by Carrie Elks
“All crumpled up in a paint pot?” I ask, trying not to look down again. I can picture the red and green streaks that criss-cross the front of the fabric, and the pale, taut stomach that lies underneath.
“Something like that.”
“Well, it suits you.”
He walks over and takes the pot from my hands. “You, of course, look as beautiful as ever.”
His words light a little fire inside me. “Thank you.”
We work together, putting the equipment out, making small talk as we go. We both try to take the rise out of each other, and fall into a comforting banter. It’s such a contrast to the silence I’ve been enduring; easy, pleasant.
“Hey, I meant to ask. Have you heard from Cameron?” Niall turns to me when we’ve finished getting ready. There are a few minutes until the kids arrive. “He hasn’t been here lately.”
“No, he’s laying low.”
“Is that a good thing?” He looks at me as if I have all the answers.
I slowly shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess it’s normal to lick your wounds when something like that happens. A kid his age doesn’t like to show weakness or emotion. The last thing he wants to do is apologise.”
“The affliction of a teenage boy. So many emotions but no ability to put them into words.” He sounds almost wistful. “Christ, I’m glad I don’t have to be a teenager anymore.”
“You sound as if you’re talking from experience.”
His voice thickens. “I am.”
The atmosphere turns on a sixpence—from carefree and playful to charged and deep. He stares at me and I gaze right back, guessing at the meaning in his words. I want to ask him what emotions he had then, what regrets he has now. For the first time, I want to tell him about the ones that I still carry. I even open my mouth to say the words, to spill my story out like blossoms on the wind.
Then all thoughts of confession are silenced by the sound of the door opening. Kids pour in, their chatter drowning everything out, and the moment passes. I get caught up with talking to Allegra, while Niall explains what we are going to do all afternoon.
I can’t help feeling relieved that my secrets are still safe.
* * *
“I painted this for you.” Allegra hands me her picture. This week Niall has them trying Impressionism. The paper is covered with thick paint strokes, each colour blending into the next; blue outer, red inner. I think it’s a London bus in the pouring rain.
“That’s beautiful. Is it really for me?” My throat constricts as she gives me a small smile. “I’ll put it up in my kitchen. Every time I look at it I’ll think of you.”
“It’s to say thank you. For taking care of me.” She pulls at her bottom lip with her paint-crusted fingers. “Are you still coming to take me out on Saturday?”
I want to hug her. To pull her close until I squeeze the uncertainty right out of her. Only a kid, and she’s already used to being let down.
“Of course I am. Is there anything special you’d like to do?”
“Can you take me to see my mum?”
I shake my head sadly. She asked the same question last week. I even called her social worker to see if we could, but was told there was to be no contact. Allegra is still at risk, and though Daisy has been released from hospital, knowing Darren is still at large makes me agree with them. “How about we go to the cinema?” I suggest. “You can choose the film. We can share a bucket of popcorn.” I bump her with my hip, but there’s no sign of a smile.
“I miss her.” A wobble of her bottom lip. “When will I get to go home?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart.”
Daisy isn’t able to look after herself right now, let alone her daughter. Her bruises may have faded, but she’s so anxious and highly strung she can’t sit still for more than a few minutes. When we met for coffee two days ago she could barely light her cigarette, her hands were shaking so badly. Darren really did a number on her.
“I don’t like it at the home. Can I come and live with you instead?” Allegra grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly. “I’ll be really good and I’ll do whatever you tell me. I promise I won’t make a mess.”
Tears sting at my eyes. How do I explain to an eight-year-old that my husband wouldn’t let her stay? That my marriage is in crisis and she’d probably be unhappier at my house than at the group home. “Why don’t you like it?”
“The other kids are mean. One of them threw my book in the toilet.” She takes a shaky breath. “They told me I’ll have to live there until I’m eighteen because my mum doesn’t love me.”
I crouch down until our faces are on the same level, and reach out to hold her. “You know that’s not true, right? She loves you so much. She’s just not well enough to take care of you at the moment. But she’s trying to get better, and she told me she misses you. So much.”
“You’ve seen her?”
I nod, aware of the unfairness of it all. That I can see them both but they can’t see each other.
“Will you tell her I love her, too?”
I hug her close, as much to hide my tears as to give her comfort. “Of course I will.”
* * *
It’s nearly six by the time we finish clearing the room. The kids took Impressionism seriously, mixing a myriad of colours together until they all blended into a muddy brown mess, spilling paint onto the desks and floors. After I put the mop and bucket back in the cupboard and Niall places the last few containers of paint on the shelves, we turn out the lights and walk into the lobby. I’m in no real hurry to go home to an empty house, and Niall seems to be of a similar mind. We lean against the wall and chat as if we have all the time in the world.
“Are you okay?” He rubs his chin. “You seemed a bit upset earlier. Allegra did too.”
I don’t know whether I’m surprised that he noticed, or shocked that he’s said anything. “She misses her mum. And poor Daisy misses her, too. But they’re not allowed to see each other. Not until Daisy’s back on her feet and able to prove she’s responsible.”
“Even though she’s her ma?”
“She’s a drug addict who got beaten up so seriously she was in hospital for over a week. I don’t even want to think what could have happened to Allegra if she’d been there.”
“Jesus.” He looks as though I’ve just kicked him in the stomach. “That poor kid. She doesn’t really stand a chance, does she?”
“No.” I stop talking because more tears start to threaten and I’m so sick of feeling like this. As if I’m walking on a knife edge, inching my way along, frightened of falling.
“She’s got you on her side, though. That has to count for something.” Niall reaches out and lifts my chin up with his fingers until I’m looking right at him. “Don’t forget that.” He’s still holding me, his fingers cupping my face, and it makes my pulse speed.
“I won’t.”
We’re still staring at each other. My skin tingles. Every time he gets this close I have the same reaction. It’s not conscious, but the strength of my response still surprises me. I want to reach out and trace his bottom lip, touch the part where soft skin becomes moist mouth. I want to feel his teeth digging into my thumb as I push it inside, before he closes his lips around me.
More than anything, I want him to pull me close, meld his body to mine and kiss me like he used to. As if he had no choice.
But I’m married.
I’m married, I’m married, and I’m married.
If I think it enough times maybe my body will listen.
“Have you got anything nice planned for the weekend?” I change the subject, making my voice breezy and light. When I take half a step back his hand falls from my face.
“My ma is visiting for the weekend. A few days with me then she travels north to visit her sister.” His face turns almost comical when he adds, “I’ve been cleaning all week.”
I burst out laughing and it’s such a relief. Niall grins as if he’s accomplished something.
“Are you scared of her?” I ask.
“My mother? Of course.” He looks at me as if I’m stupid. “She’s lovely and all, but if I don’t clean before she visits she insists on spending the whole weekend clearing out the flat. There’s stuff in there I’d rather she didn’t see.”
This sounds interesting. “What kind of stuff?”
He shifts his feet. “I dunno, just stuff. Paintings and things. I don’t like her looking through them.”
I raise my eyebrows. “At the nudes?”
“You’ve got a dirty mind, do you know that?” He shakes his head, but the grin on his lips tells me he’s kidding. “What makes you think I’ve got a flat full of nudes?”
His smile is infectious. It’s so easy, this conversation, the gentle teasing. “What else can you be hiding from your mum?”
He leans toward me, his dark hair falling over the side of his face as his head inclines. It brushes against my cheek as he hovers his lips close to my ear. “Maybe I’ve got a red room of pain.”
There’s something about the sentence that makes my toes curl up. I’m not sure if it’s the physical sensation of his breath on my sensitive skin, or if it’s the fact he’s saying dirty words in my ear.
Dirty, funny words.
I pull back and raise my eyebrows. “If you can afford a red room of pain in central London, you’re obviously making more money than I thought.”
“I’m not quite in the Damien Hirst ranks yet. Let’s call it an off-pink cupboard of slight discomfort.”
“Now that I’d like to see.”
“Why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow night?” He almost stumbles over the words. “You and Simon. I’m sure my mother would love to see I actually have some friends over here.”
“You cook?”
“I try. I’ve been known not to completely bollocks up a steak.” He’s looking at me quizzically, as if I’m some puzzle he’s trying to solve. “It probably won’t be up to the standards you and Simon are used to but—”
“Simon’s away for the weekend,” I blurt out.
“What about you? Are you free?” His voice is soft. “I can cook steaks for three as easily as for four.”
Thank God his mum will be there. If bones could sigh, mine would right now. I’m reading into things that aren’t there, seeing complications where there is only simplicity. A friend, his mum and a dinner, nothing more.
“Sounds good. What time do you want me?”
12
Niall’s flat is on the top floor of a Victorian terrace in Ladbroke Grove. I stand outside, clutching a bottle of chilled white wine, letting anticipation waft over me like a welcome breeze. In the road behind cars idle, honking impatiently, their horns cutting through the almost-balmy evening air. I wait, one hand clutching the bottle, the other in a fist that’s too scared to move forward and push a tiny silver button that will let Niall and his mother know I’m here.
Why am I here?
It’s only dinner—a meal with a friend and his mum. No different to a night with Lara and Alex, after all. Plus, Simon himself is out somewhere without me, not bothering to call to check in, or even deigning to answer my emails. So I shouldn’t feel guilty about this, should I? Yet I hesitate, standing on the concrete steps that lead to the shiny black front door, breathing in the aroma of the sweet peas trailing down from hanging baskets.
There’s a part of me that wants to spin on my heel and walk straight down the steps and into a cab. Away from the madness and back to my reality. Except I want doesn’t exist anymore, if it ever did. I’m starting to think that my steady marriage and supportive husband are a product of my fevered imagination; a grown-up equivalent of an invisible friend.
A comforting lie.
The shrill sound of a police siren in the distance brings me out of my thoughts, and I realise I’ve been standing here for too long. Swallowing down the last remnants of fear, I finally press the button for flat three, my finger shaking as I pull it away. In the moment it takes for Niall to answer the urge to run away crescendos, and I’m a hair’s breadth from sprinting down the road when his voice crackles through the speakers.
“Hello?”
I lean closer to the intercom. “It’s Beth.”
“Come on up. Third floor.” A buzz followed by a clunk tells me the front door has unlocked. Pushing it open gingerly, I step into an empty hallway that echoes with every click of my heels on the wooden floor. I put my foot on the bottom stair and wish I spent more time at the gym than I do thinking about it.
By the time I get to his floor I’m so worn out I forget that I’m scared. At least until he opens the door. Niall stands beneath the lintel, his hair brushed back off his face, wearing clean, dark jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Hi.” He takes a step forward and his forehead furrows, his brows pulling together as he looks at me. “Are you okay?”
I’m still gasping for air, my heart hammering against my chest. “I’m a bit... unfit.”
He bites his lip, trying to stifle a smile. If I had any spare oxygen I’d huff.
“Let me take that from you,” he says, grabbing the wine bottle. “Come in, come in.”
The first thing I notice is how light and airy his flat is. Though it’s almost twilight, the evening sun illuminates the room as if it’s still midday. It makes sense, I suppose, that he’d choose to live somewhere with good light. He’s an artist, after all.
I’m so busy looking around that it takes me a minute to notice the petite lady who comes to join us, a wine glass in her hand and a smile on her lips.
“Ma, this is Beth. Beth, this is my auld ma.” There’s a sardonic lilt to his voice.
She hits him on the arm. “Stop it, you little horror, you know my bloody name.” When she looks at me she’s all sweetness and light. “You can call me Maureen.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maureen.”
“You, too. It’s always lovely to meet one of Niall’s friends.” Her eyes are the same colour as her son’s, a deep blue that reminds me of oceans and seas. “Niall, stop hanging around and get your friend a drink.”
She nags him with humour and he takes it in the same way, doffing an imaginary cap at her before he winks at me. When he walks into the small kitchen at the end of his living room, I can’t help but admire the way his jeans skim over his behind.
“Shall we sit down?” Niall’s mum asks.
I tear my eyes away from her son’s arse. “That would be lovely.”
I’ve barely sat down on the battered leather sofa before she starts talking. She’s perched on an over-stuffed easy chair opposite me. “Niall tells me you work at a drug clinic. Do you enjoy it there? It sounds hard work.”
“It’s not so bad. I work with children rather than addicts, so I don’t get to see the worst of it.”
Niall hands me a glass of wine and sits down next to me. “Is she giving you the third degree?”
“Hush up, you auld spa.” There’s a grin on her lips and I presume she’s insulting him. “It’s the only way I can find out what you’re up to. It’s not as though you ever call me.”
He catches my eye. “Once a week. Every Sunday at six or I’m a dead man walking.”
“He schedules me in like I’m a trip to the dentist,” she tells me. “Is that any way for a boy to treat his mammy?”
There’s fondness in their mutual insults, and I can’t help but smile. They seem to have the sort of relationship I could only dream of having with my parents. I think I might like Niall’s mother as much as I like him.
They eventually stop talking long enough to draw breath, and Niall says he’ll start cooking the steaks. He takes me up on my offer to make the salad, and the two of us work away in his kitchen, chopping and seasoning as we chat.
“I’m sorry about my ma, she can be pretty full on.”
“She’s lovely.” I take a sip of wine and lean on his breakfast bar. “You’re lucky to have her.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle up. “I really am. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” His voice deepens. “That summer...when everything happened. God, she was a rock. I think I would have given up without her.”
I look down, feeling a tug in my stomach so strong it hurts. I should be pleased that he found some support where I had none. A cheerleader instead of the critics I had to endure. But if I’m truthful, there’s something galling in knowing he had her while I had months of angry silences and recriminations.
When my father brought me home from college that summer I was an embarrassment to them both. I’d let them down. They’d proudly sent their pretty A-grade daughter off to university only to have her return as a drug-addled failure who’d been at the centre of a national tragedy. I was their dirty little secret that year, hidden away at home.
No matter how hard I try, the pain never heals over completely. There’s still a little scab that’s so easily picked at.
“Are you okay?” he asks, concern etched in his eyes.
I take a deep breath followed by an even deeper mouthful of wine. “Yeah.” It comes out as a sigh. “I just hate remembering what happened. It still hurts, thinking about it.”
He reaches for my hand. “I know, believe me, I do. I spent years wishing I’d never given him that tab. That I’d listened to him when he said he felt ill. Sometimes I still dream about him.”
There’s no need for him to tell me they’re nightmares, because I know they are. The same terrible images that flicker through my own dormant mind; the party, the music, the dancing. The feeling that we could rule the world with love and peace. The way we ignored what was happening in front of our zoned-out eyes.
Digby wasn’t hot or thirsty. He wasn’t just shooting the breeze with us. While we danced our way through the night, high on E and God only knew what else, he was dying. He stumbled through the crowd, maybe clutching his chest, his heart fighting against the effects of MDMA. Losing spectacularly. We were his friends, we let him down. We let him die on a muddy, grass-covered field all alone.
While we danced.
