by Fiona Gibson
‘Well, she does have a child,’ Jed says quietly.
‘Does she?’ I frown, remembering the crying girl at her flat. ‘Why didn’t you mention . . .’
‘Agnes lives in France,’ he cuts in, ‘apart from a brief trial period at Celeste’s, of course, which ended up in disaster . . .’
‘You mean . . . that girl who stormed out when I went round there? That’s her daughter?’
‘Well, it sounds like it. Their relationship was pretty fiery . . .’
‘But I told you about that!’ I cry. ‘And you knew all along who it was. Why didn’t you say?’
‘I’d promised I wouldn’t. No one knows at school. She didn’t want to be the subject of gossip . . .’
‘But I’m not someone at school, Jed! I’m your wife. Who the hell would I tell anyway? The women at playgroup? My clients at work? That’s the problem with us, don’t you see? Your loyalties are all messed up. She decides you’re her new best friend, her confidant or whatever, and you put that before any of us . . .’
To my amazement, Jed doesn’t disagree. He doesn’t even fling my secret running trysts back at me. He just nods and twists his hands together and runs a thumb over his fingernails. ‘You’re right,’ he whispers, shaking his head. ‘I’ve been completely sucked in.’
‘But why, Jed?’ I say softly.
‘I felt . . . sorry for her at first. There was something vulnerable about her . . .’
‘And beautiful, of course,’ I snap.
‘Well, yes. But it wasn’t that, not really. She started telling me things, finding excuses to be together and always making sure she was next to me if we were out in a group. Everyone noticed,’ he adds, fixing me with dark eyes. ‘Mickey, Duncan, the others from school – they all reckoned she had a thing for me.’
‘Great,’ I say witheringly.
‘Honestly, Laura. I wasn’t interested. But it was flattering, the way this young, kind of exoticwoman chose me to confide in . . .’ I nod, remembering how flattered I felt, every time Danny texted or confided in me. ‘She told me all about having Agnes when she was still at school,’ he adds, ‘and how furious her parents were . . .’
‘So what happened to Agnes?’ I ask, the word exotic shimmering in the air between us.
‘After they’d calmed down,’ Jed continues, ‘her parents decided to bring her up in France, where they live. And Celeste hopped from job to job, finally coming to England and doing her teacher training. Her parents bought the flat for her, probably to keep her out of the way, she thinks. They’ve always reckoned Agnes was happier and more settled when she wasn’t around.’ Despite everything, I sense a sharp prickle of sympathy.
‘They were embarrassed by her,’ Jed adds. ‘Remember Finn and Grace’s sports day?’
‘Unfortunately, yes . . .’
‘She was telling me all this while I was trying to watch the races. I mean, I could hardly just walk away from her . . .’ I picture the two of them, heads together at the fringes of the sports field, before my dramatic collapse into the mud. ‘Then,’ Jed adds, ‘at her garden party, remember that . . .’
‘I do have a working memory,’ I exclaim. ‘All these things, the Celeste incidents – every detail is burned into my brain, Jed.’
‘Right,’ he murmurs. ‘Well . . . I know I was awful with you that day. She was telling me that Agnes had decided she wanted to live in England, and was due to move in . . .’ When he looks at me, Jed’s brown eyes are wide, imploring me to believe him. ‘She was telling me how she’d redecorated the spare room for her. Then there was that, um . . . incident in the bathroom, and it was all so intense and embarrassing that, really cleverly, I decided the best thing to do would be to tip as much champagne as possible down my throat.’ He laughs hollowly.
‘I saw that room in her flat,’ I tell him. ‘It was perfect – the ideal girl’s room. Though a little young for a teenager maybe . . .’
‘That was the problem. Celeste didn’t really know her. They’d had short times together when she went to visit, but living under one roof . . .’
‘I can imagine. And what about that time you met at that pub?’
‘It was a sort of crisis meeting. Celeste didn’t want us to run into anyone from school. She wanted me to help her to figure out a way to get Agnes to come back.’
‘But . . . why didn’t you tell me any of this? I’d have understood, you know. I’d have listened . . .’
‘Would you?’ he asks. ‘These past few months, with your running, all this weight loss, getting fit and becoming so much stronger and more confident, a completely different person really . . .’ He tails off and narrows his eyes at me. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d even want to know.’
I look at him, wondering how the two of us could possibly have thought we were doing the right thing. ‘Oh, Jed,’ I murmur. ‘I’m still the same old Laura underneath.’
Jed shrugs. ‘Anyway, she’s leaving.’
‘What, you mean leaving her job?’
‘No, everything. She’s selling the flat and moving back to be with Agnes in France. And I have to say, it’s sort of a relief, really.’
‘Really? She’s giving up everything to be with her daughter?’
He nods. ‘And what about you? What do you want?’
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper, yearning to hold him in my arms, to know he’s really back with me. But there is still an entire cushion, with a lone Sugar Puff stuck to it, between us.
He fishes a scrap of paper out of a pocket and uncrumples it. Startled, I recognise the late-night list I wrote at Kate’s. Reasons to stay with Jed. Reasons to split. ‘Where did you find that?’ I gasp.
‘It was lying on the bathroom floor.’ He’s studying it with a detached air, as if he’s just discovered a rude note scribbled by one of his pupils.
‘I . . . I didn’t mean any of that,’ I say quickly, plucking the Lego sword from between the cushions and digging its tip into my palm.
‘“He wouldn’t go to a hotel with me”,’ he reads. ‘“He hates my food”. Actually, Laura, I’ve never hated anything you’ve made . . .’
I squirm uncomfortably. ‘Well, apart from the chilli thing . . .’
‘Okay, apart from that. What else? Um . . . no sex since Jurassic era.’
‘Well, that’s kind of true.’
‘I know.’ His fingers wrap around mine.
‘It’s made me feel so . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ he cuts in. ‘The longer it went on, the less I felt like . . .’
‘Was that because of Celeste too?’ I whisper. ‘You can tell me, Jed, if you wanted to be with her . . .’ My voice trembles.
‘You’re right,’ he murmurs. ‘I think I was a little obsessed. And then it all felt too much, sort of claustrophobic, by which point she was relying on me to talk to, to share every tiny development . . . and yes, I suppose that pushed me away from you.’ He holds my hands tightly. ‘I’m sorry, Laura.’
‘Oh, Jed. I am too . . .’ I don’t finish because, suddenly, there’s no cushion between us. He puts his arms around me and holds me so fiercely, I can feel the thud of his heart.
‘I think we just lost each other,’ he says, kissing me.
Chapter Forty-Four
Jed wasn’t working, those days he spent away from us. Couldn’t face school, he told me, which is unheard of. I have never known Jed to throw a sickie. Even after that teacher’s leaving do, when he woke up sweating and groaning, he hauled himself in and battled, heroically, through the day. I’m not sure if he chose The Railway Hotel (a few seconds’ walk from Cut ‘n’ Pierce) because it was the cheapest on offer, or due to the fact that its grottiness matched the way he felt inside.
He’s back at school now. Every day he comes home and has dinner with us, and supervises homework and bathtime and reads stories. It twists my heart to see him doing these dad-things. Then he says a quiet goodbye to me, and he walks into town where he’s staying in Duncan’s spare room above the Indian restaura
nt. Neither of us knows what will happen, or how long it will take to figure things out. But I do know that I’m not ready to have him back, and that I need time to think, by myself. In fact, I think we both need this space from each other. We can’t just pretend nothing’s happened.
One drizzly Tuesday at work, my new ‘friend’ pops in for yet another blow dry, this time in the style of a ragged photo of Cindy Crawford she’s brought in. At lunchtime, I meet Beth in Café Roma. ‘Why on earth didn’t you call me about any of this?’ she exclaims.
‘Well, you’ve been away. I could hardly ring you on your holiday . . .’
‘You should have,’ she insists. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been through all of this on your own.’
‘I didn’t call anyone, Beth. I was . . . in a sort of fug.’
She squeezes my hand. ‘And you believe everything he’s told you?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘You’re still not sure? Is that why he’s staying at Duncan’s?’ She pushes away her half-finished marble cake. Beth always knows when to stop.
‘I need to talk to Celeste,’ I say.
‘Not going to have some huge confrontation, are you? I mean, she’s leaving the country, isn’t she? What would be the point?’
‘No, no,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s nothing like that. I’ve just got something of hers that I need to give back.’
‘What is it?’ Beth asks, her eyes round with curiosity.
I grin at her and pop the last piece of cake into my mouth. My appetite’s returning, and the cake tastes so sweet as it dissolves on my tongue. ‘Her knickers,’ I say.
*
First, though, I have to find them. I begin my search while the kids are lounging in the late afternoon sun in the garden. I plan to be logical and methodical. Qualities I hardly possess in great quantities, admittedly, but a new approach is what’s needed here. First, I empty out my chest of drawers, checking through everything carefully in case the Coco de Mers have become devoured by an old greying nursing bra. While I’m at it, I pile up all the clothes which are no longer ‘me’. There are scruffy jeans in my old size which hang off me now, and vast pregnancy knickers which I’d hung on to ‘just in case’. Just in case what? Jed and I decided to have another baby? Unlikely, at my age, and rumour has it you actually have to do it in order to make one. Anyway, they’re all going. I also separate out my running gear, including my two sports bras which have the reassuringly sturdy names of ‘Ultra Control’ and ‘Absorba-Bounce’.
Still no Cocos, though. I check Jed’s drawers; nothing untoward there, apart from a stash of gardening catalogues hidden under his sweaters, like horticultural porn. I flip through the pages, casting my eyes over the brilliant pink lupins and sizzling red geraniums. Funny things to keep in a sweater drawer.
Moving on to my wardrobe, I find an old white cotton shirt of Dad’s. Mum had passed a few on to us, thinking that the children could wear them for messy art projects, but I hadn’t liked the thought of them being splattered with paint, and donated most of them to charity. This one I’d kept. Slipping it on over my top, I’m surprised to see how healthy my face looks against its soft whiteness.
My phone bleeps, making me jump. RUNNING THIS EVE? Danny’s text reads. RACE IS LOOMING . . .
SORRY NOT TONITE, I reply. Don’t feel like running with Danny right now. Our time together was entangled with Jed and me at our lowest ebb. Anyway, I need to do tonight’s run alone.
CAN WE MEET? HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU, he pings back. Without replying, I slip my phone back into my jeans pocket.
Still wearing Dad’s shirt, I scour Grace’s room, then investigate Finn’s unsavoury sleeping quarters in the hope that the missing knickers have accidentally been put away with his clothes. His schoolbag lies in the middle of the room, disgorging its contents all over the floor. A sole Monster Munch has been crushed into the carpet, and a Rolo wrapper lies in a delicate curl. I spot the red notebook poking out from beneath a pair of football shorts. I pick it up, my fingers twitching, and I hold my breath, listening for footsteps on the stairs. Kneeling down on the carpet, I open it and focus on a random page. It’s as if I’ve lost control of my hands and eyes.
Monday, it reads. Mum and dad took us to granma and grandads we did the garden. My eyes blur as I read the careful, blunt-pencilled writing of a seven-year-old Finn.
We planted beens and it grew! We ate them.
I feel light-headed as I read. I’d almost forgotten that this was once my Finn, a boy so young and excited that he forgot that the planting and eating part didn’t happen in one day.
Grandad has loads of flowrs. I piked them with mum cos granddad sayd it was ok.
I remember that. The two of us gathering flowers, when such an activity wasn’t deemed completely embarrassing for Finn.
We got conflowrs. Cornflowers, he means. My favourites. Grandad gave us seeds so we can make our garden beter.
The bedroom door creaks. I look up and Finn is staring at me. ‘Uh . . . Mum?’ he says. ‘What are you doing?’
I drop the book on the floor. ‘Oh, Finn. I was just . . .’
He thrusts his hands into his pockets and looks down. ‘S’all right. S’just an old thing.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur, cheeks burning as I retrieve the book, scramble up and place it on his bed. ‘I should never have looked. It was just there and I . . .’
A flicker of tension crosses his lips, and I’m poised for him to spit out some cutting remark. ‘It’s okay. There’s nothing that secret in it really.’
‘I . . . I’m surprised you still have it.’
Finn shrugs and colours a little. ‘I just like it.’
‘Does it remind you of Granddad?’
He nods and sniffs, looking stranded in his own bedroom. Awkwardly, I put my arms around him and hug him, which he endures for several seconds. Then he pulls away, laughing self-consciously, and says, ‘Mum, I’m not sure about this haircut to be honest. I saw this picture in a magazine and I thought . . .’
‘Which magazine?’
‘Dunno. A music magazine. Kerrang! or something.’ He sniffs again.
I have to suck my lips together to stop myself from smiling. ‘And you wanted to look like that?’
‘Yeah.’ He stares down at the crushed Monster Munch. ‘It didn’t work, did it? You were right. It’s one of them . . . mallets. So I wondered, would you mind, er . . .’ He mimes a scissor motion with his index and middle finger.
Grinning, I kiss the top of his roughly-chopped head. ‘Of course I will, love,’ I say. ‘Come with me.’
*
I feel privileged, cutting Finn’s hair in the bathroom. He sits patiently on the wobbly wooden chair, not fidgeting or grumbling the way the other two do. Thankfully, he still has plenty of hair to work with. ‘Would it be embarrassing for you,’ I say tentatively, ‘if I was involved in organising an athletics thing at school at the end of term?’
‘What athletics thing?’ he asks.
‘Something Naomi, Phoebe’s mum, wants to set up. And she asked me to help . . .’
‘She asked you?’ he splutters.
‘Yes, Finn! I can run, you know. I’m doing that Scarborough 10k. And we’ve been working out routes for cross-country. Would you be okay about that? Or would that be awful for you, having me running with the kids?’
He pauses, and my heart plummets as I steel myself for being dismissed as an embarrassment. ‘Yeah,’ he murmurs.
‘Oh.’ I stop cutting.
‘Yeah,’ he adds. ‘I mean, yeah, that’d be cool. So long as you don’t fall over this time.’ He emits a gurgly laugh.
‘I’ll try not to,’ I say, smiling as I finish the cut. ‘Nearly done,’ I add. ‘I have to say, I wish your little brother sat still for me like you do.’
‘Well, Toby’s mad,’ Finn chuckles.
‘You’re right there.’ I snip a stray hair above his ear.
‘He’s perverted,’ Finn adds, under his breath.
‘He’s got this . . . this knicker thing, yeah? Like, women’s knickers.’ He makes a snorting sound deep in his throat.
‘What, you mean when he and Jack pranced about in my underwear at Grace’s party? Yes, that was pretty mortifying.’
‘Yeah,’ he agrees, clearly warming to his theme, ‘and there’s them ladies’ pants in his bedroom as well.’
I hold my scissors mid-air. ‘What ladies’ pants?’
He laughs again. ‘Fancy ones that tie up, like, here.’ He jabs at his hips. ‘They’re kinda . . . shiny.’
‘Right.’ They don’t sound like any knickers of mine. ‘And they’re in his room? Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. Know what he did? He stuck them to his bookshelf to make a hammock for Ted. Said he wanted a hammock like that one in Celeste’s garden.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, that’s very . . . inventive. What did he stick them up with?’
‘Chewing gum, I think.’
‘Really?’ I manage to finish his cut, even though I’m desperate to retrieve the knickers and figure out how I might go about removing chewing gum from fine silk. I should read the kind of magazines that tell you these things. Placing my scissors on the side of the bath, I dart to Toby’s room. There they are, ribbon ties stuck to the shelf, not with gum, thankfully, but liberal wodges of Blu-Tack. I peel them off, tucking Ted up in Toby’s bed, and check them for damage. They appear to be unscathed.
‘Told you he’s mad,’ Finn says, hovering at my side and running an exploratory hand through his hair.
I smile, taking in my newly-clipped handsome boy. ‘You look good,’ I tell him. ‘It makes you seem older, actually. Not too short, is it?’
‘No, it’s cool. Thanks, Mum.’ He smiles bashfully as we hear Jed arriving home for dad duties. The children haven’t even cottoned on to the fact that he’s still spending the nights at Duncan’s rather than in bed with me. I’ll have to tell them at some point, of course. But for now, in cowardly fashion, I am allowing them to believe that he has started going to work before they get up.
