The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘What?’ I was covering myself with my hands now, looking around desperately for another towel. I seized one, but she yanked that away too.

  ‘Anna!’

  She looked me up and down, appalled. ‘It's sad,’ she said finally. ‘You look minging. Like a singing telegram.’

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ I said stiffly. ‘It was supposed to be sexy.’

  ‘On Kate Moss, maybe, but on rippling middle-aged flesh,’ she shuddered. ‘No way.’ She turned the light on to get a better look. ‘Where did you get it, Ann Summers?’

  ‘Certainly not. Darling, turn the light off, the curtains are open.’

  ‘No, Mum, you need to look at yourself.’ She took my shoulders and swung me round to the full-length mirror. ‘You need a reality check.’

  ‘Turn it off!’

  I wriggled out of her grip and lunged for the light cord, but she got there first, holding it out of my reach. She was taller than me. I hastened to draw the curtains, and as I reached up to grab them both, hands outstretched in a crucifix position, I saw a man across the street turn before he put his key in his front door. I whipped the curtains together smartly, but not before I'd caught the unmistakable features of Poo-Face, and the astonishment in his eyes as he looked me up and down.

  15

  I spun round flat against the wall. Oh dear God. Did he think I was after him? Yes, of course he did. Here I was in my knickers again; these wretched knickers, semaphoring for him to come hither, like some tart in Amsterdam. I'd have a sign up soon – ‘Tasty New Babe Upstairs.’ I shut my eyes, gave a little moan, and slid down the wall on my bottom.

  Anna, flicking me a last withering look, had flounced out. I listened to her go: heard her stomping downstairs, slamming the kitchen door, making her teenage feelings felt as she was perfectly entitled to. I sat for a moment on the carpet. Glanced down. A rather unattractive sight met my eyes. Knees up, tummy sagging and in a less than coquettish position, I looked, as Anna had so rightly said, gross. ‘Arrgh!’ I leaped to my feet and in a few swift motions had ripped off the hateful garments and jumped in the bath.

  So what? So flaming what? I sank down under the bubbles, holding my nose, immersing myself completely. I came up for air. That unpleasant man could go hang himself for all I cared. In the scheme of things, he couldn't matter less. What did matter, right now, was keeping my family together. My precious little family. Being strong when they needed me, keeping them on track. Yes, this might be my chance to shine: to show what I was made of. I wiped the bubbles from my face. What was that Kipling quote? If you can be strong when all around you de da de da… keep your head when something something… then you'll be a man, my son. OK, not entirely appropriate, but still. I squared my shoulders in the bath. I could be a woman. More like a tigress, perhaps. What was that other one? About the tiger? Burning bright, in the something of the night. Blimey, I could do this; throw out literary allusions if I felt like it. Perhaps because I felt like a tigress in the face of someone threatening my brood. I gazed at my knees sticking out of the bubbles. My brood. They were scared, the pair of them, and neither frightened easily. They were made of sterner stuff than me, but now, I'd be the one looking into the eye of the storm… another quote? Or just a cliché? But then, clichés often were quotes, Ant said. So yes, looking into the eye of the storm… or was it a needle? And something about a camel? Anyway, whosever eye it was, I was there, pushing on through it. Absolutely.

  The following day, tastefully and maturely dressed in a Country Casuals skirt and blouse I'd once bought in a curious, home-maker moment, I took Anna to school. She had her games kit with her so couldn't cycle. She eyed me warily as she opened her car door to get out.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Nowhere special, darling.’

  ‘So what's with the Miss Jean Brodie look? You haven't got all that kinky stuff on underneath, have you?’

  ‘Don't be ridiculous, of course not.’

  She lunged across and felt my thigh. I flinched.

  ‘Just checking for suspenders. Don't go all weird on me, Mum, I can't cope. Just maintain the generation gap, OK?’

  And with that she got out and slammed the door.

  I watched her walk up the road, turn in at the school gates: long hair shining, short skirt swinging, bags slung over her shoulder. Usually, as I watched her go, I'd think – lovely. So carefree, no worries, clever, popular, never bullied, never struggling, only now I thought – struggling. Struggling to come to terms with something she shouldn't have to. Shouldn't have to face at such a vulnerable age. I inhaled deeply and lurched off down the road, as another mother managed to slam on her brakes to avoid me, eyes wide with shock. I wondered, as I flashed past mouthing ‘Sorry!’ if perhaps I'd reached that age when I should take my driving test again. Or was this perfectly normal? Did everyone drive around, a constant blare of horns in their wake? I'd certainly never got the hang of roundabouts. I encountered the first one on the ring road and executed my usual ‘pick a lane, any lane, hope for the best’ strategy. More horns.

  Days passed. Ant was quiet and withdrawn, but loving too. Tired. I sensibly didn't offer any pennies for his thoughts as he sat with a book on his lap in the garden, looking less at the printed page than at the garden wall. I'd potter in the kitchen, half an eye on him through the window, whilst Anna bolshed around tight-lipped, defiant, not speaking to her father. We co-existed, the three of us, albeit rather tensely, but after a few days, less tensely, I thought.

  I overheard them talking at breakfast one morning, admittedly rather stiltedly, about a choral concert in Christ Church Cathedral that evening. I was ironing in the utility room next door, but, ear pressed to the wall, could hear Ant tentatively suggesting it. Then heard Anna, mumble noncommittally, but at least answer him, which she hadn't done for days. I strained to hear more. Burned my tummy. Ow – shit! No matter. I set the iron on its base and as it exhaled steam, I did too: a sigh of relief, wondering if I dared hope for some thawing. Because if so – I sloshed some water on my sore stomach at the sink – now was the time – now that the dust had settled a bit – to execute my plan. Now, when the wounds were closing, looking less raw, was the time to act.

  To my astonishment they did go to the concert together – an early one, six o'clock – and when they returned, and Anna had gone mutely to her room to do her homework, I cornered my husband, back in the utility room, which, unlike the kitchen, didn't give on to the stairs.

  ‘Ant, I have a plan,’ I said quickly, shutting the door behind us.

  ‘Oh?’ He went to the drinks fridge and took out a beer.

  ‘Yes, you see, what I thought was, we need to face this head on, don't we?’

  He turned.

  ‘It's no good pretending it doesn't exist. That… Stacey… doesn't exist, so instead of waiting for her to call,’ which obviously I was, jumping whenever the telephone rang, ‘I've decided we should invite her here, properly. Set a date. None of this, I'll come one day. Let's ask her to tea or something, to meet the three of us.’ I beamed. ‘I've written to her.’

  His eyes widened.

  ‘Oh, no, I haven't sent it,’ I said quickly. ‘I wouldn't do that, not without consulting you. But don't you think it's a good idea, darling? To – you know – meet this head on,’ I'd already said that. I ferreted wildly. ‘To… confront our demons?’

  ‘I don't think of Stacey as a demon,’ he said slowly, ‘but in theory, I agree. You're right. I came to the same conclusion. We shouldn't just wait for her to appear, we should invite her. I've emailed her. She's coming tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh!’ Tomorrow. And he hadn't even told me. What would I wear? I can't believe I'd thought that. Tomorrow.

  ‘You didn't tell me.’

  ‘I was just about to. I only sent it today, on a whim, really. Before I knew it I'd pressed “Send”. But she emailed straight back. We're meeting in Browns for lunch.’

  ‘Right,’ I breathed.

  ‘Her mother's com
ing with her.’

  ‘She's not!’

  ‘She's only sixteen, Evie. She needs some moral support. I can understand that.’

  ‘Yes,’ I croaked, holding on to the washing machine, which was churning like my stomach. Blimey, what would I wear? ‘But… what about Anna?’

  ‘I asked her this evening. She wants to come.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Well, grudgingly. But I gave her the choice as we walked to Christ Church, and after the concert, she said yes.’

  ‘You asked her before me?’

  ‘Only because I had the opportunity; it's the first time she's talked to me for days. I was coming back to talk to you.’ His words, as usual, rang with the clarity of truth.

  ‘Oh. Right. So… five of us.’ My head spun. I imagined us all sitting at a round wooden table, fans spinning, palms swaying. ‘I'd better book a table.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Well, four. I don't think… well, it wouldn't be appropriate, would it?’ His eyes were kind, gentle. It took me a moment.

  ‘You mean… for me to come?’

  ‘Well…’ He struggled. ‘Look at it from her point of view. She wants to meet her father, and yes, her sister. She needs her mother there. I don't think—’

  ‘No – no, of course… you're right. Doesn't want to meet me. Ha!’

  ‘At this stage, at least,’ he went on anxiously. ‘Later, sure, if there is a later, but there may not be. I don't know.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘This may well be it. But I don't think we should complicate things. Go mob-handed.’

  ‘No, no, quite right.’ I was the mob. I was the complication. Surplus to requirements. They were all blood relatives. And I was hyperventilating. The girl needed her mother. Anna needed her father. Two and two make four, not five. I was still holding on to the washing machine as it went into final spin. ‘Right,’ I said as I vibrated violently with it. I gave a small approximation of a smile, lips blurring, cheeks wobbling. ‘Good plan. Good luck, darling.’

  He looked at me keenly to see if I meant this or was being sarcastic. I dug deep. For love. For courage. The washing machine was orgasmic now. I let go. Had to.

  ‘Really,’ I gasped. ‘I wish you all the luck in the world.’

  ‘You don't mind?’ he asked, worried. ‘That you won't be there?’

  ‘Noo, not in the slightest. Blessed relief, actually. Oops, too much coffee on a middle-aged bladder. S'cuse me, darling, need the loo.’

  And off I slipped, down the corridor, shutting the lavatory door behind me. I didn't throw up, but I did need to sit down quickly. I hunched there on the seat, the heels of my hands pressed to my eye sockets. They didn't want me. I was to be excluded. Just the four of them. Ant, his ex-girlfriend and his two daughters. I took my head out of my hands; exhaled shakily. And let's face it, where would I fit into that little ménage? This was all about making Stacey feel comfortable. What would I bring to the party?

  I sat up and stared blankly ahead. Banks of framed photographs faced me, one above the other, by the loo door. Anna at prep school with her reception class, Year One, Year Two, Year Three. Ant had made me stop at that stage, pointing out, quite sensibly, that we'd need to extend the loo to accommodate every single year, so I'd restrained myself, until this year, Year Nine. Then: Anna in the netball team, Anna in the hockey team, Anna in the lacrosse team. Ant at university. Ant in the cricket team. I either wasn't in any teams, or hadn't been to the sort of school that took photos and put them in frames. The latter, I think. Ant in the debating team, Ant as a fledgeling don with his first lecture group. His first lecture group. I frowned. Leaned forward. My heart began to beat fast. His first lecture group? I stood up, peering wildly, my eyes scanning the picture. I glanced at the names below. There were lots of them. Lots of tiny names. I'd never read them before – why would I? It took a few moments. But then I found her. Miss I. T. Edgeworth. Fourth name on the second row, so fourth face along… oh! That one. The one, in my idler moments, when I'd sat on the loo, mouth open, looking dreamily at all the pictures, I'd pick out. The doe-eyed blonde with the big smile. The beauty. The one I'd thought: that one; I'd like to be that one. Must be fun to be her: pretty, smiley, clever. The one, in my sillier moments, I'd sometimes dreamed of being. Never looked for her name, though. Not that silly. Miss I. T. Edgeworth, Isabella, who'd been in my loo for – ooh, years now. First when we'd lived at Balliol, and now in this slightly swankier Jericho latrine, flanked by smart green and gold striped wallpaper, and whom Ant probably looked at every day of his life and thought… what? What did he think?

  My heart began to accelerate. He'd known and I hadn't. I felt it a terrible betrayal, somehow, but couldn't explain why. Ant had known she was here, amongst us, and I hadn't. Did he sometimes stroke her face with the tip of his finger? Did he smile affectionately at her, wonder where she was? Or did he – and this sent my heart into overdrive – did he know where she was? Had he known all along?

  Suddenly the blood surged to my head. In one deft movement I hoiked the picture off the wall and marched with it back to the kitchen. Ant had emerged from the utility room and was standing at the sink, hands in pockets, beer unopened, gazing out of the window at the backs of the houses that flanked ours, suffused in dying light. I flung the photo down on the kitchen table. Frisbeed it with such force that the glass shimmied in its frame but didn't break. It just stopped short of sliding off the other end.

  ‘Take it to work,’ I hissed. ‘Put it in your loo there, look at it as you do your trousers up, or pull them down, or whatever you do, but don't keep it here!’

  And with that, fists clenched, and for the second time in not very many days, I marched down the corridor and slammed out of the house.

  I fled down the steps to the car, knowing he was coming after me, feeling oddly, like a character in Brookside. Ours was a quiet, ordered household with rituals and routines – school runs, occasional outings to the theatre, opera, friends for supper – and our door opened and shut quietly to those ends. Never had these steps been tumbled down so dramatically, the door slammed so hard, and even in my despair, I felt I was watching myself from elsewhere: from a sofa – a settee even – in a leisure suit, with a can of Coke and a bag of crisps, observing myself with a slightly bored detached air, as perhaps, behind twitching curtains, our neighbours – in a less bored and more riveted way – were watching too, wondering what was going on, who was having the affair, who'd lost their job. It calmed me down just sufficiently, so that as I got in the car and drove off, too fast, and without my lights – stupid Evie, I flicked them on as someone flashed me – I went hot. What was I trying to do, kill myself? Be in Casualty as well as Brookside? Wheeled into A&E on a stretcher, the crash team poised to resuscitate me? I slowed down. And when my phone rang, instead of diving for it stupidly and reading the text, I pulled over and read it. It was from Ant.

  I won't go. We won't go. I'll email and say I can't see her. Can't see them. I love U more than anyone in the world Evie. I'm just trying to do the right thing. Struggling to do the right thing. But if it means losing you I can't begin. Please come home. Ant x

  I took a deep breath. Read it again. Then my thumb got to work.

  Darling. I love U too which is why I'm behaving so badly. I'm scared. But of course you must go, with Anna. And Stacey must have her mother. I WILL get there. I WILL be fine. I just need time. And I need to be alone for a bit. Back soon. LOL Evie xxx

  I sat there, in the dark, head back on the headrest, staring at the stars. All of us are in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars. Blimey, another one. I'd say Chrissie Hynde, but Ant would laugh and say Oscar Wilde. I took a deep breath. Let it out. Was there something wrong with me? One minute I was offering tea and biscuits to Ant's daughter, the next I was hurling pictures. It was being wrong-footed that sparked me off. Thinking I was in control, and the next minute, knowing I was so patently out of the loop it sent me careering off track. I added a postscript to my text.

  You
must tell me what's going on. When you email her, what you are saying, before you do it. It's finding out later and feeling excluded that throws me.

  I stared at it. Then deleted it. Too needy. Too… helpless. And yet – why not be needy and helpless? He was my husband, for God's sake, not a boyfriend. But I was going to be strong, remember? Burning bright, like that tiger.

  I drove through the city to the other side of town. Down George Street and Broad Street, past the Bodleian and New College, the bells tolling from St Michael's, the mighty spires of Trinity looming over me. Usually I revelled in their majesty, felt proud to be under their spectral gaze, but tonight… tonight I hated them. Hated Oxford. Hated the thin, sensible women in their thrift-shop clothes pedalling earnestly to their book clubs; the bearded, scruffy men emerging, blinking like moles in the streetlights, from cello recitals or odd, esoteric talks on existentialism. I hated the brains, the power; felt threatened. Suddenly I wished we lived in Streatham. Or Middlesbrough. Somewhere where I could saunter down the high street, swinging my Topshop handbag, popping into Thorntons for chocolate – somewhere where I belonged. Not here. Not where every other fly poster advertised not Joss Stone, but a Mendelssohn evening, or an opportunity to hear Salman Rushdie speak. They frightened me, these people with their sharp brains and their sharp tongues hidden behind plain, unremarkable, unadorned faces. Tonight, these buildings, the people they harboured, the talent they fostered, the pacts they made, the trysts they kept, the literary festivals they hosted, the privileged societies they belonged to, the visiting clever-dicks they entertained – tonight I felt they were capable of remarkable harm. I felt Oxford and its inhabitants turn on me, their contorted, sneering faces leering aggressively, like some nightmarish Hieronymus Bosch painting.

  And yet, and yet… I ducked down a tree-lined side street, then another, pulled up outside a familiar little house with a peeling front door. Sat outside a moment. Not this one. Not this inhabitant. The one I'd always rather… not distanced myself from, but taken a careful step back from.