by Helen Walsh
She elects not to wake Greg, knowing how he’ll react, and instead pulls the heavy door to behind her. Tiny stones and thorns poke her feet as she treads the drive barefoot towards them. Emma hobbles a little way to meet her. Jenn revises her opinion – she is not drunk at all. Her face is pink and peeling, puffy from crying.
‘What’s happened? Are you okay?’
She takes Emma’s face between her fingers and looks right into her eyes. Emma focuses on her for one sharp moment before sliding off behind her. Her nostrils flare as though she’s on the verge of tears again. Jenn turns to the guardia.
‘What’s going on here?’
The guy with the sly face looks at her and smirks. He delays answering; rakes his eye all over her as he lights a cigarette; he slows down the ritual, blows a long bar of smoke out across the pool.
‘Nice place you got here.’
He’s regarding her lasciviously now; he’s sinister. There’s something about the sense of entitlement he radiates that makes her step closer to Emma and link a protective arm around her. She turns back to face the villa and gently tugs Emma with her.
‘If that’s everything, gentlemen …’
The cop is still grinning as though he knows Jenn’s most intimate, recent, degenerate secret. He blows another bar of smoke out and flicks the smouldering butt into the grove. His partner gets back in the car. Jenn’s throat slackens a little.
‘Next time, Momma. Give her number for taxi, yes?’
He takes in the villa one last time then slumps down into the car and slams the door. They reverse at crazy speed back down the track, spinning out onto the narrow beach road and tearing back up the steep sidewinder, back up to Deià village. Their tail lights watch her from on high.
Jenn goes to help Emma indoors, but she shrugs her off angrily. She shuffles through the side gate towards the swimming pool, lowers herself onto the steps and just sits there in silence, staring out across the bay.
‘Emma?’
No answer.
‘Em.’
Emma turns her shoulders as much to indicate that she’d like to be left alone, her chin jutting out self-righteously, just like her father’s does. Jenn knows she should just leave her be – but she has to know what has taken place up in the village tonight. She dips inside, returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She pours out a glass, hands it to Emma.
‘Come on. What happened, darling?’ she says. Her stomach turns as she awaits the response. Where is Nathan, she wants to ask. Stop your snivelling and tell me what has happened to Nathan. But no sooner does the question declare itself than Jenn recognises the depravity of it all. This must stop, now – and she must end it, as soon as he is back.
Emma reaches into her canvas satchel and takes out a packet of cigarettes. She slides her eyes across at Jenn – not to seek her approval, but to slap down any hint of resistance. Jenn doesn’t flinch. She squeezes out a smile that says, of course I know your secrets. I know you smoke; I know about your spunk-sprayed underwear. She leans across and takes a cigarette for herself. And now it’s Emma’s turn to look surprised. Yes, Emma, I am old, I am wretched, but I have secrets, too. Jenn studies her in the flame, Emma’s tiny nose, dusted with freckles, and she is smitten with guilt. Not so very long ago she used to count each and every one of those freckles; she’d pretend that two had gone missing, they were hiding up her nose or in her ear, and Emma would fall back giggling and say, ‘Again, Mummy! Count again!’ They scrutinise one another through drifts of smoke. Emma exhales, holds up her cigarette and says: ‘Don’t tell Dad about the police bringing me back.’
She draws deep on the cigarette, as though to show Jenn just how long she’s been doing this; how little she really knows about her. She holds the third drag in, lets it out slowly, in waves. Jenn tops up Emma’s wine. She’s barely sipped at her own. She changes tack; changes her tone. She speaks to her as she might speak to a friend.
‘Did you two fight?’ Jenn asks. Emma shrugs. ‘Do you want to talk about what happened up there?’
Emma drops her head and looks up at her through the lids of her eyes.
‘Not especially.’
She draws on her cigarette, tilting her head right back as she exhales into the night vault. She stays like that, staring up into the sky. The stars are blunted; the moon covered by cloud. Jenn gets up.
‘Okay.’ She smiles. She’s cold, but she can hear the added shiver in her voice. This is her and Emma: no joy; no bond. ‘You enjoy your smoke. I’ll come and get you in a bit. Help you up to bed.’
Jenn turns to go. Emma brings her gaze down slowly from the stars.
‘We argued about you, actually. Seeing as you ask.’
Jenn tries to swallow her own bile.
‘Me? Why would you argue about me?’
And her delivery is so swift, so seamless in its execution, that even if her daughter did suspect it of her, she might think twice now. Emma’s nostrils are flaring and shutting.
‘He said you deserved better.’
‘Nathan did?’
‘Yes. Nathan did. He said you deserved better than Dad. He said Dad didn’t know how to handle a woman like you. That if you were his wife, he’d know how to handle – you.’
‘Why would he say that?’
‘I don’t know.’ She eyes Jenn. ‘Why would he?’
Jenn can’t meet Emma’s eyes. She can hear the falsity in her tone.
‘I hope you put him right!’
Emma holds her gaze for a moment longer, then she digs into her canvas bag, pulls out her wallet. Jenn’s heart begins to bang, hard. She eyes the wallet, expecting Emma to pull out some irrefutable piece of evidence; whatever Nathan has been writing, she’s about to be confronted with it. Her face must nakedly display the shock that seizes her when Emma slaps a credit card on the table. It’s Jenn’s Amex. She picks the card up, squints at the name, just to make sure.
‘Where did you—’
‘Dad.’
‘Your father gave this to you?’
‘Lent. But only because his card hasn’t been working. He said he’d reimburse you as soon we get back.’
Jenn is fighting to get on top of her anger at the sheer effrontery of it.
‘Well, it would have been nice for your father to check with me that mine’s working okay. Did it?’ Emma tries to tough it out with a shrug, but her lip is beginning to tremble. ‘Why did you need it, anyway? There’s cash enough in the house for a meal out.’
‘Dad booked us into Jaume. He wanted us to have something special to look back on.’
And this last bit has Jenn boiling over, all over again. She squats right down so she’s level with Emma’s face. When Emma tries to look away, Jenn takes her chin between two fingers and gently, firmly, turns her head back towards her.
‘He had no right.’
‘I know! Okay? I fucking well know you wouldn’t have let us!’
She jabs at her with spite-sparkled eyes. Jenn can only whisper her response.
‘You’re damned right I wouldn’t.’ She has to walk away to the far end of the grove just to let go of her anger. She takes her time coming back. ‘Do you not see how … wrong that is? You have to earn privileges like that, Emma. Jaume! And how were you going to pay us back?’
Emma grins up at her. ‘Well, I could try for that weekend job you’re always on my back about.’ She screws up her face, broadens her vowels and starts to imitate Jenn. ‘Hey, maybe then I would have earned the privilege, right?’
It’s been coming for some time, this. Jenn can feel it surging up, thrumming through her in waves. She knows she will regret anything she says, but she can’t keep a lid on it. She tries to keep her voice calm, clipped.
‘Do you know, darling, I probably wouldn’t have minded if you’d have asked me.’ Emma rolls her eyes, and Jenn flips. As she starts talking, an inner engine takes hold of her, speeds her up until there’s no Jenn left; there’s just her voice, talking; spouting. ‘Emma – if you were
that person who had a job, who took responsibility for your own actions, then you would have run it by me. But you’re not that person, are you? And judging by that little stunt you pulled tonight, you show no signs of growing into her. And for the record, if you want to play grown-ups with your boyfriend in some nice fancy restaurant, then you need to start acting like a grown-up. You need to get out of this mindset that you just get things by pouting. By intimidation …’ She was getting out of breath, but she couldn’t stop. ‘Start working for the things you want so bloody badly! And before you start pulling your faces and rolling your eyes, the answer’s yes. You need to start doing what I did at your age; like I’m doing now – six, seven days a week plus overtime to pay for your fucking education! To pay for those privileges you take for granted.’
Emma drags herself to her feet; gets one crutch under her armpit.
‘Nice speech, Jenn. You must have been working on that for weeks …’
‘Years.’ She’s gone too far. She can’t stop swinging at her. Emma smiles. She is calm. There’s vehemence, but she’s measured.
‘I’m sorry it’s all such a big sacrifice for you, Jennifer. You’re so damn martyred, aren’t you? Having to provide for me, having to pay my school fees. It must be some burden, all that …’ She makes a big thing of stooping for the other crutch. Shuffles a step closer to Jenn. ‘I know I’ve never, ever heard any of my friends’ mums harping on like you do. Never heard one of them moaning about all the sacrifices they make; all the hours they put into giving their kids this great, fantastic life.’
Jenn is possessed, now. She pokes her finger into Emma’s chest.
‘Your friends’ mothers don’t even work! They wouldn’t know sacrifice if it slapped them in the face!’
Emma sneers at her; looks her up and down.
‘That’s because it’s not sacrifice to them! They do it because they want to, and that’s the thing, Jenn. You do it because you have to and by God do you let me know it!’
She drags herself down the path, hesitating at the little broken gate. She rests a crutch against the gatepost and leans down to pull it open. Its bottom sticks in the grit. Mortally wounded, Jenn comes up behind her. The rasp of her breath is loud as she pulls Emma back by the shoulder.
‘Well maybe that’s because you’re not my kid!’
There’s the flicker of something in Emma’s eye. Victory. She smiles and hobbles off. Jenn just stands there, numb. She is shivering. Silence, except for the wheeze of her lungs. She heads back inside the house. Slips on her sandals and scoops up her handbag, digging out her inhaler as she heads back out, gets into the car and fires up the engine.
20
She crawls along the narrow road to the village, eyes scanning right and left. The dark is near solid and with no moon to light the way, she sits with her face right up to the wheel. She snaps on the full beams; at any moment she expects to see his figure loom into view. She is desperate to see him; she doesn’t see him. She passes the police car, pulled in at the bus stop by La Residencia. The inside lights are on and their heads are bent over something. Porn, no doubt. She slows to 20 mph. She is over the limit; she’ll give them no excuse.
The restaurants are all closed but she can see Bar Luna’s tree lights twinkling in the night breeze. She slows down as she passes. Thinks she spots him leaning back against the terrace balcony, his arms stretched out along the banister. She winds her window down but does not stop; laughter and the buzz of chatter. She is not ready for him yet. She carries on down the village road; closes her eyes as she passes Jaume. The road darkens as she passes the front and starts her climb back up, and out. Through the blackness she can just about trace the outline of the olive groves below, like a giant staircase racing down to the sea. The road is wide and straight for a while and she presses her foot down hard. The surge of speed soothes her, and she thinks back to Emma.
Words that needed to be said. Words that cannot be unsaid. It’s been hovering there, hovering between them for months, now. She could never bring herself to analyse the whys and hows, but she’s felt it coming. Emma’s questions, Emma’s fury. She knew, yet she had no inkling of the extent, the depth of feeling – and this time she can’t just brush it off as a teenage outburst. This felt rehearsed; as though it was coming from someone much more mature. Jenn had felt like a foolish girl. Emma sounded like a woman.
She forks right after the garage. For a few miles she is moving inland through the mountains and the darkness closes in on her like fog, but then the road bends back on itself and the sea slides into view. Shiny, a sheet of dark metal, lit up by a slither of moon; clouds blown fast across the sky. Maybe he was right after all. When they met, when they became official, it was Greg’s wish that they kept things simple with Emma; until she was older. Yes, of course he’d tell her about her birth mum in good time, but for now there was no point confusing her. Jenn fought him on this: when she moved in with him, she dug out the crates of photographs and memories that Greg had consigned to the attic, found a picture of Emma’s mother and erected it on the fireplace. In her bedroom, she hung a picture of Emma as a newborn in her mother’s arms, taken only hours before she died. Gregory took down the pictures. He was furious. Let her call you Mum. We’ll tell her when she’s ready. She didn’t have it in her to hurt him, to say, ‘But I’m not ready.’
When Emma first said it, it made her feel trapped. Mamma. For the first time in her life she was rudely aware that she was accountable to someone other than herself – and it scared her. She couldn’t flee if things didn’t work out between her and Greg, and she knew that if she went through with this whole thing, if she walked down that aisle with him, she’d be pledging her vows to two people, not one.
The road twists through dense pine forests. The moon slips out of sight. A mountain hare flits across the road and she swerves to miss it. A steep incline; flashes of street-lights through the trees. She lets her foot off the accelerator, freewheels for a while. She recognises some of the places on the road signs. Banyalbufar. There’s a bar there they visited one winter that Nathan would love; shabby, mainly locals, cheap and real. She wishes he were here right now, by her side, his hand on her lap. She wishes they had Deià to themselves. She wonders if she could bring him back here, just the two of them. Greg was always on at her to extend her horizons. Perhaps she will. Perhaps she’ll do just that.
The road dips down and away from the mountains. The petrol dial hits red. The flat black disc of sea is visible below as she rounds a bend and coasts down towards the village below. She’ll dip into the bar for one large brandy; then back again to face up to things. To find him, and sort this whole mess out.
She is woebegone. The bar is no longer there. In its place are the first two thirds of a villa. She stifles a resentful laugh, parks up, shuts down the engine, goes over to inspect. She can picture the place in her mind’s eye. Paco’s. Tatty. Lively. Full of smoke and laughter. Yes, Nathan would have loved it here. She crosses back to the car. A solitary old man gives her a look as he passes by. She goes to get back in the car, steadies herself on the door.
‘Excuse me?’
He stops. She tries a smile. He gives nothing back.
‘Parle inglés?’
A shrug. Maybe. What do you want?
‘The bar?’
His face splits and softens into a sad smile.
‘Ah, Paco’s place? You remember this?’
Jenn nods.
‘Yes. I remember Paco’s. I remember it good.’ He shrugs again. ‘Gone. No people. Everything change.’
He gives her the slightest nod of the head and shoulders and he’s on his way. Jenn gets in the car, drives through the little town as far as the cliff-side car park, turns herself round. Sets off to find petrol.
The night sky is perfectly black. The wind rocks the car. She drives on, thinking nothing, smoking the cigarettes that she bought from the garage, the first pack she’s bought in years – but then Deià curves into view below, the church
lit up like a beacon in the starless night, and it all starts to seep through her again. The whole thing feels like a landslip; the more she digs, the more it submerges her. She could drive straight back to their villa and go straight to bed, and in the morning, the storm will have worn itself out. Emma will be contrite; sullen, and a little embarrassed, but she’ll want to make things up with her. Greg will be Greg. All will be well again.
She passes Sa Pedrissa on her left, Deià now a minute or two away, and the bar where she thought she saw Nathan, and she finds herself overcome by the deepest conviction that, no, all will not be well again. Things won’t be the same from now on. Words were said, opinions expressed, that cannot be taken back.
Everything change.
There’s no going back now. Emma said things. Jenn said worse, and it will take her years to earn back her favours, not that she won’t try her damnedest, but because those mother-daughter privileges were never hers to earn in the first place.
21
She steels herself. Heads up Bar Luna’s narrow steps. Nathan has moved deeper into the crowd. He’s leaning against one of the chunky wooden stanchions; smoking, carefree. She can just about make out a slice of his shoulder and brown forearm as he lifts the cigarette to his lips. The terrace is filled with locals of all ages: the teenage progeny of ex-pats; arty octogenarians; the flirty young sales assistant who sold her the frock the other day; and there are lots of svelte young women with beaded hair, all vying for the attention of a good-looking white guy with fat, fuzzy dreadlocks. Eyes shut, hands behind his back, he sways minimally to the dirty dub beat, thoroughly aware of his admirers, looking on.
