He spent the afternoon bowling for the boys so they could practise their cricket, a supreme act of self-sacrifice designed to assuage his guilt for he was secretly yearning to curl up on the sofa and relive the night before, like a lovesick teenager. He’d taken off the shirt he’d been wearing, but instead of dropping it into the laundry basket he hid it at the back of his wardrobe. Occasionally he nipped indoors for a surreptitious sniff of the scent that still clung to it, feeling like a total pervert but unable to resist as it transported him instantly back into Tiona’s arms.
The phone rang twice during the afternoon and each time he nearly jumped out of his skin. He thought there was no way she would phone him at home, then reasoned if she was as desperate to hear his voice as he was to hear hers, she was clever enough to manufacture an excuse. And no one would think it was particularly odd if she phoned. She did work for him, after all.
But it wasn’t her. The first time it was a friend of Hugo’s, wanting to check up on some homework. And the second time it was Zoe, calling on her mobile. Her train was due in at six-thirty and she needed a lift back home. It was the reality check Christopher needed. He had his second shower of the day. The first had been scalding hot to wash away his sins. This one was cold, pinpricks of ice to sharpen his senses, to ensure he didn’t make any of the careless mistakes that so often trip up the unfaithful.
The answerphone light was flashing furiously when Rod got home that afternoon. He’d deliberately turned his mobile off when he’d gone to Bucklebury Farm, as he didn’t want any drunken prank calls from Foxy. But whoever was after him was persistent. It was probably a client moaning about something – for some reason people who were busy the rest of the week seemed to think Sundays were the best days for getting results out of other people. Rod made it a rule that anyone who hassled him on his day of rest got sent to the back of the queue.
Or it could be his mother on the warpath, having found out about Lee. It incensed her when her off-spring fought amongst themselves, which inevitably they did from time to time. He really wasn’t ready for a wigging.
Or it could be Bella, pleading for a fair trial. But he didn’t want to think about her yet either. He wanted everything straight in his head when he next confronted her.
Whoever it was, he didn’t want to know. He drifted upstairs in a dream and took a shower, steaming hot followed by an icy-cold blast. He went back into the bedroom with a towel round his waist and opened the chest of drawers to find some fresh clothes. The phone rang again. He let the answering machine click in downstairs while he got dressed. As he did up his jeans, it occurred to him that it might have been Jamie phoning.
He ran back down to the sitting room and rewound the machine. He’d have to listen to all the messages before he got to hers. He paced round the room, buttoning up his shirt. The first was from Foxy, very drunk the night before, telling him what a great night he was missing. He grinned and wound on to the next message.
‘Rod? It’s Pauline. I’m on my way to the hospital with Bella. She’s taken an overdose. Get here as quickly as you can, for God’s sake.’
His bowels froze. The message had been at gone midnight last night. He listened to the next one.
‘Where are you? I’m at the hospital. They’re just taking her into intensive care.’
The next message was Pauline, almost incoherent, sobbing.
‘I’m still waiting to hear. Where are you?’
The next message was icy calm but incredibly weary.
‘They think she’s going to be all right. But they’re keeping her in. I’m going to stay here. She needs somebody with her…’ She didn’t say any more, but the voice was dripping with reproach.
The last message was downright curt.
‘Rod. It’s Sunday morning and I’m on my way home to have a shower and get changed. Then I’m going back to the hospital. Bella’s conscious, but not feeling too bright, obviously. I’d appreciate it if you could call me. If you get back in…’
‘End of messages,’ the computerized voice informed him.
A psychiatric nurse came in to Bella that afternoon. She found it hard to believe that’s what he was – he looked incredibly young, with spiky blond hair. More like a member of a boy band than anything. He told her his name was Dave, and that he needed to ask her a few questions. Despite his appearance, he was very reassuring and surprisingly gentle. He wanted to know all about how she’d been feeling lately. If she’d been depressed. If she’d meant to kill herself. If she still felt as if she wanted to die. If she knew what it was that was making her feel this way.
Bella didn’t want to answer his questions at first. She felt dreadful, for a start. They’d put her on a drip, to rehydrate her, but her head was still pounding. Her stomach and her chest felt flayed on the inside, raw from vomiting, and she ached all over. She lay in her bed listlessly. She couldn’t summon up the strength to speak, only to let two big fat tears slide down her cheeks.
Dave persisted. ‘The thing is, Bella, if we can get to the bottom of this we can try and help you. You probably feel very alone at the moment, as if there’s no answer.’
She took in a deep, juddering breath and wiped away her tears.
‘It’s stupid. I don’t know where to start.’
‘It’s not stupid. It’s important. And I’m not going to tell anyone what you tell me, if you don’t want me to.’
His voice was soothing. Bella thought perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to tell him.
She tried to explain. How her body had been her only currency. The one thing that had got her admiration. The one thing she had that no one else could match up to. All her life, she had clung on to the maintenance of her perfect proportions as her raison d’être. Without it, she’d be nothing. Invisible. Irrelevant. Women envied her. Men lusted after her. And she needed that adulation to feel worthy. That was all she was. A great pair of tits, a peach of an arse, a washboard stomach and fabulous legs.
Dancing had been the platform on which she showed off her assets. She remembered how she’d always been able to make her daddy smile when she danced for him. She’d put on one of her spangly dresses and show him her latest routine, and she’d soon be able to coax him out of his black mood. Often she remembered trying to distract him. Twirling and whirling desperately in the lounge, vying for his attention, anything to stop that horrible noise – the thumps she would hear upstairs, followed by her mother’s muffled sobbing. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.
She remembered the last time it didn’t. She’d known somehow that this black rage was even darker than the rest. She’d pulled out her very best dress, the one with the blue and green sequins that made her look like a mermaid.
‘Come and watch, Daddy. Come and see. I’ve got a new routine.’
She hadn’t, but she thought she could make one up. He’d walked past her without looking. And she’d never seen him again…
Bella found that once she’d started to explain things to Dave, she couldn’t stop. Out it all came, the years of hang-ups and neuroses and self-doubt, and the incredible strain of keeping up appearances, the illusion of the happy, all-dancing, all-singing Bella, when really she felt dead inside. She told him everything, right up to her deception of Rod, the heinous crime that had made her realize what a terrible person she was, and how she felt she really didn’t deserve to live after that.
And not once did Dave look shocked or disapproving, just nodded thoughtfully as Bella’s darkest secrets spilled from her lips.
When Christopher pulled up in front of the station at half-six, Zoe was already waiting. He was surprised at how terrible she looked. As white as a sheet, with her hair cropped close to her head and dyed several different shades of what could only be called orange.
‘You’ve had your hair done,’ he said as she got in, keeping his tone deliberately bright yet noncommittal. He had learned long ago that this was the safest tactic, until you had a lead as to the wearer’s opinion. Telling a woman her hair looked gr
eat when she thought it was an unmitigated disaster was suicide. As was not mentioning it at all.
‘Don’t look at it. I haven’t had time to do it properly,’ she replied wearily, flopping into the front seat.
‘Good weekend?’
Zoe gave a grimace, accompanied by a shrug. Christopher felt a strong urge to fill the silence.
‘The Wildings’ party was great. I ended up having to stay over. Jack’s punch was totally lethal. Especially on an empty stomach – I hadn’t eaten all day. It was hectic in the office. I needed a few drinks to wind down, I can tell you. The kids were fine with Mum –’
He was keenly aware he was contravening the first rule of the guilty, which was to say as little as possible. Too much detail and you risked tripping yourself up. But it was neither here nor there, as Zoe didn’t seem to be listening. She interrupted him in mid-flow.
‘Christopher – can we stop off at the pub? We need to talk.’
Christopher felt a flicker of fear. This was the moment. She was going to tell him that things had to change, that she wanted to go back to London, that they were going to have to separate. So – how did he play his cards? It wasn’t going to look too good if, in a few months’ time, it came out that he’d been at it with Tiona before their separation. Christopher was an honourable sort of chap. He didn’t believe in duplicity. He was already deeply uncomfortable with what he had done. He looked sideways at Zoe. She had her eyes closed, her face an expressionless mask. He wondered what was going through her head; if she was rehearsing what she had to say.
‘Sure,’ he said, the lightness of his tone belying the heavy dread he was feeling. It was all going too fast. He wasn’t ready to make life-changing decisions. He didn’t know what he wanted.
If you’d asked him yesterday what he wanted, he’d have been able to answer. He wanted the old Zoe back, the one he’d had in Shepherd’s Bush, and he’d have done anything in his power to get her. But his torrid night of passion with Tiona had clouded his judgement. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his wife at all.
Rod burst through the door of the hospital, feeling like a character out of ER as he looked wildly round for help.
‘My wife. Bella Deacon. Where is she?’ he barked at the receptionist, who looked through her records painfully slowly before directing him to the correct ward. He couldn’t be bothered to wait for the lift. He bounded up the stairs and through the double doors that led to the upper corridor.
The first person he saw was Pauline, hovering by the coffee machine. He almost didn’t recognize her, and he was shocked by her appearance. He’d never seen her looking anything other than perfectly turned out, but here she was without a scrap of make-up, hair flat and lifeless, in an old sweatshirt and jeans. She looked years older, battered and sunken, like some long-suffering middle-aged woman you saw on the back of the bus or at the cigarette kiosk in Kwik Save, buying a packet of fags and a Lucky Dip in the hope of a miraculous escape. As he hurried towards her, his heart contracted with fear.
Pauline felt a mixture of emotions as she spotted Rod coming down the corridor at long last. She wanted to be curt and frosty with him for staying out all night, for not being there for Bella. But why should he have been, after the way he’d been treated? Why should he be there even now? For Bella had told her what had happened, when Pauline had asked her why on earth she’d done such a terrible thing. And now Rod was there in front of her, she felt nothing but shame for what her daughter had put him through. She looked at him warily, expecting hostility.
She should have known that he wasn’t one to bear a grudge, not in a situation like this. Rod was bigger than that. Instead, he held out his arms to her.
‘Pauline – I’m so sorry I wasn’t around. Are you OK?’
Pauline nodded wordlessly. Despite herself she allowed him to hug her to him, and to her surprise she enjoyed the comfort that his embrace brought her, the strength of his arms, the warmth of his chest. It had been a long time since Pauline had allowed herself to depend on someone else, and she realized at that moment just how alone she was in her life. No matter how strong, how independent you were, there were times when you needed other people. And although her knee-jerk reaction had been to berate Rod, to blame him for Bella’s condition, because by doing that she would be exonerating herself, she knew now she needed his support more than she needed a scapegoat. Especially as she had a sneaking feeling that perhaps she was to blame for what had happened.
‘Where is she? Is she all right? Can I see her?’ Rod asked her anxiously.
Pauline nodded her head towards the nearby ward.
‘She’s through there. She’s talking to the psychiatric nurse.’
Rod looked startled. Pauline felt her bottom lip tremble.
‘She’s a real mess, Rod. And I had no idea… I’d never have left her alone if I’d known what a state she was in. Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? She could have died, for God’s sake. She could have died!’
The full horror of the past twelve hours suddenly caught up with her. Resilient, stoical Pauline, Pauline the coper, had remained alert and resolute throughout the night in case her daughter had needed her. But now the reality hit her. The terrible image of Bella lying inert on the floor, surrounded by all those bottles; her fear that she had been dead; her fear throughout the journey to the hospital that she still might die; her fear, once she realized that she was going to pull through, that Bella might suffer some irreparable damage: all these memories suddenly closed in on her and she crumpled.
Rod held her as she sobbed. As he gazed at the sickly green wall over Pauline’s head, he saw all the plans he’d made that morning slipping through his fingers, fluttering gently away and out of the nearest window.
At five to seven, Christopher pulled into the car park of the Royal Oak. It was a beautiful summer’s evening and the pub was lounging rather smugly in the last of the golden sunshine, keenly aware that it looked utterly idyllic. Christopher thought it was a pity they weren’t a happily married couple taking advantage of a few stolen moments away from the children to enjoy each other’s company. Instead of an embittered and battle-weary couple about to meet their nemesis.
They commandeered one of the last tables in the garden. When Zoe asked for a mineral water, Christopher should have got the first indication that something was not quite right. Usually she would have leaped at the chance of the sun being over the yardarm to order a large white wine. He himself had a pint of Honeycote Ale, realizing with a guilty pang that the last time he’d been here he’d enjoyed the very same with Tiona.
They sat in silence with their drinks for a moment, basking in the warmth, before Zoe finally looked up. The glare of the evening sun made her squint, so Christopher couldn’t read the expression in her eyes.
‘I just want to say… I’m really, really sorry.’
‘What for?’ Christopher’s heart was hammering. He still didn’t know what he was going to say, or how he was going to react.
‘For being such a complete and utter miserable bitch. I don’t know how you’ve put up with me. I’ve been selfish, self-centred and unbearable to live with for the past few months. And I’ve got no real excuse. So I want to apologize. And I don’t expect you to forgive me.’
Christopher looked slightly flummoxed, not too sure where this was going.
‘It’s been difficult for you.’
‘Not really. I’ve made it difficult. I can see that now. I didn’t make any effort whatsoever. I didn’t even try to like it here. Just sulked and spat my dummy out. And that wasn’t fair on you. Things are tough enough without me bitching…’
She fumbled in her bag for a cigarette. She didn’t usually smoke, but she had a few left from the night before, and she needed some sort of crutch if she was going to go without a drink. Christopher put his hand out for one as well, though it was seven years since he’d given up, just before Hugo was born. The two of them lit their illicit fags, each grateful for the fact that the ritual
bought them some time.
‘So, I’ve come to a decision,’ Zoe finally announced. Christopher nodded carefully. This was it. Should he too come clean? Zoe was looking at him rather defiantly, her chin tilted upwards as she spoke.
‘I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m going to make the best of things. If I’m going to be stuck here for the rest of my life, I’m bloody well going to enjoy it. So I want to make a few changes.’
Christopher felt giddy. He wasn’t sure if it was the unexpected shock of what Zoe was saying, or the unfamiliar hit from the nicotine.
‘What changes?’ he asked.
She lifted up her mineral water.
‘First, I’m not going to drink. I don’t seem to know when to stop, and it only makes me worse. Not that I’m an alcoholic or anything. I just don’t think booze does me any favours.’
‘Probably not,’ said Christopher faintly, his mind racing.
‘Second, I’m going to do something constructive. The boys are at school, so I’ve got plenty of free time on my hands. I’m going to get a part-time job or start a little business. Unless you want some help in the office?’ She grinned ruefully. ‘Might as well keep it in the family.’
Christopher groped round desperately for a get-out clause. That was the last thing he wanted! Zoe and Tiona working side by side. He needed to nip that one in the bud straight away.
‘Um – I don’t know if it would be a good idea. Us working together. You’d probably hate it. You should try and find something you enjoy.’
‘I thought maybe interior design or something.’
Christopher nodded what he hoped was encouragement. ‘Good idea.’
‘Finally, I’m going to learn to ride. I figured if you can’t beat them, join them. And there’s no point in those stables sitting empty.’ She beamed triumphantly.
‘The boys can learn too. Then we can all go out riding, as a family.’
Wild Oats Page 32
