’ Russell emitted a small, nervous laugh and in that instant Verity knew that her mother had put him up to this. She could imagine her mother nagging him: ‘Have a little chat with her, Russell. You can get through to her. Make her see that we’re not so bad …’
As if that was going to work! Verity twisted another bottle into the hole with added vigour.
He didn’t say anything, waiting for the echo of the smash to subside. Then he stepped towards her. This boy …’ her father said tentatively.
‘He’s not a boy, Dad,’ Verity said.
‘Well, you know what I mean,’ he stumbled. ‘He’ll understand, you know, if you tell him the truth.’
‘No, he won’t,’ Verity snapped, angry that her father had the gall to interfere, but at the same time she felt relieved that he’d hit upon the one thing that had been obsessing her.
‘Don’t you see, though?’ her father blundered on. ‘He’ll think you’re playing hard to get. It’ll make him even more keen, believe me.’
Verity knew that her father was doing his best, but all the same, what would he know about Denny? Hadn’t her father sussed that he was the last person in the whole universe whom she would ever take relationship advice from?
But it was obvious he hadn’t. Interpreting her silence as a sign that he was getting somewhere, she watched as he hunched up his large frame and laughed conspiratorially. ‘Your mum!’ He chuckled. ‘It took months for me to actually take her out. She was full of excuses, but it never put me off. And now look at us. After all we’ve been through. We’re not perfect, but here we are.’ He sighed with the fatalistic happiness of the willingly henpecked and it struck Verity that if it had been anyone other than her father, she would have wanted to throw up with the corniness of his show of sentiment. But as it was, it just made her feel an uncomfortable mix of love and pity.
‘What I’m trying to say’, her father continued, ‘is that things will turn out all right in the end, if they’re meant to be.’
Verity had to turn away to hide her face. Because after what she’d seen two months ago, she’d never believe anything her parents said, ever again.
Of course, after she’d found out, everything had slotted into place: the mobile phone she’d found hidden in the office desk, her mother’s sudden change of hairstyle, the erratic ‘charity work’ that had come up, but until Verity had seen her mother kissing another man in the front seat of a green Vauxhall Astra outside the UCI multiplex, she’d never imagined that her mother was capable of anything sexual – towards her father, let alone anyone else.
It still baffled Verity that someone would actually want to have an affair with her mother. As far as Verity was concerned, her mother was wholly unappealing. For starters, she was an appalling snob and had the worst clothes taste going. Add to that the fact that she was blunt to the point of rudeness and her mother came rock bottom on Verity’s scale of romantic heroines.
But then, it took two to tango. So what was her mother’s motivation? Cheryl Driver, the woman who actively sniped at any unmarried couples who dared to check into her hotel, had, for whatever reason, taken the risk of having an affair in the one place where everyone knew everyone else’s business.
It didn’t make sense. How many times had her mother told Verity that she’d given up everything for the Grand? So why would she risk losing it, as she would if she split up with Russell? Why would she put everything she cared about in jeopardy? Didn’t she care?
And what about her long-suffering husband, the man she shared a bed with every night? Granted he was no Russell Crowe, but surely the Driver variety wasn’t that bad? So what had tempted her mother away?
Verity hadn’t got a clear view of the man who was currently cuckolding her father, but she knew he was older and not very attractive. Verity had been so shocked when she’d seen them together that she’d run away almost instantly and had not wanted to know anything more about the mystery man. When she thought about it, it made her feel physical revulsion.
At first, she’d wanted to confront her mother about it, but when her mother had covered her tracks that evening with such a seamless lie, Verity had realised the depths of her mother’s deception. She’d been so dismayed that she’d lost her nerve and missed her moment.
Afterwards she’d been glad that she had. And she was glad, too, that she hadn’t told anyone else, not even Treza.
The longer she left it, the more sordid and embarrassing the facts were to put into words.
So she kept silent. Sometimes it made her feel more powerful to have such potentially explosive information. But knowing that she could shoot her mother to pieces at any moment, ruin her career and her marriage in a sentence, didn’t help, because most of the time and especially at times like this when she faced her father, it just made her miserable.
Getting back into the van, Verity glanced at him as he turned the key in the ignition. She wanted to cry. Couldn’t he see that everything was a lie? His whole marriage was a sham and he couldn’t see what was right underneath his nose. She loved her dad and hated to think of him being deceived like this.
Well, one thing was for sure: when she had a relationship – and she hoped to God it would still be with Denny – everything would be different. It would be real and it would be true, for ever.
It was cold in the Community Hall when Verity arrived at seven o’clock on Saturday night. She shivered and folded her long brown cardigan more tightly round her as she walked forward along the aisle between the rows of linked orange plastic chairs to where Mr Peters, her music teacher from school, was handing out photocopied sheets from the top of the battered upright piano. Today, he was wearing his usual uniform of tight-fitting black polo-neck and black jeans that were belted too tightly and pulled high up on his stomach.
But despite his quirky appearance, with his blond flopp
y fringe and ginger-flecked moustache, Verity admired him. He was an unbelievably talented jazz pianist. He had more records in his house than Verity had ever seen and he had an encyclopaedic memory about blues singers. He was also a good teacher and had always encouraged Verity. She liked him and he waved to her as she came forward.
A dozen or so people she recognised, mostly from school, were scraping chairs across the stage to form a semicircle around the upright piano. Verity winced as Clive Cox, the benefit concert organiser and manager of the Youth Centre, rewound a tape in an ancient recorder that screeched. He was short, stocky and gruff-looking, with a constant three-day beard. He always wore a long black leather jacket that had once been fashionable in the early Eighties and never would be again, and he chain-smoked, like a TV detective, looking at each cigarette as if it were going to be his last.
Over by the kitchen, beneath the flickering lights in the multicoloured ceiling panels, a couple of the women whom Verity didn’t recognise fussed about, providing plastic cups of orange juice through the hatch. So much for her Saturday night on the razzle, Verity thought as she pushed her way to the front.
‘A word, Verity,’ said Mr Peters and Verity followed him as he drew away, refolding the collar of his polo-neck jumper. ‘It’s going to be a review, but you’ll be singing all the solos. We can’t trust any of this lot,’ he said, flicking his head to indicate the kids behind them. ‘But you know how Clive is a stickler for fairness. So be a darling and go through the motions, would you?’ he asked, patting her wrist. ‘I know I can rely on you.’
Then he turned and clapped his hands loudly. ‘Let’s begin, people,’ he bellowed.
Verity withdrew. If the auditions were rigged, what was the point of being here at all?
She slunk away to the back of the hall and shuffled into a row of empty seats. She glanced at the badly photocopied sheet of paper with the lyrics from the musical Chicago. She already knew the number backwards and she tossed the paper on the seat beside her and pulled her diary out of her bag. Then, putting her feet on the seat in front, she hunkered down and opened up the pages.
What she would do to be with Denny now, she thought, fingering the pages. Just the thought of him stopped her feeling so alone. Flipping back through her diary, she took in the pages of dense handwriting. There seemed to be so much to reflect on since she’d met Denny and she hadn’t even been out on a proper date with him yet.
She read back over her diary entry from last night and smiled to herself. The shame. Saw D, but had worst fashion accessory in the world with me: Dad!
They’d popped into the supermarket after her father’s lecture at the bottle bank. Verity had been feeling so depressed that she hadn’t been able to believe it when she’d seen Denny in the queue, unloading his basket on to the conveyer belt. He’d waved and beckoned her to come over.
It had been her absolutely worst nightmare to see Denny in this kind of situation and she’d felt herself go weak with nerves. She hadn’t been ready to introduce her father, especially since he’d been looking dreadful in an old sweatshirt, cheap trainers and white socks.
‘Hi, Denny. This … this is my dad,’ Verity had mumbled, unable to avoid their inevitable encounter.
‘Russell Driver.’ Her father had extended his hand.
‘Hey, Russell.’ Denny had switched his motorbike helmet from one wrist to the other, enabling him to shake Russell’s hand. His hair had been swept back, showing off his tanned face, and he’d been wearing a blue shirt, unbuttoned so that Verity had been able to see the hair on his chest. His soft leather trousers had made his lean legs look unbelievably sexy.
Verity had felt something flickering in her stomach, like a trapped canary. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off Denny. She’d spent so long obsessing about him that it had come as a shock to see him somewhere so ordinary as a supermarket. Everything she’d been planning on saying to him had vanished from her head.
An awkward moment of silence had followed. It’d been obvious that Russell had been waiting for some sort of explanation as to how Denny fitted into Verity’s social life, but she hadn’t been able to find any words.
‘I’m just doing some shopping,’ Denny had said eventually, breaking the tension and moving through to pack up his stuff.
‘Us too,’ Verity had mumbled gratefully, smoothing her hair behind her ear and darting a warning look at her father.
Thankfully, Russell had taken the hint. ‘I’ll see you in the …’ He’d flapped his hand in the direction of the dairy section.
Verity had blushed to the soles of her trainers beneath her flared jeans, as she’d followed Denny through the checkout. ‘Don’t say anything,’ she’d implored. ‘I can’t help my dad.’
‘He seems OK to me,’ Denny had replied, his eyes locking with hers.
She’d helped him pack up his shopping, passing him a block of butter and a loaf of bread, wishing with all her heart that Denny would somehow take her away with him, too. Inside, she’d counted to five, then had taken a deep breath. ‘I can’t make it tomorrow, Denny.’ She’d felt sick, as she’d said the words. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Denny had looked serious. ‘But you still want to go out, right?’ he’d checked.
‘Of course I do!’ Verity had exclaimed too loudly, before lowering her voice. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all week.’ She’d stopped, mortified by how eager she’d sounded. ‘I mean, I –’
‘Then we’ll go out next week instead,’ Denny had interrupted calmly. ‘You can meet me after work on Monday and we’ll make plans.’
Verity sighed as she looked at the three pages she’d written about how sensitive Denny had been. He’d even kissed her again on the cheek, once he’d paid for his shopping and had been about to leave. But it was the way he’d spoken to her that had stuck with her. It was as if being with each other had been all that had mattered to them both and everything else had been just mere detail. Plans. He wants to make plans, she read. More than one!
She was just about to start her entry for today when she glanced up and saw Jimmy Jones coming in through a side door, with that TV woman, Ellen Morris, who her mother was always going on about, and another man. Jimmy was laughing with him and, her train of thought interrupted, Verity sat up in her seat to get a better view.
She couldn’t work Jimmy out. He’d been on her mind since he’d talked to her on the way to school at the beginning of the week and she’d wanted to thank him for the CD. But every time she’d looked at him in class he’d looked away as if he’d been deliberately avoiding her gaze. It was as if one minute he’d wanted to talk to her and the next he hadn’t even wanted her to exist.
As if somehow being aware that she was thinking about him, Jimmy glanced over at her and, even more per-plexingly, smiled as if they were long-lost friends. She saw him say something to the man. Then he climbed over the backs of several rows of chairs and slipped down into the seat next to her. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
Verity nodded and they both looked ahead. Up on the stage, a girl whom Verity recognised from the class two years below her was murdering a Britney song.
‘You’re not auditioning, are you?’ Verity asked, as she closed her diary and hugged it to her chest.
The girl on stage was struggling for the high notes and Verity and Jimmy both grimaced and then giggled.
‘Not with such tough competition,’ Jimmy joked. ‘I’m just keeping an eye out for Ryan’s sake.’
They fell silent as the girl gave up and fled the stage.
Verity smoothed her lips together, tasting the melon-flavoured lip salve she’d applied earlier. She was aware of Jimmy’s shoulder pressed lightly against hers and she thought about moving away, but instead, she shifted in her seat to look at him more clearly. ‘I know I haven’t said anything before. But I want you to know that I’m sorry about Ryan, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘Really. It must have been terrible for you, being so close to him.’
Jimmy glanced at her and looked
down at his hands.
‘It was such a waste,’ Verity continued, ‘I didn’t really know him, but when they told us in assembly what had happened, I felt bad, you know?’
‘He was a good guy. The best.’
Verity wanted to touch him, to make Jimmy see that she was sincere, but instead, his attention was caught by the guy with Ellen Morris, who was waving over in their direction.
‘Do you know them?’ Verity asked.
‘Yeah. That’s Scott. He’s a cameraman.’
Scott was walking down the aisle towards them and Verity thought how easygoing and friendly he looked. When he reached them, he smiled and put one foot up on the row of seats in front.
‘This is Verity,’ Jimmy said, glancing at Verity. ‘Verity … Scott.’
Scott stared at her for a long moment, and Verity was tempted to ask him whether she had ketchup on her nose or something.
Then Scott’s gaze abruptly left her and he leant forward and clapped Jimmy on the shoulder. ‘Whenever you’re ready, mate,’ he said, his Australian accent surprising Verity.
When Scott had turned to leave, Verity stared at Jimmy. ‘What’s all that about?’ she asked.
‘I’m doing a bit of work for them,’ Jimmy replied, getting up to leave.
‘You? Working for them? But how?’
‘Oh, you know, contacts …’
‘So you’re doing this thing up at Lost Soul’s Point, then?’ Verity asked, her curiosity aroused. ‘The documentary they’re doing auditions for?’
‘Well, it’s not every day you get a film crew on your doorstep, so it’d be a shame not to see what it was all about while they’re here.’
Verity tilted her head and looked at Jimmy. She had never thought he’d get involved in anything like this, but seeing him here had put him in an altogether different light.
‘You interested in a part?’ he asked.
Verity shrugged. ‘I don’t know much about it.’
‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if I can put in a good word for you.’
Verity didn’t reply. She was still angry with her mother for forcing her to be here, but already she was thinking that maybe Jimmy was on to something. Maybe it might be kind of fun. And he was right. Nothing ever happened in Shoresby.
