The Pupil

by Dawn Goodwin

  She lowered herself onto a stool and glared at me, challenging me to disagree.

  And I couldn’t, because she was right. All of the things I had been worrying about, that had kept me awake in the early hours, she had summed up perfectly in one direct hornet’s attack.

  I looked down at my hands, still clasped around the now cold mug, and resisted the urge to hurl it across her kitchen.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said in defeat and slumped in on myself. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’ I sighed. ‘Actually, I do know. I wanted to be someone, a name, more than Lily and Jack’s mum. I wanted to feel like I was good at something. Paul is always correcting me, checking in, directing behind the scenes, literally down to what I wear and how many times a week we eat fish. I wanted something for me – and not just for me, but for the kids, for them to see their mother can be more than what they perceive me to be. And for me to prove something to myself too.’

  Hels got to her feet and came around the island towards me, her arms outstretched.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so blunt, but someone had to say something. Those two writing folk have put stars in your eyes and you’ve been blind to it. Think of your life now: you have a husband who takes care of you; you have two beautiful, healthy children, which is a godsend, as we know how easily that can be snatched away from us; and you are thin, pretty and healthy, albeit prone to the dramatics.’ I smiled at her thinly. ‘All of that is worth gold and we are extremely lucky to be in this situation. Don’t ruin that for a dream that may not become a reality. Besides, you can still write in your spare time if you want to, but it will be for you, not for the hypercritical British public.’ She rummaged in a cupboard before bringing out a round tin. ‘Here, have a chia and oat bran cookie to make you feel better. Only ninety calories.’

  I didn’t feel better, but I accepted what she was saying. Everyone around me was telling me I was silly for thinking this had been feasible. Viola and Sam were not my reality; this was, sitting with my best friend eating healthy cookies before we went to collect our children from school and spent the rest of the afternoon carting them to clubs and cooking them balanced meals made of quinoa and healthy proteins.

  I nibbled on the cookie, which tasted like plasterboard. ‘Can I ask you one last favour?’

  ‘Sure.’ I noticed Helen hadn’t taken a cookie.

  ‘I think I need some space to get my head in the right place – you know, to let this thing go. If I arrange to visit my mother and stay for one night next week, would you be able to help Paul with the kids after school for me? Besides, I need to repair some old bridges with her. I’ve neglected her a bit too, not spoken to her as much as I usually do.’

  ‘Sure, I can do that – but on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That the old Katherine comes back. It’s your fault my bum is expanding because we haven’t been for our runs and dog walks lately. And you tell Paul about the messages.’

  ‘Sure. After I’ve been, I’ll talk to him.’ And just like that, I felt myself take a step right back to where I had started.

  *

  That evening, once the kids were in bed, Paul and I sat opposite each other at the table, eating Asian steamed seabass and sipping on a light Chablis that Paul had brought home with him. His way of a peace offering.

  ‘Did you arrange to return the laptop?’

  ‘I will meet up with them next week and return it then. I left a message for them this afternoon.’ This wasn’t strictly true. I was weaving another little web for myself as the email with my manuscript was still in my drafts folder waiting to be sent. In actual fact, I had spent the afternoon with Lily and Jack, helping with homework, the three of us playing a game of Kahoot and laughing together – all of it a tonic to soothe the wounds Helen’s words had inflicted. I felt more grounded now and accepting of the decision I had made. But I had decided to send the email over the weekend with a clear head, then give myself some space to digest it. My train ticket to Newcastle was booked for Monday morning once I had taken the kids to school. Unless Paul vetoed it of course. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about all of this.’

  Paul looked up over his fork, which he nudged at me, saying, ‘This is delicious, by the way. Go on.’

  ‘Well, you’re right and I apologise for my behaviour of late. I had a long chat with Hels today and she helped me to see the light.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve been stuck with my head in the clouds and I went off on a silly tangent for a while. So I’ve decided to try and get my head in the right place, take some time to get back on track, forget about all of this writing nonsense and focus on the family again. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I went to visit my mother next week – I thought some space would help to put things in perspective.’

  He lowered his fork to his plate and chewed slowly for a moment, watching me carefully. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘Well, I think it’s important. Dr Hathaway has previously suggested this kind of trip as being part of my therapeutic recovery. Now might be the perfect time for it. Don’t worry, everything is in place. Hels will help with picking the kids up on Monday and will look after them until you get home and will take them to school on Tuesday. All you have to do is drop them off at her house on your way to work. And I’ve arranged the dog-walker for Bo. I’ll catch the train after I’ve dropped the kids off and I’ll be back in time to collect them from school the next day.’

  ‘I see.’ He picked up his cutlery again and resumed his dinner. I couldn’t read him when he was like this, quiet and moody, almost sullen, but then he was never the most charismatic or outgoing of personalities. That was what I had been drawn to originally, his sense of being in control, always collected and mindful. Others would describe him as dreary and tedious, but when I met him, he was just what I needed after the turbulent relationship I had been shaking off.

  ‘Is that okay?’ I probed.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine, but I want you to go with your eyes wide open and your ears closed to her nonsense, because you always struggle to recover when you’ve been with her and I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind for this right now, especially with you tinkering with your medication of late and the anniversary coming up, which is always a difficult time for you.’

  Sometimes I wondered if I would struggle as much if he didn’t pre-empt it and tell me I would all the time. I picked up my fork and nibbled on the seabass, ignoring the little voice in my head telling me to see if I could make him swear for once by stabbing him in the eye with the shiny silver prongs in my hand. The thought brought a hint of an icy smile to my lips. Murderous thoughts – perhaps I should look into another prescription after all.

  *

  3 January 1997

  I forgave Darren. After he came over yesterday all sad and telling me he didn’t mean to do it, I sent him packing, but then he came over again today while Mam was out at the shops. I think he’d been watching to see her leave because he was on the doorstep five minutes later with his arms full of cheap carnations and a huge box of Milk Tray. I couldn’t really send him packing again – he’d gone to a lot of trouble and he’s never bought me flowers before – so I let him in and heard him out. He said it was trouble with his dad that had pushed him over the edge. He’d had a fight with him and was still angry, wanting to lash out. That doesn’t make it okay, but it does go some way to explaining it. So we talked over mugs of tea and he swore I was the only one he wanted. He left through the back door when we heard Mam’s key in the door. She didn’t say anything when she saw the flowers, but I saw her face tighten. I don’t think she’s seen the bruises because it’s freezing here and I’m in big jumpers anyway, but it hurts to move sometimes. If he does it again, we’re done. But I’m going to try my hardest to make sure I don’t upset him.

  16

  Viola read the email from Katherine, then closed the laptop and threw her mug of coffee hard at the wall. It smashed with brutal force, sending splashes
of coffee up the paintwork like a modern art composition and porcelain shrapnel into the air. Milo bid a hasty retreat into another room, his tail between his legs.

  So Katherine wasn’t as ambitious as she had originally thought. Or was there more going on here? Had she finally connected the dots between them?

  No, it wasn’t that. She doubted Katherine would slink off quietly into the night if she had. She would try to reach out or make amends in some way, surely.

  More likely it had something to do with that insipid husband of hers.

  Viola couldn’t care less what was going on between them, to be honest. Let her have a bit of upheaval to deal with. Payback’s a bitch – and Katherine had quite a bill to pay.

  Viola got to her feet and paced the length of her study. Milo watched her from a safe distance in the doorway, his unwavering eyes following her. The anger bubbling in Viola needed an outlet – and soon. It was building with every minute that they got closer to the anniversary. She felt twitchy, as though the lightest nudge would cause her to lash out. And once that door was open, she would struggle to close it until every last black crow of anger and hatred had flown free.

  When Katherine had crept into Viola’s life, it had been a subtle intrusion, tiptoeing into her consciousness. Just another student of Sam’s; just another wannabe. But the truth of who she was, once Viola was absolutely sure – and she was now sure – had slammed into her and destabilised the careful, controlled persona she had spent so long creating. But to see Sam so taken with her had amplified Viola’s anger.

  So for Katherine to now turn around and say she wasn’t interested in being published any longer? Well, that just wouldn’t do. She couldn’t expect to just slink away, untouched, as though nothing had changed. Everything had changed. Viola wrung her hands as she paced, her fingers pinching and her nails digging.

  Sam in particular had changed. He had taken to wandering around the London apartment in his pyjamas with his hair unbrushed, looking very much like the struggling writer he was turning into, and Viola suspected his foul mood and lack of focus was directly related to not seeing Katherine. He was pining for her. Pathetic. But he wanted nothing to do with Viola. If he would only just accept that they needed to go back to the formula they knew worked, but he was being all righteous about the process this time around and a lot of that was because of Katherine. He’d suddenly developed a creative conscience since meeting her. She had a lot to answer for.

  Viola could feel the beginnings of a headache prodding behind her eyes.

  The last time he had been like this was with that damn Lydia Grayson. He’d told Viola out of the blue that he wanted a divorce and was going to tell Lydia everything, that they were in love. He was threatening to destroy everything they’d spent so long building up. But what he didn’t understand was that without each other, Viola and Sam were nothing. Viola was nothing. They fed off each other and they couldn’t exist in isolation. She certainly wasn’t about to sit back and watch him walk away from it all. She’d worked too hard and invested too much for that to happen. They had had a lot to deal with during their years of marriage, but they were like magnets, sometimes repelling, other times drawing together, but bound together by their painful shared history that no one else would understand. That needed to be protected.

  It’s a pity Lydia was riding that bicycle home from work that night without a helmet and proper lights along such a dark street, the same street Viola had warned her interns not to walk down because there were no CCTV cameras there. And it was very dark that night. It’s a shame that car door opened just when it did and that Lydia had driven straight into it, killing herself on impact. Such a shame.

  Viola stopped abruptly in her tracks, then stretched her arms above her head, taking a moment to flex her shoulders and neck, and alleviate the tension that held her in a vice grip. She needed a clear head to think this through, not one prone to impulsive decisions. She was too close, could taste the iron-strong retribution on her tongue.

  She moved back to her desk, feeling the shards of porcelain crunch under the soles of her brogues, but making no move to clear up the wreckage. Milo sniffed at the coffee stain from the doorway, then thought better of following and retreated.

  Viola sat at her desk and opened her laptop, bringing up the camera screen. It was dark with no reception. She slammed her fist down hard on the desk, making the paperclips and staples jump and scatter. Katherine had been offline for days. This would not do at all.

  Picking up her phone, she called Sam.

  ‘Viola, hello.’ He sounded miserable.

  ‘Sam, how’s it going today?’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Did you see Katherine’s email?’

  ‘No, I’ve put a block on my internet connection in the hope that I won’t get distracted.’

  ‘Very wise. Anyway, she’s emailed with her finished manuscript.’

  His voice perked up substantially. ‘That’s fantastic! She’s finished it – I’m so proud of her!’

  Viola rolled her eyes. ‘But she’s also said that she’s not going to pursue a publishing deal after all. She wants to meet with us to hand back the laptop.’

  ‘What? But why?’

  Viola snarled at the dejection in his voice. ‘I suspect it has something to do with her husband, to be honest.’

  ‘Well, it could also be her confidence. She doesn’t think she’s any good, so she could well be letting fear get in the way. Imposter syndrome of the highest order.’

  ‘I’ve had a moment to go over the manuscript and, actually, I think you’re right. It has merit and, with a bit more work, it could be very commercial, so I’ve decided to offer her representation.’ She hadn’t read it, but that didn’t matter. What was important was dangling the carrot and watching Katherine take a bite.

  ‘That’s great! I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. That may change her mind, convince her to pursue this.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I haven’t said anything to her yet, but she’s coming over to the apartment on Friday evening apparently to hand back the laptop and I thought we could have a little dinner and surprise her with the news then. Would that work for you?’

  ‘A lovely idea, thank you Viola. I will make sure there is some champagne in the fridge and we can celebrate.’ His joy at seeing her again was bubbling down the phone line.

  ‘Lovely.’ Viola’s mouth contorted into a grin. ‘I assume I will only see you tomorrow then?’

  ‘Yes, I remain locked in my creative prison. Goodbye.’

  Viola hung up. She knew what she had to do.

  17

  I stared out of the train window as the countryside rushed past me, a fast-forward kaleidoscope of green trees and yellow fields. The Styrofoam cup of tea on the table in front of me was lukewarm and tasted industrial.

  My mind kept somersaulting over the email I had sent, attaching the finished manuscript but asking to meet with Sam and Viola this week so that I could hand back the laptop as I no longer wished to pursue publication. The deciding factor had been the most recent text message I had received:

  I wish you were dead.

  Part of me – the rebellious teenage Kathy that still lurked in the furthest reaches of my psyche – wanted to stamp my feet and clench my fists in defiance, but sensible Katherine knew I was beaten. I was also aware of the gaping hole that had opened up once I had stopped writing. Over the last few days, without my manuscript to distract me, I had felt lost and empty, struggling to put my mind to anything and saved only by a weekend of muddy laundry and mum taxi duties taking up my time. It scared me to think that was my future now, but the alternative came with too much of a price to pay. I had to put my safety and that of my children first.

  I wondered what my mother would say when she saw me. It had been years since I last visited. Would she notice how much I had changed? I doubted it. She’d been looking through me for so long, as though I was a dress she’d bought that had never quite fit like it did o
n the model in the photograph and she wished she’d returned it at the time.

  The train carriage smelled of musty air and cheese and onion crisps. A man sitting further down the carriage was looking at me over his newspaper. As I caught his eye, he smiled. I scowled back. He ducked back behind his broadsheet. I wasn’t invisible after all.

  I stared out at the grimy northern town that was now intruding into the countryside. The train would be pulling into Newcastle Central Station soon. From there, it was a half-hour bus ride and I would be back home in Cramlington, with its concrete council estates, budget supermarkets and the aroma of Greggs sausage rolls permeating the air.

  Back to the house I grew up in. Nothing will have changed. The same faces, the same smells, the same furniture, as if stuck in an 80s time warp. Part of me was comforted by the thought. That was why I was here after all, to escape from what sometimes felt like a middle-class prison so that I could put it all into perspective, what my life had become and what I wanted it to be, but there was also a fair amount of trepidation at seeing my mother again. I hadn’t called to tell her I was coming.

  Bert would at least be pleased to see me.

  My phone alerted me to an email coming through and I opened it to see a message from Viola, confirming that they would meet me on Friday evening so that we could talk it over. I tried to ignore the tickling excitement I felt at the prospect of seeing Sam again, but the truth was I had missed him. I texted Paul to see if he was home on Friday to watch the children so that I could go and return the laptop and his reply came back immediately, saying that he thought it was a good idea so that we could ‘finish the whole silly business once and for all’.