‘Like what? I was standing there with my mother!’
The two laughed until they cried, gripping each other tightly. Celeste, alerted by the fun, toddled over to the sofa and climbed up to sit on them.
‘Do you like your new house?’ Romilly asked as she brushed her little girl’s hair from her forehead.
Celeste gave an exaggerated nod.
‘Do you like your new big-girl’s bedroom?’ David asked.
‘Yes.’ She nodded again, before giving an involuntary yawn.
‘Are you sleepy, baby?’ Romilly wrapped her daughter in a hug, kissing her scalp.
‘Why don’t you go get her off to sleep. I’ll find a cold bottle to celebrate our new home and we can make a night of it.’ David grinned.
‘Don’t know. I’m a bit out of practice at drinking.’ She kissed his hand, which rested on her shoulder.
‘It’s like falling off a bike, Rom. You’ll be fine.’ He winked, trying to remember in which box he had packed the wine glasses.
‘Or like falling out of a cupboard?’ she quipped, still giggling as she carried her little girl up the wide staircase of their beautiful new home.
Celeste
We moved into our family home when I was two. The plan was for me to have a raised bed with storage beneath. The storage never materialised; instead there was a gap of just over a foot in height, where a broken doll used to lurk, living on a dusty mat with a discarded sock and sticky wrappers, evidence of chocolate bars that I had eaten illicitly. This gap was my hiding place whenever going downstairs felt scary. It was dark and cosy and I imagined it was the place that alien mayflies went to die. I talked to them sometimes, asked them what it was like to live in a different world and whether they were sad to leave their children behind. That imaginary world under my bed was like my safety blanket, a small space that was all mine. Mum found me there once or twice and one time, she lay on the floor and put her hand under the bed until it found mine and we lay there in the dark, me under the bed and her on the rug with my hand safe inside hers as she sang to me. It was the song she always sang, ‘You Are My Sunshine…’.
And the house, for which I will always have a key, pulls me back. I know it so intimately that I can picture it and smell it with my eyes closed, even when I’m on the other side of the world. Dad mentioned moving once, after Mum… but I’m glad we didn’t. Glad he didn’t pursue it. I think the look on my face must have spoken volumes. I just can’t imagine leaving the house where our story sits between the bricks and lurks in every scuff on the wall, behind the plants and trees in the garden. No matter what was happening in my life, that house, my room, was the one constant. Even though there were times when I would retreat to the gap under the bed where the alien mayflies lived, squeezing my eyes shut to try and block out what was going on all around me, it was still home.
Four
Three years after they moved in, on a remarkably similar day, a removal truck blocked the Wells’ cul-de-sac from morning until late afternoon. All the residents noticed it, but no one complained. Instead, they peered at it from behind the net curtains or had a good gawp while they tended to their bins or watered their tubs. Everyone tried to glean clues as to who the new occupants might be. Was there a kid’s bike to be seen? A teenager’s drum kit? Fancy sofas?
Romilly and David hadn’t regretted stretching themselves financially while they were so young, knowing that things would continue to get easier as they headed for middle age. But with both of them still under thirty, that still felt like a long way off. Romilly was highly regarded at work and her pay reflected this; apart from a sometimes irritating commute, her job was everything she’d hoped it would be. David’s career continued to go from strength to strength and he was on track to become one of the youngest partners in the firm. His mantra hadn’t changed: ‘Have you noticed, Rom, that the harder I work, the luckier I get?’
Such was the nature of the neighbourhood that everyone found a way to accommodate the inconvenience of the large truck that didn’t look to be going anywhere any time soon. They drove up onto pavements, waving good-naturedly at the new arrival and shouting out offers of tea and biscuits as they exchanged names.
Sara Weaver, they soon discovered, was a divorcee. She had bought the house from the Hensons, who had traded in their ‘highly sought-after four-bed, three-bathroom home with landscaped back and front gardens’ for a cool four hundred grand, with which they then purchased a snazzy apartment in a gated community in Naples, Florida, issuing invitations to all the neighbours to visit them whenever they wished. This struck Romilly and David as particularly funny, given that the Hensons only ever socialised at Christmas, when they threw their annual cocktail party, roping in the older kids in the area to serve canapés and stack the dishwasher for a tenner each. They were quite certain that if they did turn up in Naples with a suitcase in tow, the Hensons would duck behind the breakfast bar and hide out like a Victorian widow being chased for overdue rent. Still, it was nice to be asked and just for a minute or two picture themselves in that Florida sunshine while Mrs Henson whipped up a batch of her much admired eggnog.
Sara Weaver was a different kettle of fish entirely; she was about as social as they came. Even the removal men seemed to be having a great time, whisking tables, metal bedsteads and a washing machine up the path as though they were feather light, encouraged by Ms Weaver’s raucous laughter, gentle ribbing and generous helpings of tea and Mr Kiplings. It felt more like a street party than a hectic removal day.
She appeared at their front door the day after she moved in. Romilly had been polite, neighbourly, as ‘Call me Sara!’ leant against the kitchen worktop, telling her how her dentist husband had done a runner with his dental assistant, leaving her high and dry after six years of marriage. She had of course taken him for as much money as she could, threatening to make him wait the statutory five years for his divorce, which would have proved most upsetting for his very pushy new beau. She had given him his divorce, eventually, but it had cost him. Sara had been wronged and, as she explained, felt no qualms at the fact that the new Mrs Weaver and her ex were shacked up in a flat on the wrong side of Whiteladies Road; she was certain that his earning capacity would see him back on track in no time.
Romilly found everything about her fascinating: her tight jeans, heels and vest, which were more appropriate for a nightclub than a neighbourly pop-in, her tendency to over-share, her loud voice, and her laugh, which was only ever a sentence away from erupting. Romilly placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder and pushed her forward. ‘This is Celeste. Our daughter.’
Celeste stood in front of her mum, her thick, mousey-brown hair hanging against her pale face, from which large eyes shone.
‘Say hello, darling!’ Romilly prompted.
‘Oh, wow! She’s gorgeous!’ Sara gasped.
Romilly grinned. Yes, she was.
The little girl walked forward and gave a shy wave.
‘Oh goodness, you’re so pretty! Do you go to school?’
Celeste took a step backwards as Sara bent down and looked her in the eye.
‘I go to Merrydown Juniors. I’m five,’ Celeste whispered, wary of the woman who acted as familiar as Aunty Carrie and Aunty Holly but was actually a stranger.
‘Oh, I can tell you are a Merrydown girl! But I would have thought you were at least seven.’ Sara’s eyes twinkled.
Celeste beamed, delighted by the compliment, and ran off to watch the telly.
Sara straightened. ‘Do you work, Rom?’
Romilly was a little taken aback at the woman’s presumption, abbreviating her name when it was usually only family and close friends that called her ‘Rom’.
‘Err, yes. I’m a scientist. An entomologist.’ She still got a kick out of announcing her non-standard profession.
‘Good God!’ Sara raised a carefully shaped eyebrow. ‘A what?’
Romilly laughed. ‘I work for a biopharmaceutical company. I’m an expert on insects, so I help th
em look at how best to protect crops, keep bugs away and things like that.’
‘Oh shit, it’s not that GHD stuff, is it? The one that if you feed it to chickens they get born with three heads and if it gets into my cornflakes my tits will fall off?’
Romilly giggled out loud; Sara was quite unlike anyone she knew. ‘I think you mean GMO not GHD and no, it’s nothing to do with that. Your tits are quite safe.’ She giggled again.
‘Good. I would hate to think of all that money of Neil’s going to waste!’ She placed her hands under the inflated cups and pushed her breasts upwards. ‘You have great tits too, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Romilly stared at her. ‘Err, no! I just don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before – my husband possibly, but certainly not on our first meeting!’
‘Well, he should have. You have a fab set and great hair; you’ve got that whole Jessica Rabbit thing going on.’
Romilly laughed, loudly. ‘I think Jessica Rabbit was slightly more hourglass than me and definitely didn’t wear glasses, or cardigans.’
‘Rom…’ Sara placed her hand on her arm. ‘I always say there are a dozen people waiting to put you down and knock the confidence out of you, so don’t do it to yourself. You are a very sexy lady and you should celebrate it!’
‘You think?’
‘I know!’ Sara winked.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Romilly liked their new neighbour. She liked her very much.
Sara looked at her watch. ‘It’s nearly five o’clock and in my house it’s practically illegal not to have a glass of plonk at this time.’ She banged the countertop. ‘You and me are going to be great mates, I can tell.’
Romilly smiled and went to the fridge. She didn’t need an excuse for a glass of wine, but having someone to drink it with made a welcome change. David rarely shared a bottle with her any more. He’d embarked on a health kick a couple of years earlier and had become very conscious of what he ate and drank. He seemed to be always training for some marathon or other and watching his calorie intake was now second nature. These days he only drank occasionally and could be quite disapproving of Romilly’s daily plonk. It was the one thing they regularly clashed over.
It didn’t matter how many times she explained to him how everyone drank wine, literally everyone! The lady in the post office, the girl in the chippy, practically every parent at school and even her parents, he still made her feel guilty, casting tense glances at her when she reached for the bottle before, during and after dinner. And if she was being honest, she found his reaction unfairly censorial, irritating. It took the edge off her pleasure and encouraged her to act furtively.
It wasn’t as if she got rolling drunk or was too inebriated to function, it was just how she relaxed, how she shrugged off the stresses of the day. A harmless habit. If she didn’t drink half a bottle of wine in an evening, she couldn’t sleep. If she didn’t drink half a bottle of wine before a social event, she couldn’t go, because her nerves would get the better of her; and if she didn’t drink half a bottle of wine before Sylvia arrived, she simply couldn’t cope.
She hadn’t confided in her husband how the thought of a cold bottle of wine waiting in the fridge could get her through the most challenging of days. If she got caught in traffic, lost her keys, mislaid her handbag or struggled over some particularly troublesome data in the lab, all of these things could be eased by simply picturing the honey-coloured reward that awaited her at the end of the day. It was her only vice. She didn’t eat vast quantities of chocolate or takeaways and she had never smoked or taken drugs, all of which would surely take a far greater toll on her health than the odd glass of plonk.
The two women took up seats at the pine kitchen table and chatted and laughed as they polished off not one but two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc. Romilly found her new friend hilarious, enjoying the raucous tales of single life and how Sara was making up for lost time after years of being stuck in a dull, lifeless marriage.
‘My husband was like the fun police! I can see that, now I’m out of it.’ Sara laughed. ‘He was like this big atmosphere hoover who came in and sucked the joy from whatever I was trying to do. I wasn’t allowed to have any fun! None at all. I feel sorry for his poor bloody dental assistant, who will have to put up with him, the miserable bastard!’
They were halfway through the third bottle when the sound of a key in the front door caused Romilly to sit up straight and narrow her eyes at the kitchen clock. It was 7.30; she had completely lost track of time.
David strolled into the kitchen, clutching his car keys and laptop. He was surprised to find the two sitting at the table in semi-darkness, leaning heavily on crooked arms and snorting laughter at each other’s comments. He flicked on the central light and eyed the stranger.
‘David! Hello!’ Romilly called out, shielding her eyes from the harsh bulb. ‘This is my new friend, our new neighbour, Swara…’ Her laughter rippled from her as she hiccupped. ‘No, no, it’s Swara!’ She beat the tabletop with her palm. ‘Swara!’ Again she tried and failed to get the name right.
Sara stood up and wobbled on her heels as she held out her hand. ‘Hello, Mr Accountant, I am Swara!’ She giggled, tilting her head in a coquettish manner.
David nodded, ignoring her outstretched hand. ‘Where’s Celeste?’
As if on cue, she ran into the kitchen. ‘Daddy!’ She flung her arms around his leg and looked up at him. ‘What’s for tea?’ she asked, her voice small.
‘You haven’t had your tea?’ He bent down.
She shook her head.
‘Tell you what, why don’t we go up the Stoke Bishop chippy and you can have chicken nuggets? How about that?’
‘Yes!’ The little girl jumped up and down on the spot; this was a real treat. She ran towards the front door.
David hovered in the kitchen and glared at his wife. ‘It’s 7.30, her bedtime, and she hasn’t even eaten! I suggest you get yourself together while I get the food. We can talk later.’
He barely registered their new neighbour. As he ushered his little girl from the hallway and closed the front door behind him, a ripple of laughter followed him up the driveway.
Romilly waved Sara off, feeling a mixture of happiness that her new friend was only a couple of doors away and dread at the showdown she felt would inevitably come when David got back with Celeste. She decided to set the table for them, as a way of making amends. Wandering back into the kitchen, she gathered two white dinner plates from the cupboard. As she carried them across the room one of them slipped from her hand and shattered into tiny pieces on the ceramic floor tiles. Her grip loosened and the other quickly followed with a loud smash.
Romilly knelt down to retrieve the bigger shards and winced at the sharp bite of pain in her knees. It threw her forward, causing her to place her palms on the floor, and she instantly felt a similar sting in them too. Sitting back against the cupboard door, she stared at her palms; they were bloody, with fragments of white crockery embedded in her skin. Her knees were the same.
Without thinking, she ran her hand over her face and felt the slivers stuck in her hand scrape her cheek. She started to cry. Her hands and knees hurt, her face throbbed and her palms pulsed. She could feel the warm trickle of blood over her arm and wrist.
With her head hung forward, she sat on the floor and waited for David to come home. David, who could make everything better. A small part of her figured that if he found her tearful and bleeding, then he wouldn’t be quite so cross about her and Sara getting tipsy and forgetting to feed Celeste and put her to bed. At least that was what she hoped. She didn’t have to wait long; it was less than ten minutes before she heard the car pull into the driveway.
‘Mummy! We’ve got chips!’ Celeste yelled excitedly from the hallway.
‘David!’ Romilly called out weakly.
Her daughter appeared in the doorway and seemed to freeze. Her little chest heaved and she looked scared.
‘It’s okay, Celeste.’ Romilly s
miled through her tears. ‘Can you get Daddy?’
Celeste didn’t move. Rooted to the spot, her eyes scanned the mess on the floor, darting between the broken china and her mum, who had blood streaked across her face and running from her knees where her tights were ripped.
‘What the f—’ David yelled over his daughter’s shoulder, remembering she was present before he swore. ‘Hey, Celeste, I tell you what, sweetheart, you go and eat your nuggets and chips in front of the telly, while I help Mummy, who has had a little fall. But she’s okay, aren’t you, Mum?’ He did his best to sound jovial, like it was all some sort of a game.
Romilly nodded her head. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Come on.’ David guided their daughter from the room.
‘I… I need tomato sauce, Daddy,’ Celeste murmured as she made her way to the sitting room, clutching her paper-wrapped supper and glancing back towards the open kitchen door at her mum, who sat slumped with her head on her chest.
David darted back into the kitchen. ‘For God’s sake, Romilly!’ he whispered through gritted teeth as he opened the cupboard by the kettle and pulled out the ketchup. ‘What on earth happened?’
‘I fell over,’ she managed.
‘Don’t move, love. I’ll be back in two secs.’ He rushed from the room, ignoring the crunch of their best china beneath the sole of his brogues.
Romilly began crying again. Sad that he had sounded mad but happy and guilty that he had called her ‘love’.
David switched on the other main light and bent down next to her. ‘What on earth have you done?’ He touched the point on her cheek where a scratch was bleeding.
‘I dropped the plates and they smashed and then I knelt on them and I’ve cut myself.’ Her tears came afresh.
‘Okay. Don’t cry, darling. It’s okay. Let’s try and get you cleaned up.’ His tone was level, kind.
He grabbed the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the stairs and cleared the space around her. Then he filled the mixing bowl with hot water and a dash of Dettol. Setting it on the floor, he took off his suit jacket, looped it over the back of a dining chair and knelt down beside his wife. With a wad of kitchen roll dipped in the water, he dabbed at her cuts, beginning with the one on her face, which thankfully looked a lot worse than it was. Next he tended to her palms, removing the fine splinters of china as she winced, then mopping the wounds clean. He did the same with her knees. Finally, he cut strips from the sticky roll of fabric plaster and covered the cuts.
Another Love Page 5
