The Mistake I Made

by Paula Daly

  Five years ago, life was good. We were earning plenty, we spent freely (more money than we had), and we thought it would continue like that for ever. But an event was to cause a change in our circumstances, and we didn’t change along with them. Not nearly fast enough anyhow. Winston’s building firm lost its major contract and his hours were cut, along with his hourly rate. Ultimately, we fell apart. Winston left and I found myself without a home, without a business, and with a small child to support.

  I probably should have declared bankruptcy at that point, but a combination of pride and a fear of being refused credit in the future prevented me from doing so. I borrowed some money from my sister for a deposit, rented a house, purchased a few bits and pieces on finance to furnish the place, and now, thanks to Winston and the exorbitant monthly interest on the credit card, I carried a debt of close to eighteen thousand pounds.

  After rent, the cost of my car, food, household bills the ferry, after-school club, and the loan repayments, my wage from the clinic left me with around fifty pounds a month to spare – if things didn’t go wrong. And things always went wrong.

  I glanced at George to check if he was okay with what I’d just told him, and he seemed to be. His expression became wistful, as if he’d already moved on to other things. Kids. So resilient.

  ‘Foxy bit me,’ he said after a minute or two.

  ‘Again?’ I asked, and he nodded. ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Show me,’ I said.

  He held out his hand and there was a small, raised nub of flesh on his knuckle, but no break to the skin.

  ‘She didn’t mean to do it,’ he said. ‘Sometimes she can’t help it. I don’t think she realized it was me. Is she blind? Celia says she is.’

  ‘Getting that way,’ I replied. ‘Although Dennis reckons she can see next door’s cat well enough.’

  We had a dog. Once. A three-year-old shaggy lurcher which George named Cesar after his hero, the ‘Dog Whisperer’, Cesar Millan. George asked for a dog every Christmas and birthday from the time he was able to talk. When he was six, Winston and I finally acquiesced, and there never was a happier child than George Toovey.

  Two years later and after Winston moved out, the dog had to leave, too. We tried to make it work. But finding a rental property which allowed dogs, and the hours I spent at my job made it untenable. I’d like to say George bought the lie all parents tell their kids when they’ve taken their pet to the shelter – the one where the dog goes to live on a farm somewhere, running free, all happily ever after – but George insisted on my calling the Rescue Me animal shelter to check Cesar was okay and was told by a kind woman that he’d been adopted by a little boy around his own age who was enjoying his new companion immensely.

  George still wasn’t over it and was counting down the weeks until we could move from our current address into a more permanent accommodation, where animals were allowed. I told him this wouldn’t be any time soon, but he remained undeterred, keeping his dog-ownership skills up to date by continuing to watch Cesar Millan whenever he stayed over at Winston’s mother’s house. She was fortunate enough to have Sky TV.

  I smiled at George and reached across, tousling his hair above his bald patch. ‘I love you, you know,’ I said to him.

  ‘Love you more,’ he said back.

  We drove with the windows down because the AC was out of gas. Along the roadside there were mounds of cut grass and their desiccated hay scent filled the air. Couples walked arm in arm, making their way into Bowness for the evening. George rested his elbow out the window, as he’d observed adult men do. But not having sufficient length in his arms, he was forced to lean awkwardly against the door.

  My hair whipped around my face, strands sticking to my lipstick, some getting caught in the tiny hinge mechanism of my sunglasses.

  When we arrived at Petra’s I checked my face in the rear-view mirror and quickly applied some lipstick and mascara. I’m not great with make-up. I mention this not as one of those statements you hear from irritating women – you know, when you’re supposed to feel crap because you trowel it on and they’re already naturally beautiful without it. No, I feel kind of silly wearing it, and only do so when forced. On occasions such as this.

  At my sister’s house I stood on the front step, rearranged my hair, adjusted the straps of my halterneck summer dress and whispered to George not to mention the situation at home. When he raised his eyebrows questioningly, I told him this was Petra’s night and I didn’t want her to worry about us. Which was mostly true.

  Vince, my brother-in-law, swung the door open with his usual gusto, took one look at my painted face, and grinned, saying, ‘What’ve you come as?’

  ‘Not tonight, Vince,’ I said, pushing past him. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Hey, Georgie boy!’ he said, slapping George’s raised hand. ‘How are you, my friend?’

  ‘Very well, thank you … under the circumstances,’ replied George a little stiffly, and Vince shot me a look.

  ‘Are we very late?’ I said, avoiding.

  ‘No more than usual,’ Vince shrugged before turning his attention back to George. ‘C’mon, kiddo,’ he said, ‘let’s get you armed with sugar and a ton of E numbers, ready to face the team of petites dragonettes upstairs.’

  Vince was more at home in the company of kids. After a couple of beers you would find him wearing mascara (applied badly), and with one of Petra’s underskirts on his head (long, princess hair), after he’d been attacked by his daughter and her bossy little friends.

  He was good with the girls, but it was common knowledge that Vince craved a son. Petra had managed to quash that idea by selling the notion that her death was an absolute certainty if she became pregnant again. This was on account of the high blood pressure and gestational diabetes she had suffered when carrying Clara.

  So Vince had to make do with George. Not ideal, since George had no interest in football, rugby and motor racing. But they had recently found some common ground when playing poker. And the occasional game of crib.

  In the kitchen Vince poured me a glass of champagne with something bright and syrupy-sweet floating on the top. ‘Can’t I just have it on its own?’ I asked him, frowning at the glass.

  ‘Not an option.’

  My sister went through these phases. Adding stuff to make things more exciting and ruining them in the process was one.

  With his head cocked to one side and a quick sideways glance, Vince said, ‘Nadine had these at her fiftieth,’ mimicking his wife, ‘and they went down very well with the crowd.’

  ‘Oh, well, if Nadine had them,’ I replied, playing along.

  Nadine and her husband, Scott, were Petra’s current fixation. Petra was prone to these obsessions – as I said, at the moment it was Nadine and Scott Elias, but it could just as easily have been slow-cooked shin of beef or National Trust lighthouse properties.

  The women had become friends whilst watching the men play charity cricket, and at the moment Petra would slip Nadine’s name into almost every sentence, though not in a boastful way; I think it was involuntary. Much like when you’re in those early, exquisite stages of a relationship, and your lover’s name trips from your tongue so readily that you couldn’t stop it even if you tried.

  Vince took a can of Fanta from the drinks fridge, pressing it into George’s hand, saying, ‘Good luck up there, my friend,’ and George scooted off upstairs, but not before telling Vince that all our furniture had disappeared.

  ‘What?’ said Vince, turning to me, while I glared hard at George’s back.

  But I waved away Vince’s concern, telling him it was a temporary blip, before striding out into the garden.

  I had Petra’s present (sparkly, hooped earrings) in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other, and announced my presence by asking loudly, ‘Where’s the birthday girl?’ with a lot more jubilance than I had cause for.

  There is always a compromise to be made with property on this side of the la
ke. Planning restrictions in the National Park dictate that people are stuck with the houses they’ve got – unless you’ve got a spare three million to buy the 1950s bungalow on the lakeshore, and then you can bulldoze it and pop your McMansion in its place. The rest of the community buys what they can afford, and then make do Usually, forfeiting internal space, and as often as not, a decent garden.

  No one has a regular-shaped lawn in Windermere and Bowness – either the terrain is too steep or it’s cut off at an angle by a brook or, commonly – and this was before the planning department became unwaveringly strict – residents built second homes on their plots to generate some extra cash.

  The consequence of this was that Petra and Vince were the only people I knew to have a lovely, enclosed, rectangular piece of turf with great views of the Langdale Pikes. These pretty western fells – like the Rockies’ Sawtooth Range in miniature – are pink when reflecting the early-morning sun and become bathed in a glorious orange light as the sun sets behind them. Which meant gatherings at Petra and Vince’s often had a kind of bank-holiday feel.

  There were picnic benches, wicker sofas, meticulously tended flower beds, and though Vince tended to be laid-back about most things in life, his lawn was grade-one bowling-green turf, which he tended to continuously. He would snip away at stray edges with kitchen scissors, as one might do with award-winning topiary.

  I made my way from the patio over to Petra, who was serving my parents with their usual – non-alcoholic lager for my dad, cranberry juice for my mum (cystitis sufferer). After I’d greeted everyone and apologized for my tardiness, my dad informed me that he and Mum would not be staying long, followed by, ‘You know us, we don’t like to be out late. What with the long drive we have to do now, and all,’ and I said, ‘No, no, of course,’ both of us dropping our heads to avoid eye contact.

  They had begun to look frail of late. Their natural vigour was starting to wane. My mother, particularly, moved carefully now, as though recovering from a bad fall, and it occurred to me that perhaps she had in fact sustained one, and had kept it to herself.

  I told them I’d round George up in a moment, that he’d been eager to get upstairs to his cousin, which was not exactly true. The reason I didn’t send George straight out to see his grandparents was because I was frightened he’d blab to them about the missing furniture. And they worried about my finances enough as it was.

  ‘Roz! Roz, come and chat to Scott and Nadine,’ Petra said now, dragging me away by the elbow. ‘I’m dying for you to meet them. They’re so lovely. I can’t believe they came. And wait till I show you what Scott brought. See that wine over there?’ She motioned to the benches on the patio, which were dressed with white table-cloths. ‘He brought three cases!’

  ‘It’s good wine?’ I asked, not really knowing what to say.

  ‘What?’ she said, frowning. ‘Of course it’s good wine. Scott doesn’t drink crap. He has a guy who picks out the best for him and delivers. Anyway, don’t mention it, or he gets a bit uncomfortable. He’s very humble about his wealth.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’

  ‘Scott, Nadine,’ said Petra as we approached, ‘this is my sister, Roz Toovey. She’s the physiotherapist I was telling you about. Roz is super-talented. She can fix anyone. Even people who have been in pain for years.’

  I coughed and stuck out my hand. ‘I fear Petra might be overselling me. Pleased to meet you, Nadine. What pretty hair you have.’

  ‘She travels to Manchester for highlights, don’t you, Nadine?’ cut in Petra as Nadine rose, taking my hand, telling me how glad she was finally to meet me. She kissed me on both cheeks, and there was that awkward moment where one person (that would be me) pulls away after a single kiss, not expecting the second. It’s such an easy way to wrong-foot a Northerner. ‘We’ve heard so much about you,’ she said, smiling genuinely.

  ‘Likewise,’ I replied, and then whispered in her ear, ‘I think Petra’s a little bit in love with you, actually.’

  Nadine was gracious enough to take the compliment with a small raise of her eyebrows, then she ushered me towards her husband.

  ‘Scott Elias,’ he said and, again, two kisses. He was around six foot, stood very sure of himself and could have been a little imposing if it weren’t for the way he smiled. He did it in a way to indicate it was a real pleasure to meet me, as though he was genuinely interested in what I had to say.

  ‘Perhaps you could take a look at my elbow when you have a moment?’ he began, and Nadine gave him a swift nudge.

  ‘He’s joking,’ she said flatly. ‘Aren’t you, darling?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely,’ he replied, ducking as though expecting a swipe at his head, courtesy of Nadine. ‘Wouldn’t dream of asking something so inappropriate on a first meeting.’

  But people do.

  For some reason they don’t equate my job as having the usual boundaries. I didn’t know how Scott had made his money, or exactly what line of business he was in, but let’s say for argument’s sake he was a landscape gardener. Asking me to take a quick look at his elbow was akin to me asking him to pop over to my house and dig over the rough patch of land to the rear of the property. Or asking a chef if he wouldn’t mind rustling up a few canapés because we were all feeling peckish.

  Anyway, I didn’t hold it against him as, like most, he said it without thinking. And people ask about their ailments because it’s a conversation starter and they can’t think of anything else to say.

  Like throwing a punch at a black belt in Karate, and saying, ‘And what would you do if I did this?’

  We talked pleasantries for a while – the glorious stretch of weather we were experiencing – and, like many people I talked to, Scott was enjoying it all the more because the south of the country had rain. I asked Nadine about her children, and proudly she said her youngest was in Toulouse for the summer, before starting at Warwick in September, and their eldest was at the London Film School. At this she pulled a face to indicate she wasn’t sure what would come of that. Scott and she not being artistic people, this had come quite out of the blue.

  Well, this is unexpected, I thought.

  They were nice.

  I’d anticipated feeling fairly contemptuous towards them after the incessant commentary from Petra about how Scott Elias does this, Nadine Elias does that. Scott has a driver who is part of the family, Nadine likes fresh flowers in every room, every single day, the florist brings them specially, blah, blah, blah.

  But they seemed normal. Quite down to earth, in fact.

  Of course, Nadine was more polished than your average woman. Every small detail was refined, elevated to make the absolute most of her features. Think of an ordinary song after Giorgio Moroder has pimped it up, and you’ll get the general idea. She, like Scott, was in her early fifties. She was a neat, trim woman, fine boned, with delicate wrists and ankles. She was dressed in white, wide-legged trousers with a scoop-necked top and wore a simple diamond on a chain at her throat.

  ‘Are you on your own?’ Nadine asked, casting her eyes around as she looked for a suitable match with whom she could place me.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  For a time I used to fill the void following this enquiry with explanations, with self-deprecating remarks about my single status, all the while being rather jolly so as not to make the other person feel bad in any way.

  Now I couldn’t be arsed.

  ‘No man in your life?’ asked Scott.

  Before I had the chance to reply Petra butted in. ‘What Roz needs,’ she said, ‘is a good, steady guy. You don’t happen to have any nice single friends, do you, Scott?’

  Scott made a show of thinking through his acquaintances, frowning as though weighing up each one carefully. Then he looked directly at me, holding my gaze for a few seconds too long, making sure I noticed. Making sure, in that way some men do, that you have been set firmly in their sights. ‘I don’t, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘They’re all taken.’

  ‘Often the way,�
�� I said quickly, embarrassed. ‘Anyway, thanks for that, but as Petra knows, good and well, I’m off men for the time being.’

  ‘They’re not all like Winston,’ said Petra, a little sharply. ‘They’re not all going to do what he did.’

  I gave Petra a look as though to say, Not now, and replied, ‘Yes, well, I’d rather not take the chance,’ brushing it off with a laugh and a roll of my eyes.

  Though our words were innocuous enough, I would say it was evident by Petra’s tone that there was something else at play here, and the air became charged by our exchange.

  Sensing this, Scott jumped to his feet. ‘Let me get you another drink, Roz,’ he said. ‘Here, sit yourself—’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I’ve had my quota. I’ve got to drive home, unfortunately.’

  ‘That’s a real shame,’ he said and, again, the look.

  At this Petra exhaled noisily. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Roz, get yourself another drink. You’re staying here.’

  ‘No, I—’

  But Scott was off. And within seconds he returned with what must have been half a pint of red wine.

  I rolled it around the enormous glass a couple of times, transfixed as the liquid clung to the sides, leaving an oily amber hue.

  I didn’t ask what type it was. I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Instead, I threw it back, told Scott it was absolutely exceptional and went off to get another.

  Two hours later, and I was pretty sozzled. Petra was being loud and funny and enjoyable to watch. Her tongue became loose and gossipy when she’d had a drink and she was switching between anecdotes from work – she was a school receptionist – and falling back into default mode, where she informed the listener of the pickle in which I’d found myself:

  ‘And then Roz wakes up, and he’s gone! Cleared off back to his mother’s after running up huge debts in her name. And now she can’t get a penny out of him. And she’s in a huge financial mess. Isn’t that right, Roz?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ I said sleepily.

  Vince was lighting the gas heater. There were just a few of us left outside now and the night was still warm, though chilly on the skin if you were without a cardigan. The backs of my upper arms were goose pimpled and Scott handed me his sweater, asking if I needed it, but I told him I was okay, that I’d nip inside and get a couple of fleece throws from the sofa so we could all keep warm.