Striking a Balance

by Curtis, Norma

  ‘Lisa —’

  Lisa combed her fingers through the gelled ridges of her hair. ‘Yeah, I know. Sorry. Stupid thing to do. I wanted you to stay. I thought you’d be more likely to if you had Bill with you.’

  The simplicity of the explanation whammed the breath out of Megan. She’s lonely, she thought suddenly, and wondered how she hadn’t seen it before. Lisa lived her life by different rules from the rest of the world and that was lonely enough in itself. Lisa had tried to warn her. I do things my way, it’s the only way I know.

  You took her as she was, or you left her alone. There were a lot of people in the latter camp, Megan thought.

  ‘I suppose I should do the decent thing,’ Lisa said, her green eyes cool.

  Startled, Megan looked up. ‘What? Shoot yourself?’

  Lisa grinned and Megan started to laugh.

  She reshuffled her thoughts and raked her fingers through her hair. ‘Without you — the funny thing is — it’s looking all right again. More or less.’ The phone rang and she shrugged and picked it up. ‘Zelda? Yes, actually, if you want to ease back in gently how about Wednesday? I’m taking the day off. What do you mean, can you bring the baby in? No you can’t, we’re too busy.’ She held the receiver away from her ear. ‘Behave, Zelda. Bye.’

  ‘That was Zelda?’ The old joke.

  ‘Yes...I’m not sure you can shoot yourself after all.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I don’t think Zelda in her heart of hearts actually wants to come back,’ she said. ‘We’re all after the ideal, aren’t we, and never get any nearer to finding it.’

  Lisa looked at the mail she’d picked up on the way in. ‘What would your ideal be?’ she asked curiously, putting a couple of envelopes aside.

  ‘Not to ever have to work again,’ Megan said, smiling dreamily, thinking of Bill. ‘No, you see, that’s not true. I like working. I suppose ideally I’d like to work for a couple of days a week. I couldn’t afford to, of course.’

  ‘What if Larry got a job? Like — if he went back to Xylus, for example?’

  Megan raised her eyebrows. ‘Or if I won the lottery,’ she said.

  *

  At five o’clock, Bill was in her arms again and Larry had champagne waiting in a bucket on the floor.

  ‘Burgess rang today.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said, nuzzling Bill’s silky hair.

  ‘John King has resigned. He told Burgess he was like a killer slug and should get me back on the team. Same car, more money and I’d be a director.’

  ‘You don’t want to take it, do you?’ she asked, thinking of Triton, but she looked at the champagne all the same.

  Bill got impatient and she put him down and looked at Larry.

  His eyes were asking for understanding as he took her hands in his. They felt warm and familiar.

  ‘Meg, I’m going to think about it. I know what I said about getting a job but the truth is, Meg, I have to be practical. And like it or not, there’s no going back. Even working with Burgess I’m never going to be the Larry that I was. And this charity, For Fathers Alone — well, if I’m going ahead with it I need money to start it up.’

  ‘Lisa’s a witch,’ she said, wonderingly, and was surprised at Larry’s response.

  ‘Yes, she forced his resignation, I’m sure of that. Even if she hadn’t, it was only a matter of time. There’s a limit to the amount of time you can keep taking back-handers. Someone was bound to wonder why he was so against going over to a new company for our sales literature.’

  Megan didn’t miss the ‘our’. She squeezed his hands tightly. ‘I love you,’ she said, and she loved him for the one thing he hadn’t mentioned. She knew by the way he was holding her what it was.

  He’s doing this for me.

  53

  James was eating a bowl of Sharwood’s curry for his supper. He had a baggy sweatshirt on, and jeans.

  There was a letter propped up against the television and his eyes kept on going back to it, although he knew it word for word.

  Dear Daddy,

  We are NOT going to board as it is only because charles, (small c) has such DISGUSTING habits and shaves his CHEST and hates us laughing. We want to be WEEKLY boarders and stay with you at weekends. We don’t mind the fishing. PLEASE TELL MUM and don’t forget about the NAVEL PIERCING, we are nearly 12.

  HUGS and LOVE,

  Karin and Jen.

  LOVE YOU DADDY.

  PS Hope your appendix is better.

  James licked his spoon and wondered — did Charles shave his chest?

  And wondered something else, too; why Lydia had told them it was his appendix and not an overdose. Guilt, maybe. Love — not for him, though: that living nightmare had passed. Poor Lydia, gain a man and lose the girls. It was a high price to pay for a man who shaved his chest. Allegedly.

  The doorbell rang and he put the bowl down and went and opened it and felt, rather than saw, a wash of green gaze and a bunch of lilies and a bottle of brandy.

  All his sensations came alive at once at the smell of her perfume, taking him back...he didn’t know where.

  ‘Who goes there, behind the shrubbery?’ he asked.

  ‘Me. This is the Lisa Ashridge Get Well Kit, patent pending.’

  ‘You’d better bring it in, then.’

  He got rid of the bowl of curry and came back to find her sitting on his carpet, her hair loose around her shoulders and the lilies on the floor. The brandy cork was in her hand, oh boy, a vision of loveliness, he thought.

  ‘I won’t mess about,’ she said. ‘I was with Larry when we found you that day.’

  ‘Yes, he told me.’ The perfume, he thought. He must have smelled it then.

  She picked up a lily. The pollen exploded off it in a yellow cloud. ‘I’ve got a proposition for you. I want a flatmate. I work bloody hard, James, and I want someone to come home to who’ll be waiting with a drink and a warm pair of arms. I won’t pay you but I’ll feed you and buy you clothes. Good ones. And a haircut.’ She put the lily down and danced her fingers up the brandy bottle. ‘And the other thing is, sometimes I get lucky, so I want my weekends free.’

  ‘A flatmate,’ James said softly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sounds more as if you need a wife, to me.’

  He was surprised to see the tears in her eyes.

  ‘When do I start?’ he asked.

  54

  Lisa was in the interview room, grilling someone in her enthusiastic way.

  Megan came in at three. The man from Social Services had been understanding and professional, and had said that though they had an obligation to follow things up, they were more than happy to find out when nothing was amiss.

  Zelda was on the phone, and her warm and seductive voice was as beguiling as ever, but when she hung up she looked less than enamoured with her brief return to work. She had been hoping to ease herself back into it gently, but they were too busy for that.

  ‘How’s Lisa? She seems to get things done.’

  ‘She might have a garish personal life but she’s damned good at the job,’ Megan said. ‘It would be a shame to lose her, really.’

  Zelda was squinting at Megan’s screen. ‘But if I come back, we won’t need her.’

  Megan sat back in her chair. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about that. You want to spend more time with the children and ideally, I’d like to spend more time at home. If we did a job share, two and a half days a week each, we could keep Lisa on.’

  Zelda looked interested for a moment. Then she made a face. ‘Wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it?’

  ‘We’d only have half a salary each. I couldn’t afford to keep Ruth on if I only worked two and a half days.’

  It was time for Megan to play her ace. ‘The idea is, we could share Ruth as well.’ And rub it in. ‘I’d have to have a part-time nanny for Bill because as well as working for Burgess, Larry’s going to be busy with the Charities Commission. He’s setting up a scheme, For Fathers Alone.’ She was on the home
straight. ‘Just think, Zelda, you’d have the house to yourselves for three days a week.’

  She saw a faraway look come into Zelda’s eyes. ‘We’d be able to have steaks again.’

  ‘And eggs and toast soldiers.’

  ‘And the children, by ourselves. We could sneak them to Kidz Grub. Organic food can be very boring.’ She smiled. ‘Whatever happened to She-Man?’

  Megan smiled. ‘She grew sensible.’

  *

  On Saturday, Bill was sitting under the table, hidden by the yellow cloth. He liked the yellow cloth. It was like being in the Cozy Coupe.

  He knew what it meant when things were upside-down. His house had been upside-down for ages, just like his father had said.

  His mother had been his father and his father had been Ruth and Ruth had been someone else’s Zoofie and that was as upside-down as it could get, he could see that now. It was when things were not quite as they were supposed to be.

  But suddenly they’d been put almost the right way up.

  His father had got a job again and was going back to work. He was glad about that.

  His mother had got rid of half her job and was going to be a mummy for the rest of the time. He was happy about that, too.

  And Ruth, whom he’d missed, was coming back to look after him some of the time when his mother was working, so he was looking forward to that.

  It was almost the right way up, but he, he was going to be the one completely responsible person amongst them to put things straight.

  He was going to school.

  If you enjoyed Striking a Balance you might be interested in Living It Up, Living It Down by Norma Curtis, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Living It Up, Living It Down by Norma Curtis

  1

  As hostess, Catrin Howden didn’t actually mind her guests playing Russian roulette – it was just the thought of the mess it made on the towels.

  It was twenty minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve.

  Across the bright debris of the table, where candles were flickering through empty champagne bottles and crystal flutes reflected rainbows of light, the guests had fallen silent.

  Catrin, too, was silent.

  She played with a long strand of her fine dark hair and looked across the table at her white-knuckled husband.

  William’s calm, fine-featured face stiffened. He glanced at her for a second but before she could react he looked away and with a sudden jerk he pulled the thin pale string viciously. Instantly there was an explosion of sound and out of the emerald party popper that he was still clutching flew a large quantity of aubergine dip. It hit the side of his head with force and trickled down his temple slowly, a clotted mass, grey as brains.

  Gunpowder smoke lifted pungently upwards. There was a deafening cheer and the table began bouncing beneath pounding fists, setting the china ringing and making the glasses dance sideways on the damask cloth. Catrin could feel it shuddering under her bare forearms as in the din she kept her gaze on her husband. She began to smile – William’s handsome face was still impassive and the dip had splattered into his fair, wavy hair. She watched him touch it briefly and wipe his fingers on the tablecloth.

  He stood up suddenly amidst the noise, the legs of his chair screeching on the polished floor, and he picked up the silver tray which held the weapons of war.

  ‘Your turn, Hugh,’ he said, handing the tray across the table towards his friend and colleague.

  Hugh, chief reporter at Media News, was a large man whose dark eyes were fringed with white eyelashes which hid his eyes as he stared at the tray. He stroked his palms down his white shirt front through which his stomach showed pinkly but it was impossible, just by looking, to tell which of the party poppers had been refilled and which were empty. His hand hovered for a moment and he chose a blue one and tossed it in the air.

  Then, with a grimace, he aimed it at his forehead, narrowed his eyes and pulled recklessly. There was a small explosion and a puff of sulphurous smoke but that was all. He did a thumbs-up sign in response to jeers from around the table and the tray was held out to Catrin. Choosing red, to match her dress, she lifted up the party popper, pointed it towards her forehead and pulled the string.

  The smoke stung her nose. Another blank. The plastic was hot in her hand and she dropped it on the table with relief and blew a strand of hair away from her eyes.

  ‘I’m going to get some towels,’ she said, glancing at William, and she reached over for her glass to take up with her. She sipped her champagne as she went upstairs, smiling as she heard another cheer. She went into the bathroom and sat down on the cold edge of the bath, feeling...happy.

  She loved New Year’s Eve. She loved the feeling of having the old year all wrapped up and done with, survived, and what was more, enjoyed. She liked the thought of a new year stretching out before her like a stream of computer paper waiting for input.

  As Sales Controller of South East Television, her new year wasn’t exactly a blank; but still – a New Year held promise. It smacked of infinite possibilities and surprises.

  She stood up and finished off her champagne, enjoying the sensation of it prickling her tongue. She put the glass down on the chilly windowsill and, remembering why she was there, she walked over to the airing cupboard where the towels were kept. As her fingers touched the chrome knob she hesitated; she’d heard something, some sound that didn’t belong to the house. Frowning, she stood for a moment listening, her fingers loosening themselves from the cold chrome. The echoey bathroom was silent. Not even the taps dripped.

  She was mocking herself gently as she opened the cupboard door. For a split second she had a faint impression of subdued life inside the warm darkness. There was a slight movement in the gloom and she jerked her head, startled. Suddenly from the top of the pile of pastel towels there came a great flurry of movement and as it swept towards her she felt a swift flash of pain in her hand.

  Instinctively she banged the cupboard door closed. It shook, bounced slightly and then the latch caught, containing the harsh chattering within.

  Panic had made the adrenalin burst under her skin like pin-pricks and swearing softly she looked at her hand. A bead of blood had welled up and she turned on the tap and rinsed her hand under the cold water, wincing at the sound of wings dashing and flapping against the door. Her heart was thumping but as she patted her hand dry the flapping stopped, replaced by jittery, clicking noises of distress.

  She glanced at the windowsill and wished she hadn’t drunk all her champagne.

  She knew who to blame – Roger, she thought bleakly, looking warily at the airing cupboard door; Roger Elsworth, the St Francis of Stanmore. He actually fed pigeons on bird seed despite the fact they preferred Big Macs. William had joked that the three days that Roger, Sarah and their daughter Lottie had stayed with them had convinced him of the benefits of divorce and contraception. So she’d hit him with The Times. And secretly agreed.

  ‘And on my towels,’ she muttered as the magpie kept up the barrage of noise. Well, the Russian roulette victims were going to have to have old ones. She whipped three crumpled, white hand towels from the rail and hurried back downstairs.

  The game was still in progress.

  The shock, she thought, must have sobered her up because suddenly it didn’t seem so much fun anymore. She reached for a bottle and refilled her glass.

  The weapons tray was half-way round again, having passed Hugh, and Jean, Hugh’s naturist friend, and presumably Roger, because it was now being offered to Sarah who was stretching back from it with an expression of distaste and fastidiousness.

  ‘I don’t have to, do I?’ she pleaded to her husband. Roger, his bald head tanned from skiing, smirked at her. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘you might be lucky.’

  Sarah narrowed her eyes at him malevolently and then she turned to Catrin, reaching over to rest her hand on her arm.

  ‘I don’t have to, do I, Catrin?’

  Catrin put thoughts of the
bird in the airing cupboard out of her mind. ‘Of course not,’ she said loyally. ‘Yes, you do,’ Roger said.

  ‘Do you know how much this dress cost?’

  ‘Aim it at your head then, darling,’ Roger suggested.

  Sarah pouted. ‘You think the hair was free?’ Still, she stretched out a manicured hand and let her fingers dance for a moment over the tray. She picked up the orange party popper and fired at herself, changing her mind at the last moment so that a high-velocity charge of camembert and fresh cream skimmed her head and exploded on the wall behind her. She giggled nervously and turned to look at the wall.

  ‘Give her a yammer as a forfeit,’ Hugh said, banging the table with his glass.

  Tim, an old schoolfriend of William, was sitting diagonally across from Catrin. He smoothed back his thinning hair with one hand and cut a piece of stilton with the other.

  ‘I’ll do it.’ He mixed champagne, port and stilton in a small glass and handed it to Sarah with a grin. Sarah took it and looked at it distastefully.

  ‘I can’t drink this,’ she said.

  Hugh banged the table with his glass again and the base snapped off. ‘Oops.’

  Sarah had shut her eyes. She jerked her head back, swallowed the contents of the glass and gagged for a moment on the cheese before looking at them through watering eyes that finally settled on Roger. ‘I hope you’re happy,’ she said.

  William glanced at Catrin. Her eyes caught his. He gave her a faint conspiratorial smile. From within their own happy marriage they saw signs of upheaval in others as a weakness.

  ‘Make one for Roger,’ he called across the table. ‘He gloated.’

  ‘You all gloated,’ Roger protested.

  ‘We cheered. It’s not the same.’

  Sarah looked mollified but suddenly, as though in a fade-out, the room fell silent.

  Catrin had her back to the stairs and turned as a small voice behind her said with pompous indignation: ‘Can’t you all go home? I’m trying to sleep.’