by Karen Clarke
‘Noooo!’
Craig gave a solemn nod. ‘When he explained, she just looked at him as though he was crazy and told him to sling his hook.’
‘It could have been worse,’ I said. ‘He could have tried to re-enact the nude drawing part and asked her to take off her clothes.’
Craig almost choked on his tea. ‘I think she’d have given him a right hook,’ he spluttered.
I liked hearing him laugh, and the way it transformed his expression. He wasn’t Ollie-handsome, but his face had interesting angles and his mouth was nice – soft and wide – which I hadn’t noticed before. ‘Going out wasn’t his best idea,’ I said, taking a sip of tea. ‘It’s probably all over Twitter.’
‘I daren’t even look.’ Craig rubbed his eyebrow. ‘When we got back, he started doing his Robert De Niro impression from Taxi Driver, staggering around shouting, “You talkin’ to me?” in this aggressive voice. Someone across the road leaned out of her window and told him to go back to where he’d come from and he said, ‘What, my mother’s womb?’
It was such an accurate impression of Ollie, a giggle popped out. ‘I heard voices, but I thought I was dreaming,’ I said.
‘At least we didn’t disturb you, coming in.’
‘Did you have to put him to bed?’
‘He crashed on the sofa. I slept in the armchair, mostly.’
‘But…’ I glanced upwards. ‘He’s in bed now, right?’
Craig looked at me over his mug. ‘He’s gone to visit your mother.’
‘What?’ I stood up.
‘I thought you knew,’ he said. ‘Didn’t she invite him to direct a play she’s in?’
‘Yes, but…’ I remembered the sound of a bolt sliding back. It must have been Ollie leaving as I woke up. ‘I didn’t think she meant today.’
‘Apparently, there’s a matinee this afternoon.’
‘When did he decide this?’
‘He woke up around seven, right as rain – he never gets hangovers – and said he was going into London.’
I crossed to the window, feeling jittery. ‘Is he safe to drive?’
‘He’s taking a train.’ I saw the car was still parked outside. ‘He got a cab to the station.’
I spun round. ‘Why didn’t he tell me he was going?’
Craig’s forehead contracted. ‘He probably would have, if you’d been up.’
‘But…’
‘It’s nothing personal. He tends to act on the spur of the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Craig’s voice was dry.
‘But he’s supposed to be here.’ I pointed at the floor, as though he should be lying at my slippered feet.
‘He will be, later.’
My thoughts felt scrambled. It might have been nice to go with him to see Mum, but Ollie was meant to be staying in Shipley. ‘What about filming and sightseeing?’ I glared at Craig as though it was all his fault. ‘We could have gone to Lulworth Cove and had a picnic, or some fish and chips. I know it’s cold, but you’d have got some lovely shots, and Ollie could have visited some of the neighbours he upset, to apologise.’
‘He’s already said he was sorry if he offended anyone.’
‘Not like he meant it, though.’
‘How do you know he didn’t mean it?’ Craig was frowning. ‘If he says he’s sorry, he generally is. He can’t help it if people are still offended.’
‘But isn’t the whole point that he’s trying to turn his image around, to offset all the bad press? If…’ I was about to say, If you’d been filming, the public could have judged for themselves, but then he’d know I knew he hadn’t been filming Ollie.
Craig drained his tea and stood up. ‘As long as he does what you booked him for, which is turn on the tree lights and judge the displays, isn’t that all that matters?’
‘But, the show…’
‘The show won’t happen.’ Craig’s voice was calm. ‘If he wanted it to, he wouldn’t be behaving the same way he always does when there’s a camera on him.’
‘Why are you even here, then?’
‘I was hoping he’d figure out what it is he really wants to do with his future and that it wouldn’t involve a return to reality television.’
I glared at him. ‘So, you knew all along there wouldn’t be a show?’
‘Not entirely.’ Craig sounded a bit fed up now. ‘I think his intentions were good, and getting away from his usual crowd seemed like a great idea, but as soon as he suggested turning up early to surprise you, I suspected it wouldn’t work. He’s just not used to this kind of normality.’
I made a snorting sound. ‘I thought you were his friend.’
‘I am,’ he said, crossing his arms. ‘That’s why… Look, I’m trying to let him figure things out without his family or anyone else interfering. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s here to turn on those bloody Christmas tree lights tomorrow.’
‘I’m not worried.’ I was breathing too fast. ‘How come he didn’t ask you to go with him to London?’
‘He did,’ said Craig, taking his mug to the sink. ‘I said no.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I thought about what you said, when I accused you of pandering to him.’ He glanced at me over his shoulder. ‘I suppose I realised that’s what I do, too.’
I stared at him. ‘How do you know he won’t go and find his friends, or that he isn’t planning to meet Tattie?’ Her name felt wrong in my mouth, like a bitter olive. ‘You know that she called him.’
‘Maybe he will,’ he said, rinsing his fingers under the tap and drying them on a sheet of kitchen roll. ‘I’m sure she’s got plenty to say, if she hasn’t already said it.’
I couldn’t work out his tone or what he meant.
‘But I don’t think he will,’ he said. ‘If there’s one thing Ollie is, it’s honest. If he said he’s seeing your mum, that’s what he’ll be doing.’
‘And if he doesn’t come back?’
‘If he doesn’t, I’ll go and fetch him, OK?’
I deflated. ‘Fine.’
‘Sure you can live without him for a few hours?’
I picked up the dishtowel and threw it at him.
He caught it and pretended to mop his brow. ‘Well, that was intense,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we go for a run, as we’ve got a few hours off?’
‘What?’
‘Do you want to come for a run with me?’ He spoke with exaggerated patience, as though I was slow on the uptake. ‘It’s great for releasing stress.’
As he said it, I felt the ache of tension in my muscles and knew I wouldn’t be able to settle to writing or anything else, for wondering what Ollie was doing, and whether he’d be back. We didn’t have a contract, but I’d promised Shipley that Ollie Matheson would be turning on the tree lights, and a portion of them might be angry if he didn’t.
‘He’ll be back,’ said Craig, as if he’d read my mind. ‘Are you coming?’
‘I suppose so.’ Aware of his eyes on my pyjamas, I said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get changed first.’
‘You should probably leave those,’ he said, nodding at my chest.
My boobs? I looked down and heat rushed to my head.
I still had his headphones slung round my neck.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I’d hoped the beach might be empty, but we immediately ran into a dark-haired couple walking a muscular dog, and I recognised the woman as one of the neighbours who’d told Ollie ‘his sort’ weren’t welcome.
‘Our Brian was awake the rest of the night after your visitor woke him up.’ Her voice was ripe with disapproval.
I glanced at her husband, who was trying to control the dog as it strained on its lead. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to him, jogging on the spot.
‘I’m talking about Brian.’ The woman pointed at the hound, her expression darkening. ‘He’s a rescue dog and Celia Appleton told us to keep him calm, but how can we do that when there’s rioting on the streets?’
‘Hardly rioting,’ I p
anted. I stopped jogging, grateful for a reprieve, even if the woman looked murderous. My lungs already felt on fire and we’d only run from the car, parked by the harbour. ‘But it won’t happen again,’ I said, watching Craig back up when he realised I wasn’t beside him.
‘I should hope not.’ The woman was shorter and skinnier than me, but had a ferocious air not dissimilar to the dog’s. ‘And we don’t want someone like him passing judgement,’ she continued. ‘What does he know about Christmas lights?’
‘What do any of us know?’ I kept my voice buoyant, while wishing a wave would sweep in and knock her off her feet. ‘He’ll be fair, don’t you worry.’
‘Not after I told him off last night, he won’t.’ She jutted her jaw at me, while her husband, throwing me a rueful smile, allowed himself to be dragged away by Brian. ‘You should never have invited him to stay with you, it’s… unethical.’
‘Unethical?’
‘He’s meant to be impartial, but how can he be now he’s met us? He’s bound to have formed opinions.’
She had a valid point. ‘Emotions won’t come into it,’ I assured her, with more conviction than I felt. ‘He’ll make a decision based solely on which display he thinks is the best.’
‘But isn’t it subjective?’ She dug her hands in the pockets of her navy fleece. ‘I mean, one person’s best is another’s worst.’
Flaming Nora. ‘Surely the same could be said of any judge.’
‘Exactly!’ Her face lit up with triumph. ‘That’s always been my point.’
‘What has?’ I willed Craig to intervene but he was a little way off, doing lunges, though I had the sense he was listening.
‘We shouldn’t be judged at all,’ she said, shaking a strand of black hair from her eyes. ‘The lights are there for everyone to enjoy. It shouldn’t be a competition, or if it is, everyone should win.’
I’d heard similar comments about school sports days, which is why all the children were now given a star and told they were winners, even when they came last.
But these people aren’t children.
‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ I said, copying Craig by rotating my shoulders. I should have warmed up before setting off, but I’d been so distracted at being caught with his headphones, which I’d blushingly said I’d been ‘trying on’ because I needed a new set, that when he’d asked if I was an experienced runner, I’d said yes. ‘Being competitive has all sorts of benefits.’
‘Such as?’ She looked at me sceptically, seemingly unbothered that her husband was being yanked along the shoreline by a bounding Brian.
‘Well, it can encourage innovation and creativity, and make people more goal-orientated, and it teaches us that losing is part of life.’ OK, so it was a speech more geared to schoolchildren, but it still felt salient.
‘It leads to arguments, falling out, feeling pressured, and some people thinking they’re better than everyone else.’
One nil to grumpy neighbour. ‘The first rule of competition: in order to win, you have to want it more!’ It was a quote from Desperate Housewives and intended to make her smile – if she was capable of such a feat.
Her skinny eyebrows knotted together. ‘You’re encouraging that kind of behaviour? Triumphing over others?’
Oh jeepers. ‘No, not at all,’ I said, doing some star jumps to work off some nervous energy. I should have worn a sports bra, but didn’t possess one. ‘Don’t you think you’re taking it a bit too seriously?’
‘Lambert and Flannery are the ones who take it seriously.’ She made them sound like a comedy double-act. ‘It used to be fun, when everyone had a chance of winning.’
‘You don’t have to take part,’ I risked pointing out.
‘Of course we don’t take part.’
I paused, mid-lunge. ‘You don’t?’
She rolled her eyes, as if I was the stupidest person she’d ever met. ‘Don’t you listen? I just told you, I don’t believe in competing.’
As I struggled for an effective response, Craig finally came over. ‘Hello, Annabel,’ he said, in a friendly fashion.
‘Oh, hi!’ Her face melted into a smile that took years off her and revealed a pair of dimples. ‘I didn’t realise it was you.’ She looked at me as though I’d tricked her. ‘I’m sorry about having a go at you last night,’ she said to him, sounding like a different person. ‘But Ollie whatsisname was making such a racket, and like I was telling you the other day, I don’t believe that celebrities should be allowed to get away with doing whatever they want.’ Was she actually batting her lashes? ‘I wouldn’t really have called the police, I just wanted to scare him.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ he said, in a warm voice. ‘We’ll soon be out of your hair but in the meantime, I hope you’ll bear with us.’
She dimpled at him again. ‘I think we can manage that.’ She gave a low, provocative laugh. ‘Seeing as you asked so nicely.’
Craig dipped his head, modestly. ‘You’ll be there tomorrow, to see Ollie switch on the tree lights?’
‘Be at the square or be square.’ She giggled – giggled! – and gave him a double thumbs-up. ‘You can count us in.’
I sensed her staring after us as we jogged away, before a piercing whistle brought Brian bounding up the beach, the red-faced husband still clinging to its leash.
‘Well, aren’t you the dark horse?’ It came out breathy, due to the jogging, and sounded as though I was flirting.
Craig’s feet were pounding the beach in a steady rhythm, whereas mine felt encased in concrete. My trainers were full of sand. ‘She’s OK,’ he said, mildly.
‘Maybe with you.’
‘I can’t help having the knack.’ He flashed a grin to show he was joking – even though clearly it was true. He fixed his eyes back on the pier, where we’d agreed to run to, before circling back along the parade to the car. ‘Everyone has a story.’
‘What’s yours?’ I said. It seemed easier to ask out there, surrounded by the elements, though I was having trouble hearing above the roar of my heartbeat.
‘You probably know some of it, if you’ve talked to Ollie,’ he said.
‘Not much.’
I thought he wasn’t going to answer and took the opportunity to try to steady my breathing. Then he said, ‘My father worked as a gardener for the Mathesons for most of his adult life and my mother died when I was sixteen.’
I threw him a look. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but I’d had a good childhood up until then, and the Mathesons were very good to us. And I had Ollie, who always treated me like a brother.’
‘Are you an only child?’
He nodded. ‘You?’
‘Older brother and we had a happy childhood, too.’
‘When did you lose your dad?’
I stumbled and almost fell. Craig shot out a hand, but I recovered and kept on going. ‘Nearly three years ago,’ I said. ‘I miss his voice.’ His warm, comforting hug of a voice. He’d loved to talk on the phone. After I’d moved out, I’d call home every Sunday evening and we’d put the world to rights. My friends had teased me about it, but I’d looked forward to those conversations. ‘We came here on holiday a few times.’
I remembered how, once, Dad carried me along this stretch of beach on his shoulders, because I didn’t want to get sand in my new sneakers, and, when I went to splash in the sea, he put them in a bag to protect them.
‘I still miss my mother,’ Craig said, elbows slicing the air. ‘It gets easier, but never really goes away.’
‘I suppose it’s not love if it doesn’t hurt.’ Chris once said that, in a rare moment of brotherly insight. It hadn’t helped much, at the time.
‘Exactly,’ said Craig.
I waited for the usual punch of grief, and when it came a sob escaped but I didn’t stop running. I kept going, even though my chest was burning and I knew my cheeks were beetroot. I picked up speed until I was in synch with Craig and, as the pier grew closer, the salty wind to
ssed my hair and dried the tears on my cheeks.
When we arrived I felt like I’d burst through a barrier. ‘WOO-HOO!’ I cried, waving my arms in the air. Then I doubled over, hands on my knees, and swallowed some sick.
‘Not bad.’ Craig was barely out of breath as he smiled down at me. His hair was windswept too, but he radiated health and well-being, whereas I felt like my organs had shifted.
‘I’ll race you to the end,’ he challenged. ‘Last one there puts the kettle on when we get back.’
I launched after him but a stitch took hold and I hobbled most of the way, clutching my sides.
‘You’re not an experienced runner, are you?’ he said, when I finally reached him. He was leaning against the rail at the end of the pier, eyes bright with amusement.
I rested my chin on the cold metal beside him and let my arms dangle over. ‘How can you tell?’
‘You were clutching your boobs at one point and your feet were sort of turned in.’
‘Sand in my shoes.’ I waited for my supercharged heartbeat to slow down.
‘You might want to get some proper running shoes.’ His arm nudged mine. ‘And maybe warm up, next time.’
I straightened, elated to realise that I wanted to go running again. I liked running! ‘I will,’ I said, stretching my arms out and doing a couple of side bends. ‘See, I’m cooling down as well.’
‘It’s cold enough already.’ He tipped his eyes and scanned the cloud-laden sky. ‘Maybe more snow’s on the way.’
‘I’m really hot,’ I said and grew even warmer when his eyes widened slightly. He bit his lip as though holding back a response, and I realised I was grinning.
We walked back to the car, arms occasionally brushing, and he told me how his dad had been paralysed from the waist down in a car accident, four years earlier. ‘Drunk driver,’ he said, mouth tightening around the words.
‘Is that why you went back to Players instead of finishing your Everest show?’
He shot me a look. ‘I needed a regular income to help pay for his care, plus I needed to be around.’
‘Couldn’t Ollie help out?’ It was a stupid question, and I regretted it instantly, but Craig didn’t seem offended.
