by Sue Watson
I’d always been the barefoot younger sister to Tamsin’s soaring stiletto success – but I was proud of what I was achieving and that I could be there for my sister. Jacob and I sat by the fire toasting bread on our forks, and as the toast turned crispy golden, I wondered if perhaps this was finally my chance to be there for Tamsin?
Sitting with mugs of cocoa and our toast now browned, I dragged my thoughts away from her plight temporarily to give Jacob some attention. Tamsin was there, as always, lodged inside my brain, just behind my new recipe for Christmas cake and to the left of a vague worry about paying the latest electricity bill. But Jacob had spent too long watching me distracted – particularly at this time of year, and it was important to me to be with him and enjoy our time together. I asked him about his day, which seemed to consist mainly of playing with the childminder’s cat.
‘Mr Fluffy is cute,’ he said, sipping his hot chocolate and licking milky foam from around his mouth.
‘Yes, he’s such a cuddly cat, isn’t he?’ I smiled, both hands round my mug in an attempt to warm them.
‘Toby said I looked like a girl so Mr Fluffy got him for me.’
‘Oh dear. That wasn’t very nice of Toby,’ I said. This wasn’t the first time Jacob had hinted at problems with other kids – boys in particular. My son liked his hair long, just like his dad’s used to be, and we both loved it. Steve had had his own unique style and would often wear whacky T-shirts and long shorts in the summer to work. He had been a teacher like me and his chemistry class had loved his lack of conformity. I could see so much of Steve in Jacob, who also liked his own style and didn’t want to conform, even at the age of six.
‘I played ball with Mr Fluffy,’ Jacob was saying. ‘He flew through the air like a big football.’
I smiled and swallowed my toast in one lump, horrified. ‘You didn’t hurt Mr Fluffy did you?’
‘No, but he jumped on Callum because he said I looked like a girl.’
My heart twisted slightly, the thought of his friends laughing at him, mocking my little boy. It probably hurt me more than it hurt him.
‘Do they make fun of your hair?’ I asked.
He nodded again.
‘But you like it long don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ignore them. You don’t want to look the same as everyone else do you?’
‘No.’
‘Okay.’
‘I want to look like daddy.’
I smiled. ‘Yes you do, and Mummy’s proud of you... and so is Daddy.’
‘Can he see my hair? From heaven?’
‘Yes of course.’ I felt a burning in the back of my throat, but cleared it pretending to be okay, strong for both of us.
He seemed okay with this and settled down to finish his toast.
I sighed, it was so hard being a single parent, worrying if I’d got things right and being the only one to have big life conversations with my son. I drank my chocolate, just wishing the other parents would keep their small-minded, prejudiced thoughts to themselves. I’d seen it first hand as a primary school teacher – kids picked on for being different, and I didn’t want Jacob to conform just because of a few small-minded people.
‘What do you remember about Daddy?’ I asked Jacob.
He looked down, like he didn’t want to talk about his dad because it would upset me.
‘It’s okay to talk about people who’ve died,’ I explained. ‘It’s a way of keeping them with us... I know I get a bit upset sometimes when we talk about him, but that’s okay too.’
He nodded, uncertainly. The fire was going down, so I stoked it up, added more fuel and pulled myself together.
I had a tough few weeks ahead leading up to Christmas and I had to stay strong. Until now I’d always had Tamsin to pull me through. We always stayed at Tamsin’s on Christmas Eve and she spoiled Jacob something rotten with gifts, but as he had no grandparents and no dad I appreciated her giving him such a good Christmas. I had no enthusiasm for the festive season and just couldn’t wait for it to be over – along with the memories of that knock on the door when the police had arrived.
‘I know, let’s rehearse your lines,’ I said to Jacob, finishing my chocolate and collecting the cups and toast plates.
Jacob had two lines for his part as the donkey in the school Nativity play and he’d been delighted to be chosen. So as the snow came down outside, we rehearsed. I smiled and mouthed the lines as he said them, then nodded encouragingly as he improvised with a lisped ‘neigh’ and a nod.
We worked on this for a while until Richard called round and joined in with what he called ‘nativity training sessions’, but he and Jacob soon started talking football as usual. I didn’t mind, it gave me chance to reflect on the Tamsin situation and consider the implications of what had happened. I couldn’t say anything to Richard in front of Jacob, so I went into the kitchen to wash up and let my mind go over things.
Richard and I had been seeing each other on a casual basis for about a year. We had met at the school gate – his daughter played with Jacob and he was a single father going through a difficult divorce. Neither of us was ready for anything too heavy, so we were on the same page. He was warm and funny and he made me laugh, but recently he’d wanted more and I sometimes resented him trying to look after me (I had enough of that from Tamsin). I was fond of him, but a part of me was still struggling to let go of Steve.
I sometimes worried that perhaps I was looking for a father for Jacob rather than a partner for me. I could hear them playing football together in the living room and hearing the slamming of the ball against the wall followed by shouting and laughter made me smile. If everything was okay here, with Jacob, I could be strong and help my sister through this – she’d been there for me the night Steve died. I thought back to that night now in vivid Technicolor; when the police had appeared on the doorstep I'd thought it was Steve returning home. I'd run to the door to throw my arms round him and say I was sorry – but instead it had been the policewoman who was sorry. She was sorry to tell me that my husband had been killed. Just like that – not ‘hello’ or ‘Happy Christmas’... just that. Enthusiastic roars of ‘goal’ intruded on my thoughts again and I sighed with relief – I had to stop torturing myself. In the past twelve months I’d found a wonderful man who loved me and my little boy. Perhaps now it was time to try and let Steve go...
4
The Real Housewives of Chantray Lane
Tamsin
The following morning I had (without any sleep) managed to convince myself that it was all a horrific cock-up. Of course I wouldn’t say the word ‘cock-up’ because that would be common, but I’d told the kids the bank had made a mistake and Simon must be delayed. Of course Sam wasn’t so easy to convince.
‘Delayed? Where – Australia?’
‘Rude,’ I snapped.
‘He’s done a runner,’ added Mrs J from under the kitchen island.
Sam and I looked at each other.
‘I don’t keep her there you understand,’ I said, ‘she just appears in a puff of smoke.’
Sam laughed.
‘So where is he? That hubby of yours?’ came the voice again. Apparently she was cleaning the floor, but I suspected she’d just found a good vantage point for ear flapping.
‘Look, I don’t know where he is, but what I do know is he works hard. He’s probably been working all night, he’s pulled an all-nighter before.’
‘Mmmm ... that’s what he calls it?’ Mrs J muttered.
‘Enough. That’s my husband you’re talking about.’
Mrs J didn’t miss a trick, I once mentioned that Simon was very friendly with a woman at work and she’d pestered me for weeks about it. Asking if he was working, when he was working and who with until I suggested she ask him for a copy of his bloody work schedule. Now wasn’t the time for her to be bad-mouthing Simon, though I have to say I was beginning to feel very angry with him myself. I was trying his phone every few minutes like an obsessed person, bu
t it was permanently off. Where the hell was he?
Meanwhile, Sam had turned up at dawn and was trying to get me to pack, but how could I? My heart was breaking and I just kept thinking – if I wait another few minutes he’ll be here, or he’ll call and it will all be fine. But it was now 11 a.m., nineteen hours after the bailiffs had burst in – and still nothing from him.
‘Coffee?’ I asked her and she gave me a ‘you should be packing’ look.
‘Tamsin, I can’t hang around too long, love, I’ve left Richard running the bakery and he doesn’t know his éclairs from his croquembouche.’
‘Just a quick coffee?’ I asked, feeling like a child.
She nodded and I put the kettle on. Suddenly I was asking my little sister for permission to make a cup of coffee – a lot had happened in the last 24 hours.
I opened my bag of coffee and breathed deeply, my rich roast Sumatra Wahana was like pure therapy. I remembered the first time I’d tasted it, in a little cafe in The Lakes. Just thinking about that holiday now made me want to cry, I grabbed a tissue and Sam immediately asked if I was okay.
‘Oh I was just thinking... one of my best ever Christmases was when Simon and I spent an idyllic pre-children Christmas in a cottage in The Lake District,’ I said, shaking coffee beans into the electric grinder. ‘The cottage was almost falling down, no heating, a leaking toilet and frozen pipes, but each day we’d wrap up warm and wander the hills. We loved the snow, the fresh air, the nothingness, taking our pleasure from the peace and quiet and just being alone together.’ I poured hot water onto the ground coffee, filling my nostrils with the nutty, soothing aroma of freshly ground beans. I took out two mugs while Sam slid into a seat at the kitchen table she was always a good listener. I suppose she had to be because I was a good talker.
‘In the evenings we’d return to the cosy cottage and eat local cheese, a bottle of wine and sit by a roaring log fire,’ I gazed ahead, remembering how life had been... how we had been. ‘We had no money, a rented flat and little idea where our lives were going to take us. But we were happy, somehow – equal, you know?’
Sam looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I know you think Simon can be a bit of a bully, but he isn’t, it’s just that over the years he sort of took charge. And as he became more successful I took a back seat and focussed more on the kids and home...’
‘So you gave up helping out with the business and...’
‘I didn’t feel I could involve myself in the business anymore – it wasn’t my arena... I lost my confidence.’
Sam looked angry. ‘But you’re a vibrant, intelligent woman with so much to give. You started that business with Simon, and once the kids were off your hands you could have gone back there to work, but he never let you do that. If you’d been in charge Tam we both know none of this would have happened – you’d have had much more of a grip on things than Simon had.’
She was right of course, but he’d cut me off years ago.
‘I’d always planned to go back after the children were born but Simon put me off – he said it was all computerised now and I wouldn’t have a clue. I didn’t argue, it was easier to accept it and just stay at home...’
‘Yes, but in doing that you lost confidence, made yourself very vulnerable and completely dependent on him financially,’ Sam pointed out.
I had to agree. Simon would come home and scare me with stories about the young, go-getting women he worked with and I couldn’t help but feel insignificant and worthless. Compared to these ballsy women with incredible knowledge and talent, I felt I had nothing to offer. But at home I could take control. That’s why I always embraced occasions – especially Christmas, when I could showcase my talents, deck the halls and bring on the carol singers.
‘That holiday in The Lakes was one of my happiest memories,’ I sighed. ‘I never felt the cold or was in the least worried about the fact our car kept giving up on the mountainous roads and we couldn’t afford to eat out.’ I smiled to myself. ‘Who needed luxury cars and fancy restaurants when we had snowy mountains, lush forests and sex by the fire?’ I plunged the cafetière and drips of strong, brown liquid escaped onto the perfect countertop and it dawned on me – we'd spent that holiday dreaming of our future. And we were the lucky ones... we got everything we’d wanted, but we lost each other along the way. We’d gone on to stay in five star hotels, swim in infinity pools and drink vintage champagne, but none of our holidays since had been as wonderful as the one in that little cottage with the leaking toilet.
Only a few days before, I’d suggested to Simon that we take a trip back to The Lakes and that run-down little cottage one day. ‘We could revisit the past?’ I’d said. But he wasn’t interested. ‘The past is the past Tamsin and who wants to freeze to death in an old cottage when there are perfectly good hotels?’ I guess he’d moved on – and left me behind.
I’d never really talked to Sam about my marriage – I’d always protected her, tried to keep worry from her door. Even as a little kid I never really let her see what was going on and I’d continued to do that even as adults, especially after what she’d been through – I couldn’t add to Sam’s burden. Over the years, I’d become emotionally self-sufficient, or had I just pushed my worries to the back of my mind, folded them all up neatly and closed the drawer?
Of course it wasn’t just my marriage that had been coming apart under the perfect roof of my perfect detached home with double garage, designer kitchen and tennis courts. My circle of friends on Chantray Lane were great fun, but I had never really been honest with them, never been able to tell them I’d been born in a council house, or that my Dad had been on the dole. The ladies of Chantray Lane weren’t exactly known for their acceptance of others less fortunate (unless it was a Third World black tie charity event) and I dreaded being excluded. The school I’d attended was the one they spoke of in hushed tones, like it was some kind of borstal. It was the place they threatened their own kids with if they didn’t work hard at their paid-for prep school. I would always blush when anyone mentioned it – and feigned deafness when anyone asked where I had been educated.
I sipped at my coffee, a warm, comforting caffeine embrace; ‘I’ll call the girls,’ I sighed, ‘I need to tell them before they drive past and see that bloody big poster in the window.’ But Sam suggested I leave it for now.
‘Talk to your friends once you know exactly what’s going on. You know they will tell everyone so just keep it to yourself until you know what’s happened to Simon.’
I nodded, she was right, my friends could be quite judgemental and I didn’t want them calling Simon and hurling abuse down the phone at him on my behalf. Anouska, Phaedra and I all lived on the same road, known locally as ‘Millionaire’s Row,’ and were all part of what we jokingly referred to as ‘The Real Housewives of Chantray Lane.’ We were all rich, all glamorous and all bosom buddies. Or so I thought.
‘I bet Anouska’s got Heddon and Hall over there now,’ I said, over my steaming mug of coffee. ‘They’re probably straddling her balustrades as we speak.’
‘Oh for God’s sake Tamsin, that’s the least of your worries,’ Sam snapped.
Anouska lived in The Old School house and was rich, beautiful and freshly single due to her philandering husband’s desire for younger flesh. She was also very competitive and each Christmas always tried to book Heddon and Hall before anyone else. They’d called in at Anouska’s on their way to me and I reckon she put an extra snifter in their mulled cranberry juice to inebriate them in the hope they would inadvertently sabotage my Festive interior.
Thinking about this, I suddenly remembered Mrs J’s tea leaf reading prediction and felt a shiver run through me. I grabbed Sam’s hand.
‘Oh My God,’ I gasped.
‘What? What is it Tam...’ she looked genuinely scared, and well she might be.
‘Bugger me,’ I said, forgetting my clipped tones and posh vowels. ‘On Wednesday, Mrs J peered into the remains of my Darjeeling and ann
ounced in a very dark voice that “Big changes are coming. Vultures are circling.”’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Yeah. I was here. She also said she could see a map of Antarctica, and the face of a clown, but then decided it was the reflection of her own face,’ Sam rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly Tamsin you’ve got to stop with the spirits and the tarots and stuff, Mrs J hasn’t got a bloody clue.’
‘What cheek!’ came a voice from the other side of the kitchen. Mrs J was now emptying cupboards and popped her head out.
‘Oh Mrs J, I hadn’t even realised you were still in the room,’ I said. I swear the woman was SAS trained and used silent stealth to gain intelligence on me.
‘I have got a clue Sam Angel ... didn’t I tell you who would win X Factor this year, Tamsin? I bet Psychic Sally couldn’t even tell you that.’
‘Yes you did... she did,’ I nodded to Sam in confirmation, ‘and he wasn’t the favourite, even Simon Cowell was shocked.’
‘Well, if Simon Cowell had me workin for ‘im he’d know who was goin to win and he wouldn’t take on all them daft acts,’ she continued, her voice now coming from inside the cupboard.
‘Anyway, as I was saying,’ I rolled my eyes to Sam who was trying not to laugh. ‘I looked into my cup at the tea leaves too and unlike Mrs J couldn’t see any vultures, clowns or X Factor winners... but after only a few seconds I swear I saw Anouska staring back at me. There she was, bold as brass among the debris of Darjeeling,’ I whispered, going very cold. ‘And I have just realised why – it was a premonition, she’s going to try and make hers the best party, the best canapés... photograph. Photograph! Oh God. I need to speak to Jesus...’
‘You mean to pray?’
‘No. To check he isn’t in Anouska’s sitting room papping those little fairy children of hers like bloody Disney child stars while my life goes down the toilet,’ I hissed, iPhone to my cheek.
