by Fiona Gibson
‘Maybe one of your friends left it,’ he suggested, although none of them would wear a horror like that, and anyway, they never stayed over. They hardly ever visited either. I’d go to Maggie’s or Andrea’s or Toni’s instead, or we’d meet at the pub. I knew they didn’t like Gary.
So how the hell had the salmon bra come into our flat?
I had to get out of the house, and set off with Wolfie. As I marched along the dark, narrow lane, I convinced myself there must be some innocent reason for it being there. Stupidly, I let Wolfie off his lead by the modern cul-de-sac, and he spotted a rabbit and legged it. Gary had pointed out Liv and Steve’s house to me when he’d been doing some work for them. Wolfie shot in through their gate, and I crept into the garden to look for him. That’s when I found Nate.
When I lay it all out, about the bra and Gary’s reaction to it … well, I must seem like the world’s biggest mug – but I wanted to believe that everything was okay.
A bit like Nate, I decide, as I perch on the narrow bench in the bus shelter. He must have known something was wrong. You can’t be married to someone who’s that unhappy and resentful and not have a clue.
A head-in-the-sand approach – that’s what he must have adopted, just like I did, even before the appearance of that mysterious bra.
On the day I sat my last driving test, I woke up to a clear, bright morning. Gary had already left, without even wishing me luck: he’d had to set off early for a big job in Bradford. I didn’t think anything of it.
My driving instructor, Jason, came to pick me up. As usual, I was using his car to do my test. ‘Just pretend it’s a normal day,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Tell yourself you can drive perfectly well, and it’s only forty minutes of your life. Remember you can have plenty of minors and still pass. No one expects you to be perfect.’
Jason is my third driving instructor. The first one started to become ‘unavailable’ when I failed the fourth time, and the second one said I might benefit from ‘a fresh approach’ (i.e., not his approach). Jason is a nicely-mannered young man, probably only a couple of years older than my eldest. He was chatting away as he drove, about a documentary on wolves in Alaska he’d watched the night before. I was only half-listening as we came into the outskirts of Solworth. To be honest, I was too busy trying to convince myself that that wasn’t Gary’s van I’d just glimpsed, parked in a side street of terraced houses. We’d passed too quickly for me to see whether it had a lion painted on the side. But it was the right shade of yellow, and all scuffed and rusting like Gary’s, and you don’t see many vans like that.
We arrived at the test centre fifteen minutes early, and I excused myself and went to use the loo. I didn’t care that anyone might hear me through the flimsy cubicle partition as I made the call on my mobile. I had to speak to Gary. I couldn’t possibly focus on emergency stops and reversing round corners without knowing the truth.
‘Tanz?’ he barked, sounding distracted. ‘What’s up?’
‘Um, I wanted to let you know I’m at the test centre now, just about to do my test.’
‘Oh, right. Good luck with that, then.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘It’s just, you forgot to say that this morning, so I thought I’d call you now to give you the chance.’
He grunted. He really thought I was just winding him up. ‘Ha, yeah. Sorry about that. But, you know, I’m not sure you’re really cut out for driving …’
‘Thanks!’
‘Oh, c’mon, Tanz. Concentration’s not really your thing, is it? You’re just so easily distracted—’ Well, stuff you! ‘Anyway, I’ve said sorry,’ he went on. ‘It was just so early when I left. I didn’t want to be late for this job—’
‘The job in Bradford?’ I cut in.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, calm as anything.
My hand was shaking but I managed to steady my breathing so he wouldn’t realise anything was wrong. ‘And that’s where you are now, is it? At the job?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Look, I’d better go, got a ton of stuff to get started on here …’
I cleared my throat. ‘Carpet, is it?’
‘Er, some of it, yeah …’
‘Shagpile?’
‘Uh? What are you on about?’
Someone had come into the loos. I could hear them shuffling about, then having a pee in the next cubicle. ‘Gary,’ I said carefully, ‘I’m sure I saw your van on the way here. You’re in Solworth right now, aren’t you?’
‘What are you on about?’ he snapped.
‘Your van! I’m sure I saw it parked down a side street. So, what were you doing—’
‘Jesus Christ.’ He sniggered as if I was a raving idiot. ‘You’re just stressed, that’s all. I don’t know why you keep putting yourself through this. Catch you later – and good luck … again. Just try and hold it together this time, okay?’
I will, I told myself as I left the loo and sat next to Jason in the waiting room. I’ll hold it together all right. I’ll pass and that’ll bloody show you. What I’d actually like to do is drive over your foot.
So, yes, Nate – it really mattered that time, more than the others. But you’ll never know quite how much.
The bus pulls up at the stop. I step on and say hi to the driver, who I know by sight. As I take a seat, I spot a few other regular passengers who use this service to trundle back and forth from Hesslevale, to the various villages scattered around to the south. There’s the elderly lady who talks to herself, and the man with black-framed specs who always has tons of carrier bags clustered around his feet. The young mum is there, her baby asleep in her arms in a blanket of marshmallow pink.
Soft rain starts to hit the windows as I scroll for Kayla on my phone and text her a heart, not caring if she thinks I’ve gone soppy. I press send, then glance out at the gently sloping hills, and try to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.
Chapter Twenty
Sinead
‘Morning, can I help you with anything?’
‘Just browsing, thanks.’ It’s Monday morning, and my first customer is impeccably groomed, her navy blazer from somewhere like Jaeger or Hobbs, the upper end of the high street that still feels too posh and grown-up for me, even if I could afford to shop there. She is perusing the photo frames I arranged along a wall, strewn with the tissue-paper flowers I made, strung on fine thread. While I might not make intricate silver jewellery these days, there must still be a kernel of creativity lurking somewhere inside me. However, right now I am unpacking fairy lights whilst mentally compiling another list, this time entitled:
Reasons Why I am Not a Monster.
Because only a monster leaves her child, doesn’t she? Never mind Abby insisting repeatedly over the past month that it’s not Flynn I’ve left, I’m still not always there for my son, and these days he doesn’t seem terribly keen to spend time with me.
Of course we’ve hung out together plenty of times. I’ve cooked for him at Abby’s – his favourite lasagnes and cottage pies, hefty wintry meals even though we are well into June. I’ve suggested going to the movies (‘Nothing I really want to see, Mum’), and managed to tempt/bribe him to come on shopping trips to Solworth for new clothes and Xbox games, attempting to assuage my guilt by lavishing money on him (which I can barely afford as I’ll need to scrape together a deposit and rent for a place of my own at some point; I can’t even think about talking to Nate about dividing up our finances just yet). On one such outing, I bought myself a cherry-red jacket, which Flynn blinked at, startled, as I carried it to the till, muttering, ‘You sure about that, Mum? It’s very … bright!’
I want to feel bright, I decided as I jabbed my debit card into the machine, although I suspected it would take more than an outlandish jacket to make that happen.
So, yes, we’ve been doing stuff together, yet each time I’ve suspected that Flynn was eager to escape back home to Nate or, better still, be with his friends. If I were a proper mum – a good one – I’d have stayed with his d
ad and kept our family intact.
Meanwhile – somewhat shamefully – I have been ‘getting out there’ again, as my friends put it, by which they mean socialising, going out after dark and not just on hasty dashes to the supermarket for wine.
‘You can’t just sit in every night and brood,’ Abby said one evening, not unkindly. So we’ve had a few nights out – just dinner and drinks locally – and, although I’d been on the verge of cancelling, I dolled myself up to meet up with my old art college gang last week. I took the train to Leeds, and the moment I spotted Michelle, Aisha and George, waving from a corner table in our beloved old bar, I knew I’d done the right thing. A few minutes later, Brett shot in amidst a flurry of apologies.
‘Wow, Sinead – look at you!’ he exclaimed. ‘You look amazing. Younger, even, than last time I saw you. Is time going in reverse?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I laughed, but maybe he was right, and I did look a little more like my pre-motherhood self. He’d still looked so cool and handsome, that time I’d run into him in WH Smith’s – as he did that night at Fletcher’s. But that time, I’d been wearing some dumpy mum outfit, and was still being woken by Flynn most nights.
As we fell into easy conversation, I felt glad that I’d made an effort, and that Abby had virtually pushed me out of the door. Michelle told us about her stint in New York – complete with brief love affair – and Brett had us in stitches by divulging that his latest relationship came to an end because he couldn’t pronounce ‘quinoa’.
‘Oh, come on,’ I insisted, laughing. ‘That can’t be the real reason.’
‘No, it really was.’ He grinned, and just for a moment I remembered how it had felt to kiss him, all those years ago; a party kiss between friends that had caused fireworks to explode in my head, and was never referred to again. ‘Hannah reckoned I kept saying it wrong just to wind her up,’ he added. ‘But it was probably the final straw in her long list of my failings.’ Hmmm. And then it was my turn to explain that I’d left Nate. Although everyone was sympathetic, they didn’t dwell on it; it wasn’t a night for tears or an analysis of what had gone wrong. Aisha filled us all in on her life as an art teacher, and her tentative forays into online dating since her divorce. No one’s life is neat and tidy, I reflected as we bickered good-naturedly over the wording of Aisha’s dating profile. Even George had his fair share of romantic disasters before finding love with the extremely gorgeous Petra.
As for Brett, my college crush, there had been a couple of long-term relationships, as far as I gathered, plus a smattering of short-lived flings. I’d already known he has a son, Corey, who’s ten years old and lives with his ex, an arrangement which no one seemed to find appalling that night.
So, couples – parents – break up, yet everything can work out okay. This seemed mildly reassuring. Then came the question I’d had semi-dreaded. ‘You are back to doing your jewellery, aren’t you?’ Brett asked.
I cleared my throat, remembering his declaration by the confectionery shelves in WH Smith: You’re the rising star! I saw that big feature about you. Aisha sent it to me. Promise you won’t take too much time out?
‘I’m afraid I kind of let things slide,’ I admitted.
‘Well,’ Brett said briskly, ‘you can always pick things up again. You can’t let your talent go to waste.’ I insisted that it had been too long, and I was out of touch – but he wouldn’t hear of it. By then several wines down, I glanced around the table, wondering why I’d let it go, just as I’d let these friendships drift. Well, not anymore, I decided, as we hugged and said our goodbyes; while my business might have been history, I very much needed these friends back in my life.
Brett insisted on walking me to the station because he was ‘going that way’. Was he really? I wondered. ‘Please keep in touch,’ he said as we exchanged numbers. Of course I will, I told him. He hugged me again and kissed me lightly on the cheek. I think I must have smiled the whole train journey home.
It doesn’t really matter that he hasn’t texted or called; in fact it’s probably for the best. I serve my customer – she buys an elegant white china vase – and check my phone as she leaves. There’s a text from Mum, who’s been bombarding me with messages since I finally told her I’d left Nate. I’m keeping her at bay from visiting – just. Even she has been a little judgemental: ‘Don’t you think Flynn should really be with you?’
My phone buzzes with a call; it’s Nate. At least he’s stopped bombarding me now. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m actually at work …’
‘Yes, I know – I am too. I’ll be quick …’
‘Is everything okay?’ A young couple have wandered in, and I greet them with a bright smile.
‘Yes. I mean – well, you know how things are, so no, not really. I was just wondering if we could meet up sometime? Have a drink, or even dinner … I mean, I know you said you weren’t ready. But that was weeks ago now, and I thought maybe now you’d—’
‘I can’t really discuss this now,’ I murmur.
‘There’s nothing to discuss. Can’t we just arrange a night?’
‘Nate, I have customers here.’
‘And God forbid you upset your customers!’
I open my mouth, lost for words for a moment. Please don’t do this, I will him silently. Please just accept what I’ve done and try to get on with your life, like I am, even though it’s bloody terrible.
‘Can I just ask you something?’ he says.
‘Uh-huh,’ I say non-committally.
‘D’you think I’ve let you down?’
‘Nate, please …’ A wave of nausea hits me. I don’t know if it’s the smell of Little Owl, all the scented candles, oil diffusers and chakra-balancing hot-water-bottle covers, but there’s something about this place that is almost stifling these days.
‘Couldn’t you have given me a chance, instead of springing this on me?’ he barks. ‘If you’d told me how you felt, then maybe I could have tried harder and fixed things. Why didn’t you at least say something?’
Feeling quite sick now, I hold the phone away from my ear for a moment.
‘… could have communicated,’ he rants on, which is rich, seeing as I tried to communicate how unhappy I was, countless times. I even showed him my packet of antidepressants, for God’s sake, as if that would ram the point home.
Do they have any side effects? he’d asked.
Well, yes, Dr Monroe said they can affect your libido a bit.
Oh, he’d said, smirking. I hope it’s in the right way!
Now, though, he’s not joking. He is raving on, not even listening when I try to interject, and all the while my customers are drifting around the shop, and I should be assisting them, trying to make a sale.
‘I really have to go now,’ I cut in, finishing the call abruptly when they bring a bronze-framed mirror to the counter. As I tissue-wrap it, I am aware of blinking back tears.
‘Are you okay?’ the woman asks, clearly concerned.
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you.’ I force a tight smile. ‘Kids,’ I add with a small laugh, as if that explains everything. But better for her to think I’ve had an obstinate teenager on the phone than a distraught husband.
Guilt gnaws away at me all afternoon. It doesn’t help that the shop is deathly quiet for the rest of the day; sometimes I wish my work was more hectic, like Nate’s is, although God knows he moaned about it often enough.
‘D’you think I should have just put up with everything as it was, and stayed with Nate?’ I ask Abby later over dinner in front of the TV.
‘Why are you saying this?’ Abby places her fork in her pasta bowl. ‘Has he phoned you again?’
I nod. ‘He’s so upset, Abs. It’s unbearable …’
‘Of course he is,’ she says gently. ‘The fact is, he wants to still be together. Have you ever thought that you might just need a break? That you might get back together, I mean, as long as things could be different?’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t imagine Nate changing for a
nyone.’
Abby looks at me. ‘D’you think you really meant everything you put on that list? I’m sorry, I might sound a bit dense here, but I never quite understood what it was about.’
‘Well, you know Rachel suggested I wrote it,’ I remind her. ‘She said it would help to clarify my thoughts.’
‘Right. Like a sort of diary?’ She adjusts her sleek blonde ponytail.
‘Yeah. Only she meant for me to list the good and the bad things, so I could get a clearer picture – and I forgot to write down any of the good.’
‘You know what I think?’ she offers gently. ‘I think you just need more time, away from everything for a little while. You can stay here as long as you like, you know.’
‘But it’s been a month already …’
‘That’s fine,’ she insists. ‘Just think of that spare room as yours.’ She smiles and squeezes my hand. ‘I just want to take care of you for a bit. Maybe that’s the thing, d’you think? This is no one’s fault. But you just haven’t been taken care of for a very long time.’
‘Yes, maybe you’re right.’ I wipe at my eyes. ‘Abs,’ I add, ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Hey.’ She pushes a strand of hair from my face. ‘Remember I’ve known Nate for twenty-odd years, and I do realise what he’s like. I know he’s not the best communicator, and he doesn’t always remember to show appreciation, or that he cares—’
‘Tell me about it,’ I say dryly.
‘But, you know he does love you, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I know.’ Something seems to twist inside me.
Her mobile rings on the coffee table, and I see her hesitate to answer it.
‘Take it,’ I say. ‘I’m fine – honestly …’ I jump up and go through to the kitchen to wash our supper things. Abby appears a few moments later.
‘Hon, I’m sorry – Phoebe’s had to go home. She’s not feeling well. I don’t like to think of Brian manning the bar by himself, so I really should go in …’
