by Adele Parks
Yes, here she was, in the very heart of the family. Naturally, Abi had friends in Los Angeles who had families, but they also had nannies and pools and space. Melanie had none of that. Abi’s senses had been assaulted all evening as she was absorbed into their home. The house was shabby, cluttered, noisy, chaotic. There were things everywhere. Just so many things. Toys, books, ornaments, cushions, candles, pens, cards, pictures and clothes, which came in every variety – clean, dirty, ironed, crumpled. Hilariously, Ben said Mel had been manically tidying in anticipation of Abi’s visit; she couldn’t even imagine what it must have looked like before. They didn’t have much money to throw about, that was obvious. With the notable exception of the hallway, which had been recently (badly) decorated, every other wall was in dire need of a freshen. Carpets were worn thin on the stairs, there was a stain on the sofa, the crockery was pretty but she’d spotted two bowls with chips.
Also, it was so loud. The TV was always on, even when no one was in the sitting room, the same went for the radio in the kitchen; besides that, the girls squealed, shouted, sang, argued or laughed pretty much all the time, literally non-stop. Mel and Ben took it in turns to yell up the stairs as they tried to capture someone’s attention; only Liam had any sense of serenity. And the smells. Obviously, Mel had lit a few candles before Abi arrived but underneath that were the scents of the family bashing and clashing up against each other in the house. She could smell the baking that had taken place in her honour, the tomatoes, basil, fried mince in the bolognese sauce, the substrate in the hamster’s cage, the urine in the cats’ tray. She could also smell the people. The little girls’ bubble bath, Ben’s aftershave, Mel’s hairspray, Liam’s youth. Abi was dizzy with the energy in the family home. The mystery as to why Melanie didn’t post much on Facebook had been solved though: there was nothing much to brag about.
Except.
Well, they all looked good. Not Mel. She had once been pretty but was now diminished; she didn’t take care of herself as she ought. Ben, however, was quite something. Undeniably handsome. And the son. Beautiful. Youthful. Perfect. The girls were a treat to look at, too. Adorable. And while the house was shabby, cluttered, noisy, chaotic, it was also so obviously fun. Happy. Loving. While it was noisy, the sound that was heard most often was laughter. And the smells: a vibrant, potent contrast to the sterility of her own home, that rarely smelt of anything other than cigarette smoke or cleaning fluids (on a Tuesday and Friday when the maid visited).
Melanie’s house was ugly. Yet, on some level Abi loved it.
Melanie’s house was beautiful on so many levels. Abi hated it.
9
Melanie
I was never ashamed that I had sex. It wasn’t like Liam’s father was my first – he was my third as a matter of fact, if you’re the type that counts. I was more ashamed at the carelessness I’d demonstrated by having fruitful sex. There was no need for an accidental pregnancy in October 1999. It was the turn of the millennium. We had science and everything on our side.
‘Haven’t you heard of condoms?’ My brother spat out this question, unable to meet my eye – whether through anger or his own embarrassment, I was never certain. It was a fair question.
I was also ashamed that I couldn’t soften the blow by introducing a lovely boyfriend into the mix, someone who was willing to stand by me and at least show up at the prenatal scans or, better yet, make an honest woman of me as my mum so blatantly wanted.
And it was awful, the way it happened. I hate thinking about it. Even now, all these years on when the result of the dreadful night has turned into such an overtly wonderful thing: a decent, intelligent, kind young man. Just thinking about that night always makes me start mentally humming random tunes so that I don’t delve too deeply into my thoughts. Into my memories. He didn’t force himself on me or anything awful like that. Liam wasn’t a product of rape. He was the product of selfishness and irresponsibility. On both sides. Honestly, he deserves a better providence story.
I was drunk. And, he – well, he was hot. It was as simple as that. So drunk and so hot that I thought that withdrawal seemed a reasonable option. I was the one to suggest it. He’d have been happy with a blow job. Of course he would: biology is designed to give men a leg up and to stomp on women. It was me who pushed for more. I wanted him inside me. However fleetingly, I wanted it absolutely.
I remember my dad pleading, ‘But you must have a name. Can’t you tell us his name?’ I really wished I could.
On about the hundredth time he asked, I finally replied, ‘Ian.’ I know my tone was snippy. Awkwardness often manifests itself that way with me.
‘A surname?’ He probed gently, fighting his frustration, yet sensing a breakthrough, sniffing at it like a bloodhound. Aware if he moved too suddenly, he might scare me off; a terrified rabbit.
‘I didn’t catch it. It was a loud club,’ I muttered sulkily.
Dad hung his head in his hands. Rubbing his eye sockets with the heels of his palms, he aged in front of me. Suddenly, his head snapped up, fortified by a new idea. ‘But he’s studying at your university. We could get in touch with the chancellor, or what have you, and demand they look at their records. We could track down all the Ians that are registered.’ He seemed momentarily hopeful. It was sad, in the true sense of the word, not the way Imogen uses it now.
‘What and do an identity parade?’ I snarled, sarcastically.
‘Do something!’ Dad yelled. Dad is not a shouter, so this upset me, but I couldn’t let him pursue this warped version of Cinderella, chasing across the kingdom of Birmingham University to see if the shoe fit. I did the only thing I could think of that would put an end to the business.
‘He doesn’t go to my uni. He said he was visiting a friend. Freshers’ week, you know. It’s packed. People float through. He came from down south somewhere. I don’t think he ever said exactly where.’ It was safe telling my father that the man responsible for my downfall was a southerner. An intelligent man and reasonable in most ways, largely devoid of prejudices, my dad was and is irrationally unsettled by the south: its size, its smugness, its slickness. It suited him to believe all forms of trouble came from down south. Why would this trouble be any different? Still, he pursued the matter.
‘What friend? Did he at least give you the name of the friend?’
‘No. He didn’t.’
Dad sighed – it was like all his breath was coming out of him. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been much talking,’ he commented sadly.
‘No, not talking,’ said Mum, eyeing my tightly-rounded belly with poignancy. I couldn’t drag my gaze to meet hers. In fact, I spent months looking at people’s shoes.
Abigail also thought we ought to pursue my partner in crime. She insisted on returning to the club I’d said we met at, in the hope he’d be there or, at least, I’d recognise his friend. It was mortifying.
It was loud, thumping, strobe lights sweeping the room, making me feel dizzy. It was packed, heaving with noisy, sweaty gangs of people looking for a good time. Dancing, kissing, drinking, laughing. They seemed alien to me. I held my hands in front of my belly, protecting my bump from the raucousness.
‘Where do we start?’ yelled Abi, above the throb of music that was banging and thrashing through the club. Even she looked slightly defeated. I couldn’t believe she’d ever held any hope. She must have been expecting crowds this large and dense. We’d come here together often enough.
I sighed, looked up and gave a cursory look around. ‘Nope, he’s not here – we might as well go.’
‘Not so fast. You can’t just give up like that. This place is huge. We need to have a good scour about. You do want to find him, right? That’s what you said.’
I nodded. Yes, that’s what I’d said. That’s what everyone had expected me to say. But I knew I would not find him there. I was one hundred per cent sure of it. ‘It’s been months. He was visiting a friend.’
‘Yes, you’ve said.’ Abi’s stare was penetrating. ‘Why do
I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?’
‘Can we just go home? My back is aching.’
This was all a long time ago. I do not associate Liam with that mess, that anger and disappointment of those early months. Not anymore. He’s nothing but a joy. A funny, good looking, bright kid. He’s turned out just fine.
So why have I invited this reminder of that time into my home? Someone who knew me from before? Abigail Curtiz in particular.
Why am I pressing the bruise?
10
Abigail
Friday 23rd February
Abi was pleased that Melanie had taken the day off work. It wasn’t popular with her boss, apparently, as Friday was a busy day at the dress store. Abigail said she really didn’t have to inconvenience herself but Mel insisted, as Abi knew she would. Being with Melanie reminded Abi of how things had been when she was at the peak of her career, when she was twenty-eight, twenty-nine, and people liked doing things for her. Then, they sent her invitations to their parties, and cars to ensure she got to the said parties in comfort, then they’d send flowers the day after, a thank you for her attendance. The attention had been dwindling for some time, but Abigail hadn’t realised how much she missed it until Mel started to make a fuss of her. Although Mel’s motivations were quite different from those who used to fawn around Abi back in the day. Mel didn’t want a job, or an introduction to Rob or even the chance to be snapped at her side by the paparazzi.
What did she want? Abigail believed everyone wanted something.
They caught the train to Stratford-Upon-Avon. It was a chilly but dry day, which was as much as you could hope for the last week in February in England. They wandered about, visiting the notable houses of Shakespeare’s womenfolk, his wife and daughter. They dipped into tiny boutique shops and bought small treats: handmade chocolates, a lime green scarf, a bottle of organic grapefruit tonic. They then went for a cream tea at a smart hotel. Abi noticed that Mel was bright with excitement. She was easy to seduce.
‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ commented Abi, glancing around the dining room, which was tastefully decorated in light greys and awash with a sense of gentry: white linen tablecloths, the clink of a spoon against bone china, delicate cakes stacked on tiered plates. ‘I adore your family. But just the two of us having this time together is such a treat.’
Mel agreed with more enthusiasm than was seemly for a woman who loved her husband and kids to distraction. She admitted, ‘I can’t remember when I last did anything so intrinsically indulgent.’
Abigail insisted that Mel eat the last salmon sandwich, and have both the little chocolate cakes; when Mel demurred – making embarrassed, reluctant comments about her weight – Abi tutted, swept them away and insisted that Mel was beautiful. Blushing, Mel tucked in. ‘I’d forgotten quite what it’s like to have a bestie girl friend,’ she giggled.
Obviously Mel meant she’d forgotten what it was like to be picked out as Abi’s friend. Abi had a talent of bathing those she singled out in a unique sense of importance. She knew the power of her intense interest. She knew it was flattering and motivating. Look what her attention had done for Rob. Without her, he probably would never have gone as far as he had. In Abigail’s company, Mel unfurled, as she always had. She became more vivid, stronger and wittier than usual. More daring. More entitled.
‘Oh, come on, you must have loads of friends,’ Abigail insisted. Although she wasn’t sure. If Mel did have friends, would they have let her become so dowdy? Real friends would surely have encouraged her to visit one of those women who told you which colour suited you most. Beige was not Mel’s colour.
‘I’m friendly enough with the people I work with, but mostly they’re young.’
‘We’re young.’
Mel laughed. ‘You, maybe. You look about twenty-seven. I’m wearing all my thirty-seven years; these girls I work with are just out of college. You know, eighteen. They work for a couple of years at the shop and then move on. Mostly, I feel motherly towards them, as they’re closer to Liam’s age than mine.’
‘Don’t mums make friends at playgroups and such? I always thought that’s why we lost touch, because your life was so full of new people. New mums.’
Mel’s colour intensified. ‘I did join a couple of mother and baby groups when I had Liam, but people kept assuming I was the au pair. As such, they thought I couldn’t relate to them, share their conversations and experiences, so largely they ignored me. When they did discover I was his mum, they were shocked at my youth.’
‘And presumably your lack of partner?’ said Abi, bluntly.
‘Well, yes, that too. So, they continued ignoring me.’ Mel shrugged.
‘But it must have been different with the girls.’
‘Yes, then I could have made friends and – to an extent – I did. However, people generally assumed that Imogen was my first baby. Once they discovered I had a son nine years older, the playdates tended to dry up.’
Abigail forked the tiniest scrap of Victoria sponge into her mouth. ‘Why?’
‘Nine-year-old boys are energetic, cheeky. Sometimes hard going. Mums of newborns don’t appreciate that; they thought Liam was a pain. I never could stand to be anywhere where it was obvious other people would prefer him not to be.’
‘Which mum could?’
Mel smiled. ‘Thanks Abi.’
‘For what?’
‘For getting that. Ben and my mum always thought I was being overly sensitive and that I should cut the first-time mums some slack. But I became bored of the endless comments such as, ‘Gosh, he doesn’t know his own strength, does he?’ Or, ‘If only little boys came with volume control buttons?’ Liam, for the record, was a perfectly normal little boy in terms of energy levels, and probably slightly better than average when it came to obedience. I will admit he was pretty noisy.’
Abigail laughed. ‘Should we upgrade this afternoon tea?’
‘Upgrade?’ Mel looked at the array of goodies spread in front of her, and no doubt thought of the ones she’d already chomped her way through. She probably couldn’t imagine how it could possibly be made any better.
‘Let’s order a glass of champagne. What am I thinking about? We’re on the train. Let’s order a bottle.’
Mel demurred for less than five seconds and then agreed, as Abi knew she would.
As she sipped, Mel talked more about her friends, or lack of them. ‘My closest school-gate friends are Becky Ingram and Gillian Burton. They’ve daughters Imogen’s age and I’ve known them a few years now, since reception class. We sometimes car pool, we sit through adorable but clumsy ballet performances together. That sort of thing.’
‘Fun,’ said Abi. Mel gave her a look which suggested she doubted Abi could mean this, but Abi did. What could be dreamier than watching your daughter skip about in a tutu?
‘We go to a book club together once a month. They also go shopping and to the tennis club on a weekly basis.’
‘I know the type.’
‘They’re very kind,’ said Mel, defensively. ‘We bail one another out if there’s a problem with childcare at pick-up time. Truthfully, they bail me, as neither of them have jobs, other than the one of raising a family, which seems like a luxury to me. They’re never late for pick-up.’
‘They sound lovely,’ commented Abi, although she withheld any conviction from her voice, because she secretly wanted Mel to understand – and then confess – that they were quite ordinary friends.
Mel obliged. ‘They are kind to me but ever since Taylor Swift and her bunch of leggy girlfriends started promoting themselves as the ultimate girl gang – you know, arms slung across each other’s shoulders, snaked around one another’s waists – I’ve had a niggling feeling that I’m missing out on the whole female friendship thing.’
Abi smiled, encouragingly. ‘Girlfriends are cool.’
‘They are,’ said Mel firmly. ‘How had I forgotten that?’ She sipped her champagne and became more confessional. ‘I guess beca
use I spent my twenties wiping various baby fluids, and singing nursery rhymes, the friendship rituals – that I know other women enjoy – took a backseat.’ Abi reached forward and squeezed Mel’s hand. Mel necked her glass of champagne and Abi quickly refilled it. ‘I’ve never had a friend who would drive a hundred miles, armed with chocolate and wine, to avert my personal crises.’ Mel paused. Something hit her, not just the alcohol content of the Moet. ‘At least, not since you, Abi.’
Abi had never actually had to drive one hundred miles – they’d shared student accommodation when they were young – so it was an untested theory but it was a lovely idea.
‘I have held back your hair as you’ve said a second hello to your dinner and cocktails. Twice, I think,’ said Abi. She wasn’t certain. She had a strong stomach; she had done this for many friends at university; Mel might have been among them. Or maybe not. Mel laughed and didn’t contradict her, so Abi assumed she must have.
‘I suppose you have a lot of close friends.’ Mel sounded almost sulky.
‘Absolutely!’ Abi lied. ‘I need them to help me forgive my embarrassing mistakes and appalling faux pas.’
‘I can’t imagine you have many of those.’
‘I’ve had my share.’ Abi shrugged.
‘That’s what friends do though, don’t they? Forgive your moments of crazy recklessness or selfishness,’ Mel declared with intensity.
‘If they can,’ said Abi. For a moment, there was a silence between them. Heavy and layered.
Mel gulped back the champagne and looked longingly at the bottle. Then she seemed to shake herself. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I mean even if, in some alternate universe, Gillian or Becky were interviewed for Hello! magazine I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t use the opportunity to declare that their very survival is dependent on my friendship, the way Taylor Swift’s friends might,’ said Mel, with a sad sigh. Abi remembered this about her now. She became emotional on alcohol.
