On a Beautiful Day

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘Want me to come over and help?’ Laura asked. ‘After work, I mean. I’m a dab hand at gluing, it’s one of my skills.’

  Despite the awfulness of her predicament, Jo laughed. Gluing skills, indeed. Her sister was so blindingly obvious at times. ‘You mean you want to have a nose around, too? I get it,’ she translated, although she didn’t really mind. In fact, she felt quite excited to be able to show her the place, just to see the expression on Laura’s face. There’d be no more ‘poor divorced Jo’, that was for sure, no more sorrow and sympathy. ‘Sure. Why don’t I meet you outside Deansgate station at six, then we can walk up together? You can demonstrate your superior gluing talents, then I’ll give you the full guided tour.’

  Shortly after six that evening the two of them were cruising vertically in the noiseless lift that ran up through Rick’s apartment block. ‘We are now . . . in the very epicentre . . . of the habitat for the Manchester metropolitan elite,’ Laura intoned in a breathy, David Attenborough-style voice. ‘Notice the chrome fittings in the elevator. Observe the smooth mechanism. Listen to the sound of wealth.’

  ‘I know, right?’ Jo laughed. ‘Check me out, and my fancy new life. I told you it was flash here.’ The doors slid open and they stepped out into the plush carpeted corridor. ‘If you’d like to follow me, madam,’ she went on, adopting a silly voice and thoroughly enjoying herself as she led the way. ‘Ta-dah!’ she cried, unlocking the door and pushing it open with a flourish. But no sooner had they crossed the threshold, sniggering like a pair of naughty schoolgirls, than a voice was heard from further within: female and most definitely not friendly.

  ‘Who the fuck is that?’

  Jo stopped dead in the hall, flashing a look of panic to her sister as all glee instantly evaporated. What the—? ‘Um . . . hello?’ she called in reply, shrugging blankly at Laura’s questioning expression. Could it be the cleaner? she wondered doubtfully. A burglar?

  ‘You’d better not be some psychopath, because I’ve got a knife here and I’m dialling 999 right now,’ came the voice. A not very old-sounding voice, now that Jo thought about it, despite the tough words. Which meant . . . oh hell. No. Say it wasn’t so.

  ‘Maisie? Is that you?’ she called, hurrying into the living room with a lurching sensation inside. Ding. Right third time. Because Maisie it was indeed, still in her school uniform, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. ‘Um . . . hi,’ Jo said, stopping short and trying not to squirm. ‘This is my sister, Laura. Laura, this is Maisie, Rick’s daughter.’

  ‘Oh, hi,’ said Laura interestedly, trotting in behind Jo and not seeming to notice that the girl in front of them was radiating full-on hostility. ‘Wow,’ she added, taking in the gorgeous surroundings and gazing around. ‘Cool room. Very posh. Look at that view!’

  Maisie’s lips were thin and bloodless, her nose tilted in a sneer as she stared Jo out. She was tall and willowy with long tawny-blonde hair in a side-plait and copious make-up, her school skirt hitched up to show off her coltish legs. Without saying a word, her gaze dropped pointedly to the coffee table, on which lay – oh God – the broken remains of the trophy. ‘I take it you did this?’ she demanded, one eyebrow arched accusingly.

  ‘Ah,’ mumbled Jo, wringing her hands with a dreadful churn of guilt. ‘You see, the thing is—’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Maisie interrupted sarcastically. ‘It just jumped off the shelf, all by itself.’

  ‘It was an accident.’ Jo felt awful. This was the girl she was hoping to get onside, after all: Rick’s beloved daughter, the shining light of his life. And here she was – Jo, the undeserving and nosy girlfriend – with a smashed trophy to show for herself, having invited Laura round to ogle his flat while he was away. The situation did not exactly cast her in a favourable light. ‘I was going to mend it. I’ve been out to buy superglue in fact and—’

  ‘Really,’ said Maisie, those cat-like green eyes of hers shining pure disbelief. ‘Remind me again what you’re even doing in my dad’s place, while he’s out of the country? Does he know you’re skulking around here?’

  How was it, thought Jo, reddening, that a thirteen-year-old could achieve such impressive self-possession? She’d been all blushes and stammers herself at that age, awkwardness personified. ‘Of course he knows!’ she cried. ‘I’m just house-sitting while he’s away. He didn’t say you’d be coming round.’

  ‘It’s not like I need to ask permission,’ Maisie replied haughtily. ‘I’ve got my own keys; I’ve got my own bedroom – it’s my home too.’ Then she tossed her hair, snatching up a bag of clothes. ‘Well, good luck telling Dad that you broke his favourite thing, anyway. I’m off.’

  Jo opened her mouth to reply, but then closed it again as Maisie stalked stiffly past. ‘Bye,’ she croaked after a moment, then they heard the front door slam.

  ‘Jesus H,’ said Laura, pretending to wipe sweat from her brow. ‘Well, she’s a charmer.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jo, feeling defeated. Then she pulled a face, attempting a joke. ‘I’m pretty sure she likes me, though.’

  Laura snorted. ‘I could tell. You’ll wake up in the night, and she’ll be standing over you with a bread knife,’ she predicted, clasping her hands together as if wielding a blade. ‘This is for the trophy . . . stab.’

  ‘Laura!’

  ‘Well, she had the look about her, didn’t she? Daddy’s precious girl doesn’t want to share him.’ She lowered her voice in imitation of a melodramatic film-trailer voiceover. ‘He was the first man she’d ever loved – and she would kill to keep him all to herself . . .’

  ‘Will you shut up?’ Despite everything, Jo found herself bursting into nervy laughter. Great. There was something to keep her awake at night now. She’d definitely put the chain on the front door before going to bed. ‘Rick is nicer than his daughter anyway, I swear. Quite a lot friendlier. Better sense of humour, too.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Laura. ‘She’s enough to put anyone off having a kid. Although—’ She broke off with a strange expression, and Jo had the strong sense that her sister was about to offload something personal. But then she gave a bright smile and the moment had gone. ‘So! Where’s this superglue, then? Let’s fix this wretched trophy, then you can show me these photo albums.’

  Chapter Seven

  Alice Goldsmith, India had learned, had been a straight-A student at Altrincham Grammar School, playing clarinet in the orchestra as well as being a member of the hockey and athletics teams. A keen theatre-goer, she’d almost completed her second year of an English degree at Liverpool University and was gorgeous and smiley, with long brown hair, freckles and ever-so-slightly goofy teeth that gave her an endearingly earnest expression. And yet now, following her injuries the previous Saturday, she had a collapsed lung and a broken femur and remained in an induced coma. Her friends were completely devastated, according to her Facebook page (yes, India had scoured it). Her parents and brother were praying for her, according to the Manchester Evening News website (ditto).

  In another world, Alice would shortly be taking her exams and then gallivanting off to Glastonbury or V Festival with her mates, she might be saving up to go travelling or getting some crummy job over the holidays, or falling madly in love. But not this summer, by the look of things. Oh, Alice, India sighed, combing through the latest news pieces about her, seeking out updates at every opportunity.

  Dan was starting to get exasperated with India’s new obsession. He hadn’t shown so much as a flicker of sympathy when she’d told him the sad news about Sandy MacAllister’s death. ‘Oh well,’ he’d said, irritatingly prosaic as ever. ‘Looking on the bright side, at least you won’t get called in for any witness statements, or whatever now.’

  ‘Dan!’ India had felt quite shocked at his heartlessness. ‘There is no bright side. A man has died. At the crash where I was present. It happened right—’

  ‘In front of you, yes,’ he’d interrupted, taking the wind out of her sails. He was washing up at the time, and so d
idn’t get to witness the full indignation of her expression. ‘But you didn’t know him, Ind. It wasn’t like you had more than the most tenuous of connections. And you’re alive, and so are your friends, and none of you will have to relive the whole thing by going through a gruelling court case, that’s all I’m saying. That’s the bright side. There’s always one if you look.’

  She had stared at him in speechless outrage for a long five seconds, until he glanced round at her. ‘Oh, come on,’ he said mildly, rinsing suds off the frying pan. ‘You can’t take every lost soul to your heart, love. I know it’s awful, and sad for the families, but . . . Just leave it be now. Get on with your own life.’ He’d chucked a tea-towel at her. ‘Make yourself useful and dry this lot, for starters.’

  She snorted, remembering this, and refreshed the page on her laptop where it had gone to sleep. ‘Muuuum?’ came a voice just then, and India jumped back into the moment, spinning round to find her youngest child, Kit, mere inches from her, his Haribo-scented breath warm against her face. He had the disarming habit of moving very quietly when he wanted to remain undetected. ‘When will it be tea?’

  ‘Er.’ She blinked, having been lost in her own world for . . . gosh, quite a long time, she realized, seeing the clock on the wall. She’d only intended to reply quickly to some work emails, but had become immersed in Alice Goldsmith’s Facebook page – greedily, like some kind of creepy voyeur who couldn’t look away. ‘Soon,’ she assured her son, who liked to know exactly when things were happening, particularly where food was concerned. ‘Very soon. And it’s going to beee . . .’ She paused for dramatic effect, although really she was casting about vaguely in her memory for what might be in the cupboards or fridge. ‘It’s going to be Pasta Surprise!’ she cried with fake enthusiasm. The surprise being, of course, that she didn’t have a clue what would be dished up with said pasta. She’d fully intended to stop at the Tesco Express after her last class that day, but there had been a bumped head to deal with after a jostle to get the bongo drums, which meant they ran over time; and then one of the mums had cornered her afterwards, frowning with solemnity, saying she felt that her little Mia-Rose needed more of a challenge in future lessons, because she was very gifted, musically, and needed to be ‘stretched’. This was Mia-Rose who was eleven months old, by the way, the still-bald, pink-faced chubster who’d just spent the entire lesson gumming her slobbery wet lips around one of India’s plastic shakers. What could India say, other than a smiling ‘Of course’? Then the traffic had been abysmal, and so that had been that. Time up.

  ‘She means pasta with a blob of dried-up old pesto and some hard mouldy cheese grated over the top,’ George translated crushingly, from where he was sprawled on the sofa, killing zombies on some computer game or other. He let out a groan, the poor malnourished child that he was; clearly on the verge of starving to death. ‘Can’t we go to Eve’s house for tea tonight?’

  ‘No!’ cried India, stung. George had had this downer on her culinary abilities compared to Eve’s ever since he’d been there a few weeks ago, when Eve had conjured up a chocolate fondant for dessert, with a proper melting middle. India had found a similar pudding in Morrisons, but, according to her critical son, it hadn’t been ‘as good as Eve’s’. Nothing was, apparently. This was probably why Eve never took up India’s offers to have Grace and Sophie round, because standards were abysmally lower in the Westwood household. (It was lucky that Eve, as well as being perfect, was also kind, witty and thoughtful, otherwise their friendship could have been over long ago, quite honestly.)

  ‘We’ve got chips,’ Kit advised her, and India forced a smile, but her thoughts were already sliding back to Alice Goldsmith’s parents, wondering what they were like, and if they’d brought up Alice in messy chaos like India’s house, or if they’d been proper grown-up parents, who never had to resort to ‘Pasta Surprise’ for dinner. Then she found herself wondering idly if they might have posted some of Alice’s baby pictures online because – well, it was silly of her, it was nosy too, but she did really want to look at them, now that she thought about it, and . . .

  ‘Muuuum!’ Kit shouted crossly just then, right in her face. ‘You’re not listening to me!’

  ‘I am,’ she protested. ‘Chips, that’s what you were saying. I’m not sure if we have any chips, but . . .’

  ‘We have,’ he assured her. ‘Me and Esme had a look in the freezer. And we HAVE.’

  ‘Right,’ she said distractedly, tuning out once more as she followed him out of the room. Thinking of the Goldsmiths reminded her how Dan had scoffed when India had mentioned her idea of popping into the hospital to take some flowers to the crash victims, but she could still go, couldn’t she? Maybe with a couple of presents for Alice, too. Things she would have liked herself at that age – treats that she’d have liked to buy for her own twenty-year-old daughter if . . . you know. If she had one. She could choose some nice pyjamas and toiletries for her, maybe some books – The Color Purple, The Edible Woman, all her favourites from when she’d been twenty herself. Just as a gesture. Would that be weird? Dan would think so, obviously. Dan would tell her: Absolutely not, don’t be daft. But then Dan didn’t know the half of it, did he?

  ‘See – I told you we had chips. Look!’

  Finding herself in the kitchen, India looked. She looked and saw that the freezer contents must have been investigated quite some time ago, back when she was online and oblivious. The door was still open, small drips gently plopping from the ice at the top as it thawed, and several items – a packet of sausages, a tub of ice cream and, yes, the bag of frozen oven-chips – had been carefully arranged on the floor.

  Esme was sitting at the kitchen table and colouring in a poster, her blonde curls glowing in a streak of afternoon sun that splashed in across her. She had the sort of angelic prettiness that older women clucked at approvingly. ‘Isn’t she bonny?’ went the general consensus, and Esme was a terrible one for playing up to them, tilting her head winsomely and lisping, ‘Fank you’ in an affected sort of way that set India’s teeth on edge. She turned and beamed a pink-lipsticked smile at her mother’s arrival now. ‘I got them all ready,’ she said proudly.

  ‘Oh, Esme! On the floor? What a silly thing to do,’ India scolded, as the drips went on trickling. ‘You left the door open as well, and now everything’s melting!’ She bent down to pick up the chips – soggy with water – and the ice cream, no doubt already liquefying, and groaned. ‘And have you been helping yourself to my make-up bag again? For heaven’s sake, Ez, you’re nine, not nineteen. You don’t need make-up at your age.’

  ‘I like it,’ Esme said mutinously. ‘And anyway I did tell you,’ she said, leaning over her poster and colouring even harder. ‘I came and said I got tea ready, and you said, Lovely darling, well done. You were on the computer.’

  The words sounded plausible enough to stop India short before she could launch into a full ticking-off. Had she actually said that? Sometimes she did find herself zoning out when the kids pestered her about things or argued, as if her brain simply refused to take in any more of this nonsense. Enough, already.

  ‘She’s in big trouble now, isn’t she, Mum?’ Kit asked gleefully. ‘Are you really, really angry?’

  ‘I am quite cross,’ India conceded through gritted teeth, chucking everything back into the freezer, defrosted or not. Whatever. She’d worry about food-poisoning possibilities some other time. ‘And it’s pasta for tea anyway.’

  ‘WHAT?’ Kit yelped. ‘But, MUM!’

  ‘You did SAY!’ Esme cried, looking close to tears now. ‘You can’t just not say now!’

  ‘Tough,’ India said shortly, banging around to find the big saucepan and filling it with water. ‘There are children out there . . .’ She could feel herself coming over all sanctimonious, her default defence mechanism. ‘There are children out there who have nothing,’ she reminded them. ‘And people who are ill and in hospital. Do you think they—?’

  ‘I wish you were ill and in hospita
l,’ Esme interrupted savagely, throwing one of her crayons at the wall. ‘Then we could have chips.’

  ‘Hey!’ cried India, wounded, but Esme had already snatched up her poster and flounced out. Kit, meanwhile, had collapsed on the floor, weak from the bitter disappointment of a no-chips dinner. ‘SO unfair,’ he moaned to the lino, banging a small fist and kicking his feet up and down.

  ‘Mum, you’ve got to control them better,’ George called patronizingly from the other room. ‘They don’t respect you, that’s the problem.’

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, India thought, growling under her breath. Sometimes her children – condescending, maddening and melodramatic by turns – were enough to send any mother demented. Control them better, indeed. That would be the day.

  Stepping over her prostate, still-writhing smallest son to put the pan on the hob, she lit the burner, vowing not to lose her temper even though she could feel herself perilously close. Annoyingly, she did even quite fancy chips, too, now that she thought about it, and bunging a tray of them into the oven would have been a damn sight more straightforward than faffing around trying to conjure up a pasta sauce and salad from the meagre and possibly mouldering contents of her fridge. Sometimes a woman just could not win at life.

  ‘Roll on bedtime,’ she muttered under her breath as she ripped open a bag of fusilli, only to send spirals clattering and bouncing all over the floor.

  Chapter Eight

  One of the women in Laura’s office, Gayle, had a thing about Friday nights being ‘date night’ for her and her husband. Kids, work, pets, life in general – they all took a back seat on a Friday night, ‘for the sake of my marriage and sanity’, as Gayle put it.