‘You just give him another chew, Daddy – you know that.’
Hugo returned, found the plastic mugs, sorted the drinks and eats. He left Tubsy in his high chair with another piece of mango and faced looking at Lily’s Ahmed-inspired story. She laid the pages out in a row. An A4 cover page, two further pages. The title on the cover page, JIMMY THE GIRAFFE, was in big bold multi-coloured capitals, professionally printed in a way that had allowed her to colour in the letters.
BY LILY DANGERFIELD was suitably spaced underneath.
‘Dan says having my name on the cover tells everyone it’s a story all by my own,’ Lily said. ‘He helped me a very little bit, but only with the ending, Daddy, only about the tree sur . . . people. And I chose the name, Jimmy, on my own too. We do the drawings on Dan’s computer with a speshul programme and then I colour them in. Dan said a blue giraffe is very original – which means sort of unusual, he said – and he said my brown markings on the blue looked very smart. Do you like them, Daddy, and my colouring-in? Is it a good story?’
Lily was looking at him with huge round honey-brown eyes, her mother’s eyes. Hugo swallowed hard and contained his anguish and fast-seeding jealous hatred. ‘It’s a wonderful story, darling,’ he said, with a loving smile, clearing her hair from her eyes, ‘and beautifully coloured in, clever girl. I’m a very proud daddy.’
‘I haven’t thought up another story yet,’ she said, getting down to skip round the kitchen table, ‘but I will soon. Can we go out now? Our old buggy is still here, Mummy said. We’ve got a new one at our other house – lots of new things.’
After his struggle through the day, Jasmine couldn’t have come sooner. Hugo had just about coped; his seething jealousy had been fortifying. Lily, chatting freely, happily, about Dan this and Dan that – Thomas too, with his ‘Dan, Dan, Dan’, which sounded like ‘Dad, Dad’, but wasn’t – was a far greater agony than any physical pain, yet the vicious resentment burning him up had helped to lift him out of a defeatist, self-pitying slump. His need to weaken Ahmed’s insidious influence was overwhelming. He could think of nothing else.
Jasmine had just left. She’d seen herself out, leaving him to give Thomas the bottle she’d prepared, which wasn’t proving an easy task, especially with Hugo’s desperate need of a stiff drink. Thomas was restless, missing his mother’s arms; she was softer, smelled sweeter, had a more familiar way to hold him. But he smiled up at his father once snugly poppered up in his sleeping bag and settled in his cot.
Hugo read to Lily next and was rewarded with her special arms-round-his-neck goodnight hug. He gazed down at her before leaving; her eyes were closing, she was on her side and so sweetly cuddling her raggedy kangaroo that he felt too emotionally loving to be distracted by bitterness.
The loathing was back again once he was downstairs and fighting to resist a second large neat whisky. He mustn’t, couldn’t let his children down, couldn’t be incapable if they cried in the night. He nursed his misery and hate instead. Ahmed was influencing them, amusing them, manipulating them, but what in hell’s name could he do about it? Determination turned into despair. He didn’t have Ahmed’s quick mind, couldn’t draw giraffes on his computer, wasn’t a bloody sainted hero. His wife didn’t love him enough to stay.
His need of whisky was dementing. He remembered Nattie putting whisky in the soup and found a single tin of consommé in the cupboard. He heated it up in a mug in the microwave and slugged in as much whisky as he dared. He hadn’t eaten all day. They’d stayed home, he couldn’t face taking the children to a restaurant, and the meaty, oniony smell of the ready-made frozen lasagne heating up had put him off. Feeding Thomas was a full-time job anyway. Amazing Nattie wasn’t half starved with the difficulty of ever getting in a mouthful of her own.
She’d cooked him eggs that horrifying night as well . . . Hugo made himself an omelette, taking treasured sips of his laced soup while he did, the fiery burn of alcohol reviving him by the minute. He toasted some stale bread and ate hungrily. He decided to do a food shop next day with the children, after a turn in the park; the supermarket was open from eleven o’clock on Sundays if he’d remembered right.
He slept. Hadn’t expected to, managing on just one more whisky, and only woke when Lily came running in. He had a faint residual headache, but felt a comparatively new man. It was a better day. Lily and Thomas enjoyed going shopping, Lily telling him what she wanted for lunch, fish fingers and chips. They ate a great many chips smothered in tomato ketchup and very little fish – Nattie wouldn’t have approved.
They were excited about going out to tea. ‘Can we cook some fairy cakes to take Granny and Gramps?’ Lily said, her eyes shining expectantly, tugging on his arm.
‘I don’t know about that,’ Hugo said, playing for time. ‘Um, don’t you think Granny will have done some baking and be a bit disappointed at being upstaged?’
‘What does upstaged mean?’
‘Your fairy cakes being better than hers – and when she’ll have worked so hard doing tea for us all.’
That saved the day. Lily looked smugly mollified. She didn’t even complain when Hugo took the chance to mention going to his parents’ one weekend soon. He hadn’t faced telling them about the break-up yet, too sodden and lacking the strength to pick up the phone; surviving at work had taken all his energy, staying compos, getting through the week. One day at a time.
He was looking at his watch, about to round up the children and set off for tea when the doorbell rang. Sure to be the Seventh Day Adventists or some ex-inmate thrusting a card, selling dusters and ironing board covers. He would have left it, but Lily was shrieking, ‘It’s the doorbell, Daddy!’ which would have been overheard.
Amber was on the doorstep. He went cold, so surprised that he almost forgot to hide his shock and supreme irritation.
‘Don’t look so gobsmacked.’ She laughed. ‘I was on my way back from my mum’s and a bit worried how you were managing with the kiddies. It’s hard at the best of times, getting through a break-up, and you’ve taken it bad. I mean, what could be rougher, walking out like that and leaving you in the lurch?’ Amber said, with a grimly satisfied expression. ‘You look like you’re pulling through, though. Mr Handsome again! Aren’t you going to ask me in? Any chance of a cuppa then, lover-man?’
Lily had come into the hall; she was hovering behind him, probably staring at Amber wide-eyed. Had she heard that last bit, even about being left in the lurch? She was sure to have got the gist. The damage was done. And he had no out. And Hugo was well aware, after the last week at the office, of just how much he owed Amber. Chances were he’d have lost his job if she hadn’t bailed him out.
‘Sorry!’ he said. ‘Come on in. I’m afraid it’s a five-minute cuppa, though. We’re due at the grandparents’ for tea.’
‘Nice surprise, though, I hope. Is that your parents? Don’t they live out of town?’
‘No, it’s actually the other lot. Do you mind coming into the kitchen? My young son needs a constant eye.’
‘So this is your little girl?’ Amber smiled at Lily in a slightly obnoxious way. ‘She looks like you, Hugo – a stunner. And this young man too, just a bit chubbier.’
‘We call him Tubsy,’ Lily said, ‘ ’cause he’s tubby and eats so much.’
Hugo held on with difficulty, hating every minute with a deep, desperate passion, but he somehow managed to keep his cool and busied himself putting the kettle on.
Thomas didn’t seem too happy with the invasion either. He got to his feet to run to his father but tripped, not for the first time, and fell forwards onto his head. He began to scream loudly, which he seldom did after a tumble. Lily went to him, still being the little substitute mother, but Thomas’s yells reached such a crescendo that she gave a helpless shrug of her shoulders, implying, a little impatiently, that this was beyond her pay grade. Hugo picked him up and cuddled him.
‘There, there, old man,’ he soothed, willing Amber – over Thomas’s blond head – to just get the
message and go. He furiously minded her being there, standing so close, touching his arm, giving knowing glances and giving Lily ideas.
He tried to make the tea holding Thomas, who was still screaming. Amber moved to take him over, but Hugo held on tight. ‘Can you get two tea bags out of that jar?’ he said, with rare firmness. ‘He’ll settle soon but, I hate to say this, we really need to go in a few minutes. Sorry.’ Why hadn’t she called, texted – anything but turn up unannounced? She was so thick-skinned.
She plonked herself down at the kitchen table, first clearing away the remains of lunch, and they got through a hurried cup of tea. Hugo sensed Lily taking in every bloody tactile gesture, every word of insinuating chat. He could imagine her reporting back to Nattie, ‘A lady came round, I think she’s Daddy’s new girlfriend!’ Shit, shit, shit.
He got Amber to the door, opened it encouragingly, but she stayed her ground. ‘Are you on your lonesome tonight, lover-boy? Come round, I’ll cook supper. Do you good, a little cosy relaxing after the weekend you’ve had.’ Hugo had a moment’s hesitation, dreading the long lonely evening. Parting with the children, facing Nattie, returning to an empty house. Meaningless sex with Amber wouldn’t help, wouldn’t lessen the agony; it could only make matters worse.
‘Thanks, but it’s no can do, I’m afraid.’ He put on his best rueful face. ‘I’ve fixed to see an old mate, straight on from the in-laws’ tea party. Sorry about having to rush. See you.’
Amber had caused tension enough, but his nerves were building again. Tea with Victoria and William, even with the children for cover, would be a concentrated strain. Then came the pain of seeing Nattie. Hugo felt it ever more keenly, even the smallest contact; she’d texted about not forgetting Kangy, which had driven home the stark truth of being separated still more. He should never have bought those two more bottles of whisky out shopping, but he was going to need them that night.
He remembered Shelby calling a while back, phoning out of the blue and making contact. He’d been chatty, easy, charming as ever. ‘Give me a bell sometime, when the mood takes you,’ he said, signing off. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
It was typical of Shelby, being so confident that Hugo would be delighted to hear from him again. Shelby’s gall had to be experienced to be believed; he always got what he wanted. He’d had a life of being indulged by his rich, entrepreneurial father and glamorous actor mother who was Irish and wild and adored him. Shelby never stuck at anything, he simply used his flashy, black-haired, blue-eyed glamour-pants looks to get out of scrapes and make money in more dubious ways. Dealing in drugs.
Shelby had stolen Nattie from him in those early days, but he hadn’t stolen her heart. That had been down to Ahmed. He was about the only man ever to get the better of Shelby, which must rankle deep.
Would it be supping with the devil to share a few shorts with Shelby? Why not? Hugo could see little harm in it. Shelby had pushed dope at a party, got him onto cannabis, coke and more, though Hugo had to concede that he had only himself to blame for his full-blown addiction. And Shelby had done time for his dealing, after all: he couldn’t be back at it, surely?
He’d be company, he was always gossipy and fun. Hugo felt he might even find Shelby in on a Sunday night. He was quite taken with the idea of calling him up – and he’d be honouring what he’d told Amber, which was satisfying in its small way. It was either that or home to black loneliness.
25
Moving On
Ahmed looked at his watch. Nattie would text any minute; it was almost time to collect her. He’d been running her to and from work for the last couple of weeks. Girl Talk’s offices were close, but inconveniently placed for public transport. She was going to start cycling in next morning. ‘It’s crazy, dragging you away from your desk like this,’ she said. ‘I expect I’ll give in if it’s pouring, but only then.’
He hadn’t argued. She was probably better off biking than being with him in the car, unlikely to be recognised, head down, helmet on.
Nattie was safe enough, out and about, taking the children to the park, especially with her beautiful hair tucked up into that awful woolly beanie, but Ahmed wanted to have a weekend away with her when Hugo took the children to his parents’. The idea of some quality time together had taken hold. She’d be less on edge with her parents-in-law there to keep an eye and Ahmed felt she needed a proper break. He did too, fed up with being cooped up indoors all day, and he’d thought about it a lot.
Could they chance it? If he took every precaution, chose some sleepy seaside town . . . It was irresponsible, sure, but the odds on being seen by the wrong pair of eyes while mooching about on the south coast in early November seemed on the whole pretty thin.
Nattie texted and he picked up his coat. Jasmine was back from the school run, sorting the children out with a snack, and he looked in on the kitchen. ‘Hi, guys, I’m off for Mum now. How was school, Lily? Good day?’
‘We’re learning French! Je m’appelle Lily.’
‘Wow, great stuff,’ he said, a bit absently. ‘Tell us all when we’re back.’
He drove off, enjoying his own domesticated image. He’d felt it was as much a trial run of family life for him as a trial separation for Nattie, and he was managing fine. He’d become used to sharing the house with Jasmine and Thomas on Nattie’s workdays; he’d play with Thomas for a bit then potter off with a Thermos of coffee to do a morning’s work. He had lunch with Thomas, and Jasmine insisted on cooking him proper meals. It filled her morning, he could see, and he certainly had no complaints, after living on junk food for weeks.
He turned onto the narrow street of warehouses, his waiting place for Nattie, and switched off, grinning to himself, alone in the car. Jake’s help, Mrs Cruikshank, who’d looked after them both at the Brixton flat, came on Tuesdays and he’d overheard Jasmine chattering to her the day before.
‘He’s sweet with the little ones,’ Jasmine said, ‘he makes them laugh. I must admit I had me doubts, but they’re happy and that’s what matters. I mind me own business about other people’s affairs, but who’d have thought she’d walk out on that hubby of hers? He’s a dish, Mary, her hubby. Looks like, you know, that actor, Tim Huddleston. But he’s a right mess without her, I can tell you, drinking hisself into the ground.’
‘Tom Hiddleston,’ Mary Cruikshank had corrected, which Ahmed suspected had passed Jasmine by. ‘She and Dan were together before, you know,’ Mrs Cruikshank said, ‘before she was ever married. She was at the flat, times when I did for Dan. Very in love they were then.’
Mrs Cruikshank was one in a million. She was keeping his cover; however she was old, and it might be easy for her to get muddled. Ahmed hoped she wouldn’t slip up.
He waited with the car steaming up in the deserted side street, beginning to worry. Nattie was late. He jumped when the passenger door opened suddenly, his nerves on edge, and his heart started up too, when she leaned over, a bit out of breath, to kiss him.
‘Sorry! A late long email came in that I wanted to answer straight off. It was from Sadia Umar and she was waiting on any word from me.’ Nattie had told him about the girl – he’d read her novel and been impressed – being out in Pakistan, trying to find a way to save her sister from a forced marriage. ‘It’s sure to be a doomed mission,’ Nattie went on, ‘and it upsets me no end.’
‘What was she emailing about?’
‘Her sister was going to try to steal her own passport from under her stepfather’s nose tonight and Sadia was sick with worry, wanting me to be reassuring and tell her that she shouldn’t be trying to stop her. I hope I’m right, but I’ve said all along that it’s worth any risk, the chance of having her freedom.’
Ahmed knew the scene only too well, and he tried to prepare the ground. ‘It’s hard for you and me to understand,’ he said, feeling a bit disingenuous, ‘but the pressure being put on the sister will be more out of deeply held beliefs than deliberate cruelty. I know family honour is taken to selfish and often horrendous extremes,
but to the strictly observant, the whole system depends on conformity, marrying off girls appropriately and keeping them in the fold.’
‘To think of the stepfather waking up, it makes me feel faint with horror . . . What about your sisters? Did they get to choose their husbands?’
‘They didn’t test the system, but my parents adjusted anyway, moved with the times, more or less. Arranged marriages still carry on here, of course. I knew people in the community, lawyers, accountants, doctors, whose parents did the choosing and the marriages have worked, in the main.’ Ahmed slipped her a grin. ‘But it’s not for me.’ He drew up outside the house. ‘We’re here now – and Lily’s learning French!’
It was Saturday already, one of Nattie’s weekends with the children. ‘It’s such a joy,’ she said, nuzzling up, ‘seeing you with the children.’
‘They’re great. Full of surprises, keep me on my toes.’
They really were great. He loved watching their characters forming and developing by the day, loved them as his own already, with their unnerving ability to pitch camp in his heart. If only Nattie could relax. He sensed her endless fretting about whether Hugo would survive his weekends without the children – like this one; whether he was drowning in drink or spaced out of his mind.
Nattie’s distress was hard to take. When the love was there – and theirs had stood the test over seven years – surely everything else fell into place? They could have a stimulating, fulfilling life together, Ahmed knew, children of their own. Was she going to feel this torn and responsible, worried and beholden to Hugo for ever?
She would be denying him a life’s happiness too. Could he push that? He knew her too well; trying to influence her would have the opposite effect. There must be no heavy pressure, no pleading. No whingeing about what it would mean to him to lose her now that they’d found each other again.
Nattie’s decision, unlike Sadia’s sister’s, had to be hers alone. She was strong, serious, responsible, but once she’d decided, whichever way she fell, he knew there’d be no changing her mind.
The Consequence of Love Page 24
