by Rosie Fiore
‘Have you told her?’
‘No. But you’re going to lose your licence. She’s bound to find out.’
‘I suppose so. I don’t want her to feel that she’s… responsible in any way. She’s not.’
‘Of course she isn’t!’ said Stephen sharply. ‘What an absurd thing to say. You’re an adult and responsible for your own actions. You just need to pull yourself together.’
She laughed lightly, and he didn’t ask why she found his comment amusing. Perversely, she rather liked his use of cliché, his stolid, British insistence that she could fix this by ‘pulling herself together’. But the notion that she could, the idea that she could unshatter her life, unfragment herself, through an act of will was just… Well, it was funny.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
She was tired all the time. Although she wasn’t working, she still found herself yawning by eight or nine in the evening, and she was usually in bed and asleep by ten. During the long, quiet days at home when Michael was at work, she often had an afternoon nap as well. Even when she was out and doing things – shopping, walking in the park with Paul and Tim, having lunch with Lucie or with friends – she would catch herself stifling yawns, and she would fantasize about the crisp, white bedclothes on her bed as she might once have fantasized about a lover. By the time Michael came to bed, she was usually asleep, and the sleep was deep and dreamless, almost drugged. Sex was the last thing on her mind, and even if he tentatively reached for her or stroked her, she couldn’t rouse herself enough to turn to him and make love.
The date for her court case came round. Michael drove her to court and she stood before the judge, carefully and neatly dressed, and expressed abject remorse. Her good character and impeccable record were taken into account, and she offered to enrol in a drink-driving rehabilitation scheme to reduce the length of her ban. It all went as well as she could have hoped – a twelve-month ban, which would go down to eight months when she completed the course, and a fine, which she was able to pay from her savings.
One Saturday morning she woke to find herself alone in the bed. She lay for a while watching the breeze riffle the curtains. She could glimpse bright sunlight beyond them – the morning was well advanced. She reached for her phone to look at the time. After ten. She had been asleep for twelve solid hours. She felt quite able to roll over and sleep some more but knew that morally, responsibly, she really should get up. It was so hard to move, however. Eventually, the call of nature drove her out from under the duvet, and she stumbled, yawning, to the bathroom.
Now she was up, she realized she was both hungry and thirsty. A cup of tea and a slice of toast. That was what she needed. Maybe that would help her to shake this terrible lethargy. She pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs. Michael was in the kitchen, standing with his back to her, ironing and listening to the radio. He was shirtless. He didn’t turn – he clearly hadn’t heard her come downstairs. She stopped in the doorway and looked at his back and strong legs. It reminded her of her first glimpse of him beside the pool at the conference centre. She had a sudden, intense memory of the first time they’d had sex, the taste of his skin, the mad swoop and rush of their falling in love. It seemed light years away now.
He must have sensed her presence because he turned, and she saw his jaw tighten for a split second before he mustered a warm smile. ‘Coffee’s on,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ She drifted over to sit at the kitchen table. He finished ironing his shirt and shrugged it on and buttoned it. He poured her a cup of coffee and brought it over to the table, sitting down opposite her.
‘Listen,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I glanced at the calendar this morning.’ He indicated the family organizer which hung beside the back door, and which, in the days when her life was full, Esther had used to keep track of Lucie’s social life, and minutiae like dentist’s appointments and birthdays. ‘Tomorrow’s the fourteenth,’ he continued, and Esther looked at him blankly. ‘Sally’s housewarming party? We said yes to it months ago, but now… Well, I know you’ve not spoken to her for a while, and… Should I call her and cancel? Or would you rather—’
‘We should go.’ Esther surprised herself with the firmness of her tone. Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can’t drift around like a hermit forever. It’ll be a good first step – getting out, going to see people – and Lucie said she’d come too. I’ll ring her.’ She smiled brightly at him, and she could see he was taken aback by her cheer and animation. ‘I’d better find something to wear.’ She picked up her coffee cup and stood. ‘Or what the hell, maybe I’ll go shopping!’
She did go shopping, choosing a calf-length navy dress which hung well, concealing the fact that she had got rather out of shape. She had no hope of getting an appointment with her usual hairdresser, but she popped into one on the high street and had the ragged ends of her hair trimmed, then bought an over-the-counter hair dye which covered the grey. At least she would go to the party looking like a normal human being rather than a mad bag lady or the spectre at the feast.
She went to a coffee shop and sat down, a cappuccino in front of her, and stared at her phone. She was finding it harder and harder to ring Lucie these days. Whenever she did, Lucie’s voice was guarded and flat, and she answered in monosyllables, as if afraid even to give words away. Esther finished every phone call feeling sad and desperate. She wasn’t sure how it was possible that she had lost her daughter so entirely in just a few short months. Where before she might have taken Lucie for a long walk or to a patisserie to share cakes and confidences, she could see no way to open a door now. The calls caused her such pain, she had taken to texting. She could at least pretend to ignore Lucie’s shortness in written communication. She typed quickly. ‘Sally’s housewarming tomorrow lunchtime. Still up for it?’ Then she sat for a couple of minutes, sipping her coffee slowly, hoping for an instant reply. Lucie must have seen the message. Whenever they were together, she was welded to her phone and would pause any conversation to reply to a message from a friend. But after fifteen minutes or so, Esther had to concede that the reply might take some time.
By that evening, she still hadn’t heard from Lucie. She hesitated for a while, then fired off another quick text. ‘Did you get my message about the housewarming? Please reply.’
Her phone beeped almost instantly. A single-word reply: ‘Yes.’
Did she mean yes she had seen the message, or yes she was coming? This was the trouble with text messaging. It was easy to be imprecise. There was no alternative; she would have to ring Lucie. She dialled the number, but even though Lucie had replied to her text just seconds before, the phone rang and went to voicemail. As Esther listened to Lucie’s perky voice giving her outgoing message, she felt a flash of deep anger. When the beep sounded and she began to speak, her voice was icy and clipped. ‘I don’t know why you aren’t answering your phone. I know you’ve seen it’s me and left it to ring. You’re being rude. We will pick you up tomorrow at eleven for Sally’s housewarming. Be ready.’ She didn’t expect Lucie to ring back, and indeed she didn’t.
She didn’t say anything to Michael about this exchange, or non-exchange. When he asked about plans for the next day, she just said, calmly, ‘We’ll pick Lucie up at eleven. Even with Sunday traffic, we should have ample time to get to Sally’s.’
Esther was ready by 10.30, her hair drawn back in a tidy ponytail, make-up applied and accessories carefully chosen. She saw Michael watching her closely, clearly surprised. She smiled at him. ‘I’m fine, really. This is just what I need. Bit of a knees-up.’
‘It’s a rather sedate housewarming luncheon party. I think you may be disappointed in the knees-up department.’
‘Well, a party’s what you make it,’ she said. ‘I helped Sally pick out the lampshades. It’s only right I get to put one on my head and dance on the kitchen table.’
‘Do we have a gift for her? I can stop and get a bottle of bubbly on the way over…’ She heard the momentary hesitation in his
voice. He still didn’t know how to handle the issue of alcohol around her. She hadn’t had a drink since the night she’d spent in the cells. It had seemed simplest.
‘No, no, I have a gift,’ she said. ‘Sally asked me months ago if I had any pictures from when we were children. I dug some out ages ago and had them scanned and blown up and framed.’
‘She’ll love that.’ Michael put an arm around Esther’s shoulders, giving her a squeeze. ‘Did I happen to tell you that you look beautiful today?’
‘No, in fact you didn’t.’
‘Well, that was downright careless of me. You look lovely.’ He dropped a careful, chaste kiss onto her hairline. ‘Come on, let’s go and fetch Lucie.’
The traffic on the way to Stephen’s house was heinous, and even though they got there well after eleven, Lucie wasn’t ready. They could hear raised voices through the front door as they walked up the path. When they got inside, it was clear that Melissa had been cajoling Lucie to get dressed. As soon as Esther came into the house, Melissa made a polite excuse and melted into her own bedroom, the baby in her arms. Stephen had retired to his garden office to work, and when he saw Esther and Michael in the kitchen, he waved at them through the window. He had no intention of getting involved. Lucie stalked off to her room without a word. Esther followed her. Michael hung back in the living room.
Lucie’s room was in chaos; her hair was unbrushed and she was still in pyjamas. Esther could see they were in for a long haul or an ugly battle, so she went over and began to go through Lucie’s wardrobe. ‘How about this?’ she asked, holding up a pretty yellow top. ‘With jeans, or your white skirt, and a jacket?’
Lucie, slumped on the edge of the bed, curled her lip at this. ‘I’m not seven, Mum.’
‘Or this?’ Esther held up a short skater dress, one she had initially resisted buying because she’d thought it too grown-up.
‘I’ll freeze.’
‘It’s warm enough outside. What about this?’ She held up garment after garment. Lucie shook her head at the first few, and then just stared at the carpet, refusing to look at all.
Esther stood staring into the wardrobe, a space in a strange house packed with clothes she had chosen and paid for, and took three long, deep breaths. She turned to her daughter. ‘Lucie…’ she began.
‘I’m not going. I don’t want to go.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Esther barked before she could stop herself. ‘Michael and I spent an hour driving over here. You’re being very inconsiderate.’
‘I didn’t say I was coming,’ flared Lucie.
‘And you didn’t say you weren’t.’
‘Well, I’m saying it now.’
‘Why? You love Sally.’
‘It’s all ruined. You ruined it.’ Lucie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘If I go, and I talk to her, you’ll be all staring and weird, wondering if we’re talking about you. I don’t speak to her at all now. Are you happy?’
Esther was a lot of things. Happy wasn’t one of them. She arranged the dress she was holding more neatly on the hanger, slipped it back onto the rail and softly closed the wardrobe door. She turned and looked at her daughter sitting on the edge of the unmade bed. She smoothed her dress, tried to smile, failed, and walked out to the living room.
‘She’s not coming,’ she said calmly to Michael. ‘Let’s go.’
Michael didn’t ask why Lucie wasn’t coming. He didn’t express displeasure or comment that it was rude of her to have made them drive all the way to Islington when she had no intention of getting in the car. He just drove. It struck Esther that when your life was falling apart, it was notable how little people said to you – how much they accepted, how few questions they asked.
Sally’s driveway was full of cars, and they had to find parking on the road. They didn’t speak as they walked to the front door. Michael rang the doorbell, and as they waited for someone to answer, he took Esther’s hand. Whether it was out of genuine affection, solidarity, or merely for show, she didn’t know. She left her hand in his, although she didn’t reciprocate the squeeze he gave as the door opened.
Paul answered the door, his face still bright from the merriment of the party, and for a split second he registered naked surprise. ‘Esther!’ he said, recovering instantly. We weren’t sure you’d come!’ He turned back into the house. ‘Everyone!’ he called. ‘Esther and Michael are here!’
It was clear he was broadcasting a warning, and as they went through into the dining room, they could see that Sally had genuinely thought they weren’t coming. Tim was up, getting everyone to move further round the table and drawing in two extra chairs, and Esther saw Sally disappearing into the kitchen, obviously rushing to get further place settings. There was a flurry of forced gaiety on their entrance, as everyone shuffled round, making room. The starters were already on the table, little individual salads. Esther imagined Sally in the kitchen, sweating and flustered, flinging rocket onto plates to make another two portions.
She was seated in a corner seat, with Michael wedged in on the diagonally opposite corner, as far away from her as he could be. She could see he was anxious about this, and she caught his warning glance as someone filled an enormous glass with red wine and placed it in front of her. She smiled sweetly at him, trying to reassure him that all would be well. She picked up the glass to take a sip and turned to thank the person on her right who had filled it for her. It was Phil.
Astonishingly, it hadn’t crossed her mind that he would be there. She could have kicked herself. Of course he would be. He was dating Sally. She smiled, and lifted her glass slightly to him. ‘Well, here you are,’ she said.
‘You’ve let yourself go,’ he said, his tone even and conversational. ‘You look like shit.’ His face looked perfectly pleasant. Anyone else at the table would have assumed they were introducing themselves, making small talk.
‘How did you manage to weasel your way in here?’ she said. ‘It seems a massive coincidence that you’ve managed to hook up with a friend of mine. Forgive me, but I don’t really believe in coincidences.’
‘I don’t really care what you believe.’ He said this with a warm but entirely artificial smile. ‘It was a coincidence. Sally was volunteering at a half-marathon. I was running for Macmillan. We got chatting. Then we bumped into each other again because she goes to the theatre group which is near my flat. You might say it was meant to be.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. When she told me her full name, I remembered you’d mentioned some friends called Millais. It’s an unusual name. I liked her, but the possibility that I might get to needle you a little was a delightful bonus.’
‘Does Sally know you’re a sad little stalker troll?’ she said sweetly.
‘Sally knows I’m a nice guy, which I am – to women who conduct themselves like ladies.’
‘It’d be a pity if someone enlightened her about some of your past behaviour.’ Esther took a large gulp of the wine.
‘Go ahead,’ said Phil, sipping his sparkling water. ‘Why would she believe anything you say? The state of you. So how’ve you been? I heard you lost your job. And your kid moved out. And you’ve been hitting the bottle.’ He glanced at her now half-empty glass. ‘That sappy boyfriend of yours must be a saint. Or maybe he gets off on charity cases.’
Esther looked around the table. It was crammed with people. The only empty seat was the one at the head of the table, to her left, which was clearly Sally’s place. There was no way she could move or swap seats without causing an enormous fuss. She was stuck next to this poisonous man.
Sally came out of the kitchen, carrying two small salad plates. She went over to Michael first, giving him his plate, apologizing and kissing his cheek. Her colour was high and the hair at her temples was wet with sweat. She came round to the head of the table and put the plate of salad down in front of Esther. She sat down in her seat and opened her arms, drawing Esther into a tight hug.
‘I’m so, so glad you came,’ she whispered in
to Esther’s ear.
Esther could feel Sally’s shoulder blades, like wings under her hands. She was small-boned, like Isabella had been. ‘I said I was coming.’
‘I know… but… well. We hadn’t spoken for a while.’ Sally drew back, and Esther saw there were tears in her eyes. ‘I’m very happy to see you.’
‘I’m sorry Lucie’s not with us,’ said Esther evenly. ‘She’s… well… You know how busy teenagers are.’
‘No problem,’ said Sally. ‘Well, tuck in. Oh, I forgot… This is Phil.’ She gestured to him.
‘We introduced ourselves,’ said Esther, not catching Phil’s eye. Sally grinned at her, and she could see she was trying to telegraph that this was The Man. Esther managed a weak smile and started to play with the food on her plate.
The conversation, which had faltered on their entrance, picked up again. She looked around to see who was there. There were twenty people round the table – Paul and Tim, Sally and Phil, herself and Michael, and fourteen people she didn’t know. Some she thought she recognized from the amateur theatre group, some were total strangers. They all seemed at home in Sally’s home, an eclectic mix of friends such as one might expect to find around a north London Sunday lunch table. The room was flooded with wintry sunlight, the table laden with glasses, flowers and snacks, the garden bright and neat through the window. Music was playing, something light and jazzy. Esther looked around to see where it was coming from, and spotted the speakers set into the ceiling.
Sally saw her looking. ‘I’ve had the most bonkers sound system installed,’ she said. ‘Speakers in every room. It should be crazy complicated, but I can actually make the whole thing work from my phone. Phil helped me set it up.’
Phil, neatly dissecting a tomato, gave Sally a warm smile. ‘Well, you do love your music,’ he said indulgently, as if Sally were a child. ‘She shall have music wherever she goes.’
Sally giggled girlishly.
It seemed the only possible response to the situation was to keep drinking. By the time Sally, helped by Tim and Paul, had brought through the main course (roast chicken, lamb, and abundant vegetables), Esther was drunk. Phil kept staring disapprovingly at her rapidly emptying glass. She delighted in this, and kept topping it up. She was careful not to look up and catch Michael’s eye, although she knew he would be watching her.
