The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton

by Catherine Alliott

  Mum was wearing a jogging suit when she came to the door. A lime-green fleecy affair with a pink stripe down the side and matching headband. The tangerine trainers clashed violently.

  ‘Oh! Hello, love.’ She was eating a Cadbury's Creme Egg and had some down her chin and her front. She sucked her finger. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Can't a girl pay an impulse visit on her mother without getting the third degree?’

  I regretted it the moment I'd said it. Always the smart remark. Always the confrontation. I could see her back go up as I followed her down the hall. But then she hadn't exactly said, ‘Oh, darling, how lovely.’

  ‘Of course she can, but these days it's increasingly rare, that's why I asked.’ She stalked into the sitting room. I followed.

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said meekly. ‘Sometimes my mouth says things my brain has absolutely no idea about. I didn't even mean it. How's things?’

  I sat down heavily, glancing around at the familiar pale, minimalist room: cream walls, white Laura Ashley sofas and beige suede cushions: a far cry from the chintzy sofas and curtains at the farm, which, of course, was what she wanted. A dog-eared paperback was spread-eagled on the arm of the sofa. I picked it up.

  ‘Good book?’

  ‘Terrific. Mavis Brian's latest. You should read it, you'd love it.’

  It occurred to me that I would. I glanced at the title. The Miller's Child. All clogs and shawls and foundlings and smouldering romance. Years ago I'd have sneaked it away, marking her place, and sat for hours in the window seat at the farm devouring it, reading one after the other that Mum passed on to me: sagas, historical romances, lapping them all up. But then, I maintained, my tastes had changed; become more literary. Not like Ant, of course, not Chekhov for pleasure – but certainly Jane Austen instead of Georgette Heyer. Persuasion, which I always started, but somehow never finished. It didn't matter of course because they all eventually appeared on the telly so I knew the endings. But it occurred to me I didn't read for pleasure any more. I read to better myself.

  ‘Where's Ant?’ Mum crossed the room to her drinks trolley in the corner.

  ‘Oh – at home. Working,’ I added quickly to avoid suspicion. ‘The house was a bit quiet so I felt like popping out.’ I sank my head back on the soft leather cushion.

  ‘Glass of wine?’ She picked up a corkscrew and began opening a bottle.

  ‘Actually, can I have the same as you?’

  ‘Baileys? Course, darling. You used to love it.’

  ‘I know.’

  I used to have one with her in the evening, when the pair of us had read ourselves silly, full length, a sofa apiece in the sitting room. Then Dad and Tim would join us, coming in shattered from a day in the fields, flicking on the telly. We'd shift up and they'd flop down and we'd watch Dallas, The Generation Game, anything light, and have eggs and chips on our laps in front of it, or sardines on toast, macaroni cheese, corned beef hash, things I hadn't had for years. And if Mum and Dad weren't rowing, it could be cosy, easy. And then sometimes, particularly if Gran was there, we'd play cards after supper. Hearts, Racing Demon – which always provoked shrieks of laughter. Cribbage, maybe. These days I ate linguine with clams at the table, bought, but didn't read, Zadie Smith, and since Ant only watched documentaries or arty pro-grammes I hardly watched television at all. I don't think Ant knew how to play cards. Oh, bridge. I heaved up a great sigh from the soles of my shoes.

  ‘Penny for them?’

  I smiled. ‘How funny. I've spent the whole week trying not to throw money at Ant's.’

  ‘I doubt your husband could be so easily bought.’ She sank down on the sofa beside me and handed me my drink.

  ‘No, you're probably right.’ I gazed at the gathering gloom through the slatted wooden blinds. Then at her.

  ‘Do you like him, Mum?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ant.’

  She stared at me wide-eyed. ‘What a question! Of course I do. Why d'you ask?’

  I flushed under her astonished gaze. Why had I asked? ‘I… don't know.’ Why had I asked? I did my best to answer.

  ‘I suppose… well, you're very different.’

  She looked surprised, then gave this some thought. ‘I suppose we are. But he's true to himself. I like that.’

  As Mum was. Which Ant liked. And as I wasn't, it occurred to me, with a horrible rush of adrenalin up my legs.

  ‘He's got another child,’ I blurted, and even as I said it, I knew I wanted to tarnish him. To disenchant her. ‘By a girl he once taught. A student. She was eighteen and he was thirty. We were engaged.’

  She sipped her drink. ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘You know?’ I turned to face her, horrified.

  ‘Anna told me.’

  My jaw dropped. Eyes popped too, probably. ‘When?’

  ‘A few days ago. She dropped by after school on her bike. Told me all about it. We had a long talk.’

  ‘Oh!’ I was flabbergasted. And hurt. A long talk. They'd had a long talk. She hadn't had that with me, Anna.

  ‘Why didn't you tell me? Ring me?’

  ‘I figured Anna might not want me to pass it all back… how she felt. Thought maybe she'd come here to offload.’ She sipped her Baileys calmly.

  Yes. Yes, she was probably right. And Anna often did come here; cycled round. She liked seeing Mum. Liked playing her Neil Diamond CDs, going on her exercise bike in her bedroom, playing with her china thimble collection. In fact, she sometimes talked to her more than… well. It was often the way, wasn't it, I told myself stoically. Skipping a generation. I gave my head a tiny shake to regroup.

  ‘How is she?’ I had to ask how my own daughter was?

  ‘Not great. Threatened. Jealous. Scared.’

  ‘Makes two of us.’

  She sighed. Patted my hand. ‘You're bound to be. But, Evelyn, don't make this too big. She's only a child, this Stacey. Imagine if it were Anna.’

  ‘How could it be Anna!’

  ‘Easily. Imagine if he'd married her, not you. Left you pregnant. And you'd brought Anna up alone. For sixteen years.’

  I gazed at her. Her grey eyes were steady. ‘She's done very well. They've both done well. To get this far without contacting you. Without inconveniencing you. She could have made your life very different. But they didn't. They left you alone.’

  I went quiet. Put my drink down on the glass coffee table.

  ‘They're having lunch tomorrow, at Browns.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Again? Again you know?’

  ‘Anna just texted me.’ She nodded at her phone on the arm of the sofa. The texting granny. Who'd caught on to technology long before I had. I rubbed my temples hard with my fingertips.

  ‘Browns is a good idea,’ she went on. Neutral ground. Neutral territory.’

  And I'd suggested tea at home. On my territory, in my smart town house with its challenging art on the walls and its antique furniture giving us – or me – the edge. I swallowed.

  ‘I flounced out,’ I muttered. ‘I mean, just now. For the second time in days.’

  ‘You've got a lot to flounce about. Where did you flounce the first time?’

  ‘Malcolm's.’

  ‘Ah.’ She smiled. ‘An excellent choice. Discreet, too. I saw him yesterday. He didn't mention it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, I popped in to see his ritzy new shop. He offered me a job.’

  ‘Did he?’ I boggled.

  ‘Just a couple of mornings a week. Only he's quite busy now he's joined forces with that other chappie. Frightfully attractive – have you met him?’

  ‘Sadly, yes. A little too glowering for my tastes.’

  She chuckled. ‘Oh, I don't mind a bit of glowering.’

  ‘So what did you say?’ I said impatiently. I couldn't help feeling a bit jealous. Mum had been offered a job, in my old shop, by my friend. But… I wouldn't want it, would I? Malcolm knew that. Knew I was too busy. Even so.

  ‘Hm? Oh, I said
yes, in theory. The only thing is, it's Mondays and Fridays, and Mondays I usually do meals on wheels with Felicity.’ Her brow puckered anxiously. ‘I don't like to let her down. I was wondering, darling…’ She glanced at me.

  ‘Me?’ Do charity work? I was taken aback. But why? Why surprised? Mum did it. Felicity did it. Even Caro, the busiest person in the world, rattled a tin outside Waitrose occasionally for Save the Children. But I'd always been rather snotty about bored, middle-class women salving their consciences by doing Good Works. Why? Because I'd heard Ant say it, that's why. Did I have an original thought in my head?

  ‘Of course,’ I muttered.

  ‘Oh, darling, would you? Just till I find a replacement. I know you're terribly busy, and I could ask Jill Copeland because she only works at the library three days a—’

  ‘No. No, it's fine, Mum. I'm not terribly busy.’

  She looked surprised to hear me say it. I drained my glass. Got up to go. But it was true. I didn't have a job. I had one child at school all day. A husband at work all day. A Portuguese lady who cleaned my house. I sat on no committees. I did no charity work. I did nothing. Who was I?

  I walked dumbly to the door. I said goodbye to Mum, but I could tell she was watching me as I went down the path to my car. Who was Evie Hamilton? Ant's wife. Anna's mother. But now, recent events were questioning my exclusive rights to even those claims.

  I drove home, staring blankly at the rain on the windscreen. They defined me, Ant and Anna. And now, two other women claimed they defined them too. I couldn't see my way through. Oh. Wipers. I felt panic rising as I watched the blades swish hypnotically in front of me. I wanted to get back quickly to my house. Stake my claim. Wanted to shut the door behind me, bolt and bar it, pull up the drawbridge.

  I swung into my road. The rain was torrential now, a huge great summer thundercloud bursting under too much pressure, beating its outraged tattoo on the car roof, a horrible, deafening, threatening noise. I needed to get out. My eyes scanned the road, desperate for a space, increasingly rare these days, even in the enlightened age of residents' permits. Many of the houses were divided into flats, so the road still overflowed. Ours wasn't, of course. Divided. Ours, on four floors, including the basement, was one of the few original houses, I used to think smugly. Smug! That's who I was. Smug Evie Hamilton, who expected the world to come to her. A trophy wife. Trophy wife? I blanched as I shot across the road to the opposite side where I'd spotted a space. I lined up to parallel park. God, that suggested Ivana Trump or Victoria Beckham, with beautifully coiffed hair, polished nails, expensive clothes, whereas my roots badly needed touching up, my nails were bitten to the quick and these jeans had been on for three days. I couldn't even get that right. Couldn't even be a groomed and manicured credit to my successful husband, I thought with a flush as I swung back into my space. At least, I thought it was mine, but someone, whilst I'd been glancing down at my grubby jeans, had backed in before me, from the opposite direction. So that as I reversed, quite fast, and without really looking, I heard that horrible, familiar crunch of metal on metal.

  I slammed on the brakes and stared, aghast, in my rear-view mirror. The headlights of the car behind went out. A door opened, and a foot stepped out onto the sodden, pinging tarmac. I leaned my forehead onto the steering wheel, shut my eyes, and prayed hard.

  Oh dear God, no. Oh please, God, no. I'll do meals on wheels from here to eternity. I'll jiggle tins in Waitrose. I'll jiggle my tits in Waitrose. Just please, don't let it be him.

  16

  I opened one eye a fraction and saw a pair of jeans and the ends of a flapping overcoat strut my way, towards my open window. His crotch drew level and then he crouched down until his face was proximate with mine. I snapped my eyes shut, kept my head on the steering wheel, and simulated concussion.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I heard in disbelief. ‘Bloody hell – you again!’

  ‘Hm? Whaa…?’ I opened my eyes blearily, took my head slowly off the wheel, but kept my mouth dopily open. Through half-shut eyes, I gazed around, dazed. ‘Where am I?’ I whispered.

  ‘In the back of my bloody car again. For the second time in as many weeks!’

  I peered at him through what I hoped were semiconscious, but perhaps more drug-crazed-looking, eyes. ‘Who are you?’ I croaked.

  ‘Oh, don't give me that,’ he snapped. ‘If that little jolt knocked you senseless you've got bigger problems mentally than I thought!’

  Realizing I should have simulated death rather than concussion I sat bolt upright. ‘There's nothing wrong with my mental powers,’ I retorted. ‘It's your bloody car that's the problem. That was my space and, what's more, you saw me backing into it!’

  ‘Like hell it was yours. You just barged across from the wrong side of the road, then kept on reversing straight into me!’

  ‘I was committed,’ I hissed.

  ‘Doesn't surprise me. Give me the name of the asylum and I'll tell them to take you back.’

  ‘To the space!’ I squeaked. ‘I was halfway in – you saw me. And anyway, how come your car is always outside my house?’ I clutched my mouth; stared at him in horror. ‘Are you stalking me?’

  ‘Don't be ridiculous, why would I want to do that?’

  ‘You've seen me in my underwear!’

  ‘Which might make me leave town. No, madam, I am not stalking you.’

  ‘Then why are you always in my street?’ I hissed.

  ‘Because I live in your street,’ he hissed back.

  ‘Since when?’ I snarled.

  ‘Since two months ago, if you must know,’ he snarled back.

  We were nose to nose now, snarling and hissing like tomcats, our eyes, centimetres apart. His were flecked with gold; greeny gold. His black hair flopped into them. He looked like a dark lion with that mane of hair. Mum was right. Very masterful.

  I jerked away smartly and, without thinking, opened my door, which since he was crouched behind it, sent him flying backwards.

  ‘Shit!’ he barked as he sat down in a puddle.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered, climbing out. ‘Sorry… here…’ I attempted to help him up, but he swatted away my hand in horror. ‘Oh God – your coat…’ There was a large wet patch on the back of what was clearly cashmere. It looked as if he'd wet himself.

  ‘Never mind my coat, what about my car!’ he roared, staggering to his feet.

  ‘Oh Lord. Oh heavens. I really am terribly sorry.’ Blinking through the driving rain we both gazed, aghast, at the crumpled remains of his car. The boot was almost entirely concertinaed in. Even by my standards it was not good. ‘That's dreadful.’ I hastened across. ‘I had no idea! I mean – I only tapped it. What's it made of?’ I touched it curiously. ‘Fibre glass?’

  As I turned back, his eyes widened. ‘Of course, it's my fault, isn't it?’ He rocked back on his heels and hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘My fault, for having a car made of substandard material. It's all becoming crystal clear, forgive me, forgive me. And you, of course, and your Chelsea tractor, made from galvanized steel and with a cowcatcher fastened to the front, have every right to be barging through city centres, mowing down ridiculous fragile cars; innocent people too, no doubt, also made of substandard material – plebs, peasants – yes I see, the dawn comes up. Mea culpa. I do apologize.’ He put the palms of his hands together and executed an ironic little bow.

  ‘There is no need to be like that,’ I seethed.

  ‘Isn't there? Isn't there? Righto. My fault again.’

  ‘I'm simply pointing out that I gave it the tiniest of taps. I can only have been doing two miles an hour!’

  ‘Then you don't know your own strength,’ he snapped. ‘Let alone your own horsepower. Now kindly take your monstrous vehicle away so I can repark what remains of my car!’

  ‘Not until I've photographed the evidence,’ I said suddenly. ‘You're so sure it's my fault – well, we'll let the insurance company be the judge of that!’ Shooting him a triumphant glare I ran across the ro
ad, nipped up the steps to my house and let myself in quickly. All was quiet. Trying not to trip over Brenda, who was scrambling up my leg, delighted to see me, I fled down the hall, found the digital camera on the dresser in the kitchen and was about to race out again when – oh, wait: and the chalk from the kitchen blackboard too. Fully equipped, I ran back out, and flashing him another smug look, crouched down and took a few crucial shots, David Bailey style, whilst he stood, arms folded, shaking his head incredulously. Then I bent down and traced around our cars with the chalk, on the very wet tarmac, and therefore with limited, indeed, no visible, results.

  ‘Pathetic, Columbo,’ he snapped as I finally got in to drive away, wiping my wet chalky hands on my jeans. ‘Truly pathetic. You're insane. Which is no defence, incidentally. Your insurance company will be hearing from me yet again.’

  ‘Bring it on!’ I snarled as I roared off.

  I had to park flipping miles away, of course. And then walk back, in the rain, sodden.

  Feeling utterly miserable, and like a partially wrung-out and slightly soiled dishcloth, I dripped up the front steps to my house. As I'd walked along the street I'd studiously made myself not look at his house across the road, but as I turned to shut the door behind me now, I saw the light go out. I double-locked the front door and turned off the hall light, knowing, as I passed the dark sitting room and went upstairs, that Ant and Anna were in bed.

  The bedroom was in darkness, but Ant was still awake.

  ‘Hi,’ he whispered.

  ‘Hi.’ I chucked my handbag on a chair and began to peel my wet clothes off.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘I heard shouting outside.’

  ‘Oh. Crashed the car. My fault.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Ah. Just ah. You see? It was indicative of how guilty he was feeling that he didn't hit the roof. Didn't sit up and go, ‘What? Again? Bloody hell, Evie!’ May as well go for it. A good day to bury bad news.