by Lucy Diamond
Clare laughed despite herself. ‘Thank you for the voucher,’ she said. ‘My sister might fancy a dirty weekend at the hotel with her new bloke, even if I’ve got nobody to go with.’
‘No worries,’ Roxie said lightly, peering at a map of central Peru on her screen.
As Clare took the sheaf of letters over to the scanner and began working her way through them, she felt unexpectedly downcast. For the first time since she and Steve had split up, she found herself wishing she did have someone to take to the hotel, someone to dress up for and hold hands with over the dinner table. Would there ever be such a person in her life again?
There was no word from Polly all morning. Strange. Maybe she was sleeping off the shagathon. Maybe she had already embarked on shagathon number two. Maybe she was in the process of moving her stuff into Jay’s house right now and … No. Calm down, Clare.
Her phone rang while she was sitting out in the sunny courtyard garden on her tea-break and she pounced on it eagerly. Then paused. It was Steve. What did he want?
‘Hello?’ she said warily.
‘Hi. Steve here.’
‘Hi. Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Just ringing to say I’ve taken a few days off next week, so I thought I’d treat the children to a bit of a holiday.’
She passed a hand through her hair, feeling tired by the conversation already. ‘Ah. Well, the thing is, I’m already—’
‘Thought we could get the Eurostar to Paris, see the sights. Maybe even have a day at Disney World.’
‘But Steve—’
‘So I’ll pick them up on Thursday and—’
‘Steve, wait!’ she all but shouted. ‘We’re going to be away next week; I’m taking them to Bournemouth.’
There was a lengthy silence. ‘You haven’t cleared that with me, though,’ he said.
The pompous arse. ‘What do you mean, I haven’t cleared it with you? I don’t need to clear it with you. I’m their mother, and I’m taking them on holiday.’
‘Yes, but it’s my weekend to have them. And seeing as I’ve got a few days’ leave and I’m entitled to half the week, then—’
Clare could feel her holiday collapsing before it had even started. ‘Can’t you take them next week?’ she said, trying not to lose her temper. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’d love to go, but—’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘But I’ve already sorted this out. We’re leaving on Monday.’
‘Well, you should have checked with me first. You’re disrespecting my rights as a father by—’
‘Steve, stop, this is ridiculous.’ She practically had to yell again to make herself heard over his ranting. ‘Why are you behaving like this? Why can’t we just talk about this reasonably?’
‘Because you’re not playing fair, that’s why. And—’
‘I’m not playing fair?’ She couldn’t believe the nerve of him. ‘Look, I’m at work, I don’t want to have a shouting match about this now. Let’s talk later on and we’ll get it all sorted out, okay?’
‘God, Clare, you’re so bloody sanctimonious, aren’t you? What do you think the kids will say, when I tell them you wouldn’t let me take them to Disney World? How will that make them feel?’
Her jaw dropped open. If it wasn’t for the fact that Hilary Manning had just walked out with a steaming coffee and plonked herself down on the bench nearby, she would probably have started screaming at him. ‘I don’t want to talk to you when you’re being like this,’ she managed to say, anger boiling up within her like a volcano about to blow. ‘We’ll discuss it later.’ And she hung up before he could say another word and sat there, red-faced and furious.
‘Everything all right, Clare?’ Hilary asked, peering over her glasses.
Clare gritted her teeth. ‘Men,’ she said, walking back towards the main building. ‘Bloody men!’
She sat down at her desk again, then noticed the text from Polly which had just come through. Total disaster, ruined everything, Jay hates me. MEN.
It was obviously catching.
When she arrived home with the children, Clare found Polly typing away on her laptop at the kitchen table with a murderous look on her face. ‘Hi,’ she said, opening the fridge and wondering what she was going to make for dinner. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yep.’ Polly’s reply was so brusque that the word was like a bullet shot from her mouth. ‘Just swotting up for my interview next week.’
‘Oh yeah, you mentioned it in your text. Nice one.’ She hesitated. ‘And … Jay?’
‘Never happened.’
‘Okay. Well, if you want to talk about it later—’
‘Nope.’
‘Right.’ Ahh. It had gone that well. Clare gave up looking in the fridge, feeling uninspired by the contents. There was a pile of muddy beetroots on the worktop (a new offering from Agatha, no doubt), but they didn’t inspire her either.
‘Beans on toast all right, kids?’ she bellowed, putting a pan on the hob without waiting for the answer. Beans on toast was always all right, luckily. Then she glanced at Polly again, who was still mutinously stabbing at the keyboard. ‘So, what’s this job then?’
At last something other than ‘pissed off’ appeared on Polly’s face. A smile bloomed. ‘Oh, it’s really good, Clare,’ she said. ‘Similar to what I was doing before, but with more responsibility. Better pay even.’ Her eyes had become starry. ‘It would be perfect. Hence – ’ she gestured at the laptop. ‘I want to give the most impressive interview ever known to mankind. I’ve got to convince them that I’m their dream employee.’
‘That’s great,’ Clare said. ‘Well done. You deserve this, all the effort you’ve put in.’ The next moment she was struck with a pang at the thought of Polly vanishing back to London. She didn’t want to lose her again, this smart, loyal sister she’d only just found. ‘I’d miss you, though,’ she added. ‘We’d have to pledge not to lose touch again, see each other at weekends and phone more often …’
‘Definitely.’ Their eyes locked for a moment and Polly smiled. ‘Definitely,’ she repeated. ‘Let me just save this lot, and I’ll give you a hand with dinner. Even I can help with beans on toast.’
Later that evening Clare braced herself for another argument, took several deep, calming breaths, then picked up the phone to ring Steve. She’d only dialled two numbers, however, when she heard footsteps and then Alex’s face appeared around the door.
‘What’s up?’ she asked. She knew he found it difficult to get to sleep when it was still so light outside, but lately he’d got into the bad habit of reappearing after bedtime almost every night with some excuse or other.
‘I can’t sleep,’ he said.
She held out her arms to him and he came and sat on her lap. ‘You’ve hardly tried yet,’ she said, holding him close. ‘Go on, go back up to bed and just lie quietly with your eyes shut. And don’t come down again, okay?’
He shuffled off her knee. ‘What if my tooth falls out?’
‘Well, you can come down, if your tooth falls out.’
‘What if I’m sick?’
‘You won’t be sick, but if you are, just shout for me.’
‘What if the window smashes?’
‘It won’t. Go up to bed now.’
‘What if I have a bad dream?’
‘Then think about something funny and go back to sleep.’
‘What if—?’
‘Alex, just go, okay? Everything will be fine. Go and have a lovely long dream about our holiday next week.’
He hovered in the doorway. ‘But what if there’s a burglar?’
Clare rolled her eyes. ‘Alex …’
‘But what if there is?’
‘Fred will savage him, don’t worry,’ Polly put in, coming into the room just then and overhearing. ‘And I’ll whack him over the head with a rolling pin until he starts crying for his mummy.’
Alex glanced down at Fred, who was lolling on the carpet, looking about as ferocious as a banana. He
grinned. ‘Okay. Goodnight.’ And off he went.
Clare and Polly both laughed. ‘Comedy violence, that was all it took,’ Clare said, as they heard him scampering back up the stairs. ‘Boys!’
‘He’s so gorgeous,’ Polly said, sitting down and opening a library book called Answering Tough Interview Questions for Dummies. ‘They both are. Such lovely, funny, adorable children – I can’t believe it took me so many years to realize, the stupid, blind dunce that I am.’
There was a lump in Clare’s throat, and a sudden fuzziness around the edges of her vision. She’d always felt a stab of pain inside whenever Polly, her own sister, had displayed a total lack of interest in Leila and Alex. Thank goodness those days were over. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘They are gorgeous.’ She eyed the phone with a little sigh. ‘Which is why I’ve got to sort out their crap dad before I lose my bottle.’
‘Do it,’ Polly urged. ‘And tell him if he doesn’t start behaving soon, there’s a rolling pin with his name on it. We could take turns whacking him with it.’
‘Or shove it somewhere even more painful,’ Clare muttered grimly. She steeled herself, then dialled. His mobile number went straight to voicemail, so she tried the landline. It rang and rang and she was just about to hang up when a breathless-sounding Denise picked up the call. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Denise, it’s Clare. Is Steve there, please?’
Denise hesitated. ‘Er … he’s in the shower,’ she said. ‘Um, listen, Clare,’ she went on after a moment. Her words came out in a rush, as if she’d only just decided to say them. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but he’s been really upset lately. I don’t want to interfere, but I can’t bear to see him so low. Is there any way you can change your mind about … well, you know. What you’ve said.’
Clare was perplexed. ‘About Disney World?’ she ventured.
There was a pause. ‘No,’ Denise replied, sounding every bit as confused. ‘About not letting him see the children if we move.’
What? thought Clare, the words making no sense to her. Before she could reply. though, Denise was saying in a rather panicky voice, ‘Oh! He’s here, he’s out of the bathroom. Babe, it’s for you, sorry, I didn’t realize you’d come downstairs.’
Clare was still so disarmed by what Denise had just said that she barely registered the puke-making ‘Babe’. ‘Hi,’ she said when Steve came on the line. ‘What’s Denise talking about? Why does she seem to think I wouldn’t let you see the children any more? And what’s all this about you moving?’
She heard him groan and then the line became muffled, as if he was holding his hand over the receiver. ‘Den, what have you said ?’ he snapped. ‘I told you to keep out of this!’
‘What’s happening?’ Polly hissed from across the room.
‘Dunno,’ Clare replied, stroking Fred distractedly with her foot. This was all a bit weird. ‘Are you there, Steve? Steve?’
‘Sorry,’ he said, coming back on the line. ‘Ahh … I think there’s been a bit of … er … a misunderstanding.’
‘What sort of misunderstanding? You’ve lost me. Are you moving house?’
Again there came that groan: a low, weary noise of dismay. ‘I can’t do this over the phone. Can I come over? We need to talk.’
She pulled an agonized face at Polly. ‘O-okay,’ she said. Then she remembered the kitchen was full of her business equipment and decided she couldn’t be bothered to go through the palaver of clearing it out again, in order to keep up appearances. The strange mood he was in, it might be better to talk on neutral territory. ‘Why don’t I meet you somewhere in the middle?’
He sighed. It was starting to make her feel concerned, the way he was behaving. ‘Steve, you’re not ill, are you?’ she asked when he didn’t say anything.
She could hear Denise twittering on in the background – anxious, apologetic. ‘What? In a minute,’ Steve snapped and then, in a more conciliatory voice to Clare: ‘Yes, okay. Let’s meet in the Red Lion in Nettleside. I’ll be there in an hour.’
She didn’t even have time to say goodbye before he hung up.
Nettleside was about twenty minutes’ drive to the east of Elderchurch, and the Red Lion was a cosy pub just off the main road, with a large beer garden and an enormous menu. They’d gone for dinner here many times as a couple because Steve had a particular hankering for the generous steak-and-ale pie with flaky pastry; he’d order it every time, and always ran his finger around the pie pot to get the last of the gravy. Funny the silly little things that stuck in your head, Clare thought to herself as she parked the car.
She’d fretted the whole way there, worried about what Steve was going to say. He’d been acting so oddly the last few weeks; there was obviously a big story waiting to tumble out. Thank God Denise had opened her gob and given her some hint of it on the phone, otherwise she’d have been kept in the dark until Steve had decided he was man enough to tell her himself. There was something about moving house, that was for sure. But why spin Denise a lie about her not letting him see their children? As if she would ever say that, for goodness’ sake!
His BMW was already in the car park, she noticed, as she walked towards the pub entrance. He’d parked slightly askew – unheard of, for the man who prided himself on his immaculate driving skills. Just the sight of the angled wheels, the way the car had been left impatiently there, gave Clare cause for concern. It was so out of character.
Steve was at a table in the corner of the pub, nursing a glass of red wine with an air of self-absorbed gloom almost visible around him like a mushroom cloud. She bought herself a Diet Coke and took a deep breath. Next stop: into the lion’s den.
‘Evening,’ she said coolly, sitting down opposite him. Prince Charming that he was, he’d hogged the comfortable padded armchair for himself and had left her a sticky-looking bar stool, but she didn’t comment on this, merely steepled her fingers together on the table and looked at him expectantly.
‘Hi,’ he said. God, he looked rough. Was he ill? There were huge bags under his eyes and he had a general air of unkemptness, what with the creases in his T-shirt and the stubble around his jaw. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this,’ he began, fidgeting in his seat. ‘I’ve had a difficult time lately.’
Clare sipped her drink. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked after a few moments, when it seemed as if the conversation had already ground to a halt.
‘Well, work’s been … tricky,’ he said, swilling his wine around in the glass, his focus seemingly on the whirlpool he was creating.
Come on, out with it, she thought. How long was he going to drag this out?
‘The big boys in head office decided last year that we’d save a lot of money if we relocated,’ he said at last, ‘but that’s gone down like a lead balloon with most of the workforce. Not least with me.’
Relocation. Ahh. Steve worked in the accounts department of a large insurance firm that was based in Reading, a short hop up the A33 from Basingstoke. ‘Where do they want to move to?’
He sighed. ‘Liverpool,’ came his answer, pronounced so miserably it was as if he was reading out his own death sentence. ‘Miles away from here, and the children.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘What does Denise think?’
‘Oh, she’s over the moon. Half her family are in Stockport, so she’d love us to live up North. But …’ He shrugged.
‘But you don’t want to,’ Clare finished for him. She leaned back in her seat, eyes narrowing. ‘So, what? You told her I wouldn’t let you see the children if you went? Was that your plan?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘Er, you could have told her the truth?’ she said witheringly. ‘That you didn’t want to move hundreds of miles away from Leila and Alex?’
There was guilt all over his face. ‘I tried that,’ he muttered.
Not hard enough obviously, Clare thought. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she said. ‘Even if Denise had com
e round to your view, had said, “Okay, if Clare’s playing hardball, then of course we can’t move”, what would you have done? Surely the point is: you’re relocating? You have to move?’
‘I don’t have to,’ he replied, plucking at the beer mat and tearing shreds off one corner. ‘There’s a voluntary redundancy package, so …’
She stared. ‘What, so you’d rather lose your job than move away?’ She hadn’t been expecting that. Steve loved his job; he loved the office banter and the sales targets, loved wearing a suit and tie every day, loved the self-importance that his laptop and smartphone gave him.
He shrugged again. ‘It’s a big decision,’ he said. ‘All I know is that I don’t want to lose touch with my own children.’
Seeing him looking so grey-faced and beaten-down, Clare realized she was actually feeling sorry for him. For a whole split-second anyway, until she remembered the full extent of his weird behaviour. ‘Hang on, though,’ she said. ‘What about all that shit from your lawyer – that bloody pompous letter? – not to mention you springing this Disney World trip on me, all that emotional blackmail about “What will the kids think of you, when I tell them you won’t let them go”? What was all that for?’
He hung his head. ‘I … I let things get to me,’ he said hoarsely.
Was that it? Was that the sum total of his explanation? She stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘Yeah, I’ll say you did,’ she replied sarcastically. ‘And you took it out on me. What was that: a little power trip to make yourself feel better?’ She suddenly remembered Polly’s words the night she’d moved into the cottage: I never liked the way he tried to put you down. He seemed to hate it when you had any kind of success or triumph. At the time Polly’s comment had irritated her; who was her sister to criticize Steve, when she’d barely bothered getting to know him? Perhaps she’d had a point, though.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Leila said something about you getting this new business up and running and …’ He wrung his hands. ‘It just felt like a kick in the teeth: you doing so well, when everything was going so badly for me.’
