by Carmen Reid
'What can be worse than this?' she'd almost laughed at him.
'Well... don't worry about it, right now.'
'What, Dennis?' He was making her frightened.
'Oh Evelyn—' he pressed the heels of hands into his eyes and she realized this was the closest she'd ever come to seeing him cry. 'I'm about to go bust,' he said. 'Well, I have gone bust. And they're going to come after everything – the house, the cars, everything.'
Already in shock from the miscarriage, she could barely register what he was telling her.
'What?' she'd whispered.
He'd nodded at her then begun a halting explanation of how one client was going to bring his whole business crashing down and because he'd always run an unlimited company, everything would go.
He'd known for weeks, of course. He hadn't wanted to worry her, he said. So instead of being allowed to realize bit by bit that something was very wrong, she'd been kept in the dark and now had to endure the car crash shock of this news. When she had finally taken in what Dennis was telling her, her thoughts had wandered to the new leather and beech wood lounger she'd ordered for the sitting room... would that go to the receivers too?
'What are we going to do?' she'd asked.
'I've no fucking idea,' he'd answered. 'I won't be able to work here for years... not on my own. We'll have to go abroad. The bastards.'
'What about Denny and Tom? What about their school?' Even as she'd said it, she'd realized they would have to leave, because how would the fees be paid?
'I don't know, Evelyn . . . Christ, I haven't worked any of it out yet.'
Chapter Thirteen
The end of her world, or so she'd thought at the time, had come so quickly. She had barely been discharged from hospital when things started unwinding for Dennis in the most spectacular way.
His office was shut, his staff dismissed. He spent several days at home frantically phoning, swearing into the mouthpiece, ringing round for backers, former employers, clients – anyone who could help him out. Then, within several short weeks, it was over. Writs were issued against him, he filed for bankruptcy and the creditors came after him with a vengeance.
Before she had even begun to realize what was happening, valuers had been round the property putting a price on everything: the furniture, the few antiques, the cars and, of course, the house, itself.
The boys had broken up for the Easter holidays and were at home, quietly wondering what was going on as she and Dennis moved in a daze about the house.
She was settling into some sort of numbed shock. First the miscarriage and now this. There had been no time to grieve, to shed tears, to come home, curl up and feel sorry for herself. She came back to find her home muffled, quiet, waiting for the impending catastrophe.
And stupid, stupid girl, it took her days to figure out how bad this was going to be. She'd blithely gone on the weekly supermarket shop, with the boys in tow, and every single one of her cards had been refused at the checkout.
She'd told the assistant not to worry, she would just go and make a quick call to the bank, and she'd loaded the mountain of groceries back onto her trolley and told them to set it aside for her.
In there were all the luxury items she'd grown so fond of: a case of expensive red wine, because she'd felt she and Dennis needed cheering up, fillet steaks for supper, the boys' favourite; finest ground coffees, Belgian chocolates, French cheeses, croissants for breakfast, glossy pots of jam ... the bulging trolley was stacked full. And what had the bank told her as she called them from the supermarket lobby?
'We're terribly sorry, Mrs Leigh but all those accounts have been frozen... the credit cards too seem to be registering suspension ... yes ... on the authority of the official receivers.'
She'd fled out of the supermarket in tears, a child in each hand running behind her in confusion.
In the Range Rover, she'd slumped into the driving seat and sobbed as Tom had started to wail because he couldn't understand why they'd left without his juice box. Denny had told him to shut up, and added: 'We haven't got any of the stuff. Mum and Dad haven't got any money.'
The fact that a six-year-old had now worked out what she was only just beginning to understand had made her cry even more.
'What the hell are we going to do? What are we going to eat?' she'd raged at Dennis when they got back from the trip.
He'd taken £20 out of his wallet and handed it to her, ashen faced. 'Just get the basics, to see us through for a few days,' he'd told her. 'I'm hoping to get sorted out with a loan, until I can get to work again.'
So she'd taken the £20 and gone to a different supermarket, on her own this time, and tried, for the first time in her Surrey life, to limit herself to 'the basics' – whatever they were.
She'd put potatoes, bread, milk, Cheddar cheese, mince, onions, carrots and cornflakes into her basket. Wine was out of the question. Never mind, she was sure there was something left in the drinks cabinet. She'd added yoghurt and bananas, then that was it, she couldn't risk buying anything else. If it came to over £20 she'd have nothing left to pay with and she paled at the thought of having to ask the cashier to put something back.
She had no idea how many tiny humiliations, how many small deaths she was going to die inside before this crisis was over.
The very next day, the milkman would be at the door demanding payment and she would be scurrying round the house searching for loose change, spare coins before finally emptying out Tom's piggy bank and handing over the money in two fistfuls of 10p and 5p pieces, close to choking with tears.
'Will you be wanting further deliveries?' he'd asked, making no comment about the handful of change.
She hadn't seen the big For Sale sign yet, which had been hammered in at the bottom of the driveway first thing that morning.
'Emm... no, I suppose not... well... I can let you know if things . . . change. Thanks, thanks for all your . . . help.' Dear God, why was she thanking the milkman for help? 'Deliveries, I mean.'
'No problem. Goodbye then. All the best.'
'Yes ... thank you.'
And oh so quickly, like pulling at the loose tuft on a piece of knitting, their lives had unwound. The house was sold, the cars were sold, most of the furniture was taken by the bailiffs, along with all her jewellery and even some of her most expensive coats and handbags.
Dennis's computers, the TV and all the related equipment, the expensive stereo, video recorder, their paintings... It had been pointless to try and hide anything, it was all comprehensively listed on their insurance schedules, as the bailiffs had helpfully pointed out.
One night, when the children were in bed, Evelyn had looked through her remaining clothes wondering what she could sell herself to raise some survival cash. Nothing would make a fraction of what it had cost to buy. Brown leather Ralph Lauren jeans – original price, six weeks of groceries, or maybe over two months of basics; a four-ply cashmere twinset – the cost of one hundred bottles of cheap wine; her Donna Karan evening dress – Denny's school fees for a term. But now, second hand, it would altogether fetch maybe a few hundred pounds. Still, that was better than nothing, she resolved. So she assembled four of the big cardboard removals wardrobes and began to dismantle six years' worth of assiduously chosen style and taste.
The expensive designer shoes, meticulously kept in their wrapping paper and boxes, went into the bottom of the packing cases. Then she picked through her evening dresses and suits, all shrouded in dry cleaning plastic. The glittering beaded red backless number she had worn to the Christmas ball in London just four months ago, feeling for one night like the most elegant, glamorous creature on the planet.
The chic little French suits, for playing at corporate wife. The suede jeans, jackets and shirts she loved. Might as well ditch them, she wasn't going to be able to afford weekly trips to the dry cleaners any more, was she?
The silk blouses which were perfect, she loaded into the for sale box; those slightly stained, she kept.
She chose
the other things she would keep very carefully – jeans, basic jumpers, things that would not be worth anything: T-shirts, casual shirts, all her underwear. She added one perfect black skirt suit, white shirt and black high heels. She felt she needed that in her wardrobe, come what may. A winter coat, warm anoraks, two cashmere rollnecks, the comfortable and well worn shoes. Nightclothes, of course, and her cheap jewellery, the stuff the bailiffs had left after asking her to take the Cartier watch off her wrist, so they could drop it into their box.
The next morning, Dennis had helped her load the cardboard wardrobes into the back of a hired van and she'd driven them herself to the dress agency in town. Suddenly she'd felt she couldn't shy away from this. She had to taste the humiliation, other people's pity, and take it, face up to it. Not let it destroy her.
The woman in the shop had been pleasant and friendly. If she'd known who Evelyn was or why she should be selling almost the entire contents of her wardrobe, she had not let the slightest hint fall.
It was hard, much harder than Evelyn had expected, to watch each item of clothing be unwrapped and appraised and given a price.
When the red dress spilled out from its plastic wrapper, the woman's eyes had widened. She had known immediately that this dress cost £3,000 plus, just a few months ago, but she offered £400.
Evelyn had nodded, unable to say anything, because the memory of Tom standing in front of her before she left for that magical evening and telling her she looked like a fairy 'all covered in glittery crumbs' seemed too tragic to bear.
The total the woman was offering her sounded like a fortune to Evelyn, well over £2,000. But she could only have half of the money now and the rest would come when at least 50 per cent of the items had been sold.
Evelyn had agreed the deal, but explained she would have to have cash.
'Oh . . . you'll have to come back tomorrow, then,' the woman told her. 'Do you want to bring the clothes back then? Or shall I give you a receipt?'
Hiring the van again was an unnecessary expense and Evelyn needed money now. Supplies were running low, their moving date was just days away and they still had nowhere else to go.
'Don't you have any cash at all?' she'd asked, trying not to think about how desperate this sounded.
'Well, just £50 or so ... in my purse,' the woman had answered.
Evelyn had decided to ignore the concern in the woman's eyes, take the money and the receipt and leave the clothes there. She would come back for the rest of the cash. As she'd stepped out of the shop, she'd been unable to avoid her friend Delia who was almost level with her on the pavement.
'Evelyn! How are you, darling?' she'd asked as they'd kissed on the cheek. 'What's all this I hear about—' she'd broken off, no doubt wondering if 'your husband going bankrupt' might be a little bald.
'Well, things aren't too good. We're selling up. Have you heard that?' Evelyn had answered, wondering where her slightly trilling lady-about-town voice was coming from.
'No!' Delia had gasped, eyes wide enough for Evelyn to focus on the slightly clumped mascara on the lashes. 'Your beautiful house! What's happened?'
'Dennis is being sued. I don't really know the ins and outs of it.'
'Oh my God, no!' After a little pause, Delia had added, 'Where are you moving to?'
I'm not sure yet. Depends where Dennis can find work, I suppose.'
'This is terrible. Look, I was just going for a coffee, why don't you come and join me?'
They were four doors along from the chichi little café where Evelyn knew she would be mercilessly pumped for every last detail by Delia, feigning exquisite sympathy, who would then relate all this in thrilled tones to a hushed gathering of the other tennis club ladies.
Evelyn knew this because she was one of them. She'd done the big sympathy routine with some other woman – just getting divorced, just found out about the mistress, the IVF didn't work out, whatever the particular circumstance of the misery – to have a feast to lay before the intimate circle of 'friends' at the next gathering. She knew the next stage in the ritual too: the object of their sympathy would no longer be quite such a bosom member of the group the next time.
'Well, darling, you know I've invited her to dinner several times since then, but she's always alone ... no-one to make up numbers. And she burst into tears over some joke Dan made ... so embarrassing.'
She knew what excuses would be made up for her.
'Well, she'll have nothing to wear. Had to give it all to Carole's dress shop in the high street. How awful. And not much to chat about... work isn't going well for him, no money coming in and the kids aren't in the school any more.'
She was just weeks away from no longer being one of them, one of the group she'd belonged to ever since she moved here.
She saw now that they would have to move out of this town. She couldn't face meeting the old crowd and their excuses for why they hadn't rung, hadn't been in touch or visited. Why should Denny and Tom have to start at the primary school and not see all their old friends whose parents would be too snobbish to invite them round?
As she stood on the pavement, declining the invitation to the cafe, then kissing Delia's smooth crystal-blasted, custom-blended, fragrant cheek goodbye, casually . . . but probably for the last time, Evelyn felt a tight and gripping panic come over her. What a shallow, pointless life she'd been living. Now it was all going to come crashing down around her ears and she had nothing more worthwhile to put in its place.
Chapter Fourteen
In the days before the moving-out date, Evelyn had spent most of her time on the phone making unpleasant calls: telling the bursar the boys would not be coming back to school, cancelling lists and lists of monthly direct debits, gym membership, tennis club fees, music lessons, insurances – even their life insurance.
The boys had played football in the garden almost all day long, running the ball from one end of the lawn to the other, making up little rules and games as they watched removals men arrive, fill up a lorry full and drive it away.
'Are they taking everything to our new house?' Denny had asked and it had broken her heart.
'Well... I don't know if we're going to need all that old stuff. I mean, we'll definitely have all your toys . . . but. . . you know . . . time for a change,' was the stumbling reply she'd given him.
'So where are we going?' he'd asked and now Tom came to stand beside him so that the two rosy, rapt faces were looking up at her and she had no idea what to tell them, hadn't even broken the news that school would not be starting next week as they expected. She didn't want them to feel as lost as she did.
'Do you think we could move to your father's for a bit?' Dennis had asked over yet another meal of baked beans on toast and too many glasses of wine from a box, taken with the radio on to drown out the anxious, horrible silence between them.
'My father's!' She'd expected Dennis to have a solution for them by now. A new job, a new home, even if it was only rented, some money coming in. She felt she could only begin to start coping if these things were in place. But moving to her father's? All four of them? Was there no other possible solution? It was a fresh reminder of how grim things were.
Her father lived in Gloucestershire, miles away from Surrey.
'For how long?' she'd asked.
'I don't bloody know,' he'd answered.
'I can't ask him if he'll have us and not tell him how long for. And what about the boys? They'll have to go to school.' She resisted the urge to throw down her fork and storm out. It was becoming impossible for the two of them to have conversations of longer than four sentences before one of them became too angry to stay.
They were going to have to try. They were out of this house in three days' time with no money and nowhere else to go. Something had to be arranged.
