by Andrea Darby
Eleanor greets us in the kitchen. ‘I bought you a friendship bracelet, sweetness,’ Sunny says, releasing her niece from a hug to rummage in the depths of her enormous patchwork bag. I’d love to see what’s in there, apart from the natural potions, but it rarely leaves her side and she gets jumpy if anyone goes near it. I imagine a voodoo doll of me in there, or a stash of contraband goods: chocolate, Paracetemol, Prozac, a Rampant Rabbit perhaps. ‘A partially-sighted lady makes them in the flea market. Isn’t it pretty?’
‘Aww. I love these.’ Eleanor holds the turquoise threads next to her scoop-necked top, the tight fit highlighting her newly-developed chest. ‘Sweet, it matches.’
I whizz off to get dressed, returning to find Sunny in her favourite spot by the french windows. She often heads there, staring dreamily at the crab apple tree she adores. Unusually, she’s put down her bag. On Dan’s armchair. It’s strange to see it there.
‘I see your winter jasmine’s flowering. Doesn’t it look beautiful?’
I nod, unsure which one it is. As Sunny turns, she’s distracted by something on the sideboard. I anxiously track her eyes to the newspaper article I’d printed out earlier and stupidly left there.
‘Gosh. Is that someone you know?’ Sunny’s obviously read the headline – in huge print: ‘ACTOR CRUSHED BY FALLING SET’
She blinks slowly, hazel eyes fixed on me.
‘Yes, an old friend,’ I say, dismissively. ‘Went to the same primary.’
‘That’s awful.’ She picks up the cutting, studies it. ‘Gosh. Multiple fractures. Did he have any head injuries, I wonder?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Yet if he had, Sunny would surely have a magic cream for them in her bag: ‘It’s totally natural, of course; rub it on that bruised brain tissue and those neurons will be firing like a Kalashnikov in no time.’
Sunny leaves soon after, the rest of the day’s tediously uneventful and, after tea, Eleanor and I go our separate ways, as we often do. I feel pretty dispensable, verging on invisible, in the evenings and most weekends. And the living room feels empty, the walls too distant, time too slow. Eleanor prefers to do her own thing, and firmly resists homework help, though I suspect I should be more insistent. Dan would be. But then she’d always accepted his assistance more readily than mine. I’d often felt she opened up to her dad more, too, though he’d assured me otherwise. I recall the time he’d tried to explain his cryonics decision. They were cuddled on the corner sofa, Dan stroking Eleanor’s soft hand with his firm thumb. ‘I think she understands,’ he’d said after. ‘She didn’t say much.’ I’m not sure what he’d expected of a nine-year-old.
As I search out a cake tin, my mind drifts back to Eleanor’s pre-school days. I often felt like the baddie, the one who coaxed her to eat broccoli and tidy toys, or talked her out of watching Jungle Book for the twentieth time, and dealt with the ensuing strops. Dan would breeze in at about seven, just in time for the nice bits. ‘Daddy, Daddy, can you read me a story, please, please, really big please?’ Eleanor would race down the hall, limbs flailing and breathless with excitement, eliminating me from her radar. He’d scoop her up in his arms, a smile engulfing his whole face and a sigh of relief that he was home, at last, with his little princess. He’d lean over to kiss me tenderly; always ask about our day. And I’d usually get a remark about how lovely I looked – even when I was covered in crayon and chicken casserole. He was so patient; a doting dad, an attentive husband. I’d hear his voice, then Eleanor’s excited interruptions – both snuggled on her bed, reading a story – as I picked up scattered dolls, her favourite jumbo pens and all the other mess we’d accumulated and stacked it in corners. I knew Dan would tidy it again later. We’d have a glass of wine and a chat while one or both prepared our meal. The evenings flew by.
Bored, I settle on the chaise to read Katie Strutt’s column in my favourite women’s magazine. Always a pick-me-up. There’s an appeal for articles on dating experiences – a painful reminder that Gaz hasn’t called; and of the previous, disastrous date. I’m tempted. I’ve tried writing a few things over the years. Most are tucked away, reserved for my own entertainment. I only showed one or two to Dan – whipping them away dismissively before his eyes had cast down the whole page – and rarely talked about my writing aspirations. I think he assumed it was just a hobby. I’d always thought he was right.
Once Imogen persuaded me to send off an article I’d written about competitive mums at the school gate, but several commissioning editors rejected it. I’d shared my dismay with Mark at work. ‘You can’t give up after one shot,’ he’d urged. ‘It takes persistence.’ ‘No’, I’d told him, and convinced myself, ‘presenting pitches to boring businessmen for Cullimore’s is my calling’. That’s what I was good at. Though maybe not for much longer.
I fetch a glass of wine and load Facebook. It’s ages since Eleanor helped me create an account and post messages. I’d only sent a couple, but enjoyed searching out old friends. I’d looked up Ashley. Of course. He was the first one. I’d felt anxious, guiltily guarding the screen like an errant child, in case Dan should appear behind me; wondering if the cyber gods were watching in dismay. Back then, Ashley hadn’t posted anything. And there was no personal information – just his name alongside a photo of a little boy with messy blond hair, face painted like a lion; Ashley’s young son, I’d assumed. All I’d gleaned was that he was still alive, that the many appeals for him to ‘drop dead’ I’d uttered in anguish two decades ago had not been fulfilled.
Locating Ashley’s profile again, I find myself staring at a stream of ‘get well’ wishes. Clearly, not everyone harboured the hatred for him that I did. He’d replied, very briefly, to one or two. He was obviously on the mend.
A slurp of wine seems to trigger a blast of blood to the head. I can’t stop myself, hitting the ‘Add Friend’ button. Butterflies tickle my ribs, their wings powering a wave of panic. Making contact – even now – is far more than he deserves. It’s insane. Where’s the resolve I’d shown when he’d tried to contact me previously?
I must have been about twenty-seven the first time, because Dan and I were still in our flat-pack flat, surrounded by all things Ikea. Ashley had somehow tracked me down through a friend of a friend. He’d sent a brief note, from an address in Fulham – he wondered how I was, would like to hear from me. Nothing more. I’d been tempted to reply, but resisted, tearing the note into tiny pieces. The second time (via an online friend tracking site), just after Eleanor was born, I’d given it more thought. I was at home all day, craving stimulation, senses dulled by the monotony of the nursing-nappy-nap-nipple cream routine. But I was afraid of discovering the truth, stirring up old pain, my curiosity not a match for the power of my grievance. Besides, what if Dan found out? I’d printed out Ashley’s e-message, to re-read, but, fortunately, Eleanor had projectile-vomited on it, bringing me to my senses.
I head to the kitchen, returning with more wine and extra courage. I’m going to send a message. It takes me ages to assemble the words. Eventually I settle on:
Hi. Heard about the accident – belatedly. Hope you’re recovering well. Best wishes. Carrie
No kisses, no questions. I’d made it easy for Ashley to ignore.
I take a huge gulp of wine, pulse thumping; a strong, tribal beat. I shouldn’t have sent it. I’m scared, yet foolishly excited.
I feel like I’m eleven again, after putting the mysterious ‘C LOVES A’ note in Ashley’s school drawer. Back then, I hadn’t thought it through either. Mine was the only girl’s name in Class 6R that began with a ‘C’. Miss Silly Socks! Yes Dan, I was even ditsy back then.
CHAPTER 6
‘So – our creativity, editorial excellence and expertise at Cullimore Corporate Communications will ensure your messages are delivered to clients with finesse and flair.’ I clasp my clammy hands, taking my first proper breath for five, nerve-wracking minutes.
Scanning along the row of grey-suited men, all sat on the boss Pete’s budget high-backed boa
rdroom chairs, I’m relieved to note the smiles. There’s even a flicker on Pete’s face. His brows had been locked in a stern stare as I stood next to the white screen, legs planted as wide as my pencil skirt allowed, delivering the all-important pitch, just the odd tip of a supportive nod breaking his icy stillness.
‘Great. Thanks, Carrie.’ Pete slides a shaky hand across his bald head, eyes softening behind his rimless glasses.
The three men from Lorex, a medical and veterinary equipment supplier, nod and make pleasing noises. ‘Well done,’ one says at last, while the others shuffle paper, mumbling to each other. I switch off the equipment, scoop up my cue card.
‘Tell Tash we’re ready for coffee.’ Pete stands, giving his testicles a quick but firm tweak through his trousers. I wince inwardly, as always, offering a damp palm to the trio before bowing out.
Back in the main office, I almost trip over the anticipation that greets me. Mark turns sharply on his swivel chair, hands clapped on his thick thighs, and Tash leaps up from her desk. Even Barbara has paid a rare visit from reception. She swipes off her glasses, letting them tumble on their gold chain towards her low chest, eyebrows raised and expectant.
‘And?’ Tash prompts.
‘Did you balls it up, then?’ Mark pulls a sardonic smile, pale green eyes wide with enquiry.
‘A few stumbles, but I think it went pretty well. Thank God that’s over.’ Relief hits me in a sudden swell. The last three months had been difficult, Christmas and New Year passing in an anxious blur, preparation for the pitch constantly on my mind. I can’t believe it’s February already.
‘Did Pete seem pleased?’ Barbara asks in her cut-glass accent, hands on her heavy hips.
‘I think so. He nearly smiled.’ Barbara flashes a good-humoured frown, pushing a few strands of prim grey hair from her face. She’s Pete’s fiercely loyal and long-standing friend, so we rarely mock him in her presence.
‘Well done, babe.’ Tash claps excitedly.
‘Thanks. He’s requested coffee now.’
‘I’m on it,’ she says, neon-blue slingbacks scuttling off to the kitchen.
We call it the kitchen, though the title’s far too grand. It’s a windowless, glorified cupboard with one length of chipped worktop, a stained sink and a noisy fridge that smells of sick and is invariably empty but for a pint of milk and Barbara’s plain yoghurt. Visitors are forbidden to enter. So, as the most glamorous, Tash gets coffee duty, despite the fact she rarely reaches the boardroom without spillage or other mishap. Barbara’s a great secretary but curt efficiency and cushioned shoes all the way.
‘Let’s hope we’ve done enough to impress,’ Barbara says, heading through the door to reception, where she sits, like a minor royal, behind a huge glass desk, in a haze of polish and lily of the valley. The rest of us are the servants, tucked away in a square, dowdy space full of beige, beech and bulging box files.
When I’d agreed to deliver my first pitch, as a keen but green editorial assistant fresh from the local poly, I didn’t envisage doing them twenty years later. The job was supposed to be temporary – I’d done unpaid work at Cullimore’s during my final year and taken up Pete’s offer of a short contract after graduating – while I decided what I really wanted to do. But I fell for Dan – a friend of Pete’s son and working there to gain business experience – and stayed. Some days, I couldn’t believe I was still there. There was only one filing cabinet that had served longer, with huge dents and runners that jammed – clearly ready to be decommissioned.
‘You can relax now.’ Mark interrupts my reflections. ‘I’ve never known you get so worked up.’
‘Well, Pete certainly piled on the bloody pressure, didn’t he – all that talk about it being the biggest contract ever and desperately needing it? Talk about a biggie.’
‘I hope you’ve done enough then.’ Mark waves a finger in jest, head cocked. ‘Or I’ll be joining the travellers camped in my local field and living on economy beans.’
‘Stop it!’
Although the redundancy threat appeared to have been postponed thanks to the graphic designer offering to work part-time on a freelance basis, we’d all had pay cuts and things didn’t look good. I hadn’t seen Pete this stressed since the council threatened to knock down our office complex and move us – and the other four businesses – to an out-of-town site a few years ago. It caused a huge furore, protestors declaring it another grievous assault on a terminally ill town. Pete was convinced the business wouldn’t thrive there.
The only consolation of the cutbacks was that Mark, a trained journalist and brains of the outfit, was now the only writer, and editor, forcing Pete to occasionally let me loose on a few articles, albeit the ‘lite’ ones.
Pete’s unrelenting pessimism aside, it seemed the company’s survival really was in doubt this time. Barbara had a disabled husband to support and Tash had a big rent and even bigger personal maintenance expenses. I was particularly worried for Mark. He was still recovering from an expensive divorce, while his ex-wife refused to make spending cuts. Mark feared he may have to sacrifice seeing so much of his young son Jack if he was forced to relocate for a job back on newspapers.
‘Seriously, I reckon the Lorex lads are signing on the dotted line as we speak.’ Mark’s muscular voice is muted by a chewy mint.
Tash totters in with a mug. ‘You so deserve this, babe. And … wait for it …’ She pulls her other hand from behind her back. ‘Ta-dah!’ It was one of Pete’s posh gold-wrapped chocolate biscuits, reserved for clients.
‘Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.’
‘Where’s mine?’ Mark asks.
‘What about the flab?’ Tash flashes a cheeky grin.
‘It’s shrinking.’ Mark pulls his checked shirt tight over his belly, breathing in.
‘You sure?’ Tash grabs at his midriff.
‘Cheeky cow.’
Tash giggles her way back to the kitchen, returning with a tray of coffees. ‘Shall I lean over and flash the twins. It might help?’ She lets out a guffaw as she leaves. Tash claimed her boobs were identical, disproving the theory that all women had asymmetrical ones. She had no scientific evidence, just a long list of men happy to take part in her unofficial survey.
‘You didn’t go for the whole cleavage thing then?’ Mark nods to my cream blouse, buttoned to the top.
‘No, I’m not that shallow. I wanted to wow them with my experience, charisma and our businesses credentials.’
‘That’s well and good, but a bit of tit goes a long way. And you’ve only got a bit—’
‘Don’t you dare, you rude bugger.’ I lob a pen, hitting his chair as he spins.
Mark never fails to make me laugh – even in times of tension. He’s become a great friend. Dan got on really well with him too. They shared a passion for flash cars and repetitive sixties music with jangly guitars.
I tuck my notes into a box file, slump in the chair and gaze out the window. The little old man with flyaway hair and a khaki anorak two sizes too big is sat on the bench beneath our office. He’s there often, sometimes for hours, staring into the distance. I wonder if he’s tapped.
Mark’s phone rings. It’s a client he’s been chasing to interview. Crafty online activity’s more hazardous now my desk’s been moved; the screen visible to everyone. Pete’s remarkably light-footed and has a nasty habit of appearing from nowhere. But I’m desperate to send a message to Ashley and, with Mark deep in conversation and Pete tied up with the Lorex men, it’s the ideal opportunity.
I load Facebook, re-reading our exchanges. It had taken six weeks for Ashley to reply to my first message. I wasn’t surprised and chastised myself daily for affording him the satisfaction of making contact, and for being bothered by his lack of response. I made all sorts of excuses for him, some decidedly weak: he was too busy, he rarely used a computer, the accident had affected the use of his hands. I concluded that Ashley clearly didn’t want to rake over what had happened. Too much time had passed. I’d missed my chance.
As it looked like there’d be no more messages, I wished I’d been more direct, gone straight for the jugular, asked why the hell he’d done it to me.
Then it came. I was eating breakfast, feet soaking in a mini spa, when his reply pinged into my inbox. My breath was snatched clean away, mouth paralysed in front of a slice of toast, as I spotted the little lion boy photo next to Ashley’s name. I’d whipped my feet out with such speed and force that I tipped the side of the spa, slopping water over the red rug and turning it cherry. I had to read the message several times:
‘Hi Carrie. Shocked to hear from you. Sorry for delay – computer died on me. Yes, on the mend thanks. Not quite the acting fame I wanted! Never want to see a pair of crutches again. Hope things are OK. Where you living? All the best. Ashley
There wasn’t even the slightest hint of the grovelling apology I deserved. I was disappointed, allowing the anger to drift back momentarily. But I couldn’t help feeling thrilled that he’d replied, at last. Everything inside fluttered in an overwhelming unison. I was nineteen again, the other twenty-three years hadn’t happened; anger crushed by unexpected, inappropriate elation. Pathetically, I’d replied straight away:
Ashley, I’m still in Tetford – over 20 years now! Working in corporate communications. Yawn! Are you back on stage? Still in London? Carrie.
I had so many questions, all beginning with ‘Why?’ and ending with ‘you gutless bastard’, but I couldn’t ask them. Not yet. Though he owed me answers. And an apology. In fact he’d owed me so much, and for so long, I doubted the debt could ever be settled.
After that, I’d checked Facebook several times a day. Nothing. Then, last night, I’d had another message. I was lying on the bed next to Mr Fluff – the evening sunshine lighting up his misshapen midriff – rehearsing my pitch, when it arrived. An internal buzz built to a ludicrous level, pulse thumping as I clicked:
Hi Carrie. That’s a long time in Tetford. Great little place, though, don’t blame you. Yes, I’m in London and back doing acting work. Also do photography – and a few crappy jobs when I get desperate. Surprised you didn’t take up acting. You were great! Ashley x
