by John Marrs
A loud crash in the kitchen was the final straw. My mother and I roared together. ‘Bloody shut up now, or there’ll be no party and you’ll all go to bed early!’ I screamed, hoping the kids would give me an excuse to be a hermit.
Their voices quietened to whispers, then giggles, then squeals.
‘Right,’ I bellowed and stood up, steadying my jelly legs against the arm of the sofa and going to confront them. Their backs were towards me but Robbie couldn’t hide the glue and scissors in his hands or the torn newspapers scattered across the worktops and floor.
‘What the hell are you doing? Look at the mess in here! And you know you’re not allowed to play with scissors. Get upstairs, now!’
My words were a little blurred but my outburst dazed them. As they separated, a homemade birthday card with a drawing of our cottage and family lay on the table. They’d framed it with dried pasta tubes and gold Christmas glitter.
‘Happy birthday, Mummy,’ they mumbled together as Emily handed it to me. Inside, it read: To the best Mummy in the world. We love you very much. They’d all signed their names in different-coloured crayons and wrapped up their favourite things for birthday gifts – a seashell, a dinosaur and Flopsy.
‘They make us happy so we thought they’d make you happy too,’ added James, unable to look me in the eye.
I felt nothing but shame. I closed the card and noticed Simon wasn’t in their drawing. They’d understood it was just the four of us now, and the only person who hadn’t was me.
It was like someone had let the air out of me. My body deflated and my mouth fell open as for the very first time, I began to cry in front of them. My tears were so heavy they pushed my head forwards, then bent me over double. The kids responded by gathering around me with the force of a rugby scrum.
‘Don’t cry, Mummy,’ said Robbie. ‘We’re sorry we made you sad.’
‘You haven’t,’ I sobbed. ‘They’re happy tears.’ And some of them were. Not all of them, mind you, but some of them. In an instant, I recognised everything that had been wrong with me since Simon disappeared.
I’d known deep down I’d been relying on alcohol to keep me sane. James had been right: I was drunk and I couldn’t remember a day since Simon went when I hadn’t knocked back at least a couple of glasses.
I’d used wine to replace him. And gradually it had become my crutch and the only glimmer of light in my dark corner of the world. It was the only thing that sandpapered the rough edges away and made everything bearable again. It prevented a night of tossing and turning by easing me to sleep. It comforted me when I imagined all the bad things that might’ve happened to him. It was my reward for getting through another day after my miscarriage without falling apart.
But when too much of it flowed through me, it made me bitter. I hated myself for it, but I blamed Simon for throwing me into a life I’d never asked for. And worse than that, he made me take out my frustrations on my babies. Of course, it wasn’t his fault – it was mine.
All four of us decided against the party at the village hall, and packed the fancy-dress costumes into a bag and stuffed it into the cupboard under the stairs. Then we stayed up until midnight to see the new year in together, watching it on the TV. And the three pairs of arms that had held me up for so long without me noticing gave me more strength and support than a bottle of wine ever could – or would – again.
SIMON
Saint-Jean-de-Luz, twenty-four years earlier
New Year’s Day
Champagne corks flew through the air as a chorus of a thousand voices cheered across the town square. Church bells in Saint-Jean-de-Luz chimed to announce the arrival of the new year, while the townsfolk celebrated with backslapping and cheek-pecking.
My first réveillon de la Saint-Sylvestre had begun earlier that evening with a feast cooked, blanched and seared by the willing kitchen staff of local restaurants, cafés and bars. Crockery stacked with mouth-watering foods was piled upon every inch of available surface space at my restored Hôtel Près de la Côte for its grand reopening. Wooden tables were pushed together, draped in ivory lace and linen and decorated with plastic holly branches and white pillar candles. Flames flickered across the room and enshrouded each person in a tangerine blush, as if we were banqueting in the belly of a bonfire.
I was one of more than three hundred friends, neighbours and tradesmen sitting side by side on wooden stools, indulging in the festivities. Then, with the food still fresh in our stomachs, it was time for a traditional walk through the balmy air to the church for midnight Mass. Even though I’d misplaced my religion a lifetime ago, it was a place, somewhat hypocritically, that I needed to visit to offer gratitude for my second chance. And to prepare for a third.
As the church bells rang, I joined the extended congregation to walk en masse with blazing torches towards the square, the final destination for our celebrations. There, a uniformed brass band played traditional French folk songs as balloons floated through the breezeless air and party poppers decorated the sky.
‘Happy New Year, buddy!’ shouted Bradley as our glasses collided.
‘And you.’
‘Any resolutions?’
‘Just the one,’ I replied vaguely.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And what is it?’
‘I can’t tell you that, it’s unlucky.’
‘Unlucky? You Brits are weird.’ He shook his head, bemused, and wandered off in the direction of a slender waitress who’d been catching his eye all day.
I remained in my place under a leafless cherry tree, taking mental pictures as the throng sang, drank and danced. I placed my half-full glass on the base of a statue, stubbed my cigarette out on the cobbles and walked slowly towards the Hôtel Près de la Côte. I stood on the opposite side of the road and dissected how my months of intense restoration had radically changed its appearance. I was thrilled with my achievement.
Unlocking the front door, I was greeted by the warm sound of silence. I headed down the corridor to my room and pulled my recently purchased green canvas rucksack from the cupboard. It held my sparse collection of worldly possessions – clothes, a couple of books, maps and money I’d kept hidden in rolled-up socks – all of which I’d packed earlier. And, of course, Darren’s passport. The hotel wouldn’t be the only thing to see in the new year with a fresh identity.
I closed the bedroom door and walked back towards reception, only stopping briefly to examine a photograph Bradley had pinned to a cork noticeboard. It was of a dozen of us, including Darren, sitting in the courtyard raising beer bottles towards the lens. I returned their smiles.
I’d spent the last six months of my life with people who had no idea who I really was. Nobody had judged me, challenged me or bruised me, and that suited me perfectly. I’d been safe, and I could have spent another year, two years . . . maybe five years in this town. But I knew eventually it would fail me. Everything that makes you happy eventually disappoints.
And it was pointless creating a new life for myself if I wasn’t going to live it. It would all be for nothing. It was in my best interest to escape on my own terms, while I had nothing but fond memories. So, with a heavy heart, yet motivated by the thrill of expectation, I prepared to take flight.
I lit a candle for each of the three children I’d left behind and one more for myself, and placed them in the dining room, the reception area, my bedroom and by the rear door. It only took a minute before their inch-high flames licked the curtain hems, then climbed towards the sky, destroying everything in their paths.
I locked the front door behind me, strapped my rucksack to my back and made my way up the long, steep road to the railway station. I paused halfway for a final sentimental glance at the building responsible for helping to rebuild me. A red glow had already illuminated a couple of rooms, and it wouldn’t be long before more followed.
Like I had with my family, I’d created something almost perfect. But perfection fades. Catherine’s had,
and the Hôtel Près de la Côte would follow suit. Nobody would feel the love for it I’d felt. No one would hear its cry for help like I did, or restore it like it deserved. I would not let others ruin it like they had done before. I would be the one to choose how it got the finale it deserved.
Fifteen minutes later, I perched on the pavement outside a lifeless station and drew the faint sea air into my lungs one last time. I placed my rucksack behind my head, lay on the pavement and drifted off to the sounds of pops, shouts and small explosions.
Northampton, today
12.30 p.m.
‘I don’t understand,’ she began, utterly confused. ‘You put your heart and soul into renovating that building, and then you set fire to it?’
He nodded slowly and tapped his foot on the floor.
‘So is that what you do?’ she continued. ‘You work hard to create something amazing and then destroy it because of something you think I did to you twenty-five years ago?’
This time his head remained still, but she persisted.
‘Is that what the problem was with us? We were the perfect family you’d always wanted, but once you got it, you realised you didn’t need us after all?’
‘No,’ he replied with certainty. They were far from perfect, she had seen to that. But he’d save that part for later.
Her initial anger was giving way to frustration. He appeared quite determined to regale her with select stories from his past, but because there were so many gaps open to interpretation, she naturally wanted to know more. Then he’d clam up as tight as an oyster shell or change the subject. She hated herself for letting him draw her in. Nevertheless, she wasn’t prepared to end her line of questioning just because of his reluctance.
‘But you’d made friends there – while I was working like a slave and selling off everything we owned, you didn’t have a bloody care in the world!’
‘Nothing that satisfying ever lasts, Catherine,’ he replied. He was smiling, but she could see it was underpinned by sadness. ‘Not the hotel, not the people, not my life here or my life there. So it’s far better to leave on your own terms than on someone else’s.’
‘Then you were depressed? I understand depression – you knew what I went through before you went. But you could have talked to me about it, let me be there for you like you were there for me. You didn’t have to run away.’
‘I didn’t say I was depressed, Catherine. You’re making assumptions.’
She was exasperated. ‘Then, once again, I don’t understand! Why did you leave? All these bloody riddles and you still haven’t told me the one thing I want to know. What did I do that was so bad it made you run away?’
Like the slow burning of a cigarette, he kept her waiting. She didn’t know what game he was playing, but he was better practised than a politician when it came to avoiding the answers that mattered.
As much as she hated being controlled by a puppetmaster, she got the feeling she’d have to play along a lot longer before she could cut the strings herself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-four years earlier
4 January
I couldn’t have felt more out of place had I been dressed in a clown suit and wearing deely boppers.
The bell above the door tinkled when I walked through the doors of Fabien’s boutique. It was like stepping into the pages of Vogue magazine – orange, rust and gold wallpaper covered the walls, and mahogany rails of clothing were placed near display tables draped with select pieces. A crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling. The whole shop was like Joan Collins’s walk-in wardrobe.
I checked the designer labels on hangers but there wasn’t a price tag in sight. A little matter of cost didn’t concern the kind of women lucky enough to afford to shop there. Like my mum’s dresses, the clothes in Fabien’s were always supposed to hang in someone else’s closet, not mine.
‘Stunning, aren’t they?’ a smoky voice crackled behind me. I turned around, startled, and yanked back my hand like I’d been caught shoplifting.
Selena had asked if I could visit her mother after the Christmas holidays. I’d presumed she’d wanted some alterations doing, but when she revealed her mother owned Fabien’s, you could have knocked me down with a feather. It was one of only a handful of independent clothes shops in town selling high-end fashion imported from places like Italy and France. I’d never had the guts to go inside: my experience of Fabien’s was limited to lingering glances as I walked past the window to C&A.
‘I’m Selena’s mother, Margaret. You must be Catherine,’ she began, extending a manicured hand towards mine. Her long, ruby-red fingernails drew my eye to clusters of diamonds in her gold rings.
‘Yes, nice to meet you,’ I replied, ashamed of my own hands which resembled pincushions.
Margaret was every inch the boutique she owned, and precisely the reason I’d never set foot in it. Hovering somewhere around her mid-fifties, she was the epitome of old-school glamour – part Joan Crawford, part Rita Hayworth. Her chestnut-brown hair was tied into a neat bun. Lines running vertically down her cheeks and above her lips gave away her fondness for the sun and a cigarette. I wondered why she had a daughter who could barely make ends meet.
‘Nothing like Selena, am I?’ she asked. ‘I’ve tried to help her, financially I mean, but she’s inherited my stubbornness and refuses to take a penny. I’m proud of her nonetheless. Anyway, please continue looking around.’
I felt even more self-conscious as Margaret’s eyes bored into me to get the measure of who I was by the clothes I was drawn to. Eventually, she spoke again.
‘I’ll get to the point, darling. I want you to work for me.’
‘Um, I don’t know if I’d fit in here,’ I stuttered.
‘No, no,’ she laughed. ‘I don’t need you in the shop; assistants are ten a penny. I want you to make a range of clothes for me.’
I must have looked baffled. It was too early for an April Fool.
Margaret explained how she’d seen the clothes I’d made for Selena and her friends. And while the modern fashions teenage girls desired weren’t to her taste, she’d been impressed by my attention to detail and the quality of my work.
‘Oh, I just copy what I see in magazines,’ I said, a little flattered, a little embarrassed.
‘Which is a skill in itself,’ Margaret said. ‘Darling, I don’t offer praise lightly. I’ve taken a very close look at your work, to the point where I’ve almost picked the bloody things apart looking for faults, much to my daughter’s annoyance. But your standard is quite exceptional. Obviously your choice of fabrics is – how can I put this without causing offence – a tad “high street”. But you clearly have an instinct for what suits a woman. And watching you wandering around my boutique like a child in a sweet shop tells me you have greater aspirations than making school uniforms and trendy frocks for mini-Madonnas.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, neither used to, nor entirely comfortable with, compliments. I followed her like a puppy on a lead as she walked the shop floor with a purposeful stride, sifting through rails and draping clothes over my arm.
‘You’re not perfect, but none of us are, darling,’ she continued. ‘A few of your clothes have room for improvement, but that’s something we can work on. I want you take a few pieces away with you and examine them closely. Look at how they’re pieced together – the use of appliqués, grosgrain and shirring. The devil is in the detail. These are the intricacies that separate clothes you’ll find on my rails from those you’ll see in a Littlewoods catalogue. Then come back to me in, let’s say a month, with three of your own creations. My customers don’t settle for anything less than the best, and neither do I.’
Top-quality clothes were Margaret’s main income, but small, independent, affordable labels were fast becoming popular – limited-edition ranges aimed at the over-forties. However, Margaret’s clientele was growing older and she needed to appeal to an equally lucrative younger mark
et with a disposable income. And I got the feeling that what Margaret wanted, Margaret got.
‘If you can prove to me you’re the untapped talent I think you are, then we can do business,’ she added, smiling.
One nervous handshake later and I was sitting on the top deck of the number five bus, holding on to a thousand pounds’ worth of dresses for dear life.
5 January
Making clothes for children who didn’t care about fashion trends and teens that wanted designer rips in their jeans was entirely different from working to meet Margaret’s expectations.
For the first time in my life, I had the chance to turn my talent into something really profitable. But I was scared. What if she laughed my ideas out of the boutique? What if it wasn’t in me to be original and I could only stretch to copying clothes that already existed?
I could have gone around in theoretical circles for days, but the only way to find out was to stop dithering and get on with it. The day after meeting Margaret, I sat down at the dining room table with a mug of tea, and surrounded myself with Robbie’s coloured pencils, a blank sketchpad and a mental image of her breathing down my neck. Then I drew. And drew. And drew.
But nothing came close to matching what she’d asked for. My designs were, at best, bland. They lacked oomph, and if I knew it, Margaret would too.
If ever I needed a glass of wine for inspiration, it was then. But when the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed four times, I retired to bed, defeated but sober.
The following three nights were exactly the same. I’d already buckled under pressure. On day five, I tossed and turned in bed and reluctantly admitted it had all been pie in the sky. My mum was right: I’d never be as good as her. Her work was so much better than mine, yet she’d known her place, and it wasn’t creating something for someone else’s approval. I wondered if she was still making clothes. It had been years since my parents had moved out of the village and down to the south coast. We’d send each other Christmas cards, but that’s where our contact started and finished. They’d visited once, a couple of months after I had James, but that was it. My children were bang out of luck when it came to having grandparents who wanted to play an active role in their lives.
