I Invited Her In

by Adele Parks

  Or at least, she liked to think he did.

  She’d have had to have been way bigger for the chance to grow old gracefully in front of a TV audience. Katie Couric, Barbara Walters, and Diane Sawyer had been allowed. That was about it. It was her own fault. Sometimes she’d lie awake at night, alone, even though he was sleeping next to her, and she’d admit that she’d never had the necessary commitment to her career. Not one hundred per cent. She’d drawn lines. She had principles. She wouldn’t, for example, appear on TV shows that were solely designed to humiliate people. She hadn’t gone to university to rip the shit out of those with less education, money or fewer chances than she had. She played fairer than that. And although she did watch her weight (that was just common sense, right?), she wasn’t prepared to starve herself. Eating tissues was not her idea of fun, and while she’d had Botox, that was to help with her migraines (mostly). She’d resisted plastic surgery (at least on her face), and had only had a little augmentation to her breasts. She was not prepared to sleep with anyone other than Rob, because she loved him and respected herself. But it limited her career options in a business where the casting couch was still being bounced upon. In the past couple of years, she’d found she was not even willing to go to absolutely every party she was invited to, to make small talk with strangers, on the off-chance one of them (out of, say, fifty thousand) might offer her an opportunity. It was exhausting. Soul destroying. She found that neither the canapés nor the conversation ever quite filled her up. She used to do that sort of eternal mingling and mixing willingly, hopefully. She couldn’t really explain it, but more and more, she found she preferred to stay at home and snuggle up with a good book (which was handy really because there was rarely the option of snuggling up with Rob – he still seemed to like the parties).

  Now, as she pulled the door of her luxurious LA home shut behind her and clumped down the path towards the waiting taxi, she wondered whether maybe she should have gone to the parties. Dragged herself there.

  The question of other women had raised its ugly head time and again throughout their relationship. As he became increasingly successful, increasingly powerful, she became increasingly paranoid, increasingly jealous. He said there was no reason for her to be like that. To check through his emails, his phone records, to hire private detectives. But he would say that, wouldn’t he? He would say that she was the only woman he’d ever truly loved, or wanted. It didn’t have to be true. Just convenient.

  It sometimes felt it was like an incredibly fast version of that arcade game, Whac-A-Mole, where moles appear at random and the player must use a mallet to hit them back into their holes. Other women kept popping up. She’d have to slam them down. Bash them back into their places. Thwack, thump, slap. Take that.

  It was exhausting.

  She’d had enough.

  5

  Melanie

  ‘What are you doing?’ asks Ben as he carefully edges in the door, through the hall, past the paint-splattered sheet that I’ve put on the floor to protect the carpet. It’s a thoughtful act. Lily walked right over it and inadvertently stood in some wet paint; paint that is now trailed throughout the kitchen and sitting room. I’ll get a wet cloth and sort that out later. He loosens his tie, a gesture I always think of as sexy. At least, part of me thinks that he looks sexy, another part of me clocks that he looks worn out; unfortunately, both of those things are overwhelmed by my own sense of panic and exhaustion. Ben is a financial director in a small software company. I’m certain what he does is important, crucial maybe – it’s just not very comprehensible, at least not to me. Even so, I do normally ask how his day has been.

  Today I snap, ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

  ‘Painting the hallway.’

  ‘Give the man a prize.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It needed painting.’

  ‘Have the kids been fed?’

  ‘I asked Liam to do some fish fingers and beans for the girls.’

  Ben makes his way into the sitting room. I hear a blast of CBeebies as the door opens and then the excited shouts of the girls as they fling themselves at him, demanding cuddles, desperate to off-load their news. I wasn’t very receptive to their chatter about the trials and tribulations, triumphs and trade-offs that occurred at school today. When I picked them up, I more or less frogmarched them home, then stuck them in front of the TV until Liam arrived back and could take over. He’s a good kid. I feel a bit guilty that neither my kids nor my husband got the welcome they deserve today. I have nearly finished a first coat on the hall walls. The jackets, scarfs, hats, gloves, shoes and other debris from the hallway are now in the sitting room in a huge untidy pile. I’m at the stage of the job when you just wish you hadn’t started.

  Ben knows me well enough to leave me to it. He takes over from Liam with looking after the girls. He listens to them reading, gets them bathed and into bed. Liam does his homework, then goes out to meet his girlfriend, Tanya. While the paint in the hallway is drying I start to thoroughly clean the sitting room. This largely involves picking up an endless stream of newspapers, books, toys, stray socks, hair clips, Lego, cups, and plates, etc. looking at these items helplessly for a moment and then throwing them into the kitchen sink, a cupboard, or the girls’ bedroom.

  I run out of paint halfway through the second coat. I’m a little snow-blind anyway. It’s late, there’s no natural light and in the electric light it’s hard to see where I have layered the second coat and where I haven’t.

  I admit as much to Ben and he comments, ‘That suggests a second coat is unnecessary. Come on, love. I’ve made you a cheese and pickle sandwich. You should eat something. Come and sit down for five minutes and tell me what the rush is.’

  It’s too welcome an invite to resist. I collapse into a kitchen chair. Ben squeezes my shoulder and I lay my cheek on his hand. He feels warm, smooth, comfortable. ‘We’re expecting a guest,’ I explain.

  ‘We are?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My mother?’ He looks a bit aghast as he places the sandwich in front of me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘My friend, Abigail Curtiz.’

  He sits opposite me, scrunches up his eyes the way he always does when he’s trying to recall someone. ‘Oh, the woman who emailed this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When is she coming?’

  ‘Thursday.’

  ‘This Thursday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re redecorating because someone is coming to dinner?’

  ‘She’s staying with us for a few days.’

  ‘How long is a few days?’ he asks suspiciously. Ben is a social man, he’ll accept pretty much any invite that comes our way and we reciprocate, too. However, he has his limits. He likes waking up in his own bed and he doesn’t like entertaining before breakfast, so he’s not a big fan of stayovers.

  ‘I’m not sure. As long as she needs,’ I reply, vaguely.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I told you, she’s getting a divorce.’ I realise this doesn’t address the question he is asking. Why would I invite someone he’s never heard of until today to stay with us? We rarely have house guests. Theoretically we have a spare room but it’s incredibly small and currently stacked with boxes full of Christmas decorations, old clothes, files and photo albums as well as unused gym equipment and the ironing board. ‘I think it will be nice,’ I say breezily.

  ‘How will it be nice? It will be cramped.’

  ‘Cosy,’ I insist. I start to devour my sandwich. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until I stopped painting. Besides, with my mouth full I can’t answer any difficult questions.

  Ben studies me. ‘Will it be OK, her staying here for a few days?’

  ‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it be OK?’

  ‘It’s just I haven’t heard you talk much about this Abigail Curtiz over the years. At all, actually. I didn’t realise she was a particular fri
end, not the sort you offer our spare room to indefinitely. I mean, who is she?’

  ‘Well, we were once very close. People lose touch.’ I hope Ben won’t push. I can’t bring myself to articulate exactly why we had to go our separate ways. Why me having Liam made it impossible for me to continue to be her friend. He must understand our lives went in very different directions. While I was trying to secure a place for Liam at nursery, Abi was stepping onto the stage to receive her certificate that confirmed her first-class honours degree. While I was spooning goop into Liam’s mouth, Abi was being interviewed for her first job in TV as the assistant to Piers Morgan’s assistant. ‘No big thing. We just drifted,’ I say with a shrug. ‘You’ll like her. I promise. Everyone does.’ I stand up, lean across the table and kiss him briefly on the lips. He stands too and puts his hand on the back of my head, kisses me hard and long. Even after all these years, that particular manoeuvre makes me melt.

  ‘I have cleaning to get on with,’ I mumble, breaking away.

  ‘We’ll be quick.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Liam’s out and the girls are asleep. Why wouldn’t we?’ He’s kissing my neck now.

  ‘What’s got into you?’ I ask, giggling. ‘It’s a Monday night.’

  ‘It must be the paint fumes,’ he replies. He slips his hand up my T-shirt and works his thumbs under my bra strap. My body leans into his; instinct, habit, pleasure. I’m aching from painting and tidying all day but suddenly I realise this is what I need, what I want. It delights me that Ben knew as much before I did.

  ‘You are not suggesting doing it on the kitchen table, are you?’

  ‘I thought that was why you cleared the clutter.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ I ask, laughing.

  ‘About you,’ he replies, cheesily.

  We compromise and do it on the sofa in the sitting room.

  6

  Abigail

  Tuesday 20th February

  Neither airports nor aeroplanes particularly excited Abigail; she’d become accustomed. She didn’t bother looking at the tax-free luxury products that were available because she could afford to buy them at full price, if she pleased. She didn’t grab the in-flight entertainment brochure and get excited by the movies that were showing because often she’d been to early screenings, even premieres. She wasn’t interested in the glass of champagne that was complimentary in business class, because alcohol was dehydrating and it was important not to look drained after a flight. Today she visited duty-free, bought the first perfume and lipstick that came to hand, put it on his credit card; she’d have bought more but they were calling her flight. And while she did still ignore the in-flight entertainment, she put herself in danger of becoming it, as she helped herself to four glasses of champagne and knocked them back swiftly, ignoring the slightly concerned looks on the flight-attendants’ faces.

  Abigail felt cheated.

  He’d stolen from her. Her dignity, her youth, her opportunities, her time.

  Him, and that woman. She wasn’t going to take it lying down. She was going to even up the score. She was owed. And she was going to collect.

  7

  Melanie

  Thursday 22nd February

  Abigail insisted that she’d get a cab to ours rather than allow me to go out of my way to pick her up. I’m grateful because it gives me a bit more time to dash around the house, making last-minute adjustments. The box room has been cleared to the extent that it is now at least possible to see the sofa bed. The musty old boxes have been shoved into the attic. I promised Ben that I would sort them one day, maybe when all the kids leave home and go to university. I’ve put the exercise bike, which I insisted upon buying about a year after I had Lily, into Liam’s room. He wasn’t best pleased but I pointed out he could throw his clothes over the handle bars, rather than on the floor, which means I won’t have to stoop so much when I’m picking up his dirty washing. I’ve squirrelled away the rest of the rubbish wherever I could.

  Along with the house, I’ve benefitted from a mini makeover. I’ve taken care with my make-up, I had my hair blow-dried and I’m wearing a new shirt. I’m wearing accessories: hooped earrings and multiple bracelets. I’m now worried that rather than channelling hippy chic, I’m more gypsy fortune-teller. I’ve bought scarlet gladioli, because they’re dramatic and impactful but don’t break the bank. I’m just hunting out a long thin vase – I know we used to have one; I think it may be in one of the boxes that I’ve just moved up to the attic – when the doorbell rings.

  Abigail. She is even more glamorous in the flesh than either I remembered her or the photos on the internet revealed. She is five foot eight, four inches taller than I am, and yet seems somehow dainty, frail. Maybe it’s because she’s been through something so awful recently. Her skin is pale, cool and smooth. No spots, no freckles, no lines or creases. She looks brand new. I fight an urge to caress her cheekbones. They are so sharp, I might prick my finger and draw blood, like people do in fairy tales if they touch a spinning wheel. Her hair is sleek, slightly longer than she wore it at university, blunt cut at the shoulder. Glossy. With her arrives a waft of something exotic, a shiver of something exciting.

  After all this time, it’s good to see her.

  ‘Darling.’ She flings her arms around me and hugs me close to her. I feel her collar bone and can smell her perfume and cigarettes. I’m surprised she smokes. I thought it was practically a criminal offence in LA. ‘You look amazing,’ she gushes. Her voices oozes – I think of amber syrup sliding off a spoon. I almost believe her. I mean, she sounds sincere but I have mirrors and ‘amazing’ is a stretch. She holds me at a distance, her hands on my upper arms and her head tilted to one side. ‘Amazing,’ she repeats. Breathily. And now. Yup, despite the evidence, I believe her. She flicks her eyes at my newly purchased bay trees that stand proud and neat in pots, either side of the door. Yesterday, when I dragged the girls to the local garden centre to purchase them I’d thought they were the most perfect things. Now, under her gaze they look a little try-too-hard. My fault, not hers.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ I say. ‘Go right through to the kitchen. I’ve baked.’

  ‘You’ve baked!’ She repeats this as though it’s the most astonishing thing she’s ever heard. In truth, it is quite astonishing. I only bake about half a dozen times a year and four of those occasions are to make birthday cakes. The scent of dough, butter, and cream drifts through the hallway. Tempting and comforting. Suddenly, I feel a little shy about admitting to baking. It seems like too much of an effort; I doubt Abigail ever eats cake, anyhow. She can’t possibly, not with a figure like hers. Still, she makes all the right noises; she insists it smells like heaven and that she can’t wait to try them.

  Lily is bouncing around her like a puppy. Imogen is holding back a little but is clearly transfixed. Abigail is possibly the most glamorous and beautiful woman they have ever seen in real life.

  ‘Where shall I put this?’ The taxi driver startles me. He’s coming up our garden path pulling the most enormous suitcase.

  ‘Oh, I’ll take that,’ I say.

  ‘That’s twenty-eight fifty.’

  ‘Right, right.’ Abi is already in the kitchen. I can see Lily has climbed onto her knee. It would be a shame to disturb her when she’s just got settled. I reach for my purse and pay the man.

  I pull the enormous case into the hallway and leave it at the bottom of the stairs. Ben or Liam can move it later. In the kitchen, I turn to Abi with a beam.

  ‘I can hardly believe you are here, in my house,’ I say excitedly.

  ‘Nor can I.’ She has a hint of an accent now. Of course she does. She’s been living in the States for over a decade but as a result I can’t quite read her tone. Obviously, the circumstances that have brought her here mean she’s not going to be feeling ecstatic. ‘Have you paid the taxi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you ask for a receipt?’

  ‘Oh, no. I didn’t think.’ I’m not in the sort of business that you ca
n claim back expenses so it never crossed my mind.

  ‘Never mind.’ She bends to root in her bag and I expect her to reach for her purse to reimburse me; instead she pulls out a packet of cigarettes. I should tell her about our non-smoking policy. I don’t. I’m not exactly sure why. I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. I don’t want to seem unwelcoming. I rummage around in a cupboard until I find a saucer that will act as an ashtray.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ I glance at the Krups coffee machine which I’m disproportionately proud of. Ben bought it for me last Christmas and it makes a mean cup: Americano, cappuccino, espresso, caffeinated, decaffeinated. It’s pretty cool. However, just in case Abi isn’t a coffee drinker anymore I’ve also bought a variety of herbal teas: chamomile, peppermint, lemon and ginger.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind. I’m happy with red or white. Or a G&T, if that’s your thing. Whatever.’

  My eyes compulsively slide to the clock on the wall. It’s just after four. I don’t know what to do. I have a rule that I don’t drink before seven. It’s something I introduced when Liam was a baby because otherwise there was a danger I’d start drinking at eleven a.m. or something. I also limit myself to just one glass during a week night. Suddenly, these rules seem a bit shaming and provincial. I pull a bottle of white from the fridge and pour two glasses. I hope it is still OK -I think we opened it on Sunday.

  I place one glass in front of her and nurse mine self-consciously. Imogen whispers in my ear, ‘I’m going to tell Daddy.’ I bat her away.

  ‘So, tell me everything,’ I say with an expansive wave of my arms.

  ‘Like I said in my email, I found out Rob was having an affair, the bastard. I couldn’t stay with him for another moment.’

  I glance nervously at the girls. They are wide-eyed, agog. ‘Oh yes. You must tell me everything about Rob, but I meant other things, more general things.’ Abi looks confused. Clearly for her there aren’t any other conversations to be had right now. There is nothing else on her mind. I try to give her some prompts. ‘What was it like living in America?’ I regret the question immediately. I sound so naive. It’s not like I don’t know anything about the States. We have been there. To Orlando. Once. Although, obviously, I realise that Disneyland isn’t representative. It doesn’t cover it. It’s a big place. Huge.