by Dawn Goodwin
‘I should probably get going. It’s getting late and I need to catch a train,’ I said into the blank space between us.
‘Whereabouts do you live, Katherine?’ Viola replied, turning back towards me.
‘Hampton Hill.’
‘Oh, not far from where Sam and I used to live – many years ago now. We were in St Margaret’s.’
‘Oh yes, I know it well. I used to work around there.’
Viola tilted her head. ‘Oh? What is it you do?’
‘I don’t any more. I’m a stay-at-home mum these days.’
Viola was staring at me intensely again, as though slowly peeling away the layers of skin to see below.
‘What did you used to do in St Margaret’s?’
‘I worked at a nursery school for a little while, then… Well, then I had my daughter, Lily, and shortly after my son, Jack.’ I tried to divert the conversation onto safer ground. ‘Now that they’re at school, I finally have the time to write, so I’m making the most of the opportunity.’
‘Interesting.’
I felt uncomfortable with the way she was studying me again.
Then suddenly she looked away. ‘You’re right, you should be getting home. We can’t have you missing your train, can we?’
The sudden change in direction threw me off guard. ‘Right, well, Sam, I’m keen to get started whenever you are. Whatever fits into your schedule though – obviously you have a lot going on too.’
I couldn’t tell if Viola was still listening or not as she was talking in low tones to a woman who had wandered over and crouched down next to her.
Sam nodded at me, still looking forlorn. ‘You get me, don’t you, Katherine? You understand why this can be so challenging and yet so rewarding?’ He reached out a hand and placed it on my knee.
I looked down at it, feeling incredibly awkward. ‘Um, yes, I do. Well, lovely evening, thank you, but I must dash to the loo before I head off for that train. Lovely to meet you, Viola,’ I chattered and got to my feet so that his hand fell away.
Viola did look back at me then, but her smile was contorted and the temperature in the air around us had plummeted. Was it because Sam had put his hand on my knee? I hadn’t taken it as a come-on; rather, it was like he was reaching out, grasping at me like a life vest. Besides, he had clearly had far too much to drink and was in no fit state to seduce anyone.
I got to my feet and hurried blindly in the direction of where I had seen the toilets earlier. I locked myself into a cubicle and sat on the toilet lid, my heart hammering in my throat. In the space of ten minutes, the evening had diverted onto a completely different path and I felt disoriented. I hadn’t been flirting with him, had I? Oh god, had I flirted, stared at him too much, taken the grateful student thing too far? Was that what the hand on the knee was all about?
I was mortified. God, what would Viola think of me? We had been getting on really well, the importance of which was not lost on me since she was one of the most infamous agents in the business, but she would likely want to have nothing to do with me now. Probably had me down as a brazen hussy ready to sleep my way to a deal. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
I leaned forward and put my now throbbing head in my hands. I wanted to weep in disappointment. Typical of me – a few too many drinks and I’d blown the best opportunity to come my way in a long time.
I took some deep breaths, my hands clutching my knees painfully in an attempt to sober up. The main bathroom door swung open and I heard someone enter the cubicle next to me. A glimpse of the shoes under the partition suggested it could be Viola. I hadn’t noticed anyone else in leopard-print kitten heels this evening. The thought propelled me to my feet. I flushed the toilet hurriedly and dashed from the room without stopping to wash my hands, determined to leave, preferably while Viola was still in the toilet so that I wouldn’t have to say anything to her.
I collected my coat from the now tired-looking woman in the cloakroom and retreated to the lift. I jabbed my finger on the call button three times, hoping it would come before Viola emerged from the bathroom. The doors opened almost immediately and I allowed a sigh of relief to escape. As the doors began to close in front of me, Viola walked past and looked directly at me, her expression unreadable, her face a mask.
*
16 March 1994
I’ve just got home from Lisa’s party and it was brilliant! She had an 80s dress-up theme and Mam had a whole bunch of old stuff in the loft, so I went as Madonna in the early years – fish net tights; long gloves; huge crucifix necklace; all of it. But, more importantly, Darren Gibbs was there. I’ve seen him around school and stuff because he’s in the year above me, but he made a point of hanging around me all night. I really hope Mam doesn’t read this because she doesn’t like him, but he was so sweet and kept getting me drinks and stuff. He was dressed up as the builder from the Village People – not that original and I don’t even think they were an 80s band, but his dad is a builder, so he just basically borrowed his hard hat. At the end, he kissed me… I know! It was weird, but nice. He wants to go to the cinema next week, but I’ll have to find an excuse ’cos there’s no way Mam will let me. She thinks I’m too young for a boyfriend, which is clearly ridiculous. God, I’m so tired – but so happy!
DG + KB 4 EVA
8
I woke the next morning with what felt like an anvil on my chest. Details of the night before stabbed at my consciousness in time with the daggers of a dehydration headache. I had spent the entire train journey home sipping on a large bottle of water bought at the station and trying to get my head around the sudden change in temperature when it came to Viola.
All I could think was that I had offended her by not pushing Sam’s hand off my knee immediately. But then I hadn’t felt threatened by it and I certainly didn’t think he was trying it on. But maybe I’d misread that too and that was the kind of man he was. I didn’t want to think that about him. To me, he seemed kind, smart, approachable, but maybe that was the allure of celebrity clouding me to his true intentions. I’d read enough newspaper articles over the last few months to know that men in positions of power had a funny way of exerting control over women.
I didn’t want to even begin to understand what kind of relationship Viola and Sam had if that was the case though. Maybe Viola encouraged that sort of thing. Maybe theirs was a marriage of convenience, a business relationship rather than a partnership. Who knows? But what did it mean for me going forward?
And I had to admit to myself that originally I had had a crush on him, was smitten and a little bit attracted. What did that make me? It was just that he had seemed to see me for who I actually was and it was nice. Had I unconsciously given him the wrong signals?
My head lurched and thudded like a pinball machine, with thoughts ricocheting around, making it feel hollow and bruised. My eyes were dry and grainy, like the champagne had sapped every last ounce of moisture.
I could hear tinny sounds filtering through the floorboards. A glance at my bedside clock told me it was 7.30 a.m. Paul was exactly where I’d found him last night: turned on his side, mouth open, sleep relaxing his face.
I sat up in bed and reached for the large glass of water I had had the foresight to set on my bedside table the night before. Draining it, I stared at the reflection in the small mirror above my dressing table across the room. Bleary eyes, smudged mascara, hair on end. What a mess. I should clean myself up before Paul woke up.
Instead, I lay back down and buried my head into the pillow. Could I just stay here, with my head buried, hiding away from everyone and everything? Would anyone notice?
‘Mum?’ a voice called up the stairs.
Guess not.
I scrambled into my dressing gown as Paul stirred, then fell asleep again. I headed downstairs with leaden legs and a heavy head. Was I overreacting because I felt so shit this morning? Let’s hope so. An image of my mother’s smug, doughy face swam into the fog in my brain. She’d love it if the whole mentoring thin
g didn’t go ahead. I shouldn’t have said anything to her. Oh well, the novel was probably crap anyway. Who was I kidding?
Jack was plugged into his iPad on the couch and didn’t even raise his eyes when I greeted him. I needed to tackle this screen attachment of his. I really didn’t want him turning into a monosyllabic void before he’d even reached puberty, but I didn’t have the energy to say anything today. Lily was in the kitchen with a bag of flour in one hand and a whisk in the other. Bo sat at her feet gazing up at her.
‘What are you up to, Lils?’
‘I’m making pancakes for breakfast. Is this the right flour?’
My heart sank at the idea of having to clean up for her afterwards. I shuffled over to the cupboard in the top far corner of the kitchen and shook two pills out of the pot of Nurofen, then followed them with a chaser of the two little white pills that had become my best friends for the last eleven years. I paused for a moment, considering the packet in my hand, then put it back in the cupboard. That done, I took a deep breath and set about minimising the mess that my daughter was inflicting.
Paul wandered in, his dressing gown belted tightly over his pyjamas, just as we were putting everything out on the table.
‘Impeccable timing! Morning,’ I said with a smile, refusing to acknowledge to him the pain behind my eyeballs.
He flopped into a chair. ‘You were late last night. I waited up until I got your text that you were on the train home.’
‘Yes, but it was fun.’ I was pleased I’d remembered to send him a message in my drunkenness.
‘Daddy, are you taking me to football?’ Jack asked as he took his place at the table and tucked a napkin into the neck of his T-shirt. Sometimes I looked at him and saw the man he would become in the not too distant future, a man not dissimilar to his father. This morning was one of those times.
‘No, it’ll be mum. I’ve got a round of golf booked.’ I noticed Jack’s face fall even if Paul didn’t. ‘Get that dog away from the table please, Lily.’
And there was no more mention made of my evening, but I was happy to leave it there. I had a feeling that was the end of my brief sojourn into the world of publishing anyway. I couldn’t imagine Viola letting Sam continue to mentor me if she thought there was a risk of something going on between us, bizarre as that concept may seem to me, an almost forty-year-old housewife.
The day unravelled as most Saturdays did: taxi driving Lily and Jack to football and dance practice; a couple of loads of washing; cooking bolognaise for dinner… This was my world and I needed to accept it was where I belonged. No getting ideas above my station, as my mother would say.
Get your head out of the clouds, Katherine.
*
Viola sat at her mahogany desk, her laptop open in front of her and a steaming mug of English breakfast tea at her elbow. Last night had proved to be revelatory, resulting in a twisting night of wakefulness and a dense fog in her brain this morning.
Sam had not rallied yet, but she had eventually given up on trying to sleep just as dawn was breaking over the London skyline. Viola rarely stayed at their London apartment, preferring the peace and stillness of the Cotswolds house to the ever-present filter of noise around Mayfair, but it had been unavoidable last night.
An acidic burn had settled into the back of her chest in the early hours as sleeplessness had conjured up thoughts and memories she hadn’t wanted to visit. All because of that woman. It was almost funny how the world worked.
She typed the name of Sam’s publisher into the web browser. The website appeared and she scrolled through the menu to the blog page. Sam had complained a few weeks ago at having to pose for a class photo like a schoolboy so that the marketing assistant could post a blog about the course. And there it was. Fifteen of them standing awkwardly, hands clasped in front of them, with Sam grinning widely in the middle, hiding his annoyance well, as usual.
Viola enlarged the photo and peered at the faces. A man with a scrunched-up face and rather droopy eyes; a short, plump woman with glasses and what looked like a very bohemian outfit; another middle-aged woman with a pussy-bow, floral blouse…
Viola’s eyes landed on the woman hiding at the back of the group, some of her face obscured by the person standing in front of her. Taller than any of the other women in the photograph, long dark hair falling in waves around a pleasant face, but most strikingly those huge eyes like a kewpie doll. Difficult to forget. She was smiling thinly at the camera, but her eyes were looking across at Sam. The credits below had her listed as Katherine Baxter.
I know you as someone else, don’t I?
Viola then opened Facebook, her literary mind clicking into research mode as her tea cooled beside her. As the page loaded, she clenched her fists tight, feeling her nails stab into her palms.
*
My phone rang as I was slapping ham between slices of 50/50 bread with the crusts removed and slathering mayonnaise liberally on one sandwich, while cutting cucumber for the other – heaven forbid my children should eat the same lunch on any given day.
‘Hi Helen.’
‘Hey, how was last night? Headache?’
‘Maybe a small one.’ In fact, my head had deteriorated to feeling like a sledgehammer was trying to demolish my skull from the inside.
‘Worth it though?’
‘I think so. The party was at this swanky private members’ club for creative types in Covent Garden and there were all sorts of writers, agents and publishers there. I saw a couple of famous faces and Sam introduced me to some, but I probably came across as so lame because I couldn’t think of anything to say. I totally fangirled it.’
‘As would I, I’m sure…’ Her voice had taken on a faraway quality. I knew she didn’t find any of this stuff interesting. She didn’t really read novels, so my desire to write one of my own was lost on her, as it seemed to be on everyone except Sam.
‘But I had a lovely evening for the most part, although I drank far more than I should have. I spent a lot of time talking to his wife, Viola, and she’s—’
‘Sounds great. Listen, I wanted to chat to you about that paint colour you used on your kitchen wall.’
Helen often did this. She would ask all the right questions, those she knew she should ask to show that she was polite and interested, but when you replied you got the distinct impression that she wasn’t actually listening, but was waiting for the right moment to interject with what she really wanted to talk about. I had grown used to it over the years. Even so, it still irked me now and again.
I yawned discreetly as I listened to her debate blue versus grey paint while finishing off the kids’ sandwiches and cutting up carrots and peppers to add to their plate in an attempt to make sure they got all of their five a day. I wouldn’t want Paul to see them munching on crisps.
‘I think you’re right,’ she said, although she hadn’t actually asked for my opinion. ‘I’ll do that. Right, thanks Katherine. I better go.’
‘Oh, Helen, before you go, you will make sure you don’t say anything – about last night, I mean?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she replied impatiently.
‘Besides, I don’t think I’ll do the mentoring thing anyway.’ Hearing that said out loud saddened me.
‘Well, what were the odds of you getting published anyway? Seems like a lot of work to me with no guarantees.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She really didn’t get it.
‘Okay, well, see you on Monday for a run?’
‘Yep, see you then.’ I hung up the call and slumped onto the barstool next to me, releasing my mobile onto the countertop. I felt like she’d burst my balloon right in front of me, then walked off.
Almost instantly, my phone chirped, shuffling across the granite countertop under the momentum of its own vibrations.
I am mortified about last night. Please forgive a drunken old man. Completely understand if you want nothing more to do with me but would still like to mentor you if you’re interested. Please call me. Sam
I chewed on my lip as I read the text. Okay, not what I was expecting at all. But I was pleased and a little relieved. I felt a smile tug at my mouth, then doubt wiped it away.
What about Viola? She had definitely seen or heard something she didn’t like last night unless I had misread the signs, which was possible as I didn’t know her at all. Did this mean Sam had straightened it all out with her? Made her realise this was a business arrangement only? And, if I said I was still interested, what was I going to tell Paul?
Lily and Jack burst in, shoving and pushing to their plates of food, but I sat rooted to the spot, wrestling with everything. There was no denying there was a golden opportunity lying open in front of me, waiting for me to pick it up and run with it, but did I let Paul in and hope he understood or did I keep it to myself?
I watched my children, with their endless energy and enthusiasm, and thought about how I wanted them to perceive me, what I hoped they would learn from me. Lily in particular. What was this quiet, submissive housewife teaching her only daughter about what women could achieve in this world? That dog walks and the correct paint colours were the dizzying heights of our ambition? That behind every woman was a man paying the bills?
I knew the answer before the question had fully formed: I wasn’t giving up just yet.
9
Paul had suggested we share a bottle of a new red wine he was keen to try with our dinner the night before and I had agreed since I couldn’t admit to my hangover. That, on top of the existing headache and a night spent lying awake fretting over my choices, my legs fidgeting restlessly under the covers, meant I woke the next day with a hammer tapping at my temples again. I must’ve fallen into a fitful and broken sleep at some point, but I felt wrung out, as though I’d not closed my eyes at all.
