On a Beautiful Day

by Lucy Diamond

  Rick spluttered on his mouthful. ‘Oh God,’ he laughed, peering at the picture and then clapping a hand to his head. ‘You are absolutely right. This is why we need fresh eyes!’ He looked at the image again, and laughed even more. ‘Hey, let’s go to Turds!’

  ‘For that freshly brewed taste!’ Jo sniggered.

  ‘You’ll love our distinctive aroma . . .’ Rick put in and shook his head, half-amused, half in disbelief. ‘Do you know, five different people were working on this, and not one of us spotted the unfortunate resemblance. You go through so many different permutations of styles that you stop looking after a while. You stop noticing these things.’

  Jo grinned at him. ‘I like to be useful,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you just saved my client a shit-load of embarrassment, so to speak,’ Rick replied, twinkling at her. ‘So cheers to you. Fancy a job?’

  ‘Any time,’ Jo said, feeling happy as they clinked glasses with each other.

  Maisie was looking a bit miffed to have been left out of the moment. ‘Yay, good at spotting turds – woo, what an achievement,’ she put in sarcastically.

  ‘Hey, it’s good enough for me,’ Rick said, pushing his foot against Jo’s under the table.

  ‘It’s totally going on my CV,’ she agreed.

  If their pleasant, non-combative night out had raised Jo’s hopes about bonding with Maisie over the weekend, the following day saw a crash and burn of her optimism. In your dreams, Maisie’s body language said as, again and again, she rejected Jo’s offers of a breakfast fry-up (gross), a shopping trip (‘What, with you?’), a movie (‘I’m busy’) and . . . oh, everything, basically. Any nice gesture was rebuffed.

  ‘I get the feeling your daughter’s not my greatest fan,’ she confessed to Rick with a sigh as they walked along the canal together, Maisie having slunk off to meet friends in town for the afternoon.

  ‘Maze? She’ll come round. She’s just prickly,’ he replied, slipping a hand into hers. The sun was out, sparkling in golden streaks along the water, and he was wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans. Jo could tell, just by looking at his bare arms, that he was the sort of person who tanned a deep olive within five minutes, unlike Jo herself, who went from milk-bottle white to burnt-flesh lobster, with very little in between. ‘But she’s great, really, when you get to know her.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ Jo said, trying to sound sincere. Then she bit her lip, wanting to confide in him how inferior Maisie made her feel, compared to his ex-wife, but she held back, knowing it would sound needy and wet. There were still so many things they didn’t know about each other, she thought; whole uncharted regions of his life where she’d never travelled, and to which she hadn’t been invited. The married years. The other women. First loves and greatest disappointments, wildest hopes, biggest mistakes – the cornerstones, in fact, of what made a person who they were: the past that had defined them.

  It wasn’t as if they didn’t talk – they did, all the time; anecdotes about work and friends, what to do each weekend, news and gossip. But not the big stuff. Not the exes. He hadn’t even met her sister yet, let alone her friends. They were still in their small private bubble, their romantic, nice, teasing bubble, laughing at each other’s bad puns and enjoying lots of passion, and yet . . . Surely there had to be more? She knew, for instance, that she was still on her best behaviour around the flat, wearing only her nicest underwear, watching his favourite programmes without complaint, even though she’d far rather be watching Don’t Tell the Bride. He was seeing this carefully constructed version of her, her best side. Was that the only side of him that she was allowed to see, also?

  Rick was frowning at her. ‘You okay? You look very far away. Not thinking of chucking yourself in, are you?’

  ‘In the canal? With all the old shopping trolleys and dead bodies? Maybe later,’ she replied, then gave a little laugh. ‘Um . . . Changing the subject,’ she said, ‘I was thinking earlier that we’ve never really talked much to each other about our exes. Have we?’

  ‘Our exes? No,’ he agreed, with a snort. ‘With good reason, from my point of view, and all. Why? Is there something you want to say about yours?’ His eyes narrowed just a fraction, suddenly wary. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘With Greg? God, no. I’ve no idea what he’s doing. Nothing’s happened. But . . . wouldn’t you like to know about him? About the relationship? Just out of interest?’

  He looked blank. ‘No. Not really. Should I? I mean, did something hugely significant happen that’s impinged on your life now? Because if not, then – no. Zero interest.’ He held up his hands. ‘Sorry if that makes me sound arrogant or . . . or up myself. It’s you I’m interested in, not him.’

  ‘Okay.’ So this wasn’t going anywhere. Was it a man-thing, that he wasn’t bothered about her ex, or was he instead so supremely confident in himself that the idea of being jealous simply didn’t occur to him? She tried again. ‘It’s just that . . . I don’t know much about your previous relationship and . . .’ Spit it out, Jo. ‘Maisie mentions her – Polly – a lot, and I just wondered . . . Well. About everything, really.’

  ‘Er . . .’ He was taken aback, she could tell. ‘It’s a bit of a horror story, really,’ he said, not meeting her eye. He kicked at a stone on the path and shrugged. ‘I don’t want to give either of us nightmares, talking about it, put it that way.’

  His body language had become wooden, and she could feel him winching up the drawbridge, not wanting to let her in. Not your business, his face was saying. Proceed with caution. ‘It’s just . . . I don’t want to make the same mistakes, I guess,’ she blustered, inventing reasons on the spot. ‘I mean, whatever went wrong between you two, I would hate that to happen with us.’

  He gave a short laugh that contained zero mirth. ‘Given that the two of you are completely different in every way, I can’t see that being a problem,’ he said. Then he pointed ahead to where they were crossing the pretty Bridgewater Canal basin. ‘See up there, that was a Roman fort,’ he told her, with an abrupt change of subject. ‘Mamucium. Used to guard the road that went from Chester to York.’

  ‘He’s clever as well as handsome, bloody hell,’ Jo said in reply, realizing that the drawbridge was now closed and she shouldn’t try knocking again. For the time being anyway, she thought, smiling uncertainly across at him as he dredged up some other facts from his History GCSE days, interspersed with nonsense about the Emperor Squeezer, complete with demonstrations, right there on the tow-path.

  It was obvious he was holding back on her, though, not telling her everything. Not wanting to tell her everything, more like. But why?

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Come along then, everyone, remember to wipe your feet as we— Oh.’ Eve, with a rabble of children behind her, stopped dead as she reached her front door.

  ‘What is it?’ asked George, craning to see.

  ‘Is it a cake tin?’ asked Kit, who had a very sweet tooth.

  ‘It certainly looks like one,’ Eve agreed, tucking it under one arm, before letting them all in. ‘Feet, remember! Then shoes off! Kit – go and have a wee, and remember to wash your hands. Then, and only then, will we find out what’s in the mysterious tin.’

  In barrelled the children – Sophie, plus India’s three today, as India had got stuck in traffic, coming back from a music class in Altrincham. This happened quite frequently, truth be told, but Eve never minded. She adored India’s children with all their funny little quirks. George liked regaling her with whichever obscure facts he’d learned that day. Esme would act shy for approximately five minutes, before she’d be found rifling through Eve’s dressing table in search of stray nail varnish, ‘just to try it’. As for Kit, he would want to share every single detail of his day, including what he’d had for lunch, who he’d sat next to, who the teacher had told off (never him, in these accounts) and all the rest of it. She knew, too, that India would arrive flustered and apologetic, blaming traffic, the weather, a meltdown at Mini Music, or whatever els
e had caused her lateness that day. ‘You must let me return the favour – any time!’ she would cry, but they both knew that would not be necessary. Eve was too organized to need favours and, besides, she had a thing about not wanting to be in other people’s debt. Even for babysitting. No, it was easier to manage things herself than add in complications.

  ‘Everyone ready?’ she asked. ‘Hands clean, Kit? Let’s see what’s in this tin then. Somebody give us a drum roll!’ She felt curious herself as she stood there, the children clustered around, eagerly thumping at the kitchen table as she pulled the lid off. A cheer went up. ‘BROWNIES!’

  They were not wrong. Curiouser and curiouser, thought Eve, unfolding a note that had been tucked inside, and recognizing Laura’s handwriting:

  Have gone baking-mad to fill the hours. Hope you and yours can find a home for these – spare me from my greed!

  Love Laura x

  ‘What’s going on?’ called Grace, who’d just come home. ‘Hi, Mum. Ooh!’

  ‘You can all have one each – Sophie, could you sort out drinks for everyone? George, you know where the plates are, don’t you? What a nice surprise.’ Poor Laura, thought Eve, making a mental note to ring her that evening to see how she was doing. It was impressive that she was even getting out of bed in the morning and functioning, let alone baking tray-loads of gooey brownies for her friends, when her marriage had collapsed so shockingly fast. Eve would have been the same though: fill the hours, the minutes, the moments. Don’t give yourself time to think.

  A contented munching sound soon filled the air, chocolatey lips licked in satisfaction. ‘Yum,’ pronounced Esme, nibbling her brownie like a little mouse. Eve took advantage of the temporary calm to pick up the pile of post that had arrived, running a finger under the seal of the topmost envelope and sliding out the letter from within.

  Sophie and George, both in the same Year 6 class, launched into a story about a younger boy who’d been told off for making rude noises in assembly that afternoon. ‘It was so funny, Mum, honestly, he just kept doing it—’

  ‘PARP,’ put in George obligingly, making the younger two fall about giggling.

  ‘And everyone was really laughing, and the teachers were getting crosser and crosser—’

  ‘PARP,’ went George for a second time, as Eve shook open the letter and glanced briefly at the contents. Then she let out a gasp and looked again.

  ‘And we were like . . .’ But Sophie had run out of steam, sensing her mother’s attention was elsewhere. ‘Mum! I’m talking to you,’ she said reprovingly.

  ‘Sorry, I . . .’ Eve swallowed, her eyes glued to the words. An appointment at the hospital. Directions on how to find the breast clinic, and a leaflet about the screening services. Something else about parking, and how to change the appointment, if necessary. Oh gosh, this was it. A date and time. The mechanics of the health system cranking ever forward, with her a spinning cog.

  Grace, dabbing brownie crumbs off her plate with a wet finger, dragged her attention away from her phone in order to stare quizzically at Eve. ‘Why did you make that noise, Mum?’

  ‘Mum!’ Sophie had her arms folded across her chest. ‘Are you listening to me or not?’

  ‘Sorry, I . . .’ Eve struggled to return her attention to the room. ‘What noise?’

  ‘That sort of gasping. You went—’ Grace demonstrated a sharp intake of breath, exaggerated for effect. ‘Like that. You sounded like Ollie, when Mrs Patterson is walking too fast.’

  Ollie was the wheezing, asthmatic pug that lived next door; it was not a flattering comparison. Eve shoved the letter back into its envelope and shook her head. ‘Did I?’ she said vaguely. All the children were eyeing her now, until George made a very small ‘PARP’ noise under his breath and the tension dissolved once more.

  ‘Why don’t you . . . um . . .’ Usually after snacks and a drink Eve would find something educational and fun for the children to do: a board game, or Lego, or she’d get out the craft box and supervise the construction of various artistic endeavours, in the hope of glitter minimization. Today, though, her mind was elsewhere. ‘. . . Watch something on TV together? Although no chocolatey fingers on the sofa!’ she remembered to yell, as they all went stampeding off to the other room.

  Grace was the only one who lingered. ‘Mum,’ she began, frowning a little, and Eve felt an upsurge of emotion at what she thought might be an impromptu display of daughterly empathy, a concerned Are you okay, Mum? Because, well, I’ve noticed you haven’t seemed yourself lately.

  ‘Yes, love?’ she replied.

  ‘Um . . . You know I’ve got all that revision to do, and I’m going to work really, really hard,’ Grace began in a wheedling tone. Oh. Okay. False alarm – zero empathy after all, thought Eve, deflating. ‘Can I, like, go to the shop and get some sweets, just to help me revise?’

  Eve was usually strict about too much sugar, especially when an enormous rich chocolate brownie had just that minute been scoffed, but she didn’t have the energy for a battle right now – an observation clearly already made by her canny daughter. ‘Sure,’ she mumbled, and went to peel potatoes for dinner on automatic pilot, her mind still on the letter she’d just opened. It was only a while later when the doorbell rang and George shouted, ‘It’s Mum!’ that she stopped, hands wet and raw, and realized she’d gone through the entire two-kilogram bag without thinking, with fifteen or so newly peeled spuds sitting pale and damp on the chopping board. Oh bloody hell, she thought, staring at them in surprise. One stupid letter and she’d lost her marbles.

  The paper crinkled in her skirt pocket as she wiped her hands on a tea-towel and went to answer the door.

  ‘I am SO sorry,’ India garbled as her children threw themselves bodily at her.

  ‘Mum, you are hopeless,’ George scolded as she ruffled his hair.

  ‘I am, I know, I’m the worst: it’s all true,’ she replied, rolling her eyes at Eve. ‘Thank you – again. Please tell me when I can return the favour. You know I will. Any time. Maybe one day next week the girls could come to me, if you need to work late, or . . . Or I could babysit, or . . . Well, anything. You will ask, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ Of course I won’t. ‘And it’s no bother at all. Especially as Laura dropped off a load of chocolate brownies for us today – you’ve probably got some waiting on your doorstep at home.’

  ‘Quick, Mum! Before Dad gets back and eats them all!’

  Never had children put shoes on so speedily to get out and back home. Moments later, off they all went up the path, George’s trousers flapping around his ankles where they had become too short; Esme trailing a dreamy hand along the privet hedge; Kit crouching down for a swift final peer at the place where next-door’s cat sometimes hid behind the wall, before he went hurrying on after the others.

  Closing the door, Eve leaned against the wall for a moment and read the letter all over again, the words flashing through her mind. An appointment for next Wednesday, eleven o’clock, Dr Jones. Further tests. A matter of precaution.

  She was in the system: a number, a patient. Wheels were turning. No more prevaricating, she ordered herself. She really must tell Neil about this now. Tonight.

  ‘Sorry I’m so late,’ came the weary tones of her husband, as he shouldered the door open later that evening. Quite a lot later that evening, actually. Two whole hours after Eve had served up the food – a potato-heavy vegetarian cottage pie – and washed the dishes, and tested Grace on her biology revision and . . . oh, the list went tediously on, with all the other domestic stuff that needed attention. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any dinner left, is there? I’m starving.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Eve asked crossly, slapping her book down on the arm of the sofa and coming through to the hall. Oh great, she thought, as she saw his stumbling gait. He was drunk – she could smell it coming off him in waves. ‘Did you not get my texts? It’s nearly nine o’clock.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again, clumsily kicking off his shoes.
‘Bill’s lost his job. Needed a drink and a chat. And my phone was out of charge. Sorry, love.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Her exasperation gave way to concern. ‘Bill, as in your colleague?’

  ‘Yep. A management restructure – there have been some redundancies. Bit of a shit day, all in all, everyone panicking.’ He rubbed an eye wearily, then lurched through to the kitchen, before stopping dead. She guessed he was staring at the now-tepid remains of dinner, the pie dish sitting there on the hob, complete with the leftovers she knew the girls had scraped back into it when they thought she wasn’t looking. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Extravaganza du Spud,’ she replied, rolling her eyes. Admittedly it wasn’t the most appealing or successful concoction she’d ever come up with.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pie,’ she snapped, feeling tired herself, and wondering when it was that her husband had stopped asking her how her day had been, how the girls were, how was her life, by the way? Tonight was definitely not the night to tell him about her hospital appointment, that was for sure. ‘Knock yourself out, it’s all yours,’ she said, gesturing to the leftovers. ‘I’m going to have a bath.’

  Unfortunately, the following night turned out to be the wrong time to broach the subject of her health, as well. Grace came down with a tummy bug and was throwing up every thirty minutes, and Eve spent the whole evening with one ear tuned to the upstairs loo and miserable shouts of ‘Muuuum!’, at which she’d race back up there with Dettol and sympathy. The following night she and Neil were out at the school PTA quiz, on a team with India and Dan, which swiftly descended into a rowdy, rivalrous affair with far too much wine – absolutely not the occasion to launch into a heart-to-heart. Then it was the weekend, and they had Neil’s difficult aunt visiting and didn’t seem to have a moment to themselves.

  On Monday the conversation simmered inside her all day, waiting to be released. Neil, I’ve got something to tell you, she mouthed to herself periodically, practising in her head the lines that would follow. It’s probably nothing, but I thought I should let you know, she murmured in front of her bedroom mirror, once the girls had gone to bed that night. I’ve got a hospital appointment on Wednesday because . . . God, did her eyes always look that round and frightened when she was saying something serious? Her whole face was stiff and taut, like some kind of . . . She grimaced. Like some kind of death-mask. Bad choice of words.