by Adele Parks
‘You might be seen meeting him, surely that’s more risky,’ argues Amelie.
‘No, we’ve picked a venue off the beaten track. Neither of us is in any danger of being spotted.’
‘How very clandestine,’ she mutters, raising an eyebrow to effectively communicate her distrust and displeasure.
‘I’m not enjoying this, Amelie.’
‘Make sure you don’t. Another coffee?’
I agree, mostly because I want Amelie to leave me alone for a while – even if it’s only for the few minutes it takes her to order and collect two lattes. I’m beginning to regret confessing my awful predicament to her. She’s behaving like my own personal Jiminy Cricket.
I glance around the coffee house. Normally I love it here. Often, I wander down the high street at about noon and find myself ambling into Costa. Their sandwiches are yummy and I prefer to buy one here than eat alone at home. Usually, I stretch out on one of the big brown leather sofas and sip my coffee while reading a novel. Having been a waitress for more years than I care to add up, there is no other single pleasure quite so great as putting your feet up and taking your time over a cup of coffee. I like to dip amaretti biscuits into my latte. They are expensive and some would argue that they taste like cardboard but I still consider them to be symbolic of urban living and that alone has an overwhelming pull for me.
Only a month ago I remember popping in here for a spot of lunch following a fairly rigorous exercise class and thinking to myself that my life was damn perfect, utterly, totally enviable. My body felt nicely stretched from my visit to the gym. My stomach felt a little stretched too (skinny café latte and a mozzarella, sun-dried tomatoes and pesto sandwich, tasted all right, a wee bit too salty). I had nowhere I needed to be. No one I owed money, apologies or a time sheet to. I remember thinking that life could not get more ideal. Now, I think my lot is on a par with Job’s and Amelie is macabrely expert as Job’s comforter. As if to underline my point Amelie returns to the table with three lattes and a smiling Laura.
‘Guess who I persuaded to join us?’ she beams.
I jump to my feet and hug Laura with mixed emotions. Her beam and cheerful demeanour are, and probably always will be, a pleasure. The guilt that grabs and tugs at my innards, like a bad case of food poisoning, is less welcome.
‘What are you doing here?’ I hope I sound delighted and curious rather than wary and anxious.
‘Amelie texted me this morning that you were getting together and I ought to join you. You don’t mind, do you?’
Laura looks momentarily apprehensive. It’s a look she used to constantly sport but now is, more or less, banished. It’s distressing to see it flash across her face again. She looks uncertain of her welcome and her worth. I’m utterly sorry, particularly because as far as I’m concerned, she is unwelcome: through no fault of her own.
‘It’s fantastic to see you,’ I hug her and try to believe what I’ve said. ‘Where’s Eddie?’
‘At his dad’s.’
I wait for a tirade about Oscar. Usually she can’t resist recounting the latest insensitivity. There’s always something. Besides leaving Laura and Eddie, Oscar’s crimes against humanity include repeatedly failing to buy the correct flavour yogurt for Eddie, allowing him to fall off a climbing frame (while everyone knows that Eddie might have fallen no matter who was looking after him, the point is, it happened while he was in Oscar’s care), failing to be responsible about bedtime curfews, feeding Eddie goodies packed with salt and additives (which Laura is also guilty of, but…), being away for Eddie’s birthday, buying Eddie extravagant pressies to try to compensate for the absences… I fear and imagine the list is endless. But, today, Laura appears not to have anything to say on the matter of Oscar.
‘I can’t think of anything except Vegas. To think, in three weeks and a day we’ll be on the plane.’ She giggles.
‘It’s always on my mind too,’ I admit.
Laura beams and breaks into song. She does a pretty good rendition because she has the singing voice the angels were supposed to give to me.
Laura is glowing and grinning; she has no idea she is grinding me down. I know I should be delighted that she’s finally found someone she cares about, someone who cares about her. But all I can see are the problems it will cause. This is never going to go away. Even if Stevie and I manage to secure a secret divorce, and by some amazing stretch of good luck Philip believes my story about sketchy paperwork and we remarry, my life will still be spoilt because Laura is in love with Stevie. And – deep breath – what if Stevie is in love with her too?
It dawns on me that there is a possibility that one day they might want to get married. If they do there will be more paperwork, more questions. Stevie will have to declare that he’s been married and that will lead to difficult questions. Even if we negotiate that thorny issue, there will be others. I won’t be able to attend their wedding because Stevie’s mum will recognize me. How do I explain that to Laura? By the same token Laura and Stevie will never be able to attend any family event I host in case my father or brothers bother to turn up and recognize him. I wonder what scale of miracle I’ll need to manage to tiptoe my way through the next forty years to avoid a catastrophic revelation. I don’t tell Laura this, instead I say, ‘I wondered if you wanted to come over and pick out some clothes for the trip.’
‘That’s lovely of you, Bella,’ grins Laura, ‘but you know what? I splashed out.’
‘You did?’ I’m amazed.
‘Yep. I hit Mango and Top Shop. You don’t have to spend a fortune. A few T-shirts, a bikini, a little skirt. It’s all in the accessorizing.’ Then, suddenly, her expression changes to one of concern. ‘Isn’t it terrible about poor Freya?’
‘What about her?’ I ask, concerned.
‘I haven’t had chance to tell Bella,’ says Amelie.
‘Tell me what?’
‘Freya is being bullied at school.’
‘She is? By whom? Have you been in to see her teachers? Why didn’t you tell me?’ I’m outraged on Freya’s behalf.
‘You’ve got other things to worry about. Besides, I don’t think it’s a big deal. She’s a strong girl, physically and mentally. I’ll keep an eye on it.’
‘Amelie!’ I’m outraged. Isn’t a mother’s job to fight their child’s battles? How can she be so calm? ‘Tell me the details,’ I demand.
‘One little girl pulls her ponytail and says it looks silly. She’s snapped her pencils, that sort of thing. She’s bitten her too, which is unacceptable at their age. But the teacher is aware of it. Luckily, Freya has no issues about being a grass. Freya was upset but after a day or two, she decided it was best to wear plaits.’
‘Kids can be so cruel, can’t they?’ I mutter. ‘School playgrounds are jungles. I mean, how many adults have bitten you in the last week?’ Laura blushes. ‘I don’t mean in a sexual context,’ I snap. ‘I mean when they bite and tell you that you smell or ask if your clothes were bought from a jumble sale.’
‘Freya has the sense to know this is only about jealousy,’ says Amelie. ‘It’s a storm in a teacup.’
I feel anger sizzling and spitting inside me. Clearly Amelie has never been bullied because if she had she’d want to rip off the head of the ponytail puller.
‘Has this bullying started since Ben died?’ I ask.
‘Why do you think it’s related to losing Ben?’ asks Amelie.
‘Just a guess.’
‘Did things get bad for you after your mother died?’ asks Amelie, who is perceptive to the point of being smug.
‘We’re not talking about me,’ I reply, and we’re not, but it surprises me to note that tears are welling in my eyes.
‘I think we are,’ states Amelie, calmly.
‘I was a popular kid.’ This isn’t strictly true. I wasn’t always popular.
‘So you did the bullying?’ asks Amelie. She’s pretending to be nonchalant by stirring sugar into her coffee but I know she doesn’t take sugar.
; ‘No. Definitely not.’
‘Well then, you must have been bullied. That’s the jungle law, you just about said as much yourself.’
‘I don’t want to talk about my past.’ I glare at Amelie, silently begging her to drop the subject. Why is she pushing this?
‘Did you feel abandoned when your mum died?’
I don’t move. If I so much as nod the tears will overflow. I’m not going to cry about bullying and neglect that happened over twenty years ago. That would be stupid. The pressures in my life, right now, must be making me feel vulnerable.
‘I’m sure your dad and brothers did their best but it must have been difficult growing up in a house full of men.’
Their best was piss-poor actually but I’m not going to say this. The kids used to say I looked like a boy. And I probably did as I wore lots of my brothers’ cast-offs. Money was so tight because Dad couldn’t work after Mum died – not because he was looking after us kids or because he was grief-stricken – he couldn’t work because he was always drunk. The kids said I smelt of dirty boys and beer. They were probably right about that too.
‘Who saved you, Bella?’ asks Amelie.
‘I don’t want to talk about this.’ I force myself to look at Amelie. She does, at least, have the decency to blanch when she meets my gaze but she’s a very determined woman.
‘Why not? In all our conversations about my losing Ben, never once have you said, “I relate to that,” but you must, mustn’t you? On some level? When you lost your mum you must have felt as fucking miserable, angry, and scared as I did when I lost Ben.’
‘I was just a kid.’
‘You must have felt worse because you were just a kid.’
I slowly draw a deep breath. I need to calm down. I need to remain cool. This isn’t the moment to share. I know what Amelie is trying to do and all credit to her for her amateur psychoanalysis. From the things I’ve told her in the past and, more potently, the things I haven’t told her she’s worked out that I had a bloody miserable time as a kid from the day Mum’s cancer was diagnosed. Until then, my childhood was fantastic, because it was average. I had my fair share of triumphs and disappointments, jelly and ice cream, homework and chickenpox. I was the first kid in my village to have a Raleigh bike. And when I was eight I owned a Cabbage Patch Kid doll, with adoption certificate and everything. It’s astounding that you often don’t know how wonderful something is until you lose it.
Then Mum got ill. And then she died. I will not talk about it. I will not dwell. It is enough to say the following seven years were filthily sad. I existed in a state of perpetual misery and I would probably still be drowning in that isolated hell if Stevie had not moved to our village. Stevie reintroduced me to kindness and happiness. Stevie.
Clearly Amelie has pieced this much together. She’s giving me an opportunity to explain to Laura what I did and why but I wish she’d just back off. Get the hell out of my mess. I don’t want to tell Laura any of it. Or Philip. I’ve been very careful to make light of my father’s drinking habit, never labelling it alcoholism. I’ve kept Philip away from my hometown where all he’d see is poverty, grime and, worst of all, my family’s indifference towards me. I don’t want it revealed, shared or explained. I simply never want to feel scared again.
‘We were talking about Freya.’ I try to sound unruffled.
‘But that’s my point, Bella. We never talk about you. You never talk about you. Did you ever come to terms with losing your mum?’
I see Laura squeeze Amelie’s arm. She’s trying to discreetly communicate that it’s best to drop this line of conversation. ‘I think you ought to respect Bella’s right to privacy,’ says Laura.
But Amelie won’t be deflected. ‘Why don’t you ever talk about losing your mum? You never talk about your past at all. It’s as though your life didn’t start until you arrived in London.’
‘Maybe it didn’t, Amelie. Not really.’ I use the voice I normally reserve for bank managers or traffic wardens. Impervious, distant, polite but entirely ‘fuck you’.
‘Er, the kids back home called me Jaws because of my brace.’ Laura throws in this contribution in an attempt to help me. Ironically, Amelie also thinks she’s helping me, she wants to help both of us. We all mean well but are we close to destroying one another?
‘You went to a local school, didn’t you, Bella? Remind me, what was the name of your village?’
I glare at Amelie, pure toxic. ‘Kirkspey,’ I say eventually. I know if I don’t name it, Amelie will.
‘Really?’ Laura cries, delighted to have chanced upon what she thinks is a digression. ‘That’s where Stevie lived as a teenager.’
‘Is it really? What a small world,’ says Amelie.
‘You must be mistaken,’ I insist. ‘It’s a very small village. How old did you say Stevie is?’
‘Thirty-one.’
‘A year older than me. We’d have known each other. And we don’t, so you must be mistaken.’
‘I’m sure it was Kirkspey.’
‘You should check with Stevie,’ says Amelie.
I wish she’d swallow her tongue. ‘Kirk means church so there are lots of towns with similar names in Scotland,’ I state, coolly. I know Amelie is not going to let this drop so I do the only thing I can. The thing I have always done. I gather up my raincoat and throw a few pounds on to the table and I head for the door. Case closed.
26. I Forgot to Remember to Forget
Wednesday 16th June 2004
Stevie
Bella is wearing a beige halter-neck dress and chunky boots. I’m no fashion guru but I can make a wild stab in the dark and guess that her outfit cost the equivalent of what I’d spend on a second-hand Fiat. The worst thing is my first thought: it was worth every penny. She looks sensational. I have a terrible fleeting thought.
I am proud of my wife.
I pull myself up short and remind myself that (a) she didn’t pay for the sexy get-up, her other husband did and if anyone should be swelling with pride it’s him and (b) Laura. I have Laura. We are an item and therefore I shouldn’t be noticing the sexiness or otherwise of other women, especially one I am married to.
‘Hi,’ I greet her, with studied nonchalance.
It’s a terrible thing that I have feelings for her, even jumbled ones, but it would be much, much worse if she knew.
I’ve always found it one of life’s huge bonuses that I’ve never fancied nasty women. I’m not one of those men who like high-maintenance bitches who bleed you dry and treat you badly. I simply do not have a masochistic streak; life’s too bloody short for that sort of effort. Besides, the world is full of decent women who look cute and that is where I like to spend my time. It’s odd then that I should think that Belinda, having been transformed into posh totty Bella, is almost irresistible while she is clearly cruel. I don’t understand myself.
I force myself to remember the moment I agreed to help her, a euphemism for agreeing to divorce her quietly – to shuffle away like a good little man, denied a scene or any fuss. I saw her slump with relief; clearly, she’d been rigid with tension throughout our meeting. How bloody insulting. Not only did she want rid of me but most embarrassingly of all, she wasn’t sure I’d want the same thing. Ha, bloody arrogant bint. Did she think she was such a great catch that I’d break down into an inconsolable heap, that I’d beg her not to divorce me? Did she think that for the last decade I’d been harbouring fantasies about us visiting Ikea together?
I take a macabre pleasure in reminding myself that it is a good thing she has lost her grasp on reality and that she wastes her money on designer clobber and her time at the beauty parlour. It’s a good thing she’s not a worthwhile person, with ambition or even a job, that she treats her friends in underhand ways, and that she can’t offer me anything like a reasonable explanation for her appalling behaviour towards me. This is all to the good because, as Bella Edwards is such a monster, I won’t fall for her. I won’t become sentimental about her not even if she loo
ks delicious.
I’m thinking all these vicious, stay-at-a-distance thoughts, when she disarms me. She leans in to kiss my cheek. Not two air kisses but a genuine one and all I can see is Belinda McDonnel. Her lips are squashy and smooth. Her cheek soft.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I offer and rise out of my chair but she puts a gently restraining hand on my shoulder.
‘My shout. What do you want?’
I glance at my bottle. It must have a leak as it is empty, she grins at my evident surprise. ‘Another Beck’s.’
Bella returns to the table with fresh drinks. Other men in the bar are watching her. They are curious but don’t believe they have any real chance of talking to, let alone dating, a woman like Bella Edwards. She’s composed, elegant, refined and aloof. I agree, looking at her now she would appear out of their stratosphere, let alone league, and appearances are all in situations such as these. But the men in this pub are like her father, grandfather, uncles and brothers. The men in this pub are like the sort of man her father expected her to marry. They think they exercise because they play darts and therefore aren’t worried about the pies and pints they consume. They play dominoes and think that will keep them mentally agile – that and reading the Sun.
Belinda hates pubs, always did. I bet Bella likes wine bars. As a child she often sat in her dad’s wreck of a car, waiting outside the local, while he had a ‘swift one’ that always turned into a slow several. If she was lucky, and he remembered that she was there, he’d bring out a bottle of Coke and a bag of crisps. If he forgot about her she might have to sit waiting for him until the early hours. Licensing laws were lax; his ability to drink for his country was notorious. He’d find her curled up in the back of the car, asleep, wrapped in the picnic rug. He’d wake her up and tell her they had to walk the three-and-a-half-mile journey home, he was too drunk to drive. He saw this as responsible parenting. Lots of the other dads tried to negotiate the winding roads despite consuming a skinful. I didn’t know Belinda when she was a kid but she told me these stories.
