by K. L. Slater
‘Auntie Alice, please don’t… don’t say anything to Mum.’
His cheeks are flushed now and he’s biting the inside of his cheek.
‘Hey, it’s OK, it’s not your fault.’
‘No, but…’
He is still staring at me, his eyes wide and shining. I realise he’s close to becoming really upset.
‘Tell you what, just forget it,’ I tell him. ‘I won’t say anything, OK?’
‘Thanks, Auntie Alice.’ His shoulders relax again as he slumps back in the seat.
I leave the room but hover at the door, peering through the small opening. He doesn’t put the television back on, but sits quietly, nibbling at his fingernails.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say the kid looks really worried.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LOUISE
When her mother was still alive, Louise visited the old family home once a week. To her shame, she spent all week dreading Friday evening, which seemed to come around tremendously fast.
She was locked in a battle with her own demons, a deep depression that nobody knew she was being treated for. Since meeting Darren, she’d discovered that the hair and make-up and smart clothing disguise worked an absolute treat. People – even those closest to you – saw an individual who looked as though they were fully functioning, and that was enough for them.
That was the thing with poor mental health, she pondered. With no bandages or crutches or wheelchairs on show, you could keep it all tucked away inside, for short spells at least. What people couldn’t see didn’t seem to exist in their eyes.
And nobody ever looked beyond the glamour, close enough to see the haunted look in her eyes. Nobody knew about the insomnia. She was able to keep that easily hidden from Darren, who slept like a log.
Two years earlier
Visiting her mother had become a challenge that went beyond Louise’s coping capabilities. Her visits grew less and less frequent and shamefully shorter as time went on.
Alice, openly damaged by Jack’s death, which she blamed herself for entirely, had developed a care routine for Lily that bordered on obsessive. Tasks must be undertaken on the dot; their lives were ruled by the clock. They found a sort of warped sanctuary in it.
Louise would often turn up out of her scheduled time slot, delayed at work or by traffic or simply life, and get short shrift from her mother.
Sadly, her illness had seemed to loosen Lily’s tongue when it came to her opinions, and her default opinion of Louise had always been low.
‘Hi, Mum.’ Louise breezed in with her smiley mask firmly in place. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’
Lily looked up from her jigsaw tray in disgust.
‘Your sister dedicates herself to caring for me, but you… you can’t even get yourself here on time.’
During her visits, Alice either ran around like a loon, organising Lily’s medication or meals, or sat staring into space without comment while Lily told Louise exactly what she thought of her.
‘Falling for that con man,’ she’d sometimes cackle. ‘Alice and I saw him for what he was the day you met him. We tried to tell you – didn’t we, Alice? – but you wouldn’t listen. You’d never listen.’
‘I never would. I’m such a terrible person, aren’t I, Mum?’
‘Why can’t you just take it?’ Alice had once whispered to her at the door. ‘Why can’t you just say you’re sorry and take it? It would be so much easier for us all. It takes me ages to calm her down after you’ve gone.’
‘I’ve taken it my whole life,’ Louise snapped back. ‘All through our childhood, not that you ever noticed. So I’m well in credit. It’s your turn now.’
She felt bad when she’d left that day, but Alice had asked for it. She was such a bloody martyr. She couldn’t wait to tell Louise she’d been diagnosed with that ambiguous ‘disease’ ME, and how she felt so dreadful and life was so hard. Blah, blah, blah.
Louise couldn’t deny that looking after Lily must be no walk in the park, but Alice had as good as stopped living after Jack’s death anyway.
This way, at least she had a roof over her head, a carer’s allowance, and no reason to leave the house if she didn’t want to. And mostly, she didn’t want to.
But the day Louise called and Alice told her to sit down because they had something important to tell her, she felt her forearms prickling with dread.
‘I’m selling this place,’ Lily said simply.
Louise looked around the sitting room where she’d spent her childhood. Their father had sat in the very chair she herself sat in right now.
‘But… where will you go?’
‘I’ve found a small apartment on the outskirts of the city,’ Alice said. ‘Mum’s seen all the photographs and we think it’ll be perfect, don’t we, Mum?’
Lily grunted, but all Louise could think about was what was going to happen to the money. The family house must be worth a packet, even in the current economic climate.
‘It will be easier to manage, easier to get into town, and it’ll free up funds to pay for some home help,’ Alice added.
‘Your sister is killing herself looking after me.’ Lily looked at Louise accusingly. ‘I have two daughters but only one cares about me. I’ll pay for some extra care, and also for the tablets we can’t get indefinitely on the NHS.’
Louise thought about how she was currently living hand to mouth, raising Archie as a single mother, working and paying ridiculous childcare fees, not to mention the constant juggling of paying overdue bills. Generally running herself into the ground. Even a couple of thousand would make life so much easier.
But there was something else that cut her like a blade.
It was painfully obvious that the two of them had discussed and debated the whole moving house thing without once mentioning it to Louise. It was as if she didn’t matter, didn’t warrant consultation… it was as if she barely existed at all.
That day, it felt like they had finally excluded her from their lives once and for all.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ALICE
I stock up on bits I need at the small Tesco up the street, including some healthy treats and snacks to keep in for Archie.
It’s a really convenient store but I’ve hardly ever been in there, preferring to do a big monthly food order online up until now.
Since I’ve been out more, popping up the road to the shop seems far more doable, and it gives me a satisfying sense that I’m pushing myself out of my comfort zone.
I walk slowly up and down the aisles, perusing the fruit, the mixed nuts and the small snack-size yogurts. As I amble around, I think about Archie and the shadow that passed over his face when I said I’d have words with his mum. His twisting fingers and wide, imploring eyes. The big sigh of relief when I promised not to say anything.
Such a visceral reaction doesn’t really make sense over something so minor. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Perhaps Archie is just nervier than I thought, has too good an imagination.
I load some things into the basket and make my way to the checkout.
Although I’ve been careful not to buy anything really heavy, it’s still a struggle to get the stuff back home. Every joint in my body seems to be throbbing today.
It’s with relief that I zap my fob on the security keypad and struggle into the foyer of the apartment building with my bags. I see the large white handwritten notice immediately and groan out loud.
I don’t need to read it to know exactly why it’s there.
‘Bloody great.’
The lift is out of order at least twice a month, and especially, it seems, if I have a load to carry upstairs. I knew I should have come straight home, but unexpectedly I’ve found I quite like getting out again.
It had crossed my mind once or twice that I might be getting agoraphobic, but it turns out I just needed a reason to take the plunge to walk out of the door again.
I redistribute my load a little and am steeling myself to begin the climb when
I hear feet shuffling behind me.
A girl is leaning into the corner next to the entrance door. I’ve walked past without noticing her.
She’s very slim, with blonde hair and one of those dark regrowth-style partings that’s been done on purpose to follow the latest fashion trend. She has small, delicate features with big, soft brown eyes. I’m guessing she’s in her early twenties.
‘Oh! I didn’t know there was anyone else here.’ I jerk my head back at the lift and roll my eyes. ‘It’s broken down again.’
She attempts and just about manages a weak smile, but now I see her eyes are swimming and red-rimmed.
‘Are you… OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ She wipes her nose with the back of her small, pale hand. ‘Thanks for asking, though.’
She’s staring wide-eyed into space, tapping the toe of her boot on the floor nervously, and I wonder fleetingly if she’s taken something.
I’m desperate to get back to my apartment, but it seems rude to just leave her like this.
‘Are you waiting for someone? Or looking for a particular apartment number?’
Her skinny black jeans, heeled ankle boots and trendy parka with fur-trimmed hood look brand new. She certainly doesn’t look as if she’s sheltering here because she’s got nowhere else to go.
She ferrets in one of the deep pockets of her coat and pulls out a tissue, giving me a weak smile.
‘No, I live here. On the fourth floor. I just… I’m trying to get myself together before I go back up there.’
‘I see.’
This is a cryptic conversation I’d rather not continue. I’m tired and aching all over, with what feels like a mountain up ahead of me.
‘Well, I’d better start the mammoth climb,’ I tell her. ‘So long as you’re all right.’
‘You haven’t got to trek right up to the top floor, have you?’ She holds the tissue up to her face and blows her nose noisily.
‘What?’ I turn, one foot on the bottom step. ‘Oh no, thank goodness. I’m third floor. Flat 332.’
I bite down on my tongue. I don’t know why I volunteered that information.
The girl looks surprised. ‘That’s the one directly below me. I’m in 432.’
‘Small world,’ I say, thinking about the phone vibrating on the hard floor, the thumping noises that startled Archie, and the footsteps pacing back and forth night after night. Not to mention the shouting.
She coughs.
‘I hope… I’m not too noisy up there.’
‘It’s difficult, isn’t it, living in an apartment block? You can’t help but hear stuff all the time.’
She tilts her head to one side. ‘Does that mean I have disturbed you?’
I just want to get back to my own apartment. My body feels like it’s been through the wringer, and I’ve got three flights of stairs to climb yet.
‘No. Not really. Like I said, it’s difficult, isn’t it.’ It’s not a question and I don’t phrase it as one.
She pushes herself off the wall and takes a step forward.
‘Anyway, I’m Jenny.’ She holds out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Alice,’ I say, looking regretfully at the bags that mean I’m unable to shake her hand.
‘Give us a couple of those, I’ll walk up with you.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ I tighten my hold on the thin plastic handles, which are already cutting into my fingers. ‘Honestly.’
‘I’m not being funny, but you look as if you’re about to flake out,’ she says, and pulls at one of the bags until I let go. ‘Give us that one as well, it looks heavy.’
She sets off upstairs with the bags, leaving me trailing behind feeling like an old woman. There’s probably only about seven or eight years between us, but right now it feels more like thirty.
I stop at the top of each flight of stairs and take a few breaths before plodding on. When finally I reach the third floor, exhausted and almost bent double, Jenny is there, smiling and looking as if she could have easily carried on to the eighth floor.
‘There you are.’ She grins. ‘I was about to send a search party to airlift you up.’
I lean against the wall and drag in a deep breath.
‘Sorry.’ Her smile fades as she sees my face. ‘I was only joking.’
‘It’s fine, honestly.’ I smile, panting but willing myself to just chill out a bit. ‘I’m really grateful for your help. Thanks.’
She bends down to pick the bags up again. ‘I’ll take them into your apartment for you. I can put the stuff away as well, if you like.’
‘No, there’s no need for that,’ I say quickly. ‘But I really appreciate the offer.’
This morning, I left the apartment in a bit of a mess: dirty dishes on the worktop and stuff scattered around the living room. When we were younger, Mum used to have a rule about always leaving the house tidy.
‘That way you’re never caught out,’ she’d say, although now I realise it was probably another one of Dad’s ridiculous demands.
Jenny nods and starts to walk towards the next flight of stairs before hesitating.
‘If you’re ever at a loose end, feel free to pop up for a cuppa. I’ve been here over six months now and don’t know a soul.’
‘I will, thanks, Jenny.’
I pick up the bags and we say our goodbyes.
It’s only when I get inside that I realise I never asked her why she was so upset, or why she was so keen to avoid going back up to her own flat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I finish a late sandwich lunch and think about having a nice relaxing bath and an early night with a good book later. I flick on the television and settle on Sky Arts as a background buzz while I close my eyes. Not to sleep, as daytime napping makes me groggy, but just to rest a little.
After actively trying not to leave the flat for so long, the last couple of days have been taxing in terms of both physical and nervous energy.
I listen to the presenter’s pleasant smooth voice as she tours the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, a place I’ve always wanted to visit.
As I relax, the voices fade out and my mind moves back again to the day I got the job at The Art Box.
Three years earlier
After agreeing to accompany Mr Visser to meet Jim, the Art Box manager, he suggested the quickest option was to walk there. It was a fine, dry day and the gallery wasn’t far from the private club where we’d started my interview.
It felt strange, a little uncomfortable, walking with him through the streets of my home city. Nobody gave us a second glance despite his eminence in artistic circles.
Like my mum, most people, unless they were ardent modern art fans, would have likely never heard of Finn Visser, creator of the world renowned Ordinary Man series of exquisite wall sculptures.
The Art Box was tucked away up a side street in the Lace Market area of the city known locally as the Creative Quarter.
It was just a two-minute walk from Moderno, where I’d bumped into Monte the previous day. I smiled as I thought about all the art fan speculation online about where the new gallery might be situated. It had been right under their noses all the time!
The street was in popular use as a short cut from the shops into the Lace Market car park. I recalled that the new premises used to be a vinyl record store called Spinners. Visser had made a clever location choice by staying in the bustling city centre yet also bagging his own piece of quiet space a little off the beaten track.
‘Here we are.’ He tried the front door, which was locked. As he fumbled in his pocket for a key, I noticed there was no signage in place out front yet. Plain cream Roman blinds were pulled down fully on the two big picture windows and also the glass door. No visible clues at all about what it would soon become.
I felt a little thrill shiver down my spine when I thought of the reaction I could cause online later if I wished to do so, teasing the members of my Facebook art group with clues about the top-secret location of Finn Visser’s lat
est venture.
Finn turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door.
‘Hello?’ He called out. ‘You there, Jim?’
I stepped inside the shop behind him.
‘Wow!’ My mouth dropped open. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this.
‘I like your reaction.’ Finn grinned. ‘We have done a lot of structural work here. It used to be a very cramped, gloomy old record shop, I am told.’
I nodded. The last time I’d come to Spinners, I’d still been at comprehensive school. One of the girls had wanted a specific Beatles LP for her dad’s birthday, and a few of us had come here with her to look for it.
At that time, the shop had had a cast-iron ‘two schoolchildren at a time’ rule, so three of us had to wait outside in the cold while she browsed the never-ending discs. We’d pressed our noses up against the window, marvelling at how so many boxes of records could be crammed into such a tiny space.
Now, I looked up and around in sheer admiration at how it had changed.
Mr Visser had obviously knocked through to the back rooms and also the attic, which had previously not been part of the main retail area, to create a dazzling white space with high ceilings and a mezzanine level running across the back. The floor was bleached hardwood, and tiny LED spotlights were dotted generously across the walls.
It was a still a shell. There wasn’t a single piece of artwork, display plinth or furniture in there.
‘We are scheduled to open in precisely one month’s time,’ Finn told me. ‘The first job of the new gallery assistant will be, in conjunction with Jim, to organise the publicity and PR for our opening event.’
‘Sounds fantastic,’ I told him, tearing my eyes away from the interior at last. ‘I’ve been to lots of gallery launch events. I’d like to think I’ve got a good idea of what works and what doesn’t.’
Finn nodded and called out for Jim again. I hoped he was impressed. It was hard to tell with his poker face, but the thought did cross my mind that Monte would be proud of me, selling myself like that.
