by Fiona Gibson
‘Dance? When d’you ever dance?’
‘I love dancing actually. I really do. I just don’t get the opportunity very often.’
He blinks at me and starts to smile. Then he laughs, far too long and loudly in my opinion, so much so that a woman and her small daughter, both clutching ice creams, stare from across the street. ‘God, Mum,’ Morgan splutters. ‘That cookery thing you went to and now you’re going to dance, in front of people, like a lunatic. What’s happening to you?’
Although I can’t put it into words, because he’ll think I’m ‘being weird’ and won’t get it at all, I know exactly what’s happened. I might have won dinner lady of the year but – far more important than that – I also seem to have stepped out into the real world again. I am no longer just chief picker-upper of pants. ‘I’m just going to a festival, love,’ I say with a smile. ‘It’s really no big deal at all.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Sparkling Sundaes
We are gathered together – Ellie, a couple of friends she made through their kids’ swimming team, plus me – for her 50th birthday lunch. ‘We should do this more often,’ she announces, already several glasses of prosecco down. ‘Not just for birthdays, I mean. We should have a boozy lunch every weekend!’
‘We definitely deserve it,’ declares Heather, mum to Jessica, long-ago recipient of the invisible ink love note. ‘You’re looking amazing, Audrey,’ she adds. ‘I love your new dark hair. Suits you so much better than the blonde …’ She catches herself. ‘I mean, you looked great before, but this is so much more …’ She struggles for the right words. ‘Anyway, did you manage to get hold of Natalie the other day?’
‘Yes, thanks for the number …’
‘What was that about?’
‘Oh, um, Morgan and Jenna are sort of, well, seeing each other.’
‘Aw, how lovely,’ says Bernie, whom I know only vaguely, and whose son Jack went to a nearby private school. ‘Bet it’s a big love thing.’
‘Yes, I guess it is.’ Plus, a big pregnant thing. How would they react if I announced, I’m going to be a grandmother?
‘Sometimes I wish I’d had my kids younger,’ muses Heather, turning to me. ‘Like you, Aud. Popping one out at … how old were you again?’
‘Twenty-six. It’s not that young.’
‘Well, these days it is. You’re so lucky, you know? He’s all grown up and he’ll be off and away soon and—’
‘What is he planning to do?’ asks Bernie.
I sip my fizzy water. I’m hoping to do some shopping later; Morgan’s birthday is fast approaching. I intend to treat him to the other (affordable) items on his list and would rather avoid making any tipsy purchases. ‘He’s just started a new job actually.’
‘Oh, really?’ Heather beams. ‘The performing arts thing?’
‘Not exactly. He’s doing a bit of gardening work.’ A small silence settles over the table.
‘Oh, what happened to the street theatre?’
‘That’s kind of on hold right now.’
‘Well, I think it’s great,’ Ellie exclaims. ‘Fresh air, exercise, being close to nature …’
I suspect Bernie is trying to look suitably impressed. ‘Sounds great!’ She turns to Heather. ‘I heard Jessica’s been accepted to do law at Manchester. My God, you must be thrilled …’
‘Yes, we couldn’t believe she got in … how about Jack? Where’s he going?’
Bernie tips her head to one side. ‘Music school, Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts. He’s doing tuned percussion …’
Heather swings round to face me. ‘Morgan should go somewhere like that …’
‘Yes, he should,’ I say, glad of the distraction when more prosecco is poured. I remind myself that it is brilliant, this stage of life, and the fact that Morgan is toiling away at Mrs B’s borders does not make him a lesser person. In fact, I am hugely relieved that he will now have to leave the house, on a regular basis; that, to me, is an achievement in itself. And what he’s doing is incredibly useful. He’ll discover how to make edible things grow, and we all need vegetables, right? He’ll be the provider of vitamins for a future generation of lawyers and percussionists. How can they do their amazingly clever things if they’re malnourished?
When we’ve all parted company I nip into John Lewis to buy Morgan his preferred brand of underwear, then find myself in the baby department where I’m overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of stuff there is these days to keep a baby warm, dry and safe. There’s a nightlight that doubles as a thermometer to alert you if the baby’s bedroom is too hot or cold. There’s a video monitor so you can watch your child as he sleeps. Vince and I didn’t even have a normal baby monitor. We just had Morgan, hollering his lungs out if he needed attention and it worked fine for us without any need for a surveillance device.
I’m browsing the toys now, the forest of mobiles all gently bouncing. There’s one just like Morgan’s, and I sense a stab of nostalgia at the sight of Eeyore and Tigger dangling there, just like the one Vince and I chose for our baby before he was even born. We were madly in love, and hadn’t the faintest notion of what it would entail to care for him. Vince worked long hours in a variety of jobs – kitchen porter, taxi driver – and, without either of us intending it to happen, or even noticing, we slipped from being lovers and friends to sleep-deprived housemates. Consumed by looking after our screamy, colicky baby, I barely noticed us drifting apart. Then our demanding baby wasn’t a baby any more; he was a delightful, hilarious five-year-old boy, and I looked at Vince one day and said, ‘Should we be together?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. There was a lot of hugging and gallons of tears, and we both agreed he’d move out and get a place just around the corner. I loved him still, but I wasn’t in love; I was still idealistic enough to believe in crazy bonkers adoration.
But what if crazy bonkers adoration doesn’t exist?
They look in love: the couple with arms entwined at the far end of the baby department. They are admiring a display of nursery clocks on the wall. He wanders off to examine the buggies, while she browses cots. She is honey blonde, petite and incredibly pretty – mid-thirties at a guess – with a suggestion of a bump beneath her pale pink linen dress. He is tall, with light brown hair curling down the back of his neck. ‘How about this one, Carrie?’ he calls over.
She turns, as I do, at the sound of his voice.
Stevie. And Carrie … C, from his little red book.
Occasionally, I’ve wondered who sits on the chairs you sometimes see in department stores, not as part of a furniture display but for customers to sit on. Maybe they’re for people who are having a turn, like the one I’m experiencing now. A bit of a turn, as Paul put it, like an old lady. Overcome by dizziness, I lower myself onto the chair that’s been conveniently placed by the brightly-painted toy chests.
Carrie is perusing the baby bedding now: adorable quilts appliquéd with rabbits and sailing boats. Something grips my stomach as he strides over to join her. Does he lie to her constantly too? I’m actually thinking of selling the company. Sick of all this travelling, babe. Does he spin her the same lines, whilst pouring himself a glass of champagne and handing her a soft drink from the 24-hour shop? Is she treated to a meat feast slice, or does she favour a Cheddar and onion pastie? I need to get myself a proper place – a home – somewhere that’s not just a crash pad …
Stevie winds a protective arm around her waist while she enthuses over gingham cot bumpers until, interest clearly waning, he checks his watch. Carrie turns towards me. As she wanders closer I can see she’s a little tired – there are faint grey smudges beneath her eyes – and that her earrings, silver spirals with a hint of sparkly stone, look familiar. I can’t be certain, though, and I’m not about to stop her and ask to examine her jewellery.
In fact, what am I doing here at all? Natalie will probably buy most of the essential equipment; she is clearly a highly organised sort. Although I’ll festoon the baby with tiny outfit
s and toys and a Winnie the Pooh mobile, I do not need to be prowling about in John Lewis’s baby department when my unborn grandchild is the size of a poppy seed. Nor do I care what Stevie gets up to. I am a single woman, going to a festival tomorrow, like Kate Moss – well, no, not exactly like Kate Moss, but I’m going at least. I’ll dance in a field and feel happy and free.
Stevie rakes back his hair and yawns without covering his mouth. That’s when he spots me, and he sort of freezes, mid-yawn, then shuts his mouth like a trap. ‘D’you think we’ll need a playpen, darling?’ Carrie asks.
He blinks at me, as if I might be a store detective who’s spotted him cramming a silver christening spoon into his pocket. ‘Stevie?’ she prompts him. ‘What d’you think? We could put it in the nursery maybe, for when she starts to crawl …’
The nursery. So he has a proper home – he must have – with a room that’s probably already decorated for the baby girl they know they’re going to have. My heart aches, not for me, but for her: she’s not Danielle, his young thing, or me, grasping at opportunities for fun. She is having his child.
Stevie’s cheeks have reddened, and he has acquired the demeanour of a man who would dearly love to leg it out of the store. Catching my eye, he mouths something to me: sorry, I think he’s saying. I look right through him, then turn quickly and walk away.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Contraband Chocolate
So what does a person wear to a festival? I’ve Googled Glastonbury types – models, singers, the willowy offspring of 70s pop stars – and gawped at a sea of fringed waistcoats, tiny shorts and jingly jewellery. I own no such items. Even my wellies, which haven’t been worn for years, have a split in them so water leaks in. I’d been thinking a couple of floral summery dresses but now, on this bright and breezy Saturday morning, I’m not sure I’m capable of making any decision at all.
I barely slept last night. I tossed and turned, thoughts of Winnie the Pooh mobiles spinning around until the pale sky filtered in through my curtains. No matter how many times I reminded myself how lucky I am to have found out – and to be rid of Stevie with his creepy Travelodge ways – I still feel like a colossal fool. And now I’m wondering: why has Hugo asked me along? This tent-with-pods thing: okay, he made it clear he isn’t a Brad type, anticipating a shag in return for a couple of shallots or even a free festival pass. But still, there’ll only be a sheet of the finest nylon between us – as thin as Morgan’s preferred coat – which seems somehow conducive to … stuff happening.
By late morning I have opted for jeans and an embellished, floaty top, changed my mind and pulled on my orangey dress, and dithered excessively over the nightwear conundrum. Sleeping naked is out of the question, obviously: I don’t fancy scrabbling for clothes in the dark if I need to venture out to pee. My fleecy Dalmatian-spot PJs don’t seem terribly Kate Moss dangling off a rock star’s arm, and nor are they remotely sexy, should such a situation present itself. On the plus side, they’re cosy and entirely body covering. I stuff them into my case.
I head downstairs to find Morgan clipping his toenails at the kitchen table.
‘Morgan, they’re the kitchen scissors!’
‘Yeah, couldn’t find any nail ones.’
‘You can’t use those, it’s so unhygienic …’
‘You’re going to a festival,’ he reminds me, continuing to snip. ‘How’re you gonna handle that, being a hygiene freak?’
A shard of nail shoots across the room and pings against the fridge. ‘I’m just saying, the scissors I use for chopping the rind off bacon probably shouldn’t be used on the toes of someone who has athlete’s foot. I wouldn’t say that makes me a hygiene freak …’
‘Yeah, thanks for that, Mum.’ He peers up at me through his thick dark hair. ‘So, is Stevie picking you up?’
I hand him the floor brush to sweep up the clippings. He frowns at it in confusion. ‘I’m not going with Stevie, love. That’s finished.’
‘Aw, really? I just assumed … so what happened?’
I busy myself with making toast which I have no interest in eating. ‘Well, the notebook thing, the code thing … turned out I wasn’t the only one he was seeing.’
‘Oh, Mum.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘That’s so shit …’ He props the brush against the fridge and drapes an arm around my shoulders.
‘It is a bit,’ I say, taken aback by his impromptu display of affection.
‘So who’re you going with? Paul?’
‘No. Erm, you don’t know him, love. His name’s Hugo, I met him on the cookery course …’
‘Hugo,’ he sniggers. ‘Sounds posh. So, is he loaded, then?’
‘I have no idea, it’s not important—’
‘Be handy, though …’
I smile and kiss his cheek, which causes him to spring away, then indicate the brush. ‘C’mon, sweep up your clippings. There’s plenty of food in the freezer for tonight – you’ll be spoilt for choice. Just remember to lock the front door when you go to bed and call me any time, anything you’re worried about …’
‘Stop fussing, Mum.’ He drops the scissors into the sink, snatches a slice of toast and slathers it with butter.
‘What’ll you do while I’m away?’
‘Uh … I dunno. Smoke crystal meth, trash the house …’ I smirk. ‘Nothing much,’ he adds. ‘Probably just have a few mates round.’
‘How many’s a few? Are we talking two or three or—’
‘Mum, just go,’ he exclaims. ‘Just get out of here and have a great time. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’
Of course he is, I reassure myself as I climb into my car. I mean, last time was fine; apart from the microwaved T-shirt and the trauma of a positive pregnancy test, nothing untoward happened at all. And Jenna would still have been pregnant, even if I hadn’t waltzed off to Buckinghamshire. It’s not as if I could have reversed the fertilisation process merely by being in the same house.
My mobile rings as I put my key in the ignition. ‘Aud? It’s Paul. Sorry, I know you’re not due in today …’
‘It’s okay,’ I say quickly. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Not really. It’s kind of hard to tell. Victoria was adamant I shouldn’t phone you but, well, she and her mum have had some kind of row, I’ve no idea what about, and now Mrs B keeps saying she wants to see you to – I don’t know – thank you for something …’
I frown. ‘What on earth for?’
‘Honestly, I have no idea.’
‘Well, I could pop in. I’m actually on my way to a festival, would you believe? It’s a sort of … well, not a date exactly …’
‘Oh, you should’ve said,’ Paul says briskly. ‘Just forget I called.’
‘No, it’s fine, there’s plenty of time and I’m only five minutes away.’
It’s Paul who lets me in. ‘Thanks for coming over,’ he says. ‘I have to warn you, she’s acting really oddly. You’ll see for yourself.’ We stop in the gloomy hallway.
‘I’m glad you called,’ I say, meaning it.
‘Well, I’d better leave you to it. Don’t want Victoria thinking I’m slacking with the garden …’
I look at him, wondering whether I’ll ever see him again when he has to leave the cottage. ‘None of this feels right, does it?’
He shakes his head. ‘You can say that again … will you give me a shout if you need anything?’
‘Yes, of course I will.’ He forces a stoical smile before letting himself out.
I step into Mrs B’s bedroom. Victoria, who’s sitting bolt upright in the chair beside her mother’s bed, gives me a terse smile.
‘Oh, you’ve come,’ Mrs B says, smiling.
‘Yes, it was no trouble …’ She is sitting up, with embroidered pillows at her back, her bony fingers laced together on her lap. ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask gently.
‘I’m fine,’ she says firmly. ‘I don’t know what all this fuss is about.’
V
ictoria turns to me. ‘Mum’s been very … animated all morning. Chattering away, not making too much sense at times, to be frank. She’s exhausted herself, that’s why I insisted she needs a rest …’
‘Victoria,’ Mrs B cuts in sharply, ‘could you please stop talking about me as if I’m not here?’ She turns to me, eyes shining, cheeks flushed pink. ‘I just wanted to thank you,’ she adds.
In the absence of a chair to sit on, I hover at her bedside. ‘What for, Mrs B?’
She indicates the empty chocolate box on her bedside table. ‘These.’
‘Oh, did you enjoy them? I hoped you would.’
‘They were delicious,’ she exclaims. ‘Quality dark chocolate – the kind I like, not like those cheap biscuits you’re always buying me …’
‘They are lovely,’ I say. ‘In the hotel I stayed at, for the cookery course, someone put one on my pillow every evening …’
‘How very thoughtful,’ Mrs B says.
I glance past her, to Victoria, who has fixed me with a cool stare. ‘What d’you mean, Audrey?’
‘You know – turndown time. When they fold back your covers to make your bed look more—’
‘Yes, I know what turndown time is. I mean these chocolates.’ She picks up the box and frowns at the curly gold script on the lid. ‘Kirsch Kisses. What are they exactly?’
‘Erm, just a present I brought back for your mum …’
Victoria fixes her pale grey eyes upon mine. Just for a moment, I feel sorry for her. My own mum wasn’t around; she’d hotfooted it to Wales with nothing more than her books, a box of photos and a small holdall of clothes. We had neither a tricky nor a warm, loving relationship, because there wasn’t any at all. Somehow, the brittleness between Victoria and her mother seems sadder than having a mother who simply decided she needed to be somewhere else.
‘But these are alcoholic chocolates,’ Victoria remarks.
‘Yes, but there’s only a tiny bit of booze in them. It’s mostly cherry and chocolate …’
A furrow has appeared between her sparse eyebrows. ‘Mum shouldn’t have any alcohol at all. We don’t know how it mixes with her medication.’ She turns to her mother. ‘So this is why you’ve been so difficult today.’
