Into the Light

by Megan Hetherington

  Then I remember Mr Ford. I only have thirty pounds cash and I am sure the bill to replace my locks will be more than that, or it should be anyway, but as he hasn’t posted an invoice like he said he would - and like I thought he wouldn’t - I wasn’t sure how much I owe him. In any case, I can’t leave it another day, it has already been more than a week. I had intended to purchase an envelope in the newsagents to put the cash into and post through his door, but had been sidetracked by the inconsiderate remark made by the shopkeeper and had given over cash instead of using my card, leaving me short and without an envelope.

  I turn and head in the direction of his house anyway. His van isn’t parked up anywhere near and I don’t want to disturb his wife. From what I remember of her she seems the kindly type, and I don’t need to talk to a kindly type right now. I pause at a bench to rest my shopping bag. I remove the cheese out of the paper bag it is wrapped in, replacing it with the thirty pounds and write a note on the outside of the bag. I apologise for the amount and promise to make good very soon. I hesitate to say when exactly.

  Chapter Five

  Rosa

  “I’m worried about you Sis.”

  “No need to be.” I force a smile knowing that it takes a while to form and all the time Poppy is interrogating every frown, freckle and wrinkle on my face.

  “The care home emailed, said that they hadn’t seen you since before Christmas. Since…” Her wavy hair wiggles even though she tries not to shake her head in dismay.

  “I know, I need to sort something out so I can get down there.”

  She nods, then her brow furrows. “What do you mean sort something out?”

  I swallow hard.

  “Charles took my car,” I whisper.

  “What? He did what?”

  She throws her torso back onto the sofa.

  “It’s fine, I should have got a taxi. Just haven’t been…” I was going to say thinking straight but actually I’ve not been thinking. At all.

  “Right, I’ve had enough of this. Who the hell does he think he is, doing the dirty on you and then making you suffer like this?”

  “It’s fine Poppy, just leave it.”

  “No, I won’t just leave it, he is not getting away with this.”

  I couldn’t tell her the other thing he was wanting back now, not after this reaction, I would have to leave that until another time.

  “What does everyone else think about all this?”

  “Everyone else?”

  “Yeah, your friends and everyone else.”

  “Friends?”

  She slowly rights herself up onto her sit- bones.

  “Rosa, are you meeting up with your friends and talking to them about all this? They’ve got your back, yeah?”

  Hah.

  I shake my head, slowly, so the tears don’t flick out of the corner of my eyes.

  “No Poppy, I’ve had a few texts but it’s difficult, you know. They’re friends with Charles too. They probably don’t want to have to pick sides.”

  That is partly true but it seems as if the main reason my friends have not rallied around is because they are not really friends. They are there when there’s gossip to be had about someone else. There when there’s a celebration. There when there’s a sliver of the limelight to bask in.

  “Sides?” Her face is all screwed up and the red patches on her neck have spread to her jawline.

  “Okay that’s it, I’m coming to see you.”

  “No, really there’s no need Poppy.”

  “There’s every need. I’ve got a few things going on at work that I need to tie up and I need to check it out with Sky, but if I bring Lily he should be fine. I’ll let you know when.”

  “Okay.” I can feel a warmth in the pit of my stomach. The first wave of positive energy I’ve felt in weeks. “Love you.”

  “I love you too Sis. We’re gonna get through this. Yeah?”

  I nod, releasing a breath from my lungs that seems like it has been stifled for weeks.

  My eyes feel as if they are working for the first time in a long time, or, my brain has now started to register what it is seeing. The house is a mess, or certainly the three rooms I’ve been occupying are. And me? I know without checking that I must look even worse.

  I collect all the empty glasses from the living room and stack them, along with plates and bowls from the kitchen, into the dishwasher and turn it on. The noise of the water swishing around is comforting.

  I would normally listen to music during the day, even if it is just a background noise. It moves the energy around in a way that I’ve always found necessary when I’m on my own. There’s not been a single note played in this house since he left and now feels the right time to correct that. I open up my phone and flick down the play lists. Adele, 25, seems appropriate. I need a strong resounding voice to listen to.

  The music connects to the integrated sound system and I move to the living room and fold the blankets and fluff up the cushions. I fully pull back the curtains and even go as far as opening a window to air the room. It’s cold, but feels fresh, as it buffers through the aperture.

  It takes a good couple of hours to clean and freshen up the kitchen, bathroom and living room. I need to brace myself before tackling our bedroom and procrastination starts seeping in. I tell myself I can’t sleep another night on the sofa, it’s pathetic. I need to change our bed covers, swap them with ones from a spare room and reclaim the bedroom.

  I sit with a coffee at the kitchen table, stirring in the three sugars that I’ve taken to adding, just to keep my energy levels up when I can’t be bothered to eat. I know it’s not good for me but conclude the two bottles of wine I’ve been sinking most nights are probably worse. At least I’ve not hit the bottle during the day, although I’ve probably come close a few times. Big pat on the back for me.

  Hah.

  I pick at the remnants of gel on my nails. I would usually have them done by Marlena at the health club, along with a range of other body-pummeling procedures. I couldn’t face going back there now, not with the way they gossip about everyone else. I probably couldn’t afford it anymore anyway. Which leads me onto thinking about my finances and how I really need to sort them out.

  Not now though, while I’m in a determined mood I’m going to change the bedding. My original plan to swap them with the ones in the spare room will have to be ditched as I can’t bear for them to clash with the silvers and dark grey hues on the walls and the curtains. I have no choice but to strip the bed and replace it with the second set I have. The smell of him assaults me when I pull off the duvet cover; even after all these weeks it’s still there. The pillow is worse and I find myself hugging it until I can’t stand any longer. I collapse onto the half-stripped bed, curl up to the pillow, and remember how it felt to spoon him when everything with our life was perfect.

  The tears fall with Adele on repeat.

  When I awake it is growing dark outside, amplified by the thunderous clouds. It looks as if there will be more snow.

  I pad downstairs and switch up the central heating dial to take off the chill. I’ll probably light the fire in the living room again tonight, even though it had been cleaned out earlier. I still need it. It is the only thing I can look at. The TV is annoying and I can’t concentrate enough to read, and anyway my penchant for tear-jerking romance novels are really not the right choice when I’ve got my own real-life drama going on.

  I change my playlist to Sam Smith and open a bottle. Too soon to start thinking about sobriety but I’ll have to do something about it before Poppy visits.

  After a couple of calming sips, I go back up to the bedroom to finish making the bed and then clean the ensuite bathroom so I can take a bath. One that I intend to actually get in this time.

  I turn the volume up on the speaker and pour in some bubbles. It seems so long since I’ve pampered myself and the feminine smell is good. I study myself in the mirror. Plain, that’s the only word to describe me right now. I have dark hair ro
ots, sallow looking skin and heavy circles under my eyes.

  I dim the lights so my reflection fades.

  Sinking into the suds, I close my eyes. I’m feeling calm and not on edge like every other second in the last two months. Everything seems to be flowing through my head in an organised fashion. I still have a lot of questions but, for once, I’m not thinking about him or us, I’m thinking of me.

  I know I need to get a source of income and also seek some legal advice as the letters and demands I’ve had so far from his solicitor, look pretty one-sided to me. I also have an idea about Dad’s old car, well it wasn’t his run-around every day car, it was his Sunday car - A 1966 E-Type Jaguar. It hasn’t been driven in a while but I have a number somewhere for the friend of his who helped restore it originally and I am confident he can help me get it on the road. I’m sure Dad won’t mind.

  Chapter Six

  Rosa

  For the first time, in a long time, I slept soundly, and woken by my alarm. Today I have a purpose, two actually. The first is to get Dad’s car on the road and the second is to go through my wardrobe.

  I shower and put a semi-permanent colour on my hair. I’m going back to my natural shade of light brown and until it’s grown out, I’m going to disguise the ugly roots.

  While the colour takes effect, I look up the number for the mechanic that Dad used and give him a call. He agrees to take a look at the Jag later this afternoon. Perfect. Now to sort through my wardrobe.

  I need cash and quick. Selling my clothes on eBay seems like a good, quick option until I find a job and I remember Marlena telling me how easy designer stuff sells.

  It takes me a good thirty minutes to sort out a ‘definite’ and a ‘maybe’ pile before I register my scalp is starting to burn and rush into the bathroom to rinse off the colour. I’m hesitant about looking at my new self and when I do I’m shocked at the contrast between my pale skin and dark hair. I check the picture on the front of the box and hope it will dry a couple of shades lighter.

  I’m glad I’ve kept most of the boxes for my Louboutin’s and Jimmy Choo’s, it helps with the price apparently. Although I have to be honest and say it pains me to think that they might not be mine much longer. I remember the first pair of Louboutin’s I got on a trip to London with Charles. We were celebrating his first promotion at the firm and he said I could have anything I wanted; I knew exactly what that would be.

  I run my finger along the black patent upper and slip one onto my bare foot. I love the way the red sole discretely hints at the five-hundred-pound price tag. I can still see Charles sat on the couch in the shop while I paraded up and down in front of him. He had one ankle resting on his knee, one arm over the back of the couch and the other rubbing thoughtfully on his chin. We barely closed the door on the hotel room that afternoon before he demanded I put them on and take everything else off. I wonder if he’s bought her Louboutin’s?

  I sink down onto the carpet amidst the array of chiffon and cashmere, leather and suede and look up to the ceiling so the tears that have welled up in my eyes are forced to go back to where they came from.

  I’m starting to think of us again and I need to stop.

  I haul myself up off the floor and decide to blow-dry my hair. The reflection I keep catching every now and then in the mirrors around the bedroom and through to the bathroom is starting to irritate me.

  My large curling brush helps create smooth bouncy curls. It’s a style I don’t usually care for; I would normally flat-iron it poker straight but these curls add a softness that the balances the darker shade of my hair. Actually, I look pretty much like the old me, when I first met Charles. I have a desire to search out some old photographs to see how much I’ve aged, but not now, I have a job to do now.

  I put the Louboutin’s back in their box and stash them at the top of the wardrobe. Just that pair I promise myself, everything else can go.

  It takes a couple of hours to upload all the photos to the selling site but I am pleased when bids start to come in straight away.

  I leave the bidding frenzy and scoop up all of the potential money earning merchandise, stashing it in the spare bedroom so I can turn my attention to the car.

  We keep the Jag in our garage and as it is still in Dad’s name, I’m fairly sure that Charles can’t stake a claim on it, like everything else we jointly possess. If it had of been mine, and not subject to the order I’ve received from his solicitor to not dispose of anything worth more than one thousand pounds without disclosure, I would have sold it and been done with this whole nonsense. I was fully aware that it could probably buy a villa in Florida near to Poppy or a world cruise and caravan on a holiday park for a few years. And although it isn’t mine, I was looking forward to driving around the town in it and hope beyond hope that Charles will see me in it.

  I take a deep breath and my shoulders sag. This isn’t me. I’m not vengeful. I just wish he would come back to me and for all of this to have never happened. I would much rather drive my Evoque or a little run around, something that I could actually park without needing a twenty-foot gap, or even drive nothing if Charles would still ferry me around. But there is no sign of that happening anytime soon. The only communication I have with him are texts. Regretfully I text back when I’ve had too much to drink. His texts are consistently nasty; mine range from pitiful to sarcastic to vicious.

  The only result is my loss of dignity.

  His is long gone.

  I’ve also taken to stalking the bimbo on social media. Crimson. What a ridiculous name. When I first saw her name I was drunk and thought how apt, just like the harlot she is. The next morning, I face planted my palm, realising I’d been thinking of Scarlet not Crimson. Crimson the harlot doesn’t have quite the same ring as Scarlet the harlot. It is fortunate I hadn’t taken to slating her for it online.

  Her posts are full of glee and every so often Charles is in one of her images. It’s cutting how well he looks, how relaxed. She’s obviously taken him clothes shopping, as the wardrobe he left with was ruined and his usual choice of beige chinos and a long sleeve checked shirt, has been replaced by v neck t-shirts and black jeans. It is comical how out of place he looks among her set of friends who are all younger and trendier than him. She also tags him as Charlie. Charlie? Really?

  When the front gate buzzer sounds, I go eagerly to the door. I am looking forward to chatting with the mechanic who I had last seen when Dad was a different person and life was more care-free.

  “Come in,” I holler into the speaker, simultaneously pressing the buzzer.

  The gates whir open and I hear him restart the engine of his car. I wrap the oversized cardigan around my shoulders and open the front door to him. Standing at the top of the stone steps I feel like a princess locked in a castle, lowering the draw bridge to let a rare welcome visitor across the moat.

  Mr Moseley is an old British car enthusiast and has built a business around his passion. His work horse is a 1950’s Austin van which lurches up the drive, taking half the gravel with it.

  He jumps out and stops the engine at the same time. A little quirk which I always associate with Mr Moseley and something I have never seen anyone else do. I am glad he still does it.

  “Rosa-lee,” he calls out, taking lazy strides towards me in his slacks held up by elastic braces. “How you doing lass?”

  I don’t know why he calls me Rosa-lee, it isn’t my name and no-one else ever calls me that, but that’s what he referred to me as when I was a girl and it has obviously stuck.

  “Why… you don’t look any different lass.” His Yorkshire accent as strong as ever.

  I don’t suppose I do really. With my return to mousey coloured hair and the weight I’ve lost recently, I probably do look the same as I did when we buried my mother. Because that was the last time I saw Mr Moseley.

  “Neither do you,” I beam. My face aches from the lack of smiling exercise I have engaged in recently and I feel a little giddy being excited and pleased about something f
or once.

  I’m not lying either, he really does look the same. I’m sure he is even wearing identical clothes to those he wore ten years ago, when he and Dad used to hole themselves up in the workshop, tinkering under the bonnets of cars every weekend. His thick brushed-cotton shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, despite the single digit temperatures today, and his tweed cap is more of an extension of his body than a nod to the inclement weather.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Aye, that would be grand.”

  He follows me up the stairs to the front door, taking them two at a time, in a way that should not be possible for a man of his age.

  It strikes me how fateful life is and what a bum deal my dad has been dealt. Like Mr Moseley, my dad had a positive impact on the world. Always a kind word to be said for everyone and a helping hand where needed; a purpose for being. But when Mum died, his joie de vivre left him and quite soon after, all his faculties did as well. He is now a shell of his former self, sitting from dawn until dusk in the arm chair I took from his home to the room he has in the care facility.

  I put two teabags into Mr Moseley’s cup, which earns me a wink and a couple of words of praise.

  “Good lass.”

  It is odd how such words from him don’t feel condescending. If any other man spoke to me like I was twelve and of the weaker sex, I would be indignant. But this is Mr Moseley, an affable man who means no harm and has had a life carving out the character that he is today. I just wish it was Dad here right now and not him.

  “How’s thee father?” He asks. Father rhyming with gather.

  “Just the same,” I lie, or maybe tell a half truth.

  I don’t really know, because it has been eight whole weeks since I last saw him. A wrongdoing that I am determined to correct whether the car is fixed or not. Although it is probably still true that he is still the same. There will be no miracle cure for Dad’s affliction, I have done plenty of research on the possible treatment plans and there is no sign of anything helping him during his lifetime.