by Nancy Barone
‘And don’t forget to ring up for the job,’ she said as she bustled out the door.
Ah yes, the job. I only hoped I wouldn’t have to wear period costumes and such. With my luck, I’d be the bloody maid. But first, I had to pay a call to a certain thorn in my side.
*
‘Hey, beautiful,’ Phil drawled when he answered the door of his flat in his boxers, his hair sticking out in every direction and the acute stench of liquor punching me in the face.
I pushed past him. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, trying to put the house up for sale? Your own children’s home? What the hell is wrong with you?’
He looked contrite, pulling at the bottom of his T-shirt like a two-year-old about to burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry, babe, but I needed the money…’
I stepped back as if he’d slapped me. ‘Phil,’ I said as calmly as possible, because murder was looking pretty good from where I was standing. ‘You don’t contribute one penny in child support and you need the money? Why should the children pay for your stupidity, and after all you’ve done to us?’
He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck like when he was at a loss for words, which didn’t happen very often.
‘I’m sorry, babe,’ he repeated. ‘I’m in big trouble. These blokes, they had my back, yeah, and now… they don’t have it anymore. I owe a lot of money.’
Dear God, why hadn’t I married a real man, one with a brain and a heart and some backbone and not the rejects of The Wizard of Oz all rolled into one?
‘Well, you’d better start thinking, Phil. Because I’m not selling the very roof over Ben and Chloe’s heads just so you can gamble it all away again.’
‘What about moving the kids to Childress Academy, then?’ he suggested. ‘That’s free, and we could split the dosh that’s left.’
I stopped and stared at him. ‘There is no “dosh” left! You took it all, don’t you remember, you idiot? And there’s no way in hell that I’m taking the kids out of Northwood just to pay your debts.’
‘But technically, they’re our debts, Nina. Hey, what about your royalties? I’m entitled to those. I was living with you when you wrote those books. I suggested the names to you. I have a right to half your earnings. You and I are still married.’
Man, that butcher’s knife was looking real good now.
‘But we aren’t married here!’ I cried, beating my chest above my heart. ‘All you did was sponge off me the minute the royalties started coming in. You’ve already had your big fat share of my earnings.’
‘But my debts…’
‘You should’ve thought about that before you started gambling our lives away. Now back off before I feed you to your creditors myself!’ And with that, I shoved past him and out the door, driving all the way to Northwood to pick the kids up under the steam of my fury.
‘What happened to you?’ Chloe smirked through her braces as she got into the car.
‘Hiya, Mum!’ Ben said as he got into the back seat. ‘Chloe’s ticked off because she got made fun of for her socks.’
‘Everyone only wears tights in Year Eight,’ she seethed, crossing her arms and refusing to look at me. ‘I had to go hide in the loo for the entire first period just so I didn’t have to hear them laugh.’
God, please grant me the strength to not be cross with my daughter just because she reminds me so much of Phil!
‘Well, maybe you want to be more organised with your things in the future,’ I suggested calmly. ‘From now on, what doesn’t go in the laundry bag doesn’t get washed.’
At that, she turned to glare at me, then turned to stare sullenly out the window and muttered, ‘I hate you. It’s all your fault Dad left.’
My heart stopped for a split second. If that was true, they should’ve been thanking me, but I wasn’t about to go into rhetoric about their father’s shortcomings. It was totally unedifying and I wasn’t paying good money so I could turn my kids into trash.
‘Chloe, don’t be a bitch,’ Ben interjected.
‘Ben!’ I gasped, turning in my seat. ‘Where did you learn that language?’
‘At school, of course. Listen, Mum, Chloe’s just upset because Simon’s seeing someone else.’
‘Who’s Simon?’ I asked, although somehow I felt I should’ve known. These kids today did their very best to keep things to themselves.
‘Mind your own damn business,’ she snapped.
At that, I checked the rear-view mirror and pulled over again.
‘Why are we stopping?’ she asked in a panic. ‘I have to go home and change before I go out with my friends!’
‘First of all, young lady, you’re not going anywhere without my permission. Second of all, we are going to sit here until you apologise to me and Ben for being rude.’
She snorted. ‘Yeah, like that’s happening.’
Ben caught my eye in the rear-view mirror and shrugged as if to say, Let it go, Mum. But I was sick and tired of being walked all over and if I didn’t nip her behaviour in the bud now, it would grow into one huge, ugly monster tomorrow.
So I used my inner Voice of Wisdom. ‘We all have problems, Chloe. But we don’t take them out on you.’
‘Whatever…’
‘I’m serious, Chloe. We’re going to sit here until you apologise.’
‘Apologise for what, ruining your life?’
I blinked. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You think I don’t know that if you didn’t have us your life would be easier?’ Oh, God, she truly was having one of her beauties today.
I gasped. ‘Where on earth did you hear such nonsense?’
‘Everyone at school says so. Their parents say that you used to be a famous Sunday Times bestseller, and that with the money you earned with your stupid books you would be living it up if you didn’t have Ben and me. So why don’t you just leave us?’
‘Leave her alone, Chloe,’ Ben chided so gently I wanted to grip the steering wheel and bawl my eyes out. My little guy, the one who had suffered since he was born, always on my side, whilst Chloe seemed bent on making my life a misery. ‘Can’t you see how hard she works, Chloe? Give her some slack and apologise.’
But Chloe continued to stare out the window at the passers-by and I could see my own stubbornness in her high, fair forehead, in the delicate pout of her mouth as she tortured the hem of her uniform with her long, slim fingers.
Chloe was still a girl, not even a teenager, technically, and yet her peers were pushing her along faster than she could go. This Simon guy didn’t seem like much of a catch if he’d already turned his back on her because of her socks.
‘Chloe?’ Ben said and she groaned.
‘Right.’
‘Right, what?’ he persisted. The kid was a sister-whisperer.
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Can we go home now?’
I sighed and turned on the ignition on my first try. That was as good as it was going to get today.
3
Something’s Gotta Give
An hour later or so, Jack came over early to take a look at our barking fridge. I had resolved to leave him with it, but I was so worried that I couldn’t help but hover over him as he prodded at the tiny bits in the back.
‘So what’s wrong with it?’ I finally asked when he put the cover back on.
‘Nothing, if you don’t consider old age. How long have you had it?’
‘Since before Chloe was born.’
He dipped his head. ‘Then there’s your answer.’
‘Is it dangerous?’
‘No, not the fridge per se, but you might want to look at the wiring back there; it doesn’t look too happy.’
‘Oh, God, really? Phil rewired the place when we moved in.’
Jack refrained from what was obviously on his mind. ‘Just have it looked at as soon as possible, okay?’
‘’Kay,’ I promised, wondering where that money was coming from. And where it all went, actually. And speaking of, a moment later Ch
loe came back from Alf’s Post Of ice, at least a half hour late when I’d only sent her to get a tin of corn with my last fifty-pound note.
‘I was about to call a search party on you,’ I said, trying not to sound too anxious. ‘Did you get the corn?’
As an answer, she dumped it on the island before me and proceeded across the kitchen to go upstairs.
‘May I have the change, please?’ I asked.
She halted, her back to me. Uh-oh. Not a good sign. Chloe was famous for never lying, but I knew something was up. She turned around defiantly. ‘There is no change. I’ve spent it all.’
All of it? My very last fifty for the month? Hold on, don’t have a coronary yet. And remember we have a guest. You don’t want Jack or anyone to think you treat your children unfairly.
‘Chloe, what did you spend it on?’
She hesitated.
‘Chloe?’
She huffed and upended her rucksack onto the island next to my tray. It was strewn with magazines, cosmetics and junk food. Forty-five pounds’ worth of it. Jack glanced at me and discreetly disappeared out the back door to give us some privacy.
I took a deep breath, debating rather than spewing out my frustration with her. I was never one to hurt my children’s feelings, but right about now, I longed to give her a solid lecture that would open her eyes about reality and the value of money.
And yet, I dared not scold her too harshly. Why should she not have what her friends had? It was part of growing up and fitting in. Why should Chloe have to suffer just because I had made a bad choice and got myself pregnant at nineteen?
She stood before me, defiantly, but her fragility made me love her even more. Because the break-up had affected her much more than it had Ben, and she bravely, albeit not peacefully, trudged through it.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ she taunted, just begging for an argument. But I waved Jack back in.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing you don’t already know.’
‘Good,’ she said, pushing all her stuff off the island and onto the floorboards before turning away to flounce up the stairs.
I sighed inwardly as I smiled an apology and Jack took the heavy oven tray from me.
‘I’ll dish up,’ he offered. ‘You have a seat. It’s been a long day.’
‘And it’ll be an even longer night,’ I said with a sigh.
‘Never mind. Eat,’ he said, filling Ben’s plate and then dishing me up a huge portion before serving himself.
‘Mum, don’t mind her. It’s just growing pains, is all,’ Ben said as he came in. ‘Can I eat this on a tray in the living room, please, Mum? Dr Who is on. I promise I won’t spill anything.’
I kissed his cheek. ‘Of course. Off you go, love.’
Whenever I thought there was no hope and that I was a crap mother, Ben always said something to melt my heart.
Later, Jack commented, ‘I have to say, Nina, you handle things with such…’
‘Weakness?’ I suggested.
‘Silly. I was going to say love. Those kids are so lucky.’
I snorted into my wine glass as I made to take a sip. ‘Thanks, Jack, but we can both see that what works with Ben doesn’t work with Chloe. She just does everything she can to piss me off.’
‘She’s still angry about the divorce.’
‘A divorce that’s been dragging on for three years now, Jack. You’d think she’d be over it by now. At least I had thought so. Blimey, was I wrong.’
‘These things take time – you know that.’
‘And as if that wasn’t enough, she blindly sides with Phil.’
‘She just does it to hurt you.’
‘I know, but why? Why does she want to hurt me and not Phil? Christ, he’s the one who broke us. And I’m killing myself here. I can’t see what more I could do for them, but she just keeps rebuking me.’
He took a sip of his wine and pinned me with his dark gaze. ‘Because she loves you. And it’s always difficult to forgive the ones you love the most.’
He got to his feet. ‘What you need is a good night’s sleep. Forget the dishes for once. Go to bed.’
‘But I can’t. I still have to prep for my arancini…’
I usually cooked all the ingredients the night before so they would be at room temperature the next morning when I actually formed my rice balls.
‘I’ll help you,’ he offered.
‘You? But you’ve been working all day.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, clearing the table and starting on the dishes.
‘But—’
‘This offer is only valid for the next thirty seconds, so quit your whining and get a move on, Nina.’
What could I say? The bloke was an angel. ‘You, Jack, will make some woman very happy one day.’
He made a face. ‘Maybe. If the right girl came along.’
‘Oh, she will,’ I called over my shoulder as I stepped into my larder. ‘She’d have to be an idiot to not appreciate you.’
I grabbed my ingredients and with Jack’s help, began turning raw meat into money.
All the while we worked, cooking and seasoning and frying, Jack was silent but cheerful, humming softly to himself, and it rubbed off on me. It was comforting, knowing I wasn’t the only person up at this ungodly hour when the entire village lay snuggled up in their warm beds.
When he left a couple of hours later, whispering a goodbye and patting me on the shoulder, I realised that he, Emma and I represented three failed marriages, literally, in a row. We should have called our Meadowbank Lane Divorce Row instead. Which sounded a lot like Death Row, I mused, my tired mind wandering as I climbed the stairs, listening to the house, silent but for Minnie and Callie snoring by the Aga. Ben had long gone to bed, and Chloe was probably Snapchatting away with Chanel, or even to her dad about what a monster I was.
So I crept up into the nook in the eaves that I had the gall to call a bedroom when the ceiling was so low not even standing wardrobes would fit. I’d had to buy the kind that you’d find in a baby’s nursery. The floorboards were wonky beyond trendy, and in November the window casings let in the Cornish winter with a vengeance. No amount of draught excluders could stop the cold air from creeping in.
Apart from a dresser and a bed under which I stored every book I’d ever read, there was room for little else, but I loved my bed nook because of the window overlooking the back garden. I crawled under the covers and, exhausted, waited for sleep. Sometimes it hit me like an HGV, and sometimes I’d stare up at the ceiling, trying to spot the micro cracks that let the rain in. Jack had done a good job with what he had, but had warned me it would soon need replacing. As if I had anything to spare for that.
I sighed, realising I had already entered my sleep routine, i.e. worrying and wondering whether I had put the clothes in the dryer, prepared the kids’ lunches, and how much getting the fridge repaired would cost.
How I longed to fix all of the unfixables of this house that seemed to hold together by virtue of my night-time prayers. How I longed to make my children’s house safe and warm and welcoming.
I’d always done as much as I could to put them first, but not without an argument from Phil, like the time he’d wanted to have a cellar dug out for a man cave to kit out with a giant flat-screen TV for himself and his beer-drinking buddies, rather than put double glazing in the kids’ bedroom windows. Obviously I had nipped that one in the bud.
And just as I was about to fall asleep, the fridge started barking again, waking the dogs who decided to join it in a howling concerto.
4
Crime And Punishment
In the morning, I called in an electrician who, after a look around, assured me it was safe.
That afternoon, I swung by the Post Of ice. Alf had had a bad spell where he kept getting confused, and his doctor had made him undergo some tests for dementia. Everyone rallied to help him keep his shop open, especially Bev, Carol and Deirdre.
They knew everything about everyone, but they wer
e also the kindest, most generous souls you’d ever meet. When Phil left, they had been among the first to arrive with blankets and home-made meals.
‘Morning, Alf! Morning, ladies!’ I called at the sight of all four of them confabulating behind the counter as usual.
‘Ah, Nina!’ they all chimed in unison. ‘Care to join the committee for the End of Summer festival?’
I stopped, despite being in a super rush (and super foul mood). Any way that I could pay back the kindness that the community had shown me all these years was always welcome.
‘Sure, what do I have to do?’
‘Sing with us,’ Bev said.
Every year they tried that one on. ‘Forget it.’ (I can’t carry a tune to save myself.) ‘But I’ll cook.’
‘Goody!’ Deirdre clapped her hands. ‘Your famous Sicilian arancini?’
‘Sure, with pleasure.’
‘Excellent! Carol, add her to the list. This year we’re being hosted by the Northwood Academy.’
‘What?’ Carol said.
‘The list! Add her,’ Bev said, miming the gesture of writing. ‘There’s the chairperson now,’ Bev said with a snort. ‘My, if those heels were any higher she’d be cleaning skyscrapers in New York!’
I turned around, just in time to be ambushed by the Village Snob. One of my most heart-felt activities was avoiding people like her.
‘Darling Nina!’ cooed Vanessa, the head of the Northwood parents committee, spreading her arms and air-kissing me. She only started talking to me when someone mentioned I was a Sunday Times bestselling author. You know the type. ‘The other Northwood mothers and I were just talking about how you could contribute to the End of Summer festival! We were thinking you could do a reading of some poems? After all, you are our only village celebrity left after Barth Humperdinck moved away to one of those dreadful jungles in… where was it, Aimée?’ she asked with a turn of her platinum head.
‘Vietnam,’ her hench-girl answered, not even bothering to nod a hello my way.
