The Dream Wife

by Louisa de Lange

  The gunfire stopped and I heard the approach of heavy pissed-off mafia underlings. I checked my revolver – out of bullets. That was entertaining, I thought, but enough was enough.

  Wake up, I thought, and I was gone.

  Outside Maggie’s house, I load Johnny back into the car, then strap myself in. When I pull up in our drive – my drive – and let Johnny out of his car seat, he runs gleefully towards the house, arms waving in the air, almost tripping over his feet to get in as soon as possible. I have the same feeling as I reach over him and unlock the front door with a smile. The cool air greets me as we go inside, Johnny heading straight towards his toys, still in a messy pile from when we left that morning; me to the kitchen to get a drink for us both. A Diet Coke for me, drunk straight out of the can without a glass. Beaker of water for Johnny, left in front of him on the coffee table, no coaster in sight.

  I sink onto the sofa, kicking my trainers off haphazardly on the rug. I cast my eye around the room, taking in what is now my home, my safe haven. Already I have taken down the photos and ornaments I hated, and replaced them with keepsakes of my own. A photo frame given to me by Becca on my fifteenth birthday, now adorned with a smiling photo of me and Johnny. A heavy blue glass paperweight, bought from a charity shop years ago with my first pay cheque. Memories I am proud of, to mark a future I can finally look forward to.

  I watch Johnny arrange his trains in a line, contentedly chatting to them as he goes. Hello, Thomas, hello, Gordon, hello, James.

  Goodbye, David, goodbye, Maggie.

  Goodbye, Annie.

  Hello, Annabelle, hello, Johnny.

  35

  She pulled at the stiff white collar of the cheap blouse irritating her neck. Her mother reached over and slapped her hand away.

  ‘We’re someplace nice, Annabelle,’ she hissed. ‘Try and act classy. And sit up straight.’

  Her mother was dressed in a bright red nylon dress. Low-cut at the front, showing her skinny décolletage and empty boobs; better suited to a woman half her age.

  Annabelle forced herself up in the uncomfortable chair, sitting straight and placing her hands on the table in front of her. She looked at her nails, bitten, uneven, dirty, and put them back on her lap, out of sight. She glanced around the room; it was quiet, only a few tables occupied. They were at the back, out of the way. One day, she resolved, I’m going to have perfect red shiny nails, and I’m going to sit right in the middle of the restaurant where everyone can see me.

  Earlier that day, she had rushed home from the pub, her hard-earned twelve pounds clutched in her hand. When the final pot and pint glass had been dried and put away, she found herself surrounded by the owner and her workmates clutching a chocolate cupcake with a candle on top.

  They sung a heartfelt ‘Happy Birthday’ and the owner of the pub held out the cake to her.

  ‘Make a wish, sweet pea,’ she’d said. ‘Sweet sixteen.’

  Annabelle closed her eyes. I wish tonight to go well, she’d thought, I wish to be free. And she blew.

  The waitress came over to their table, pad and pen in hand.

  Her mother looked up slowly from the menu. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to be a pain,’ she said, smiling and showing the red lipstick stuck to her teeth. ‘I’m allergic to nuts, and I can’t eat gluten or dairy. Oh, and I’m vegetarian. Is there anything here I can have?’

  Annabelle looked down at her hands again, remembering the remains of a burger left by her mother in the kitchen late Saturday night.

  The waitress leant over, tapping her pen on the menu. ‘I could ask the chef to make some of the risotto up for you, mushrooms, butternut squash and avoiding the prawns.’

  ‘Oh, prawns are fine, leave in the prawns,’ her mother said.

  The waitress scribbled on the pad, then looked to Annabelle.

  ‘The pasta, please, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘It’s her sixteenth birthday today,’ her mother added.

  Annabelle felt her cheeks redden. ‘Lovely, happy birthday,’ the waitress said, and walked quickly towards the kitchen.

  Her mother leant over. ‘A place like this, you should get a pudding on the house for your birthday. And I can get an allergic reaction from my dinner, and we’re home free.’ She smiled.

  ‘Pizza would have been fine, Mum,’ Annabelle said. She hadn’t wanted to go out for dinner, but her mother had insisted, a rare gesture of pretend normality. Annabelle was desperate to finish; Becca was waiting for her just as soon as she could get away.

  ‘Don’t be so ungrateful,’ her mother said. ‘How often do we have an excuse to come to these fancy-pants restaurants?’

  ‘I know, thank you,’ Annabelle said, her insides already screwed up in a knot. ‘Let’s just have a nice quiet dinner.’

  ‘Quiet?’ her mum said. ‘You know I don’t do quiet. Why do quiet,’ she cackled, ‘when you can do free?’

  ‘Was it that awful?’ Becca said later, lying on her bed and tossing her newly permed blonde ringlets back from her face.

  ‘Worse,’ Annabelle said. ‘She made such a fuss I was afraid we’d get thrown out of the restaurant. Here, give me some of that.’

  Becca took a big swig of the toxic-looking red liquid and passed the bottle across to Annabelle sitting cigarette in hand by the open window.

  ‘Was MD 20/20 the best you could get?’ Annabelle said, screwing her nose up at the sickly-sweet alcohol.

  ‘You try nicking from the offie next time. And besides, couldn’t you just have stolen a bottle from your mum?’

  ‘Nah, she’d notice.’

  Annabelle and Becca were in Becca’s room, joss sticks burning to mask the smell of Annabelle’s smoking, Radiohead playing quietly on the CD player. Becca’s mum had turned a blind eye to the late-night visit, muttering, ‘Just this once’ under her breath as she closed her bedroom door.

  Annabelle opened the large bag next to her for the umpteenth time, mentally running through everything packed inside.

  ‘Where are you going to go?’ Becca asked. ‘I could ask Mum if you could stay here.’

  Annabelle smiled and reached out for her friend’s hand. ‘I know, thank you, but I need to get away. I can’t stand being near her any more, even in the same town.’ She took a final drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out on the windowsill. ‘I need to go somewhere where nobody knows me – or her. A fresh start.’

  ‘You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?’ Becca looked close to tears. ‘I’ll miss you.’

  Annabelle leant over and gave her a hug, smelling the familiar smell of hairspray and cheap teenage perfume. She almost couldn’t bear to say goodbye, but the nugget of excitement was growing, churning in her stomach.

  ‘I’ll miss you too,’ she said, closing her eyes, her voice breaking.

  She looked again at the bag, then scrabbled through the contents, tipping the items out onto Becca’s bed. Her stomach dropped and she covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, ‘I’ve forgotten my sodding money.’ She could see it, clear in her mind’s eye, underneath her bed in the Tupperware box. ‘I’m going to have to go back.’

  On the way home through the darkness, she ran through what she was going to say to her mother if she was there. I’m leaving, I’m not coming back, I’ll be in touch. She sprang from one patch of light to another, the street lights guiding her way.

  As she approached the house, she felt a burn of anxiety, and it took her a few goes to get the key in the lock with her shaking hand. She opened the door slowly, and looked around. Everything seemed quiet; her mother wasn’t often home at this time on a Saturday night.

  ‘Mum?’ she called, just in case, and receiving no reply, she moved slowly into the kitchen.

  Her mother was sitting at the table, a half-finished bottle of vodka and a packet of cigarettes in front of her. Her head was bowed and she was struggling to stay awake. She raised her head as Annabelle came in.

  ‘You’re home,’ she slurred. ‘Where have y
ou been?’

  ‘At Becca’s,’ Annabelle replied, cursing under her breath and sitting slowly on the chair opposite her mother. ‘I told you, remember?’

  Her mother waved her comment away. ‘What were you doing with Becca?’ she asked. ‘Were you drinking?’ She picked up the vodka bottle and took a swig. She didn’t even wince as she swallowed the full mouthful.

  ‘No, just hanging out in her bedroom,’ Annabelle said, ignoring her mother’s hypocrisy, the lies coming out of her mouth with practised ease.

  Her mother laughed, a globule of spit landing on the table in front of Annabelle. ‘You left so quickly earlier, we didn’t even have time for cake.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘It’s not fucking okay. Here.’ Her mother scrabbled around on the chair next to her and picked up a Tupperware box, putting it on the table. One five-pound note and a few coins rattled in the bottom. Annabelle’s stomach dropped.

  ‘Where’s the rest of it?’

  ‘The rest? Oh yeah, there was quite a bit, wasn’t there?’ her mother said.

  ‘And the … the bits and pieces?’ Annabelle didn’t know how else to describe them. Her treasures, the memories of the good things in her life. The times that kept her going.

  ‘The junk? That fuzzy thing and the receipts and stuff? In the bin. What did you want those for?’

  Annabelle rushed to the bin and opened the lid, but they were gone. Buried under a mound of food leftovers and burger wrappers. She turned back to her mother.

  ‘What were you doing digging around under my bed?’

  ‘What the hell were you doing building up your little stash and not offering any of it to me?’ her mother shouted. ‘You’re not cheap, you know, all that food, all that rent you never contribute to. This is my money! I’ve brought you up for sixteen years and you’ve never offered me a penny.’

  ‘Where’s the money?’ Annabelle shouted back, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her escape plan, now in her mother’s hands.

  Her mother laughed, showing a row of stained, uneven pegs. ‘All gone, paid for Mummy’s vitamins, and Mummy’s magic talcum powder. And this little bottle of something special,’ she finished, gesturing towards the vodka. She took out the five-pound note and put it on the table. ‘Go to the twenty-four-hour shop and buy us a cake – we’ll celebrate your birthday.’

  Annabelle felt the anger build, rolling her hands into fists. ‘I hate you! I owe you nothing! Nothing at all! For my entire life you’ve been no more than a drugged-up alcoholic—’ She stopped as she felt the stinging slap round her face. Her mother stood in front of her, her hand still raised. Then she calmly reached down to the table, took a cigarette from the packet and put it in her mouth.

  ‘I gave you life – I made you,’ she said, not looking at Annabelle. She lit the cigarette and blew a plume of smoke across the kitchen. ‘Without me, you’re nothing. Worthless.’ She held out the five-pound note and Annabelle stared at it. ‘Take it.’ Her mother waved it in her face. ‘It’s yours, after all.’

  Stunned, Annabelle took the fiver and ran out of the house, slamming the door behind her. As she walked, thoughts whirled around in her head. She couldn’t leave now, not without money. She could borrow some from Becca. But Becca was as skint as Annabelle. She could just go anyway, but what would she live off?

  She bought a cake and carried it back, slapping it on the table in front of her mother. In the time she had been gone, her mother had managed to find a few candles, their ends already blackened from use; now she stuck them directly into the icing of the cake and lit them with her lighter.

  ‘Happy birthday, my darling daughter,’ she said sarcastically, letting out a cloud of cigarette smoke over the cake, blowing out the candles in the process. She laughed. ‘Oh well, let’s just eat the damn thing.’

  Knife in hand, she cut a large slab of cake and placed it in front of Annabelle on the table. She did the same for herself, then took a large bite, chocolate icing all round her mouth. ‘Absolutely fucking delicious,’ she mumbled, and then stopped.

  She placed the cigarette in the ashtray and put the cake back on the table slowly. She was struggling to take a breath. ‘What the fuck did you buy?’ she wheezed.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Annabelle asked, looking at her own untouched slice.

  ‘What did you buy?’ Her mother took another strained breath in and tried to stand up, clawing at her neck. ‘I can’t …’ she whispered.

  Annabelle felt a calm wash over her. Her mother attempted to stand again, knocking her chair over and falling to the floor. Annabelle stood up and took a step backwards. Her mother groped towards her, and then towards the mobile phone that had fallen next to her. Annabelle carefully pushed it away with her foot, out of her grasp.

  She saw the look of sudden realisation on her mother’s face as she strained to get some air, her skin taking on a deathly pallor. Her eyes bulged and her mouth opened in wordless desperation. Her arm reached out to Annabelle, then she fell unconscious.

  Annabelle looked at her mother’s prone body, twisted and bent, her face puffy, her legs collapsed unnaturally under her, her lips blue. She turned and picked up the box for the cake. Chocolate peanut butter cup. Allergy advice: contains nuts.

  She stood in the kitchen a while longer, then leant over to take her mother’s pulse. Nothing. She reached down and picked up the mobile phone. The digital display marked the time: 4:13 a.m.

  She was free.

  36

  ‘Where do you want this to go?’ Becca holds up yet another black leather belt, this one brand new, still with its tag on.

  I glance over from my cross-legged position on the floor. ‘Charity,’ I reply without hesitation, and she throws it perfectly into the bin bag on the other side of the room. ‘How are we doing?’ I ask, surveying the mess.

  Becca looks around as I do, taking in the empty wardrobes, the line of bulging bin bags, carefully labelled and stacked in the corner. The bed in the centre of the room has been stripped of its white cotton sheets and I can hear them going round in the washing machine downstairs, set to ninety degrees.

  ‘Pretty well, I think,’ Becca says, running the back of her hand across her face, pushing her hair out of her eyes for the umpteenth time today. ‘And I nearly forgot: Mum said would you like to come round for Sunday lunch this week?’

  ‘We would love to,’ I reply. I can’t help the grin appearing on my face. Sunday lunch at Helen’s is nothing like the weekends of old with Maggie. It’s messy and noisy, with conversations abandoned in the middle then picked up again later. It’s warm, and fun: everything I have always wished for.

  ‘Good,’ Becca says and looks at her watch. ‘On that subject, time for some lunch?’

  At the sound of the word ‘lunch’, both small children look up from their play area in the hallway outside the bedrooms. They’re surrounded by Johnny’s toys, and I managed to find some brightly coloured blocks to keep Rosie amused. Despite the age difference between them they have been playing nicely alongside each other, a mismatch of stacked blocks and towers of Duplo creating a tiny cityscape on the carpet.

  ‘What do you say, Johnny?’ I ask. ‘Time for some lunch? Pizza?’

  ‘Pizza,’ Johnny nods, ‘an’ chips.’

  ‘Please?’ I laugh.

  Johnny looks solemn. ‘Please.’

  We decamp downstairs, me carrying a few bin liners as we go and leaving them by the front door as Johnny descends the stairs on his bottom, followed closely by Becca carrying Rosie on her hip. I turn on the oven and unwrap the pizzas, lining them up on the counter ready to go.

  I turn to Becca, who is standing in the doorway, watching the kids get distracted by the boxes of toys downstairs.

  ‘Thank you for doing this,’ I say. ‘It would have been so depressing without you here. Today feels … something else, I don’t know.’

  ‘Cathartic?’ she offers.

  ‘Yes, like some sort of therapy. Clearing out the old.’

>   The chips go in the oven, followed by the pizzas on their trays. We lay the table in companionable silence, and Becca sets up a portable high chair for Rosie, placing it next to Johnny’s at the table. Knives and forks, wet wipes, ketchup and tiny-people spoons are laid out in a square. For a family of sorts – a new family.

  That morning, I woke up before Johnny. I lay in bed for a moment, the sun making an appearance behind the curtains blowing slightly in the summer breeze. I could hear cars moving out of the close, people talking; pigeons sat on the satellite dish cooing noisily.

  I got up, cool in just my T-shirt and shorts, and opened the door quietly. I paused in the hallway for a moment, listening with Johnny’s door slightly ajar until I heard it, the faint in and out of his breathing, repetitive and reassuring. Still asleep – it was early.

  I stood for a moment in the hallway and regarded the closed door in front of me: the master bedroom where David used to sleep. Before now the door had remained resolutely closed, his life confined and shut away into one room, but now I pushed the handle down slowly, allowing the stale air to escape into the corridor. Warm, fusty, but still unmistakably David. Slowing my breathing, I made my way round the bed and pushed open a window, feeling the cool air on my face, listening to the early sounds of lawn mowers. Instantly I felt better.

  I slowly pulled open the wardrobe, seeing rows and rows of stern suits. The line of white and pale-blue shirts I had painstakingly ironed and positioned; the ties, the cufflinks, the old copies of the FT left on his bedside table.