by Ricki Thomas
To complete the idyllic new life, Darren, through a conversation at the bar they frequented near to Maureen and Bob’s villa, managed to procure himself a regular job to start in the new year, meaning they would now have money coming in to live on. Everything was perfect, and it didn’t take Sophie long to wipe the hideous memories of the final few months in England from her mind. As far as she was concerned, they had arrived in paradise.
It was nearing Christmas, and the weather was mild, warm enough to go out without a coat, just a chunky jumper and jeans, tight across her rapidly expanding baby belly. She slipped her shoes on. “Back soon.”
Darren, who was busily painting the second bedroom in anticipation of the baby’s arrival, poked his head around the door, his expression quizzical. “Where are you going?”
She breezily picked up her bag. “I thought I’d pop down to the market and get some food in for Christmas. Maybe look at the clothes too, mine are getting a bit snug over my bump.”
Darren had left the bedroom now, pale blue emulsion dripping from the paintbrush still in his hand. “You don’t need to get any food, we’re going to Mam and Dad’s for Christmas dinner.”
Sophie felt her shoulders fall, she’d been eager to have some privacy now they’d moved into their own place. “Do we have to?” She was suddenly aware how immature her outbreak had been, and glanced at him, and nervousness crawled up her spine, more than a tinge of fear resurfacing.
He dismissed her with ease, to her relief. “Yes, we do, it’s all arranged and Mam can’t wait, she’s really excited. Go and get some new clothes, though, you look ridiculous squeezing your fat body into those jeans.”
The words slapped Sophie on both cheeks, and she could feel her embarrassment and shame burning. It had been so cruel, she was doing her best not to overeat, to keep trim and healthy, but she couldn’t do anything about her growing abdomen, in fact she’d thought she was doing remarkably well to still be wearing size ten jeans five months into the pregnancy. Forcing back the tears, she snatched her bag and left.
Sophie hadn’t been gone long when a ring on the intercom disturbed Darren from his painting again. Swearing, he slammed down the brush, striding towards the front door. He pressed the speaker. “Hello.”
“Darren, it’s Mam.”
He pressed the buzzer to let her in, and she took the lift to the third floor. Briefly kissing him on the cheek as she passed him, Maureen launched into the reason for her visit. “I thought you said you’d not given our address to anyone back in England?”
Maureen sat herself at the breakfast bar, her large handbag on the counter beside her, while Darren retrieved a cold can of beer from the fridge for himself, and poured a large white wine for her, neither concerned that it hadn’t even reached ten in the morning. “I didn’t!”
Rummaging through the bag, Maureen fished an envelope bearing a British stamp from inside. “Well, someone has, because this was in our letterbox this morning.” She passed it to Darren, whose brow furrowed into a deep frown.
“It’s addressed to Sophie! She can’t have told anybody, I didn’t even tell her your address before we moved.” He tore at the envelope, dragging out a scenic Christmas card, and flicked it open, a handwritten letter falling to the floor. He read the card. “It’s from her bloody parents! How did they get your address? Interfering bloody bastards.” He thrust the card back into the envelope, retrieved the unread note from the floor, pushed it roughly inside the card, and shoved the package back to his mother with disgust. “Take it home and bin it, will you Mam, we can’t have them ruining our plans now.”
In both Mallorca and England, Christmas Day was non-descript. Sophie, her day arranged for her against her desire with the Delaney family, a raucous affair full of alcohol, loud drunken laughter, and the biggest, most tempting meal she’d ever seen. Maureen and Bob, long time party people, had opened their villa to their best friends, Peggy and Bry, and to Darren’s rarely seen brother, Tim, who had all flown over the day before.
The first drinks, sherries all round, were served at ten in the morning, as soon as Peggy and Bry had arrived from the hotel they were staying at, extravagantly dressed and coifed. Sophie, her pregnancy now half way, her bump getting broader by the day, obvious underneath the maternity wear she’d purchased, had intended not to drink, but that was an impossibility with Bob, Bry and Darren thrusting glass after glass in her hand. After the third large sherry her resolve had gone, diminished by the warming sensation that flowed through her, taking her control with it, and although she set herself limits in her mind, each time a drink was proffered, her only thought was that one more wouldn’t harm.
They’d played gambling games at the table for small change, each allocated a share from the Euro jar Bob dropped his change into daily. Poker, which Sophie sat out of, not clear of the rules, however many times Darren had tried to explain them to her, Blackjack, Cribbage, Cheat. The sky was darkening by the time they’d become too tired and drunk to carry on. Donning warm cardigans and jumpers, the drinking continued in the fresh coolness of the patio, wine and spirits dripping and spilling more readily due to the lack of coordination within the group.
Sophie hadn’t enjoyed a single moment. She’d not wanted to drink, had been trying so hard not to initially, and the guilt was overwhelming. She’d not been able to sample much of the delightful spread on two accounts: heartburn was a side effect of pregnancy that reared with every morsel she ate; and Darren’s comment about her weight had struck her deeply, she knew he liked his women to be slim, if not skinny, and with the insecurity of her pregnancy, hormones swamping her, she was well aware of the pretty, deeply tanned ex-pats, with their glorious hair and abundant confidence. And to top it all, she’d found Peggy and Bry too brash, Tim too aloof, and she knew from old that Darren’s parents, him being the light of their lives, or ‘baby’, as Maureen still disturbingly called him, tolerated, but didn’t particularly like her.
When the time came for them to return to their apartment, Darren was staggering and laughing too loudly, Sophie was quiet, woozy with alcohol, and tired. Falling in to bed, Darren too far gone to change into his pyjamas, Sophie’s heart sank when he mentioned the arrangements at his parent’s villa for New Year’s Eve. She was going to have to sit through the whole debacle once more.
Listening to his rumbling, drunken snoring, wrapped in the warm covers with her back turned towards him, Sophie had to question whether this was the paradise she’d initially imagined it to be. She sorely missed her parents, the parents she now knew to be liars, to have obliterated her true heritage and adoption with their misplaced deceit. She missed her brother, Steve, even though she knew he’d been part of the falsehood that had been her entire life. Eventually her confusion waned as slumber took over.
Obviously I had no idea what was happening in Mallorca with Sophie, but I did know that Christmas in Littleover was a placid affair, as sedate and contrite as Beryl herself. Harry always enjoyed the peaceful sophistication of the day arranged calmly by his wife. Life was about to change in many ways for the couple, as Harry was due to turn sixty in three weeks time, and his retirement, although he loved his lecturing, was greatly anticipated. Harry had always been a patient man with such a gentle personality, and Beryl was normally polite and reticent, but today she hadn’t seemed terribly happy. On reflection I suppose her outburst the previous day was still troubling her, knowing she should have restrained herself, but I was a woman on a mission now, and her irritation was my gain.
Being poor for so long, I wasn’t used to having anything more extravagant than a small chicken, served with a few vegetables, and a Christmas pudding for one with cheap packet custard, so the delightful meal Beryl prepared, and she really was a marvellous cook, was a treat. But not a treat I was about to indulge in. I didn’t gorge on the meal as I normally would have, and this left Beryl nonplussed. I mean, I can understand that, usually I’ll keep piling mouthful after mouthful into my chubby face: a packet of biscuits rather t
han one or two, a family sized bar of chocolate instead of a couple of pieces. Little did she know it, and obviously it wasn’t going to happen overnight, but ‘mountainous Mary’ was now a thing of the past. I knew what I was doing.
The grandest part of the day had been when their son, Steve, had met my son, Alan Taylor, for the first time. Steve, the image of his mother in a mans body, albeit more confident, and Alan, equally similar to me, his own birth mother, couldn’t have looked more different, but their personalities gelled instantly, both relishing their new relationship as half-brothers. But Sophie wasn’t there and every member of our peculiar family felt her absence acutely. Nobody voiced their thoughts, but there was a vague hope in all of us that we would receive a phone call from her. It never came, and the day passed slowly. As did the following week.
Apparently, and I suppose expectantly, New Year’s Eve was never an elaborate affair in the Waller household. The docile couple, married for such a long time and having experienced so many New Years in their lives, usually went to bed before the big celebrations at midnight. And they had decided that this year was to be no different, but I wasn’t having that, no way! After years of being on my own, feeling bitter and hateful every time the clock struck twelve, knowing the next year would hold more drudgery, I had company and a regained family. And the man I loved back once his wife was disposed of. So I insisted we all celebrate the past year over some wine, crack open the champagne at midnight, and welcome the new year in with excitement and optimism. Beryl agreed begrudgingly, Harry with a sparkle in his eye.
The early hours of the evening, leading up to the grand moment, were unremarkable. The bottle of wine we shared, three aging people, none of us used to alcohol, which left us all light-headed: and the tedious television programmes hosted by overexcited presenters just became a bore. I had to liven things up somehow, both Harry and Beryl were yawning.
Just past ten Harry rose from his armchair and switched off the telly, and I jumped at the opportunity, suggesting a further bottle of wine. Harry gave me a wide grin, hastening to the cabinet. Beryl was astounded at his unusual behaviour. “Harold, that’s not like you. Have you forgotten we’ve still got a bottle of Champagne to come? We don’t want to get silly!”
It was time to start instigating my plan, and I shifted to the end of the sofa, closer to Harry’s seat. “Oh, come on Beryl, let your hair down for once.” The words were hostile and unconvincing, and I’d deliberately used them to irritate her.
I’m proud to say it worked. Beryl disapproved of the term, it grated on her, as did my presence. The sensation of not belonging in her home since I arrived to stay was exacerbated by my gradually changing appearance. Not only was the weight dropping from me, I’d purchased a new wardrobe, Beryl not realising that the money for it had been given by her husband, albeit meant for her son-in-law’s grasping hands. I’d begun to take care of my skin, the wrinkling no longer as pronounced as it had been, and had discovered the delights of make-up. Quite simply, I was becoming better with age. Unable to tolerate being a bystander on yet another of the enlightened debates that was brewing between her husband and his ex-lover, she slipped, unnoticed by Harold with the intensity of our discussion, from the room and took herself to bed. Face cleansed, fleecy nightshirt donned, teeth flossed and scrubbed, she propped the pillows up and took the romantic novel from her bedside cabinet.
Downstairs, Harry and I were on our second glass from the new bottle of wine, leaving one further measure each to come, and we were deeply enthralled in our conversation about the environmental issues that faced the world over. He had no inkling of my game, my plan to oust Beryl and replace her, and I was playing it beautifully, amazingly assisted by the woman herself, with her starkness and mood swings. Harry was easily manipulated, his trust in human nature so great, and he didn’t suspect for a moment that me leaning closer and closer to him was anything more than my interest in the exchange we were enjoying.
Beryl, hearing the animated voices from downstairs, the chuckling, agreeing, was bristling with aggravation, unable to concentrate on the words of the book. Fed up, lonely, and deserted, she slipped a sleeping tablet from the packet in her drawer and swallowed it with some water, willing the slumber to remove her from the situation.
“It’s ten to twelve, Harry, you’d better get the Champagne ready! Shall we watch the countdown on the telly?”
“Good Lord, doesn’t time fly! Yes, of course.” Harry clicked on the set and traipsed to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle from the fridge.
As soon as he’d stepped from the room, I darted to the cabinet, snatching two crystal tumblers from the shelf, pouring a good measure of single malt into each. I was back on the sofa, the two drinks waiting on the table, when he re-entered, the weighty bottle in one hand, a bowl of peanuts in the other. Spotting the whiskies, Harry smiled mischievously. “I see! What’s this then?” He set the Champagne and the snack on the table, before retrieving three hand-cut flutes from the cabinet, which he placed beside the drinks. And finally he noticed his wife’s absence. “Has Beryl gone to the ladies? I’d hate her to miss the big moment.”
I grinned, my plotting so smoothly falling in to place. “She said she was tired, said she’d leave us to it. I poured us a shot of whisky, if you don’t mind. Thought it would warm us up before the party begins.”
As he sat, I passed a glass to him, taking the other in my hand. “To us.” I clinked the glass against the bemused Harry’s. “And to our daughter, Sophie.” I sipped, Harry still unsure. “Come on, Harry, get it down you! We’ve only got five minutes before we start the New Year with a bang.” He took a languorous mouthful, savouring the flavour before swallowing.
The excitement on the screen before them was mounting, flashes to the Houses of Parliament, home of Big Ben, thousands of revellers whooping and laughing as the prestigious moment they were waiting for with anticipation approached, and back to the studio for the enthusiastic presenters. Harry’s head was numb, his nose and cheeks reddened with inebriation, and he was totally enthralled in the unusually exhilarating evening. He removed the foil from the bottle in preparation, finishing the naughty whisky at the same time as me, and, as the countdown began, he eased the cork out, holding it tightly, not wanting to wake Beryl with a bang.
I shoved a glass flute underneath the spout to catch the surging, bubbling liquid, we were chuckling for the occasion, for the shared happiness, for the unplanned celebration. With the glasses full, air bursting and popping over the rims, I leaned as close to Harry as the sofa would allow. “New Year kiss?”
With the alcohol having loosened his inhibitions, the enjoyment overriding his common sense, Harry reciprocated. The brief brush led to intense eye contact, and suddenly our lips were lingering together, Harry reliving over three decades before when the pretty young thing had shown him what sex should really be like. I wanted to punch the air, my plan had succeeded. I knew I had him now, and life was fantastic.
Chapter 14
The Affair
Darren had been increasingly miffed with Sophie’s pregnancy. He found her unattractive, her belly was grotesque, unappealing, and the idea of having sexual relations with her appalled him. She’d become so boring now, sitting in the same spot of the sofa, now retrieved from storage and transported across to them, that she always had done. She plodded around the house, miserable, her hormones replacing the laughter she used to see in every situation, and she whinged constantly about tiredness, heartburn, piles, backache. He was into the fifth week of his new job, earning a decent wage, and he wanted to work hard and party hard, but she wouldn’t play the game, citing exhaustion as an excuse to not visit Blakes Bar every evening as they had in the early days of the relocation. He was sick of the pregnancy: it was taking too long.
“Oh, come on Soph, we never go out any more! It’s Friday night, I’ve been working all week, and I just want a few drinks.”
Her expanding belly had served the purpose of halting any violence towards her,
any anger now directed verbally, his brutal criticisms on every element of her personality and appearance driving a wedge through their marriage. “Darren, I’m too tired. You try carrying another human around all day every day and see how you like it!”
“Fuck this, Sophie. I’m going out on my own then.”
Her eyes remained on the soap opera, beamed from England, and she waved her hand, dismissive. “Fine! Go! Maybe I’ll get some peace and quiet.”
Fists clenched, wishing he could smack the sarcasm away, he stormed out, slamming the door with force. She was unperturbed. The only thing that mattered now was the baby.
Blakes Bar was crowded, faces he knew just to say hello to, mostly drunk having finished work for the week. Darren sunk three pints within the first ten minutes, refusing the fourth, ready for a change. He ordered a vodka and orange, following the generous measure eagerly with his eyes, and was back for another quarter of an hour later. But this time his head was turned by the pretty lady, jet black hair and a gorgeous tan, on the barstool, he’d not seen her before, and hoped she wasn’t a holidaymaker, there was something very appealing about her.
Darren squeezed through the throng, positioning himself next to the woman, not daring to look at her. Passing his glass across to the barmaid, the ice cubes still frozen inside, he asked for a refill, and listened intently to the woman, assessing whether she was single or taken. When she began laughing with the man next to her, Jonathon, a man he knew to be happily married, he felt confident enough to join the conversation.
As the bar became increasingly crowded, and the throng at the bar stretched to three deep, Jonathon, a kindly man, mid-thirties, pleasant and harmless, ordered two bottles of wine for them to take away from the crush. A table in the corner had recently been vacated, still littered with used glasses and half-drunken drinks, and Jonathon, his wife, Rachel, who had now joined him, Vicki, and Darren sat, moving the empties aside to make room for their own drinks. They’d all had too much alcohol already, but none wanted the merriment to end. It didn’t take the four long to finish the two bottles, and Darren replaced them, the crush at the bar having diminished as the crowds left for home or nightclubs. Setting them on the table, he dragged his cigarettes from the table. “Just going for a fag.”
