by Paula Daly
I smiled at him.
‘Why the hell are you smiling?’ he asked, appalled.
And I thought: Good. Facial muscles were still functioning properly. Stroke was now an unlikely event. With any luck, my speech would come back when the inflammation in my brain began to subside.
So I did nothing.
In fact, I felt an overriding tiredness, so I slept a little.
When I woke, the room was in semi-darkness.
I could sense Wayne nearby before opening my eyes. I stayed still and listened. At first I thought he was experiencing difficulty with his breathing; it sounded laboured and uneasy. But after listening for a minute or so I realized he was trying to calm himself.
I watched him for a moment and then readied myself for speaking, fearful of the sound I was about to make.
‘Help.’
To my ears it sounded normal. So I said it again, only louder. ‘Help me.’
Wayne went stock-still. Then he put his hands to his face and his body quaked irregularly as he tried to hold back his crying.
My head was throbbing. He must have got me right slap bang on the occipital protuberance. I had to keep my face angled to the side to avoid the back of my skull connecting with the floor. My tongue was thick in my mouth like cotton wool. And my thoughts were woozy and disconnected.
‘I wanted you to stay,’ he whimpered. ‘That’s all. I panicked. I just wanted you to stay longer.’
‘My head really hurts, Wayne. What did you hit me with?’
He motioned towards the desk. On it stood a small, chrome, hand-held fire extinguisher. The type you might see inside a boat’s cabin, or a caravan. It was smeared with blood. I felt around the back of my skull. My hair was matted with blood and the skin was raised around the wound.
I looked at Wayne. He was uncertain of what to do with me, which was not good. And he was sweating a lot.
I went to sit up but, at the smallest movement, pain crashed through my head, keeping me glued to the floor.
‘I’m not angry with you, Wayne,’ I lied, placating him. I kept my voice warm, steady. ‘But you really need to help me up. I need the bathroom, and I’m not steady.’
‘I won’t hurt you, you know.’
He said this in a way that suggested he found the thought unsavoury. Like it was beneath him. Like he wouldn’t stoop that low.
‘I know you wouldn’t,’ I said, going along with the insanity of the situation. ‘I’m not scared, Wayne, but I am uncomfortable.’
He stayed exactly where he was; it was as if I’d not spoken. His leaky eyes became empty as he looked past me towards the window. He must have opened the curtains after he’d hit me. ‘I won’t be able to face you at work on Monday,’ he said absently.
‘You panicked. You just got out of control for a second. It’s understandable. I totally understand.’
He blinked. ‘You do?
‘Yes,’ I said gently.
‘I shouldn’t have made you do this,’ he said. ‘It’s unforgivable. It’s not the way I wanted it to be between us. Not like this. Never like this.’
‘Neither of us is who we want to be right now, Wayne. I’m pretty sure of that. But you felt helpless. It’s partly my fault. I made you feel bad about yourself by saying I would only do this one time, by saying I wouldn’t stay. But you have to understand, Wayne, I’m only doing this thing with Scott because I’m desperate, too. Like I said, it’s not who I want to be either.’
I tried to move again, but pain shot through my skull.
‘The only way I get to keep anything is if I trap it,’ Wayne said, his voice trembling.
‘That’s not true … and, Wayne? Spare me the melodrama.’
He turned on a lamp to the side of him. It was dim, thirty watts maybe, the kind you leave on through the night when you’re breastfeeding. When you need to locate the baby without tripping over your slippers.
‘Will you go to the police?’ he asked.
‘And say what? I came here for sex because you’re blackmailing me, but you decided to knock me unconscious instead? Not sure they’d really believe that.’
‘You could say I raped you.’
‘But you didn’t.’
He rose and came close, kneeling beside me.
Oddly, even though inside I was still livid, livid with Wayne, livid with myself for getting into this situation, I wasn’t scared. I watched Wayne’s sad, apologetic face and could feel only pity.
Gently, he put one hand beneath my neck, and the other under my shoulders, preparing to lift me into a sitting position. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ he said.
‘Wayne,’ I replied softly, ‘it will be okay, you know. I promise, this will all be okay. On Monday we’ll pretend it never happened and we’ll never speak of it again. No one needs to know but us.’
And he closed his eyes and shook his head solemnly, as though grappling with a deep thought. As though he knew without a doubt that it wouldn’t be okay. This was not the end of the matter, whatever I said.
Because how on earth could it be?
20
I COULD BARELY remember the trip home. After Wayne got me sitting up, the pain in my head was too intense for me to remain vertical for more than a few seconds and I found I needed to rest some more. I must have either lost consciousness or slept – I wasn’t sure which – for I awoke covered with a blanket, no sign of Wayne, and then I got in the car and headed home to Hawkshead. It was a wonder I arrived there in one piece.
Now it was the following day, and I was in Petra’s kitchen, her grilling me about flaking out of the dinner the previous evening with Scott and Nadine.
‘Did you get the aura?’ she asked.
‘Aura?’ I replied, having no idea what Petra was referring to.
‘Yes, the aura,’ she said snippily. ‘The blurred vision, the numbness in the face, the pins and needles?’
I gave a small shrug. Took a sip of orange juice. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, you’ve not had a proper migraine then. You had a headache. There’s a world of difference. Headaches are inconvenient. Migraines are incapacitating. If you’d had one, you would know. Did you take Ibuprofen?’
‘Of course.’
‘And no change?’
‘Nope. No change at all.’
‘Did you try lying down in a darkened room?’ she asked.
I almost laughed. Kind of, I wanted to say.
‘No, I didn’t try that,’ I said. ‘I will next time.’
She looked at me suspiciously, as though she didn’t believe I’d had a migraine in the first place. She knew I’d cried off from her dinner last night without good reason, and this, coupled with her knowledge that I was playing my cards close to my chest regarding my financial situation, had got her all jumpy.
Petra couldn’t stand not to know.
She separated rashers of streaky bacon before laying them on the grill. A loud wail came from the garden, the kind of wail that would normally merit Petra running wildly though the house to find its source, breathlessly checking if her child was lying bent and crooked at the foot of the stairs.
She looked up, cast a sidelong glance to the garden, tutting dismissively. Then she went back to the bacon, rejigging it, moving each slice along a fraction, to allow her to cram a little more on to the grill.
‘Do you want me to go and check on Clara?’ I asked.
‘Vince is out there.’
‘Yes, but she’s still crying pretty hard.’
‘She’ll live.’
Rinsing her hands beneath the hot tap, she told me that last night hadn’t exactly been a success. Their dinner with Scott and Nadine had come to a close rather early, rather abruptly, actually, after Scott made an excuse about a work problem that needed dealing with, and the brittleness to her tone told me she felt snubbed.
Before I could respond in a suitably soothing manner, as was my way when Petra was pissed off with someone, suggesting they probably didn’t mean to be thoughtless, pr
obably had a lot on, she changed the subject, telling me that even though I’d not technically suffered a true migraine attack, I did look very tired, and not at all well.
‘Is something worrying you?’ she asked.
I feigned surprise. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing that I can think of, anyway.’ I didn’t sound at all convincing, but then who does when asked such a question? ‘Do I really look that bad?’ I asked. ‘I thought I was looking rather perky today. That’s a lot of bacon.’
‘There are six of us. Mind you, Clara will only pick at it. She raided the cupboards before we were up and found the doughnuts Liz left last night.’
‘Six?’ I asked. ‘Who are the six?’
Petra frowned. ‘The four of us … and Scott and Nadine. I told you they were coming for brunch.’
My forehead prickled with heat. ‘You didn’t.’
Petra cracked eggs into a bowl, pausing to count up on her fingers. ‘Two for Vince,’ she said out loud. ‘Two for Scott … will you have one egg or two?’
Without really realizing what I was doing, I slid off the stool and went to reach for my bag.
‘Where are you going?’ Petra said. ‘You’re not leaving, surely?’
Of course I’m leaving, I wanted to say. You don’t actually expect me to stay.
‘Just clearing a space,’ I replied weakly. ‘I wish you’d told me they were coming, Petra. I’m not really up to making polite conversation this morning. My head hurts, and—’
‘I did tell you.’
She didn’t. If she had, I wouldn’t have come. I couldn’t say that, though, obviously, so I had to let it rest.
‘I look like shit,’ I said after a moment.
Petra stopped what she was doing and turned to face me. A smile played at the corners of her mouth. ‘You just said you were looking quite perky. You’re not bothered about what Scott thinks of you, are you? Because I can tell you right now he won’t even look at you. He’s that kind of guy. Doesn’t notice women. You could be naked in front of him and he’d be more bothered about—’
‘I was meaning Nadine,’ I replied quickly. ‘She’s always so well groomed.’
‘Go and wash your face and put on some of my lipstick, if it makes you feel better. They’ll be here in five minutes. Though I don’t know why you’re fussing, I keep telling you, they’re not what you think. They’re really not as …’
Petra rambled on, but I’d stopped listening. Inside, I was flapping. I was looking around for an escape, an excuse, so I failed to notice right away that she had also taken on a high colour. Her neck, the tops of her arms, had gone a deep, blotchy red. Angry red, like patches of psoriasis.
At first I thought it was because her crush on the couple had waned. Petra threw herself into these new friendships with such energy, such gusto, that when the time came for the other party to cool things a little, perhaps by accepting another invitation rather than her own, she would behave like a jilted bride. Well, maybe that’s a little harsh, but she did feel the hurt extraordinarily deeply.
I watched Petra move about the kitchen. Watched her staccato actions, her breath catching in her throat, and knew right then that there was something more at play.
Dread poured through me.
Petra was attracted to Scott.
Then Vince appeared at the French windows. ‘Morning, Roz,’ he said brightly.
‘Morning.’
‘How long till brunch?’ he asked.
Petra regarded him, and her jaw tightened. ‘Fifteen minutes. And you’ll need to change those shorts.’
‘Right-o,’ he said, and shot me a quick smile. ‘George okay?’
‘Great.’
‘Think he’ll be up for a spot of fishing Thursday evening?’
‘He’d love it.’
‘Six thirty, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick him up after his tea.’
Vince disappeared upstairs. Petra watched him go, giving the impression of being unreasonably irritated by him. There was nothing unusual in her bossing him around. That was how they functioned. But the look in her eyes – the scorn – as he shuffled past in his shorts and flip-flops, that was something entirely new. The shorts, incidentally, were pretty bad. They were fawn in colour and a shade too short for a rotund figure like Vince. The type worn by out-of-shape American spectators at golf tournaments.
‘Have you two had a row?’ I asked Petra, hopeful her behaviour was caused by something other than Scott.
‘A row?’ she said, distracted. ‘We never row. I ignore him when I’m angry, you know that.’
‘Are you angry then?’
Her shoulders heaved visibly as she exhaled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s just … it’s just sometimes he can be so’ – she paused before saying – ‘disappointing.’ Then she looked at me guiltily, like she knew she was out of line but she couldn’t help it.
The doorbell rang.
‘Christ,’ she said, peering at the bacon. ‘I need to turn these over now. Would you mind getting that?’
Long story short, Scott was able to disguise his look of shock upon seeing me answer the door. And what could have been a period of supreme awkwardness turned out not to be when everyone’s attention was taken by Clara, who threw the most splendid tantrum. I love watching a good tantrum. It brings out such odd behaviour in the surrounding adults, none more so than Petra, who had a torrent of excuses as to why Clara was conducting herself in this manner. And also from Nadine, who did her best to reassure Petra (on some subliminal level, anyway) that she was not a bad parent, and in no way at fault.
In the midst of all this, Scott shot me a look across the kitchen that said, Shit! This is unexpected! but then followed it quickly with a shrug and warm smile as though to convey: It is what it is. Let’s not fuck up.
So we didn’t.
We each stuck to the harmless conversation of one’s own offspring. Listening to Nadine and Petra cluck away was dull but safe, and I was about to make my excuses and leave when Nadine threw a spanner in the works.
‘You know, Roz, I’ve been thinking. I’m sure you would get along with my brother.’
‘Oh?’ I said.
‘Yes, he’s been single for a long time. I’ve no idea why. He’s got such a lot going for him.’
‘Wonder why I’ve not come across him,’ I said vaguely, and glanced at Petra, who was absolutely beaming. You would think by her expression that Nadine had mentioned royalty. She gazed towards Nadine, eager for her to go on.
But Scott said, rather bluntly, ‘Your brother’s no use to Roz.’ And Nadine turned to him, her expression calm but masking deep offence.
‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why is he no use?’
Scott shrugged. ‘He’s’ – he paused, choosing his words carefully – ‘he’s not what you’d call properly employed, is he?’
I glanced at Petra, and her smile fell. She looked as though all the air had been sucked out of her. Reluctant to upset Nadine, but feeling as though she must say something, she uttered, ‘Roz is looking for someone stable. Financial stability is the key, more than anything else, really.’
This might have come across as pompous if you didn’t know the history. But Petra was protecting herself here as much as me. As it was, Nadine didn’t appear concerned with what Petra had to say, she was clearly fuming about Scott’s assessment of her brother, and the rest of us looked at one another, helpless, waiting for her to blow.
‘My brother,’ she said through her teeth, ‘is a perfectly decent human being, who has no financial burdens. He is kind to women, incredibly loyal and, just because he doesn’t have your ambition, Scott, it does not make him a loser.’
Scott sat back in his chair. ‘I didn’t call him a loser. I just don’t think he’s right for Roz, that’s all.’
Nadine did a double take. ‘And you would know this how?’
‘Because’ – and he looked at me as he said this – ‘Roz seems like she would want a guy with something about them. Your brother’s a drifter. He’s a
nice guy, but he’s not going anywhere. He’ll still be living week to week when he’s sixty.’
Nadine shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you come out with this stuff.’
‘To be honest,’ I interrupted weakly, ‘it would be impossible at the moment, anyway. George isn’t staying with his dad for another couple of weeks, so I’m stuck at home. Not that I mind, it’s just—’
‘You could go on Thursday,’ Vince piped up, the first words he’d uttered since we’d sat down. ‘You could go out with him on Thursday.’ He’d fashioned himself a bacon-and-egg sandwich, and as he bit down a little of the yolk spurted. Petra looked away. ‘I’m taking him fishing. He could spend the night here, or I don’t mind dropping him back late, give you a chance to have a couple of drinks with this guy. If that’s what you want.’
Nadine turned back to me, her head angled to one side. She was waiting for a response.
‘Okay’ came out of my mouth without my realizing I’d actually spoken.
And it was only when I glanced at Scott that I saw what I had done.
He was angry.
He didn’t want me to meet Nadine’s brother at all.
Winston dropped George back at home just after seven.
‘You need to have a talk with him,’ he said, as George walked past me, glum and silent, and went straight upstairs to his bedroom.
Celia was in her front garden watering the hanging baskets with a pump-action watering can specifically designed for the task. She appeared fully focused, even frowning slightly as she adjusted the spout, but she was clearly eavesdropping.
I tilted my head in Celia’s direction and asked Winston if he wanted to come in, indicating that I’d rather not discuss George on the front step. But he declined.
‘Got a hot date,’ he said.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Mickey Tallis. We’re kite surfing on Morecombe Sands.’
‘Try not to kill yourself.’
Winston had known Mickey Tallis for years and knocked about with him when he couldn’t find anyone better. He was the last of the unmarrieds. I tended to avoid Mickey (particularly when he’d had a drink) as he always managed to bring the conversation back around to Ultravox. And what an absolute travesty it was that ‘Vienna’ was denied the number-one spot on account of Joe Dolce’s ridiculous novelty record, ‘Shaddap You Face’.
