The Something Girl

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Well, really, Franny, that’s so ... typical of Russell. Here you are, selflessly wearing yourself out ... trying to help others, and he’s just ... being no help at all. It’s too bad of him.’

  She said automatically, ‘Don’t call me Franny.’

  ‘Sorry. Your problem, Francesca, is that you’re just ... too nice.’

  ‘But you’re exactly right, Jenny. How clever of you to work that out.’

  ‘Well, I think you’ve been much ... too ... soft with him. You ... know what he’s like; you have to ... keep ... telling him things. Incessantly.’

  She looked a little confused.

  ‘Too many syllables,’ said Thomas from the far end of the room.

  ‘I mean, you have to tell him over and over again, otherwise he doesn’t remember things.’

  ‘You’ve noticed that, too?’

  ‘I have indeed and I always ... find the best way to ... deal with him is to stand in his face and just repeat the same thing ... over and over again, until it goes in. He’s always ... grateful afterwards.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s such a good idea. Thank you, Jenny. That’s exactly what I’ll do.’

  Thomas was still snorting in the corner. ‘Jenny, you ... devil!’

  ‘And we’ll be ... delighted to take Jack. Tell him he ... must sort it out as soon as ... possible. Keep on at him until he does it. You know what he’s like, Franny ... cesca. He ... doesn’t remember a thing from one moment to the next unless you ... keep reminding him.’

  She nodded and stood up. Being Franny, of course, now that she’d achieved her goal, the interview was over. I stayed put, because as far as I was concerned, it was only just beginning.

  ‘Just one thing, Franny...’

  ‘Don’t call me Franny.’

  ‘Get a move on. I think she’s nearly exhausted her daily quota of rational thought.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Your ... mother came to see me.’

  That got her attention. ‘My mother?’

  I don’t know why she put the emphasis on the word ‘my’. My mother was dead so whose mother did she think I was referring to?

  She stared at me, bewildered. ‘Why you? Why not me? What could she possibly want with you?’

  I hesitated. What should I say? How much should I tell her? Especially since it was obvious Aunt Julia hadn’t been here.

  ‘She’s not involved,’ said Thomas. ‘And she has Daniel to look after her. Don’t tell her anything at all. Safer that way.’

  I didn’t answer directly. ‘Are you in ... contact with Christopher at all?’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘No. Daniel made it very clear I wasn’t to have anything more to do with him.’

  ‘So you haven’t seen him recently?’

  She moved towards the door, clearly uncomfortable. ‘I haven’t seen him at all and I think it’s very unkind of you to bring him up. You must remember what he did to me.’

  My kindly thoughts towards her fled. Christopher’s financial incompetence had led Uncle Richard to rob me blind for years. Christopher had endangered our lives. We suspected he’d set fire to our feed store. But, most seriously of all, he’d embarrassed Francesca. It was a miracle she’d allowed him to live. I shook my head. She really was the centre of the universe.

  ‘Let it go,’ said Thomas. ‘We’ve got what we came for. She’s not involved. Even Christopher’s not that stupid.’

  I stood up. ‘Don’t forget to ... tell Russell. Several times, just to be on the safe side. In fact, ring him now. He’s in London at the ... moment, so keep on ... trying.’

  ‘I will,’ she said, already pulling out her phone.

  Much though I would have loved to hang around and listen, it was time to go. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  Thomas was chuckling as we went back to Kevin and the car. ‘Wouldn’t you love to be a fly on the wall for that particular conversation?’

  Chapter Eleven

  Thomas kept urging me to talk to Russell. ‘All right, you’ve not seen Christopher recently, and Francesca clearly knows nothing, but your aunt calling is something he should know about, Jenny. Tell Russell.’

  ‘I will when he gets back. Well, after I’ve asked him how things went.’

  ‘Remember how you felt when Francesca let slip he’d been keeping Jack secret from you. And that was just a donkey. Tell him.’

  ‘If it was Christopher I saw.’

  ‘If it was then Russell has a serious problem and he needs to know.’

  ‘But suppose it wasn’t.’

  ‘Then his wife is going mad and he has a serious problem and he needs to know.’

  I meant to. I really, really did. I thought I’d wait for him to tell me how it all went, have a drink or two, play with Joy, have something to eat, and then when he was nicely mellow – or at least less excitable than usual – tell him about Christopher.

  Unfortunately, the best-laid plans...

  Some of it was my fault. Francesca had obviously availed herself of every opportunity to telephone him. His train had been delayed. He was cold and tired and hungry. The wall space was not what he had imagined and they’d been very clear he’d only got the spot because someone else had pulled out.

  ‘The space is too big,’ he said, prowling around the room, drink in hand, ‘and they want another two works on top of the original six. I have something almost completed, which I think might do and I’ve an idea for another. Which is good, but I have to get cracking. And as if that wasn’t enough, I’ve got Francesca yammering at me twenty times a day.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said tightly, ‘about Jack.’

  ‘Oh, she told you about that, did she? Why did she do that? I said I’d handle things.’

  I didn’t know whether he was genuinely missing the point or just avoiding it. He raced on. ‘God, I wish I’d never said I’d think about it. They say no good deed goes unpunished. Well, I certainly won’t do that again.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a clue, does he?’ said Thomas, and I thought he might be right.

  It wasn’t having the additional donkey that was the problem – I was happy to have him – it was not having been told we were having him that was annoying me. Much as I was touched by his consideration, I don’t need to be sheltered from the world any longer. I endeavoured to convey this to Russell who was standing at the table, rifling through the mound of papers, and generally not listening. Normally, I wouldn’t have wasted my breath. I’d have held my peace and waited until he was back in the real world again, but today was one of those scratchy days when nothing had gone right for either of us. He’d had a difficult time in London – I’d had Aunt Julia – and we’d both had Francesca.

  Not only did we manage to have a row, but it wasn’t even about any of the quite major problems we were having at the moment.

  We don’t row often. As I said, I’m a Good Girl and I dislike confrontation and shouting. It doesn’t take much to render me speechless and Russell knows it, but he’s not a bully and never takes advantage, so we generally muddle along quite happily. He always says that the recipe for a happy marriage is for me to nod, smile and agree to everything he says, and in general I do. In return, he makes sure that everything he says is noddable, smileable and agreeable to. It usually works well for both of us.

  Not today, however.

  He was scattering papers in all directions looking for the feed bill when he pulled something out, saying, ‘What the hell is this?’

  He was looking down at my chequebook, left open on the table.

  I opened my mouth to explain but by the time I’d assembled the words he was off again. ‘You gave Julia Kingdom four hundred pounds?’

  To be fair – it wasn’t the money. I can spend whatever I like whenever I like – he doesn’t care. It was the fact I’d given the money to Aunt Julia that was bending him out of shape.

  I tried again. ‘I...’

  He poured himself another drink and I guessed he’d had a few on the train, as well. To
ssing it back, he said, ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Because...’

  He wasn’t listening. He wasn’t listening to anyone. I should have recognised that he was tired and that a great deal of stress and frustration was fighting its way to the surface. I should have just sat back and let him get it all off his chest, left him to sleep it off on the sofa, handed him a coffee the next morning, listened to his apologies, kissed him better and then told him about everything.

  None of that happened. A tiny spurt of unaccustomed anger ran through me. Everything was always about everyone else, wasn’t it? I had problems too and no one ever took a blind bit of notice. I was being stalked by a deeply unattractive pyromaniac psychopath who, I was convinced, meant to do me harm. The woman who had robbed me of more than money had turned up, insulted me and my home, demanded yet more money and then made off without telling me what the hell was going on. Then I’d had to travel fifteen miles to be talked down to by my husband’s ex-girlfriend who planned to foist another donkey upon us. And I was married to the most selfish man on earth who – yes all right, wasn’t having too good a time at the moment either, but that wasn’t the point –who had yet to tell me about said donkey. Oh, and the bloody roof still bloody leaked. And no one – no one at all was taking any notice. Was I always destined to be overlooked? Even by those who said they loved me?

  He was still ranting on. ‘And what was she doing here in the first place? Did you invite her? Is this a regular thing? Dear God, no wonder I can’t afford to get the roof done. What were you thinking? Is it not enough that they robbed you of nearly everything you had? Now you’re voluntarily giving them money? What’s going on with you, Jenny? I thought we said no secrets.’

  The sheer injustice of this slammed the words into my head.

  ‘So ... tell me about Jack,’ I said. Oh no, sorry, you can’t. He’s a ... secret, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s different. I was waiting for the right moment.’

  ‘Like you did with the chickens? You’d have told me just as he was coming through the gate?’

  ‘You like our chickens.’

  ‘That’s not the ... point.’

  ‘I don’t know what is your point. I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Of course you ... don’t. You’re the ... great Russell Checkland, who is so wrapped up in himself and his own ... concerns that ... that he never even ... notices anyone else’s problems, far less ... does anything about them, does he?’

  Russell is not the only one who can overstate an issue.

  He tossed back his drink. ‘Oh, come on. What problems could you possibly have?’

  ‘Well, I’m ... married to the ... most selfish, unobservant ... man in the world. We could start with that and work up.’

  He slammed down the glass and strode into the kitchen. I stamped up the stairs, even more furious because I didn’t have the luxury of slamming the bedroom door in case I woke Joy.

  Thomas was waiting for me, standing in the corner as he always did, swishing his tail. ‘How did it go?’

  I looked at him.

  ‘Well, never mind. Tomorrow would probably be better anyway. When everyone’s a little calmer.’

  I blew my nose on a handful of toilet roll and said defiantly, ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t need Russell. I shall sort this out for myself.’

  He regarded me gravely.

  ‘You don’t think I can?’

  ‘Of course you can. You can do anything you want to, Jenny. But you don’t have to do it alone.’

  I blew my nose again. ‘I can’t see Russell being any sort of asset. He needs to paint. I shall handle this myself.’

  It was time to show people what I was capable of.

  From outside, I heard the clatter of Russell’s Land Rover as he roared off into the night. I had no idea where he was going. Andrew’s probably. No – he’d had too much to drink. He’d be roaring up the lane to the Braithwaites. They’d take him in and let him sleep on the sofa. He’d wake in the morning with a monumental headache, crushed underneath the weight of their two enormously fat cats and with Fiona offering to showing him her gerbils.

  It was hard to feel any sympathy.

  Chapter Twelve

  Russell disappeared into his studio for two days. Under normal circumstances – that is, if we were speaking to each other – I’d wander in around mid-morning, hand him a coffee, and we’d have a chat about whatever he was working on. He would scribble ideas on old bits of paper, chattering half to himself and half to me, and then I would leave him to get on with it, carefully removing the old pizza boxes he thought Mrs Crisp didn’t know anything about.

  As things stood at the moment, I couldn’t care less what he was up to, and he could smother in pizza boxes for all I cared.

  ‘Jenny,’ said Thomas, uncertainly.

  I said brightly, ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  When we came back, I said, ‘Let’s play with Joy.’

  When she fell asleep, I said, ‘Let’s help Mrs Crisp.’

  When I was driven from the kitchen, I said, ‘Let’s feed the chickens.’

  When even they were stuffed, I said, ‘Let’s ring Tanya and go to lunch tomorrow.’

  When we returned from an afternoon’s shopping, I said, ‘Let’s have an early night.’

  When we got up the next morning, I said, ‘Lets...’

  ‘Jenny. Enough.’

  ‘All right, let’s pop into his studio and rip his head off.’

  ‘I sometimes think you’ve made a little too much progress these last few years.’

  ‘You can wait outside if you like.’

  He sighed and we trailed along the landing.

  Russell was painting like a madman. I was familiar with the signs. He would stab at the canvas, roughly scrubbing the colour into the tooth and then use his fingers to mix and blend. He had a huge smudge of green paint across one cheek. In fact, he was covered in paint. Half his hair was standing on end and the other half flopping across his forehead. Even as I watched, he brushed it impatiently aside and adding a smear of ultramarine to the green. A good amount appeared to have gone up the wall as well. Even his bare feet were flecked with paint. In the corner, the Rolling Stones were singing ‘Paint It Black’ at window-rattling volume. I used all this frantic activity as an excuse not to venture in. I thought he said something as I closed the door, but I didn’t go back.

  ‘You should talk to him. Explain about Julia. And Christopher. You need to work together on this.’

  ‘Not now. He’s busy. He won’t hear a word I say.’

  ‘Jenny, when you speak, he listens. You must have noticed.’

  ‘Well, that makes it even worse, doesn’t it? He would immediately stop painting and start racing around the countryside looking for Christopher. And we both know what would happen if he found him. I’m pretty sure they won’t let him paint in prison.’

  ‘I think that might be a little extreme.’

  ‘I don’t think Russell is the type to let him off with a friendly warning. It’s not for long, Thomas. Just let him get this exhibition out of the way and then I’ll talk to him, I promise. If we’re speaking to each other by then, of course.’

  ‘Jenny...’

  ‘No, Thomas. Enough.’

  And I walked away.

  I walked out of the house. Without a word to anyone, I walked out of the house. Up the lane. Past Mrs Balasana’s cottage. As usual, everything was immaculate. The grass was cut. All the flowers were perfect. Even all the leaves seemed to point in the same direction.

  ‘It’s like something from The Twilight Zone,’ said Thomas, in awe. ‘The horticultural equivalent of The Midwich Cuckoos.’

  I walked on past the Braithwaites’ farm, through the gate at the top of the lane, and up onto the moor. I stood for a moment, enjoying the silence and then strolled slowly to the stream and sat on my favourite flat rock, watching the brown water as it swirled past.

  The day was hot and still and the only so
und was the gurgling water. There were no sheep in sight, no birds, no nothing. Just me. I thought how nice it would be to spend the rest of my life here, sitting on this warm rock like a landlocked mermaid, watching the stream splashing and falling, and never have to worry about anything again.

  I looked up and Christopher was watching me.

  He was some way off, but I knew it was him. I had no idea what he could be doing all the way up here, and then a nasty little voice in my head said, ‘He followed you.’

  My first instinct was to run. Run far and run fast. My second was to stay put. Because I always ran. In times of trouble I always ran away. But now, now that my heart was thumping with fear and my blood was up, my second instinct was to stand my ground.

  I was in no immediate danger. He was on the other side of the stream. He could wade across if he wanted but here, just at this point, it was fast and deep and rocky. By the time he struggled over to my side, I could be as far away as Rushford. And I remembered again, this was Christopher. Bully and coward. Face to face confrontation was not for him. He was all about arranging accidents, or setting fires and then making himself scarce. He really didn’t do up close and personal. Neither did I, but he didn’t know that. I hoped.

  I stood slowly, so I could run if I had to, and faced him.

  We stood looking at each other for a very long time. I forced down my panic and made myself look at him properly. To note details.

  My first thought was that he had lost some hair. Yes, he was wearing his dark hair shorter, which didn’t suit him in the least, but his hairline was definitely moving towards the back of his head. He looked older, too, with heavy pouches under his eyes that I didn’t remember from the last time we met. And he’d thickened around the middle. He wasn’t tall – not much taller than me, and I’m not tall – and the extra weight made him look as if he had a football under his shirt. I was fairly confident that if I had to run for my life, he wouldn’t be able to catch me.

  Unless, of course, he had a gun.

  ‘Where on earth would he get a gun?’ said Thomas, comfortingly close.