by Andrea Darby
Once, after a huge row, Mum had declared Ashley ‘a dozy drifter’. I remember Dad bursting into song: ‘There Goes My Baby – it’s a song by The Drifters,’ he’d clarified, ‘a group in the hit parade in the sixties’. I was blissfully unaware of the irony of that song title at the time. Mum had put down her cleaning cloth, shooting Dad one of her sternest looks: ‘Don’t be so daft, Maurice.’ Ashley was only twenty at the time. What did she expect, his whole life planned, career path definitively carved, investment portfolio filed, pension arranged? But Ashley shrugged off Mum’s intermittently hostile attitude, always placid – and polite. Dan, by contrast, was perfect son-in-law material in Mum’s eyes and the polished pedestal she put him on got loftier over time.
‘Yes, yes, yes. Bring it on!’ Tash is fist-pumping her way into the office, doing a celebratory stomp in purple slingbacks so neon you’d surely spot them from Neptune, and startling me from my musings. ‘It’s official. This party girl has a three-day weekend.’ Tash’s older sister, who shares a flat in Brighton with her gay best friend, was staying for a few days. ‘Boom! We’re going to have some fun.’
‘Lucky you,’ Mark says. ‘Can’t wait to see the state of you next Tuesday.’
‘Oh, shit!’ Tash stares at her mobile, then dashes for the door. ‘I’ll have to go. I’ve got both keys. My sister needs eyelashes and Immac for tonight and has got a right strop on – says she’s a prisoner in the house. Such a drama queen. Can you cover for me?’
Mark and I do a belly laugh in stereo.
***
I’m distracted at my step class, head and limbs reluctant to coordinate. My mind’s being dangerously over-exercised, grappling with the weighty implications of Ashley’s message. It isn’t long before Lady Lycra, our class leader, is on to me.
‘Come on – you’ve got to earn the burn!’ she yells, gaze lingering.
I respond with several vigorous steps, arms swinging. No one dared to disobey Lady Lycra. She looked like a Barbie doll – platinum ponytail scraped back off a ridiculously radiant face, cropped vest revealing a stomach flatter than a baking sheet and more bubble than a Sodastream – but barked orders like a Burmese brigadier. Somehow, her wide smile never faded, even when she was pumping holy hell out of her heavy neoprene dumbbells.
‘Thought you’d get away with slacking, did you?’ my exercise buddy Slim Kim, aka partner in pain, says cheekily, grimacing on her step next to me in bright red capri leggings that match her face. Her short vanilla curls are drenched with sweat.
‘As if.’ We both laugh, breathlessly.
Later, I’m hugging the laptop on the chaise longue, nursing aching muscles and eating crisps, when another message arrives – from Sheena:
Hi Carrie. How are you? How did the pitch go? Thanks for your message – I was touched by your support and concern, as always. Sorry I’ve not been in touch, we had a bit of an emergency here. Abigail was rushed to hospital with a burst appendix. She had a bad tummy after a party, which at first I put down to the usual – too much junk food and fizzy drinks! But during the night she was in agony, an ambulance took her to A&E and they operated immediately. She was in such a state for a few days, bless her. For the first time, I felt really angry with Geoff. While she was in theatre, I kept thinking ‘how could you not be here for your little girl, you selfish man?’ Thankfully, she’s home now and doing fine – lapping up the attention, time off school, big sisters spoiling her. You know what 10-year-olds are like! Look forward to hearing from you. Sheena xxx
Poor Sheena. I could understand her anger. I’d felt it too. Days when it overwhelmed me, smothering all other feelings. How could the man who loved us, leave us? And with something we couldn’t really comprehend? But most of the time I just missed him, and was livid with myself for being so bloody pathetic that I couldn’t function properly without him.
It was difficult hearing how tough life was for Sheena; her situation so dire.
Through our early exchanges, Sheena had revealed her story to me, how she’d returned home from work one day to find a note on the kitchen table from husband Geoff, a sales rep, saying ‘gone for a walk’. She hadn’t seen him since. It must have been well over a year. He’d had depression on and off and refused help, but hadn’t appeared to be particularly down at the time. He’d taken the youngest of their three girls to school as usual and was planning to work from home. He wasn’t there when Sheena got back from her shift at the bank. He hadn’t taken his BMW, wallet or mobile (which, strangely, they found in an empty plant pot at the bottom of the garden). ‘Missing’ posters were put up, hospitals, friends and acquaintances contacted and quizzed, the local area and his favourite haunts scoured. He’d left his passport and no money had been taken from their joint account since.
Several months after he disappeared, police received a report of a possible sighting. Someone matching Geoff’s description, pale and rangy with wiry, grey hair and a beard, had been seen sobbing in a local park. Sheena was so full of hope. ‘I just know it’s him,’ she’d said in an email. It wasn’t. I cried for her. Yet Sheena was so strong. So positive. ‘I have to be for the girls,’ she told me often. ‘Self pity’s so destructive’.
I still found it impossible not to feel sorry for myself, especially when Eleanor stayed over at friends. Just recently, I’d had twinges of regret at not trying harder for another child. He, or she, would possibly be about nine now, still bouncy and excitable. There may even have been a third; at the ‘wide-eyed and full of wonder’ stage. ‘Oh, you’ve just got the one,’ other mums would often remark, with a sympathetic look, when Eleanor was little. But I had my beautiful girl, whom I loved with all my heart, and that was fine.
Dan and I were both keen on a brother or sister for Eleanor (I always hoped we’d have three children, possibly four) but after struggling for three years to conceive, we knew something was wrong. We’d had all the basic fertility tests – initially via the NHS until Dan had a run-in with a ‘curt and condescending’ medic and insisted on going private.
In the end, it was Dan who suggested calling it a day. No one had found any answers and more intrusive procedures looked the only option. Dan was happy with how we were – our tight little trio – and didn’t want to put me through further pain and put unnecessary strain on us all. I agreed. I’d read the headlines: ‘IVF ruined our marriage’. I’d seen it tear the strongest couples apart. I didn’t want that.
I never took the pill again.
Sadly, I never caught.
CHAPTER 8
‘Tuck in, girls. Grandma will join us shortly,’ Dad insists, pouring tea from a Royal Worcester teapot. ‘There you are, young lady.’
‘Thanks, Granddad.’ Eleanor smiles sweetly.
We’re sat at Mum’s beloved rosewood dining-room table, Eleanor framed by a pair of busy floral curtains and big stiff pelmet overhead, the sun throwing geometric shapes on to the gold Berber twist carpet.
It’s the third day of our stay and she’s still agog, surveying a breakfast spread that would put some hotels to shame – a choice of cereals (in containers, ‘boxes on the table are so uncouth’), grapefruit, melon, cheese, toast, various breads, and mini jams with swirly writing on the pots. This was before Mum brought out the bacon, eggs and Dad’s home-grown tomatoes – some giant, misshapen hybrid variety with green and grey bruises he’d nurtured in his new ten-foot greenhouse.
Eleanor spreads a thick layer of jam on toast with a shiny knife. I gulp, uncertain I’ll be able to eat, nerves filling my abdomen.
‘Bacon’s on its way,’ Mum says, trotting in to fuss with cutlery, then retreating. She’s never happier than when entertaining, particularly spoiling her loved ones. Yet her insistence on everything being ‘just so’ always makes her tense. She won’t let me help, gets quite offended when I offer. Mum worries so much about Dad – and me – but it’s her I’m concerned about. She seldom relaxes.
Dad hovers eagerly, trying to be helpful. ‘Coffee’s coming.’ He skips round the ta
ble, drops into his carver chair. ‘Tea for me, I think,’ he declares, before bursting into song: ‘Tea for two …’
‘Don’t be daft, Maurice!’ says a voice from the kitchen. We giggle and Dad drops his head in mock remorse.
‘Oh, I forgot to say, we’ve got new neighbours at number 26,’ Mum announces, sitting down at last.
‘Have you met them?’ I ask.
‘Briefly – I don’t think they’re our type.’
Mum starts to loosen, shoulders sinking back into the chair, voice softening, as it always does, when she chats to Eleanor. They’re going to a wildlife park. I’m going to meet Ashley, at a café in north London, before his rehearsal at a local theatre.
It’s taken several weeks to organise and I’ve changed my mind more times than Mum’s changed her bed linen, wrestling with doubts about the wisdom of opening up old wounds, whether I can face knowing the truth or even if his invitation to meet is a serious request. Eventually, I emailed saying I was visiting my parents and could catch a train into London. I’m petrified, fibbing to Mum, Dad, and Eleanor that I’m meeting an old sixth-form friend.
Yet I’ve convinced myself that it won’t matter if seeing Ashley again turns out to be a mistake. We deserve a break. Eleanor adores her daft granddad and there are times when you need your mum, even though when you’re one yourself you’re supposed to be harder than one of Imogen’s rock cakes left in the larder too long.
I set off before the others, leaving Mum and Dad disputing whether or not to keep the uneaten bacon, and Eleanor giggling as her granddad pulls faces behind his wife’s back.
I sit on the train, questions and thoughts whizzing through my mind as rapidly as bits of blurred green and grey scenery flash past my eyes. Should I be meeting him? Should I confront him immediately? Would all the old hurt come flooding back? Was he going to tell me something I couldn’t bear to hear? Would I recognise him? (the man pictured in the news stories was battered and bandaged). I wonder what age his children are, how beautiful his wife is, if he still drinks lemonade, whether his nostrils are hairy.
I’m worried he might think I’ve aged badly. I’d seen myself grow older in daily episodes, while Ashley will get the shock of a twenty-year visual fast-forward in one scan. I’ve found myself hovering by the mirror more – Eleanor style – convinced the creases by my mouth have deepened. Yet Ashley will surely forgive a few crinkles, I convince myself, recalling the state of his clothes, always scrunched up and shoehorned into that blue and red Gola bag he took everywhere.
But why should I care what Ashley thinks? I’m seeing him to confront him. It’s answers I need, not admiration.
***
I climb off the tube, hemmed in by jostling bodies, most in a far greater hurry than me. Yet I can match their adrenalin, buzz for buzz, convinced that if someone touches me in the chest area, they’ll get a life-threatening shock from all the nervous energy inside.
I decide to walk the final few streets as it’s such a fine, sunny day – just a few fluffy clouds spoiling a smooth, cyan sky. Several black cabs hurl past, one blasting its horn at a group of excitable tourists straggling the road. I’ve forgotten how loud the hum of London is, with its confusing threads of noise; my eyes and ears on high alert. The air’s hot, heavy and reeks of diesel.
Stopping by the window of an antiques shop to apply lippie and a top-up of perfume, I rummage in my bag for the scrap of paper I’ve scribbled the café’s name on. I can’t find it and have to text Ashley. Not a good start. He replies: ‘It’s Delish. See you in half an hour.’ He must have the time wrong. We’d definitely said eleven.
It takes me back to our student days. We were the dumb and dumber of logistics, Ashley often missing his connection when he travelled to visit me at poly, or me turning up at the coach instead of the train station to meet him. We regularly messed up social plans, both faffing over which party to go to, invariably arriving late, or at the wrong place, often without the cans of lager we’d bought. But I didn’t care. I loved being with him. I thought he felt the same. And I stupidly believed we’d be Mr and Mrs Fuckwit forever. Forever. Just like the title of our song.
Delish is twice as trendy as anything Tetford has to offer, already full of chat, the heavy clank of crockery and all kinds of toasted and roasted smells. Low-backed red plastic chairs surround gingham-covered tables and confetti half-curtains made from sparkly red squares hang like vertical paper-chains in the quaint windows.
The only empty table’s in the centre of the room. I sit, tentatively, feeling the full glare of the spotlight – and extreme stage fright. A striking waitress, with wolf eyes and multiple piercings, assures me she’ll return when my friend arrives. Then he does.
It’s the mousy hair I see first; the long fringe flopping over his face as he enters. He doesn’t look over, so I watch as he turns to close the door behind him. He’s filled out a little and I’m struck by the facial hair – which has a surprising reddish hue – but it’s unmistakably Ashley.
He scans the room, sharp blue eyes quick to find me. He grins, lifts his palm in acknowledgement. I smile, gulp and wave back.
It’s strange not to see him in one of his trademark crumpled plain T-shirts. It’s what I’d pictured. He’s wearing relaxed jeans with a linen shirt, cuffs folded back. I fidget as he approaches, hands wandering everywhere. His thumbs are hooked firmly into his front pockets, as always, splayed fingers hanging down. I think I detect a slight limp.
I stand, reminding myself to breathe as he lands a kiss on my cheek.
‘Hey, great to see you.’
‘You recognised me, then?’ I fear it’s the first of many stupid things I’ll drop out, my tongue, as ever, loose with anxiety.
‘Course.’ He lets out a staccato laugh. ‘You look great. Not aged a bit.’
I laugh nervously, half-expecting him to add, ‘Age hath not withered ...’ How he loved a Shakespeare quote, and spouting lines from famous plays, always with his tongue firmly in his cheek.
The waitress brings menus and we’re both glad of the distraction. Ashley thanks her, then looks down at the single sheet. He’s like a stranger, yet so familiar. It’s the weirdest thing. His poker-straight hair’s neater and shorter, barely brushing the top of his collar. Ashley was never textbook handsome, or stylish, like Dan. He was a little pretty, eyes framed by a canopy of thick lashes, and he had an inner confidence, a kind of nonchalance and effortless charm. I’d found him fascinating, and mysterious – a bit too mysterious as it turned out.
‘The cakes in here are great.’ Ashley shuffles in the chair, eyes passing quickly across my face before returning to the menu.
‘Do you come in here a lot, then?’
‘Not recently – I did a while back when I was in a production at the same theatre.’
I can’t imagine eating. I feel sick with dread, wondering how this scene’s going to unfold, whether I’ll tell him what a heartless, gutless bastard he was, whether I’ll fall to pieces.
‘Just a coffee for me. You still into lemonade?’ I’ve managed to get in the first reference to the past. He used to drink bottles of the stuff – always leaving them scattered around my room in halls.
‘Yeah – not so much though. They do great cloudy lemonade here.’ He flicks his hair and I glimpse a thin, L-shaped scar on his forehead. ‘Actually, I think I’ll have one. And …’ he turns to the glass counter, ‘ … perhaps a flapjack. I skipped breakfast.’ He looks at me. ‘Actually, forget the flapjack. Are you sure you won’t—’ I shake my head.
Ashley slides a foot out from under the table. He’s still wearing beige desert boots. I want to let out a little laugh, but it’s weighed down too heavily inside.
The strained small talk continues until the waitress brings the drinks. Ashley’s expression changes, eyelids flickering, smile fading. He grips his glass with both hands.
‘Look, about us, you know, the college thing. I didn’t want to mention it on Facebook. I needed to tell you.’ His eyes tak
e time to find mine, as if stalling to recall rehearsed lines.
A wave of adrenalin frees my tongue. ‘You mean why you left that weekend and then, with no explanation, I never saw you again?’
‘Yeah, that.’ Ashley’s prominent Adam’s apple rolls as he swallows. ‘When I went that day I wasn’t intending to … walk out on you, I mean … well, a few days after, I was contacted by Hayley, you remember …’
‘Yes.’ He’d finished with her after meeting me, though I often wondered whether she was still on the scene. I had no evidence – he assured me my suspicions were unfounded.
Ashley’s gaze intensifies. ‘She told me she was pregnant.’
I feel shattered; breathless. I don’t know what I expected, but not that. So they weren’t over. Was he still seeing Hayley while we were together? He must have read my mind.
‘I hadn’t seen her since you and I got together. I had no idea. I was completely shocked. A total mess. I thought I’d have to make things work, to support the child.’ I did the maths. He … she … would be twenty-one now. ‘I quit drama school, got a job. But she lost the baby.’ A pause. ‘A stillbirth.’ Silence. Ashley rubs his palms on his thighs. ‘The baby had severe brain damage, it … she … couldn’t have survived.’
‘Oh no.’ My throat feels like it’s turned to concrete. I don’t know how words break through. ‘I’m sorry.’ The waitress drifts over. She’s forgotten to take the menus. Ashley waits for her to go.
‘Of course, none of it’s an excuse for not contacting you … explaining. I tried. I called a few times but couldn’t speak. I was a coward. I didn’t know how to tell you. ’
‘There’s … always … a way.’ I’m still tongue-tied, and my heart’s melted the harder words I want to say.
‘I know. And I understand why you ignored me when I tried to get in touch later.’
