by Sue Fortin
I shake my head. Honestly, Andrea is terrible sometimes.
‘And what do you mean by that?’ demands Zoe. She must catch the surprised look my face involuntarily offers at the defensive tone in her voice because she quickly clarifies her question. ‘I mean, how do you know? Joanne’s never said anything to me about … bedroom stuff.’
‘It’s not for me to say.’ Andrea looks at us and I can tell that, despite that caveat, she is going to say. ‘But, you know how Joanne loves to oversee everything?’ We both nod and let Andrea continue. ‘Well, that extends to the bedroom. She once told me that she had no intention of letting Tris have the upper hand, that he may be the qualified psychologist, but she was far superior at the mind games.’
‘To be honest, that doesn’t surprise me,’ I say, contemplating our friend. ‘Joanne’s not very good at taking instruction from anyone.’
‘And I should know,’ says Andrea. ‘If she wasn’t my friend, I’m sure I would have sacked her by now, or at least put her on a disciplinary for the way she talks to me, especially in front of the other staff. Honestly, you’d think she was the bloody owner, not me!’
Before the conversation can continue, the plane banks to the right and the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom, informing us that we should fasten our seatbelts to prepare for landing.
As I tighten the belt across my lap, I look over at Andrea. Her latest revelations and insight into Joanne’s marriage only serve to confirm my own private thoughts; we may all be friends but there’s so much we don’t know about each other. We all have our secrets and I, for one, intend to keep it that way.
‘I think we’re landing in a bloody field,’ says Andrea, as she looks out of the window. Both Zoe and I do our best to see the ground below us. There’s no sign of a runway anywhere.
A minute later the wheels of the aircraft touch down on to grass and we are bumped and jolted as we make our landing. Zoe gives a little screech at one point, but the pilot is obviously experienced and once all three wheels have made contact with the ground, the speed slows rapidly and the engine purrs in a gentle contented way as we taxi along.
‘We have literally landed in a field,’ says Andrea. ‘I can’t even see a control tower or anything.’
The plane bumps its way to a halt but the engine remains ticking over. The pilot walks back to us in the plane. In his hand, he holds what is becoming a familiar sight. A white envelope.
‘I believe this is for you,’ he says, handing me the envelope. ‘This is where I say goodbye. I hope you enjoyed your trip.’
‘And our phones?’ I ask.
‘I’ll hang onto those for now,’ he replies. ‘Don’t worry, they are going with you though.’
There’s distinct chill in the air as we climb out of the plane. I place my rucksack on the ground so I can zip up my fleece. We are indeed in the middle of a field. I look around, wondering if there is a farmhouse or something nearby, but there is no sign of life. The landscape is one of fields merging into a backdrop of hills and in the very distance silhouettes of mountains.
‘Are you going to open that letter, then?’ says Andrea, dropping her bag on the ground beside mine.
I oblige and read out Joanne’s message.
‘Welcome to Bonnie Scotland! I hope the plane journey was OK. Now, if you make your way over to the far end of the field, there’s a gate and Phase 3 of your journey awaits you. God, I’m loving this. I hope you are too!
‘Are you loving it?’ I ask Andrea in amusement.
‘Yeah, can’t you tell?’ comes the grim reply.
I laugh at Andrea’s glum expression and grin at Zoe, who is still as enthusiastic as ever as she performs a three-sixty turn to take in the surroundings. I must admit, my own enthusiasm is waning slightly. My stomach is protesting at the lack of food and I could murder a cup of tea. I look down towards the gate.
‘Come on, let’s go down there,’ I say. But when we get to the gate, there is no sign of Phase 3. ‘I suppose we just wait.’
‘I guess so,’ agrees Andrea. ‘Doesn’t look like Top Gun is going anywhere at the moment, so we won’t be stranded. Besides, he still has our phones. I presume he’s waiting to hand them over to whoever comes for us.’
‘I feel lost without my phone,’ I confess, eyeing the blue bag in the pilot’s hand. ‘I said I’d text Seb to let him know we’d arrived safely.’
‘And how is the lovely Seb?’ asks Zoe. ‘Still lovely, I take it?’
I smile. ‘Yes. Still lovely.’
‘Ooh, will we be needing to buy hats soon?’ says Andrea, giving me a nudge with her elbow.
‘I don’t think so. Marriage is certainly not on the agenda. Not for me anyway.’ I turn around and rest my arms on the gate, hoping we won’t be stuck here too long. ‘It’s very beautiful here,’ I say, trying to head the conversation off in a different direction.
‘Yes, it is,’ agrees Andrea. She leans back. ‘Now, tell us, why is marriage not on the agenda for you?’
‘Yes, why not?’ chimes in Zoe. ‘From what I’ve seen of Seb, he’s totally in love with you.’
I give a sigh, resigning myself to the fact that the conversation topic isn’t going away. ‘It’s not only me I have to think about when it comes to marriage. Whether it’s Seb or someone else, I’ve Alfie to think of.’
‘True, but he’ll be off to university this time next year. You won’t have to worry about him then,’ says Zoe.
‘Sounds to me like you’re using Alfie as an excuse.’ Andrea fires from the hip as usual. ‘What’s at the root of it? Darren?’
I can’t answer immediately. Andrea is far too perceptive. Zoe stretches her hand over and squeezes my arm. ‘You can’t put your life on hold forever. Darren is dead. What happened, you can’t change. You need to accept that.’
‘He can’t hold you to ransom from the grave,’ adds Andrea. ‘You deserve better than that. Fucking hell, what he put you through, I don’t know why you’re still so loyal. Your marriage was bad enough, the separation ugly, but to do what he did – and not just to you, but to do that to Alfie too. That was evil.’
Having Andrea as a best friend can be wonderful most of the time, but other times, she can be brutal in her honesty. I close my eyes tightly at the two-year-old memory of coming home from work to find Alfie on the doorstep. Darren had forced himself into the house and locked Alfie out. I will never forget the sight that greeted me as I stepped over the threshold. Darren had hanged himself from the banisters. I had tried to shield Alfie and to push him out of the house, but it had been too late. He had seen it. How did a sixteen-year-old lad ever get over that?
‘Andrea, don’t.’ Zoe’s voice is soft and full of concern. I feel her fingers rub my hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Andrea. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, but sometimes I get so frustrated that you constantly punish yourself about Darren.’
‘Andrea!’ Zoe cuts in again. ‘Enough.’
I give Andrea a half-smile. ‘It’s OK. I know you’re right but I still have this tremendous amount of guilt and, no matter what, I can’t shrug it off.’ The truth is, I don’t deserve to shrug it off, not after what happened that day.
‘We understand,’ says Zoe. She nudges Andrea. ‘Don’t we?’
‘Yeah, of course we do.’
‘Can we not mention it again? Not this weekend anyway.’ I look at each of my friends in turn. ‘This is supposed to be a fun few days to celebrate Joanne’s birthday.’ I remain silent about the real reason why I don’t want to talk about my late husband. I ponder at the expression late husband and think how ludicrous it sounds. Late? What’s he late for? He’s been dead two years. Shit-husband, self-absorbed-husband, insecure-husband or even bastard-husband would be a better description. As always, I keep these thoughts locked away, allowing my loyalty to Darren to be misconstrued.
The sound of a car engine breaks the silence that has fallen between us. We all look towards the road. The engine grows louder and a black Tran
sit-type van appears from around the corner, drawing to a halt on the other side of the gate.
A man dressed in blue overalls, who I estimate to be in his thirties, jumps out of the vehicle.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he says, in a broad Scottish accent. ‘Good to see you made it safely.’ He slides open the side door and then walks over to the gate, unhooking it and opening it wide. He indicates to the van. ‘Climb aboard, your hostess is waiting for you.’
I look towards the pilot and am relieved to see him making his way over with the phones. Only once I witness the handover of the bag and I’m convinced the phones are coming with us, do I venture into the vehicle.
The back of the van is boarded out in plywood and fitted with bench-like seats along each side. The rear windows have all been blacked out so there is no danger of us being able to see where we are going. There is a plywood partition between the rear of the van and the driver’s seat, with a small rectangle cut out.
‘This is ridiculous,’ says Andrea, taking a seat next to me. ‘What’s happened to the plush MPV and private plane? Now we’re in a boarded-up Transit van.’
‘Oh, stop,’ says Zoe. ‘It’s a bit of fun.’
Andrea makes a grunting noise but doesn’t comment further. The driver appears at the door. ‘All belted up? Good. That’s what I like to see. We don’t want any accidents along the way. I’m sure Mrs Aldridge wants you all to arrive in one piece.’
‘Please tell me this is the final leg of the journey,’ says Andrea, folding her arms and blowing out a disgruntled breath.
‘Aye, in under thirty minutes, you will have reached your final destination,’ says the driver, before sliding the door shut, leaving us in semi-darkness. A small shaft of light streams through the gap in the plywood.
I’m not sure why, but I involuntarily shudder at the driver’s turn of phrase.
Chapter 4
We sit in an uneasy silence as the van trundles along the road, our bodies swaying from side and side as the driver navigates what I can only presume to be small winding roads. I’m not convinced the lap belts will actually do much to save us if there is an accident and as the van hits a pothole and we jerk forward, I tighten the belt for good measure.
Although it is chilly outside, here in the van there is no air and I begin to feel a little stifled. I rest my head against the plywood which lines the van. Although my mind is clear and I know this is all a bit of fun on Joanne’s part and I know we are going to get out of here soon, my body is offering a different interpretation.
I’m conscious that my heart rate has picked up and I can feel sweat gathering under my arms. I concentrate on breathing in slowly through my nose and control the out-breath from my mouth. Techniques I have had to learn since Darren’s death.
I stopped seeing the counsellor about six months ago and this is probably the first time I have felt under duress since then. It’s the small space of the van that is getting to me. I don’t know what it was about finding Darren that caused this claustrophobia, but it’s certainly a symptom. My counsellor suggested it could be something as simple as the closing of the front door behind me that day, the sense of being shut in a house and then dealing with the devastation before me. My mind has somehow connected the two things.
I eye my rucksack on the floor of the van. In the side pocket is my little box of pills. I have recently found another way to deal with the panic attacks. Neither Andrea nor Zoe know about the pills. In fact, no one does. Not even my GP.
‘You OK, Carys?’ Andrea’s concerned voice filters into my thoughts.
I sit myself upright and take another deep breath as I open my eyes. I turn and smile at her. ‘Yeah. Just finding it not quite so fun now.’
Andrea nods. ‘Typical of Joanne to take it one step too far.’ She leans forward and bangs on the partition.
‘What’s up?’ comes the voice through the small cut-out hole.
‘How much longer?’ shouts Andrea over the noise of the engine. ‘This is taking the piss now.’
‘Patience, ladies, patience,’ comes the reply. ‘We’re nearly there.’
The speed drops and the van takes an unexpected turn to the left. The ground noise changes. It sounds like we are on an unmade track. I can hear stones pinging up against the wheel arches every now and then, and the van rolls and lollops more as if navigating potholes and dips in the surface.
I close my eyes again, resigning myself to the fact that shouting and getting stressed isn’t going to get us there any quicker. I make a conscious effort to take my thoughts to a more positive place. It’s easier said than done. I think of Seb and my heart lifts as I bring his face to mind. His fair skin and almost translucent blue eyes. I smile as I remember him telling me why he has his hair cut so short.
‘It’s to stop any of the bad guys being able to get a grip on me, should I get into a tussle,’ he had said, referring to his job as a detective with the Met. Once I had made a suitably impressed response, he’d broken into a broad grin before continuing: ‘I can’t lie. It’s really because, if I let my hair grow, it turns into a mass of curls; looks like pubes.’ We’d both laughed for a long time at this imagery. I think that was the moment I realised how much I enjoyed being with Seb and relished spending my free time with him. I miss him when he isn’t there and want him in my life more. However, my next thought is of Alfie, which should be a positive one. But it’s not.
Before I can visit this further, the van slows down. There’s a change of gear and the engine noise lowers. We grind to a halt; a small jolt indicates the handbrake has been applied and then the engine is cut.
The driver’s voice comes through the gap. ‘Could all passengers disembark. This service will now be terminated.’
‘Finally,’ says Andrea.
The side door opens and we emerge from the bowels of the van, blinking as daylight floods our pupils. The driver jogs over to the croft and opens the front door, places the blue bag containing our phones inside. He closes the door and jogs back to the van.
‘Enjoy your weekend, ladies,’ he calls, jumping into the van. We watch as the vehicle makes a U-turn and then disappears down the track.
I look at Andrea and Zoe, who return the look with equal bewilderment. ‘Well, that was the strangest holiday transfer I’ve ever experienced,’ says Andrea. The fun has worn off and we take a moment to study the building in front of us.
It is a stone cottage made up of a ground floor and a first floor. A solid oak door is centred in the stonework, flanked by windows each side. In the roof, there are two dormer windows and on the side of the building is a single-storey extension which, judging by the lighter colour of mortar between the stonework, was probably added at a later date.
‘So, here we are,’ I say needlessly. ‘I suppose we’d better go in. I assume Joanne is already here.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on anything right now,’ says Andrea. ‘Maybe that’s her surprise.’
‘What?’ says Zoe, frowning.
‘The surprise is, she’s not here,’ says Andrea.
I pick up my rucksack. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’ I give my friend a nudge with my elbow. ‘Come on.’
Before we take a step, the front door swings open and Joanne appears in the doorway. Her brunette bobbed hair, immaculate as ever, frames her petite features. She opens her arms wide. ‘You’re here!’ She trots over and hugs each of us in turn, the blue phone bag in one hand. ‘And all in one piece. I hope you enjoyed your journey. What did you think?’ Joanne looks expectantly at each of us.
‘Loved it!’ says Zoe, injecting possibly rather too much enthusiasm into her voice.
‘Yeah, loved it,’ says Andrea, her lack of enthusiasm balancing out Zoe’s excess.
‘Put it this way,’ I say. ‘I’m glad we’re here now. I hope the return journey is rather more orthodox.’
‘Oh, don’t be worrying about the return journey.’ Joanne flaps her hand in the air. ‘You’ll love that too.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ says Andrea. ‘Jesus, let’s get inside. I’m freezing my tits off here.’
‘What do you expect in that flimsy fleece? I hope you’ve brought a warmer jacket with you.’
‘This has to be your best surprise ever,’ says Zoe, hooking her holdall on one shoulder and slipping her free arm through Joanne’s.
‘Maybe not ever. Just to date,’ replies Joanne. ‘You have no idea what other surprises I have in store for you three.’ Joanne leans into Zoe and squeezes her arm. She then looks around at myself and Andrea, and I don’t miss the little glint in her eye. ‘Let me show you to your rooms. I have some lunch ready for you and then we can crack open our first bottle of wine.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say, following on behind. I look over my shoulder at Andrea. ‘Come on, misery. This isn’t an audition for the seven dwarfs, you know.’
‘If it is, then Andrea gets the part, hands down,’ calls Joanne. Her laughter echoes around the porch roof.
Andrea pulls a face, which only makes me laugh too.
Inside the croft, the small entrance hall with an oak staircase and a red quarry-tiled floor greets us. Years of feet travelling the surface have worn the shine from the centre of the tiles but the edges have managed to retain some of their former gloss. I look through the doorway on my left. It’s the living room, with two big comfortable sofas either side of a large brick fireplace. A wooden chest sits between the two pieces of furniture, acting as a coffee table. The floorboards in this room have been sanded and varnished, giving a more modern feel to the room, and a black-and-white hide is spread out in front of the hearth.
‘Cow hide,’ supplies Joanne. ‘All the rage, apparently. Not so keen myself. Not at two or three hundred pounds each, anyway.’
‘I quite like it,’ says Andrea, peering over my shoulder.
‘Now you’re a successful business owner, I expect you can afford these luxuries,’ says Joanne.
