by Fiona Gibson
He looks at me. I glance away and pluck another strawberry from the punnet. ‘I didn’t mean the, er . . . naked bit,’ he murmurs. ‘I meant the other bit.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I gulp the strawberry down.
‘And I hope it hasn’t made you feel . . . you know. Weird or uncomfortable with me.’
I shake my head. None of it seems to matter now, not compared to what’s happening with Jed and me. ‘It was just . . . a thing,’ I murmur.
‘That’s right. It was a thing that shouldn’t have happened,’ he says firmly. ‘Not that it wasn’t very nice, or that I didn’t want to . . .’
‘Danny,’ I cut in. ‘It’s not important. You see . . . Jed’s left me.’
He blinks at me, and the slight flush drains from his cheeks. ‘Not because . . .’
‘Oh, he doesn’t know about that,’ I say quickly. ‘At least he doesn’t know that anything, you know, happened between us. But he knows we’ve been running together for weeks, which would have been fine if I’d told him right at the start, but for some reason I didn’t, maybe because I wanted to keep something for myself – something that wasn’t about my family or work, which made me feel good and happy . . .’
‘Did it?’ He smiles.
‘Yes. I’ve loved it actually. You’ve made me feel . . .’ I search for the right words. ‘Sort of human again. A real person. And it all started that day I ran into you in York.’
My heart is racing as Danny touches my hand. ‘It’s been like that for me too. When Sarah left, I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again, or could care for someone. It was great, I thought. Having a friend like you . . .’
‘We’re talking past tense, aren’t we?’ I say gently.
Danny nods. ‘I didn’t mean to cause problems between . . .’
‘Oh, it’s not you,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s about so much more than that. Maybe it needed to happen – to come to a head like that. I don’t know. Haven’t even heard from him since he left, which is disgusting, isn’t it, whatever I might have done? There are the kids to consider, and we’re all worried sick.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘Anyway,’ I add firmly, ‘I still want to run that race with you, okay?’
‘Are you sure, with all of this going on?’
‘Yes, I need to do something. I know it won’t fix things with Jed, but it feels better than doing nothing, you know?’
Danny nods. ‘You’re on. We’ll run it together.’
‘Great.’ I try to delve into more picnic offerings to show my appreciation, but give up after half a sandwich. ‘Well, I’d better get back to work,’ I say, checking my watch.
He indicates a slice of marble cake resting on a paper napkin. ‘Why don’t you take that? I got it specially for you. You might fancy it later.’
‘Thanks.’ Extracting my hand from his, I wrap the cake tightly in the napkin and slip it into my bag.
‘Laura,’ he adds, ‘if any of this is my fault, then I’m really sorry.’
I stand up, brushing a few blades of grass from my skirt. ‘Thanks Danny, but it’s not your fault at all. It’s completely, a hundred-per-cent mine.’
He smiles. ‘See you soon then, I hope?’
‘Yes, I hope so too.’ I sense him watching me as I head for the park gates, and I wait until I’ve turned the corner before dropping my marble cake parcel into a bin.
Chapter Forty-Two
The children and I are heading for the Mecca of Hair-dressing Excellence that is Cut ‘n’ Pierce. The name is alarming, suggesting that you can’t be sure which of the two the ‘practitioner’ (or whatever you call him) will subject you to. There’s a long scuffed bench with random blobs of garish paint all over it, and the small room has a basementy smell, probably due to being located under a railway arch. ‘Be with you in a minute, yeah?’ the skinny boy says, casting our assembled group a quick glance. No herbal teas or macaroons here. The boy has sharp, jutting cheekbones and an angry boil on his cheek. A rumpled grey T-shirt hangs from his lanky frame. He looks about six months older than Finn.
The kids and I perch on the bench. ‘What style are you going to have?’ I ask Finn, to break the glum silence.
He gnaws at a fingernail. ‘I thought I’d have this bit shorter and this bit longer and this bit left as it is.’
I look at him uncomprehendingly. ‘You mean you want the top and sides cut short and the back left long?’
‘Yuh.’ He glances around nervously.
‘That’s a mullet,’ I tell him.
‘What’s a mullet?’
‘A terrible haircut, short and layered on top and long at the back, like people had in the seventies. It’s sort of like two different haircuts in one.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant . . .’
‘That’s what it sounds like, sweetheart. I’m just warning you.’ I give his hand a quick squeeze and, surprisingly, he doesn’t tug it away.
Toby has ambled off to investigate a trolley laden with scruffy bottles of product. ‘Please sit down, love,’ I tell him. He ignores me.
‘It won’t be like that,’ Finn insists. ‘He knows what I like.’ He nods in the direction of the whey-faced teenager.
‘Right,’ I whisper. ‘Like that cut you had last time, that demented loo-brush scenario that I knew you hated but which you wouldn’t let me fix because it would have meant admitting . . .’
‘Shhh,’ he hisses.
‘It’s up to you, though,’ I add. ‘It’s your hair and you can have it however you like.’
Finn nods. ‘Yeah. I know.’ He pulls his hand away from mine.
Toby starts wheeling the trolley back and forth across the rough stone floor. ‘Please leave that,’ I murmur. He continues to wheel it.
‘Leave that alone, mate,’ the boy barks, zipping over an equally embryo-like person’s head with clippers. Toby stops obediently, probably because this so-called barber is a male – a surrogate father figure, perhaps, in these desperate times. At least the piercing and tattooing are carried out in another room. We can hear the stop-start buzz of the tattooing machine. I pray that no one will start screaming.
‘Can I have my ears pierced?’ Grace asks, swinging her legs from the bench.
‘No, love.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re too young.’
‘When can I have it done? Everyone else has pierced earrings.’
‘No they don’t, Grace. What’s got into you? You’ve never mentioned having your ears pierced before.’
‘Yes I have. I’ve mentioned it hundreds of times and you never let me. India’s had it done and it’s not fair.’ She kicks the bench in frustration.
‘Can we talk about this at home?’ I say under my breath.
‘You never let me do anything!’ Her anger shocks me, and causes the barber and his buzz-haired client to swing around in our direction.
‘That’s not true,’ I protest. ‘How many times do we have your friends over for tea? How often do we—’
‘And you had a fight with Daddy and he went away!’ Tears appear instantly, flooding down her furious pink cheeks.
‘Oh, Grace!’ My stomach lurches and the horrible basement smell makes me feel quite nauseous as I put my arms around her. ‘That’s not what happened, love. We’ll sort it out, I promise.’ She gulps into my chest as I hold her in my arms. How am I planning to sort it, exactly? I don’t have the vaguest hint of a plan, apart from leaving dozens of increasingly desperate messages on Jed’s voicemail and hoping he’ll just walk right back into our house and our lives. Toby is sniffing too, and I’m willing him not to burst into tears. I should have known this would happen. That they’d figure that their dad’s not just ‘working’. What kind of schools are open twenty-four hours a day, for God’s sake? I wish this barber would hurry up. Finn can have whatever haircut he likes, and I’ll leave a huge tip and we’ll get the hell out of here.
Grace pulls away from me and gulps quietly. She has never been interested in jewellery. She’s spe
nt the past eight years tumbling about happily in whatever mismatched outfit I’ve plucked out for her. Her pink phase lasted a mercifully brief three weeks. I was wrong to think she was sailing through this Dad-free period unscathed, and I can sense what’s coming next: a phonecall from Miss Marshall at school, saying, ‘Could you please pop in at your earliest convenience, i.e. today, in the next half hour, as we have serious concerns about your daughter . . .’
My insides crumple with shame. The barber finishes his cut, and his client grunts his approval. In the back room, the tattoo needle buzzes back into life. ‘Who’s next?’ the boy asks with a disdainful glance. Finn stares, unmoving, at his shoes.
‘It’s you, love,’ I say, nudging him. He stands up and makes for the chair.
‘What d’you want?’ the barber mutters.
‘Er, I was kinda thinking . . .’ He tweaks the top of his head with his fingers. ‘I was kinda wondering, like, er . . .’
‘You wanna number one, two or three?’
Finn throws me a confused glance in the mirror. He probably thinks the barber’s asking if he needs the toilet. ‘I, er, think he wants it longer here, and shorter here, and pretty much left as it is up here,’ I babble, jabbing ineffectually at my own head.
The barber blinks at me. ‘Yeah. All right.’
I can’t watch as he starts to cut. Can’t witness him fiddling with scissors in that haphazard way when he’s used to clippering heads all day. Toby watches with rapt interest. Grace wipes her face on her sleeve and fixes her gaze on Finn. I focus on my pale knees poking out from my skirt. At least Finn will have the haircut he wants, which will be one less thing for him to be angry about. It seems to be taking ages. ‘I need a number two,’ Toby growls.
‘What, you want your hair cut too?’
‘No. I need the toilet.’
‘Can you hold on, hon? We won’t be long.’
‘No,’ he declares. ‘It’s gonna come out.’
‘You can’t go here,’ I whisper. ‘We’ll be home soon, or we could stop at the public loos in town . . .’
‘I need it now,’ he wails.
‘He can use ours,’ the barber says gruffly.
‘Oh, I’m sure he can hold on . . .’
‘I can’t,’ Toby says, leaping up from the bench.
‘Over there,’ the barber says, indicating a narrow door with its paint peeling off at the far end of the room.
‘Right. Thank you.’ Taking Toby by the hand, I escort him to the loo. At my salon we have gleaming new stainless steel fittings and fragrant handwash in glass dispensers. Cut ‘n’ Pierce has a decrepit loo with a pull-down chain flusher and a grubby wooden seat. Toby plonks himself on it, and the whole business takes ages; I am beginning to doubt whether he was desperate at all, or just wanted to check out the facilities. Finally, business attended to, we emerge from the cubicle.
Typical. Some man has come in and taken my place on the bench. He is sitting there, head lowered, chatting to Grace. Her head is bobbing enthusiastically. I march over to explain that I was sitting there, and that’s my daughter who’s been warned not to talk to strangers. ‘Um, excuse me,’ I say. The man looks up and our eyes meet. I open my mouth and realise I have no idea what to say.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hello, Jed.’ When he smiles, it’s not an exasperated smile. It’s not even a humouring-me smile. It’s a hesitant, hopeful one which lifts my heart.
‘You’re here,’ I say.
He nods and flicks his gaze towards Finn. ‘Looks like our boy’s getting a mullet.’
Chapter Forty-Three
Grace and Toby smother Jed with cuddles and chat as we leave. Even Finn cracks a broad smile. To my relief, none of them asks where he’s been, or what’s happened. ‘I got a star for my picture at nursery,’ Toby announces.
‘That’s fantastic,’ Jed says. ‘What was it of?’
‘It had to be about families,’ Toby explains, sending my heart into a spin. Could you pop in when you have a moment, Mrs Swan? We’re a little concerned. Toby drew a picture of the four of you, without his father, and explained, ‘My daddy’s gone.’ ‘I painted us all at Auntie Kate’s,’ he says grinning.
‘Great idea,’ Jed enthuses.
‘You weren’t there,’ Toby reminds him, ‘but I put you in anyway.’
Jed’s smile looks slightly strained. ‘Thanks, Tobes. I wouldn’t have wanted you to leave me out.’
‘I’ve finished my project on Granddad!’ Grace chips in.
‘Have you?’ Jed asks. ‘How did it go?’
‘Miss Forest said it was the best ’cause I’d got loads of old pictures and asked Gran questions about him.’ Jed catches my eye as Grace skips ahead. No begging for ear piercings now. I realise how much they’ve missed Jed, how aware they were of a Dad-shaped hole.
The sky darkens, and we quicken our pace as it starts to drizzle. The excitement subsides, and Grace looks back and sniggers, ‘Your hair looks weird, Finn. Like a pineapple plant.’
‘Shut up.’ He flattens the top of his head self-consciously. Ah, business as normal. Jed and I lag a little behind the children.
‘How did you know where we’d be?’ I ask him.
‘Finn told me.’
‘Right. He called you, then.’
Jed nods.
‘And you took his call . . . I mean, of course you would, I just . . .’ I tail off.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs. ‘I should have returned your calls.’
‘Of course you should,’ I say softly. ‘I’ve been worried sick about you. Two nights, Jed, and I’ve had no idea where you’ve been . . .’
‘I know. I’m sorry, Laura. I just needed some time . . .’ He looks at me, and I’m shocked to see his brown eyes glossy with tears. ‘I need to explain a few things,’ he adds, taking my hand in his.
I glance at him as we walk, taking in the strong jaw and handsome profile. He’s wearing a slightly creased white T-shirt and his favourite soft, old jeans, the ones he was wearing when he left. I need to explain a few things. What does that mean? I need to explain that I’m disgusted with you, sneaking off to your so-called running partner’s place for a cosy photo shoot . . . We walk home in silence, and I’m so desperate for him to tell me, I can hardly breathe.
*
I go through the motions of making and serving up dinner. No one quizzes me on the provenance of the pork chops, or demands a detailed breakdown of the pigs’ diet. Plates are cleared away without fuss. Finn even helps to carry them to the dishwasher. It’s as if everyone’s being terribly careful not to trigger another butter row. Later, after bath and bedtime, I find the kids’ dirty clothes in the laundry basket instead of strewn all over the bathroom floor. Rather than being dumped in the washbasin, caked in toothpaste, their brushes have been replaced in the tooth mug on the shelf.
It’s a little eerie. As there’s no clearing up required upstairs, I spin out Grace and Toby’s bedtime stories with Ted tucked in between us, wondering if the matted bear will accompany Toby to school when he starts in autumn. I can sense Grace reading ahead of me, fidgeting impatiently, and make a concerted effort not to over-do the characters’ voices which she once complained about. ‘Read it normal,’ she’d instructed me.
‘Mum,’ she says now, stifling a yawn, ‘are you and Dad friends again?’ I look at her, wondering what a bona fide mother like Beth would say. But Beth would never find herself in a situation like this. Despite her extensive childcare instructions, she and Pete are rock solid. ‘Are you?’ Grace asks again.
The house is so silent, I can hear the beat of my heart. ‘Of course we are,’ I say.
*
Jed and I are sitting side by side on the sofa. Anyone glancing in from the street might surmise that we don’t know each other very well. There are at least two feet of brown upholstery between us, and a tiny yellow spear, which must have snapped off Toby’s Lego warrior, sticks up between the cushions. ‘You said you wanted to explain,’ I say.
‘Where did you stay, when you left?’ I hold my breath, almost wanting Toby to charge downstairs, demanding a drink or complaining that he can’t find Ted.
‘I stayed at a hotel,’ Jed says.
‘A hotel? Why?’
‘Because . . . I needed to be away.’
‘Were you . . . on your own?’
He turns to face me. ‘Yes, of course I was.’ I sense him closing up, like a clam.
Outside, a bunch of girls pass our house, giggling and in high spirits. ‘I know you think I’ve slept with her,’ he adds.
‘Slept with who?’ I whisper.
‘Celeste, of course. I haven’t, you know. But I can understand why you’d think . . .’ He stops, looking tired and stressed. ‘She needed someone to talk to,’ he adds.
‘Why, Jed?’
He pauses. ‘She seemed to have the idea that me, you and the kids . . . we’re some kind of perfect family. She thought I’d be able to help her out of the mess she found herself in.’
‘I can’t imagine Celeste being in any kind of mess,’ I mutter.
Jed glances at me. There’s still a cool distance between us, as if both of us know that he can’t make everything right just by sauntering into Cut ‘n’ Pierce and making a mullet joke. And now, I don’t know if it’ll ever be right. At least, not how it used to be. I can’t even load all the blame onto Jed. My kiss with Danny still happened, and there’s no undoing that.
Jed clears his throat. ‘Celeste likes you, you know. She admires the way you look after our kids, hold down a job and keep the family together . . .’ I laugh witheringly, which he chooses to ignore. ‘It’s what she wants,’ he adds. ‘She says it’s all she’s ever wanted.’
‘What, a family?’ Now I get it. She doesn’t have her own so she plans to steal mine, as if it’s as simple as waltzing out of a department store with a playsuit.
