by Lucy Diamond
‘Not boring,’ she amended hastily, ‘but … unchanging. As if we’ve been caught in a tessellating pattern and have forgotten how to – you know – strike out and surprise ourselves.’
He was quiet, so she rushed on before he could speak again. ‘Approaching forty feels rather momentous; I want to mark it somehow, have a last hurrah. Or maybe two hurrahs. I don’t know, maybe we should have a massive round of hurrahs, share some hurrahs together. We could both carve out time to focus on ourselves again, Hugh, couldn’t we? Because in a family like ours it’s so easy to plod on and on, and for the years to float by, and you realize you’re just running around after everyone else, but never really thinking about yourself any more. Do you know what I mean? And, actually, there are still things I want to do in life. I don’t want everything to be the same for the next forty years as well. Don’t you think?’
He didn’t reply. Oh dear. Was he taking this personally? ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m bored with you – that would never happen, Hugh. Never. I just mean …’
He snorted in derision and she fell silent, worried that she was perhaps protesting too much.
‘Please don’t sulk, darling,’ she said, propping herself up on her elbow and trying to make out his expression in the darkness. His eyes were tightly closed as if he couldn’t even bring himself to look at her.
Then he snorted again … but this time she realized it wasn’t a snort of sarcasm or disagreement. He was snoring. He’d actually gone and fallen asleep, right when she’d been pouring her heart out!
She sighed crossly. ‘Well, I bloody well will go to Paris then, if you’re that uninterested,’ she muttered, rolling away from him. ‘So there!’
The next evening Alicia took down the calendar that hung on the kitchen wall and flipped through to April, her birthday month. The only dates already pencilled in were those marking the Easter holidays, a dental appointment for Hugh and a reminder that the buildings insurance needed renewing. The empty, unmarked spaces didn’t promise thrills so much as threaten a dull trudge of name-tagging new cricket kit for the boys, horrendous queues in Clarks to buy all the school shoes, sandals and trainers that the children would need, and boring evenings slaving over the iron as she tackled the Mulberry House laundry mountain. Same old, same old. She could almost write herself a script.
ALICIA’S BIRTHDAY she wrote on the 10th in big letters, with three jaunty exclamation marks. She wondered if Hugh had even thought about it yet, if he’d started planning special treats, maybe even a surprise party. Much as she hoped he had, with every cell in her body, she knew with immense certainty that he wouldn’t have. For the last few Christmases and birthdays he’d actually said, ‘Just buy yourself something you want and let me know how much I owe you.’
Not wanting to be seen as greedy or extravagant, she’d gone for sensible, practical choices each time: a jumper she’d liked in Marks and Spencer, a pair of walking boots, a new nightie. All things that she needed, nothing luxurious or special. What had she been thinking? Why had she sold herself short for so long, as if she didn’t think she was worth more than a machine-washable jumper?
It was Hugh’s fault, though. If he’d bothered to think for ten minutes, he could have chosen something perfectly nice himself. But no. He’d taken the lazy way out, got her to do the legwork. Well, if he dared try that for her fortieth, she would refuse to play ball. ‘Surprise me,’ she imagined herself saying archly to him. Her mind boggled, trying to compute what he might come up with. As long as it wasn’t oven gloves or a cake tin, she wouldn’t care.
She leaned over the calendar thoughtfully and then, seized by a sudden decision, wrote in big letters through the Friday, Saturday and Sunday before her birthday ‘ALICIA AWAY’. It was the first weekend of the school holidays, her last weekend as a thirty-something. Damn it, she would have some fun, whatever Hugh said.
Seeing the words in black and white on the calendar made her feel better already. All she had to do now was book her Eurostar ticket and find somewhere to stay. She hurried off to the computer, a thrill rippling through her. The thrill of the unknown, a frisson of daring. She was sure that Christine was applauding her every step of the way. Paris, here I come!
Over the next week Alicia fine-tuned her plan. She spent an enjoyable few evenings drawing up a list of all the Parisian sights she wanted to visit, and researched some wonderful-sounding restaurants. Her silk knickers arrived – they were very Ooh la la!, to say the least – as did the train tickets she’d booked. Then, after much website clicking and consulting the French teachers at school about where to stay, she finally plumped for a small, cosy-looking hotel in Le Marais, a stone’s throw from the Place des Vosges, the oldest and perhaps most beautiful square in the city, as her new guidebook informed her. It wasn’t flashy or cool – Alicia didn’t do flashy or cool – but it looked gorgeous, sounded friendly and was in a brilliant location. ‘This is the one,’ she said to herself, scrolling through oodles of fabulous pictures and glowing reviews.
Gripped by a surge of can-do energy, she picked up the phone and booked herself in, there and then. Not even the mortification of having the receptionist reply to her rusty GCSE-level French in faultless English could dampen her spirits. This was really happening. It was official. She was off on an adventure!
‘I’ve done it, I’ve booked myself into a hotel,’ she said to Hugh when he arrived home that evening. ‘I’ve sorted out my train tickets too. I’m going to Paris, Hugh. I’m going!’
‘Right,’ he said, his voice barely more than a grunt as he read a message on his phone. It was blindingly obvious that he didn’t share her delight, but she was so full of happiness and excitement that his disapproval didn’t touch her.
Humming cheerfully, she set about making dinner. Just knowing that she had the trip waiting there for her on the next page of the calendar made everything more bearable. She couldn’t wait to tell Sandra, either. Even her sister would be impressed by this!
Glancing over at Hugh again, she saw him slumped in a chair, staring at his phone, his face tense. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked.
He didn’t reply immediately; he seemed stunned by whatever message he’d just read. Or was he really in a massive sulk?
‘Hugh?’ she prompted.
He dragged himself away from the screen at last. His mouth had gone strangely saggy. ‘I … Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Yes, of course. It’s just a work thing.’ He turned his phone off and stuffed it in his pocket, getting up abruptly.
Something was not quite right, but Alicia wasn’t sure what. Maybe he had the hump that she was off to Paris and he hadn’t been invited. Fair enough. She’d be a bit cheesed off too, if the boot was on the other foot. Perhaps there was a way she could cheer him up, she thought, remembering her pristine silk lingerie, still wrapped in pink tissue paper on top of the wardrobe.
Letting the wooden spoon rest against the pan of frying onions, she went over to him. ‘I’ve got something that might perk you up,’ she said, snuggling against him. She felt rather like a bad actress in a porn film, but tried not to let that put her off. ‘Let’s have an early night, and I’ll show you.’
‘Er … maybe,’ he said distractedly. He was all but prising her arms off him, so keen did he seem to escape her embrace. ‘I’ve got a ton of work to catch up on, though, and …’ He wasn’t meeting her in the eye. ‘And I’m a bit tired,’ he finished feebly.
Alicia stepped back, hot with the embarrassment of rejection. ‘Fine,’ she said, covering up her hurt by returning to the sizzling frying pan and resuming stirring.
Hugh left the kitchen without another word and she stared after him. Was he trying to guilt-trip her about Paris? Was this his way of telling her she shouldn’t go?
The exhilaration she’d felt just ten minutes earlier drained away. Maybe she was doing the wrong thing, she wondered unhappily. Was she sacrificing her relationship with Hugh in the name of a selfish weekend jolly for herself?
> The doubts lingered with her for the rest of the evening. Even email replies from Sandra and Emma saying ‘Woohoo! Love it!’ and ‘Magnifique!’ respectively didn’t quite restore her equilibrium. Hugh remained distracted and uncommunicative, and although she made a point of slipping on her beautiful new silk and lace underwear and waiting gift-wrapped in bed for him, she’d read almost fifty pages of her book by the time he made an appearance.
She pulled back the duvet so that he could see her, and lay there in her camisole and knickers, goosebumps creeping up her arms, jaw aching from her posed smile.
He merely glanced at her before pulling on his old SuperDad T-shirt, the one with the torn neck that had lost its shape and most of its colour after ten years’ wear. ‘Very nice,’ he muttered, getting under the covers and lying on his back.
She bit her lip. Was she going to have to do all the running?
Rolling towards him, she spooned against his body. Come on, Hugh. Take an interest. I’m trying to cheer you up here.
He patted her arm cautiously. ‘Night, then,’ he said, and turned over.
She lay in the darkness, feeling rejected all over again. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked after a moment. ‘Hugh?’
He didn’t answer immediately. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said eventually. ‘Just work stuff.’
She sighed, her excitement draining away. She could always tell when he was lying. And it wasn’t like him to refuse her advances, either – usually he was only too willing to get her undies off. Not tonight, though. She hoped he was okay. She lay there for a while longer, eyes open, wondering if independence and adventures were really all they were cracked up to be.
Chapter Fifteen
Spring was coming; Izzy could smell it in the air. Warm breezes blew in from the west, daffodils pushed up boldly in front gardens, golden trumpets blaring a silent chorus, and leaves were shyly uncurling on the branches of the trees, pale green and new. When the sun shone and the sky was blue, the sea became magically enticing with its long froth-topped waves and sparkles of light on the sleek, rippling surface.
She wondered if the leaves were appearing on their old street in Manchester yet, whether the snowdrops had been out in Fog Lane Park. It was strange to think of it all going on without her this year.
Did I do the right thing? she kept agonizing. Should I have moved the girls away, wrenched up their roots?
On one level – the most important level – she was sure the answer was Yes. She only had to remember how she and Gary been fighting that last night, how he’d punched her so hard she’d literally seen stars, how he’d pushed her up against the wall, his hand around her throat … and she felt nothing but relief to have escaped. If she still had any lingering doubts, then remembering the terrified light in Willow’s eyes as she’d appeared at the living-room door in her nightie, face puffy with sleep, hair tousled, only to witness the scene and hear her dad threatening to kill her mum … Well, that was the clincher. Willow had let out a frightened cry, she’d shrunk into the doorway and whimpered, ‘Don’t hurt Mummy!’ – only for Gary to round on her, a madness in him, his fist clenched as if ready to strike his own daughter.
It made her shiver every time the image flashed into her mind. And that was when she’d known beyond doubt: staying put was no longer an option. She could not – would not – let Gary’s violence seep through to the girls and damage them as well. When they’d gone to the shelter in Dorchester, the other women there had inspired her and given her renewed strength. They’d made her see that the bruises and black eyes, the fear and constant treading on eggshells were not things she had to put up with any longer.
‘Telling you he loves you and he’s sorry does not make it all right,’ said Roz, one of the support workers. ‘Ever.’
That was all very well, but Hazel only knew Gary as a good guy, her beloved daddy. She didn’t understand why they’d left in the first place. ‘When are we going to see him again?’ she kept asking.
A few times Izzy had attempted to tell Hazel, as gently as possible, that sometimes Daddy hadn’t been very nice to Mummy, but her daughter stubbornly refused to believe it. Lately, there had been lots of requests for Daddy to tell her a story, or Daddy to cuddle her. What was she supposed to say to that?
Alicia had proved a good person to talk to about all of this. They had met for belly dancing three times now, and went for a drink the last two. Without venturing into too much gory detail, Izzy found herself explaining why they’d had to leave Manchester, then voiced her worries that maybe she’d handled it wrongly.
Alicia could not have been clearer in her response. ‘You’re a mother. Of course you did the right thing. You couldn’t have stayed there, knowing that he might turn his anger on them any day.’
‘I don’t think he would have done,’ Izzy had replied. ‘Not really. He absolutely adored them.’
‘He adored you too, though, at first, didn’t he?’ Alicia parried. ‘And look what happened to that.’ There was a fierceness about her that Izzy hadn’t seen before. ‘You had to leave.’
‘I know, but now they don’t have a dad. And they loved him!’
‘You can find ways of reopening contact without putting them in danger,’ Alicia said. ‘I see it all the time in the school where I teach. You could arrange for him to have supervised visits, so that he’s not alone with the children. It doesn’t have to be total severance, not if you don’t want it.’
Izzy bit her lip. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘The shelter you went to must have outreach workers who could advise you,’ Alicia replied, ‘or even child psychologists who could help with what to say to the girls.’
‘I’m scared he’s going to come and find us,’ Izzy blurted out, her voice trembling. It was the first time she’d let the words out of her head since she’d spoken to Louise about it. ‘He’s been sending me texts – threatening stuff. I feel so jumpy, like I’m expecting him to pop up at any minute.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better get back to the flat soon. Talking about it is making me feel twitchier than ever.’
Alicia looked concerned. ‘That must be horrible,’ she said. ‘You know you can always call me if you’re worried, don’t you? And listen, why don’t I send Hugh round to your place with his toolbox? He could check all your locks and windows are secure, just to put your mind at rest. Hopefully Gary won’t turn up, but just in case he gets any silly ideas in his head …’
‘Thanks,’ Izzy said. It was such a relief, being able to speak like this. Alicia was so kind and practical, the perfect person to confide in. ‘I’d appreciate that. Just in case.’
Alicia had texted to say that Hugh would come round at eleven o’clock the following Sunday morning, but when Izzy answered the knock on the door, it wasn’t Hugh standing there in front of her with a toolbox, but Charlie.
Oh God. She couldn’t speak for a moment. She felt bamboozled by his good looks, his insouciant smile – but she also felt a stab of betrayal that Alicia could have set her up like this. Was it all some horrible trick?
‘Oh,’ she managed to say coolly, while her brain raced for the best way to deal with this awkward situation. ‘It’s you.’ She hadn’t seen him since bawling him out on the high street and throwing flowers at his feet. It was discomfiting having him right there in solid flesh on her doorstep. Solid, handsome flesh, no less. Damn. What should she do?
‘The door was open downstairs, so I just came up,’ he said. ‘I hope that’s all right.’
Annoyance pricked her. There were six flats in the building, and someone – she suspected the twenty-something lad with the low-slung jeans and shifty eyes – kept forgetting to lock the front door. Even closing it would be a start.
‘Oh,’ she replied, not moving.
‘Look – can we start again?’ he asked humbly. ‘Hugh said he was coming round, so I persuaded him to let me do it instead. My way of saying sorry. Because I am sorry that I upset you, dragging you to my mum’s house for the Anni
versary Lunch of Doom. I wasn’t thinking properly.’ He shrugged. ‘I was just so into you that I wanted everyone else to meet you, so I could … well, show you off, I guess.’ He shuffled his feet, looking less certain by the second. ‘I thought I’d come here so I could do you a favour, show you I’m not a total dickhead, but if you really want me to go, then …’
Before Izzy could say anything – she was melting in the face of such an abject apology, it had to be said – Hazel appeared behind her. ‘Who’s that at the d— Oh! Charlie!’ she cried, her face breaking into one big smile. ‘We haven’t seen you in AGES, have we, Mum?’ She spun round on her toes. ‘Willow! Willow, Charlie’s here!’
Izzy opened her mouth to speak, but wasn’t sure what to say. Hazel had no such hesitation.
‘Come in,’ she urged, leaning forward and grabbing Charlie’s hand. ‘Would you like some Ribena? Come and see our house, Charlie!’
There was a lump in Izzy’s throat all of a sudden. Look at Hazel, so happy to have a man around the place again. Just the other night she’d heard the girls reminiscing about fun times with Gary: games of cricket in the park, the Halloween last year when he’d dressed up as Snape to their Harry and Hermione, and last Christmas when they’d had the most brilliant snowball fight. Willow, admittedly, had been less effusive than Hazel, but even so, the longing in their voices was unmistakable.
Charlie was still looking at Izzy, waiting for her to respond. Oh, what the hell, she thought. He wasn’t Gary. He was just a bloke with a toolbox, who’d come here to do a favour. So why not let him?
‘Come in,’ she said, rather grudgingly. ‘Thanks,’ she added, with even greater reluctance. ‘Can I get you a tea or coffee? Or Ribena?’
Hazel still had his hand. ‘Come into the kitchen, Charlie,’ she said grandly. ‘You can see my Star of the Week certificate, if you want. I got it for this really excellent story I wrote, about a dolphin called Bellamy.’
Izzy tried to compose herself as they walked the few steps to the kitchen, Hazel still chattering on. Get things in perspective, she told herself. Charlie had been a disappointment at the end of the day, he’d made her feel embarrassed and uncomfortable for a short while, but that was it. He hadn’t hurt her or lied to her or deceived her in any way. The anger she’d felt at the time was more directed at herself than at him: anger that she’d let her guard slip, that she’d forgotten so quickly the damage done by Gary and had started fancying someone else, even if it was only a tiny bit.
