‘Nice bath?’
‘Wonderful.’ I call out. ‘Come on now Charlotte, it's time for bed –you’ve got school tomorrow.’
I sit on the edge of the bath and it takes all my energy to just answer, because we have to start the love you, love you too thing all over again if I miss out a part. Then there’s the, see you in the morning thing too. They're supposed to reassure her but if I miss a beat, if I miss one word, panic grips and we have to start all over again.
‘See you in the morning,’ she says for maybe the third time.
I can’t do this.
I just can't keep on doing this.
‘Go to bed, Charlotte.’
She doesn't say anything, I just feel the tension in her silence and I have nothing left to comfort her with tonight.
I really don't know what I was thinking.
I looked at the bath and the bubbles and the jars and the lotions and the razors and I can't explain what happened next.
Even now it doesn't make sense.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Gloria
‘We’ll go somewhere nice,’ Paul says. ‘You deserve spoiling and I might not get to take you out for a while.’
‘I'm not sure if I can get a babysitter for Daisy.’ I try to get out of it that way, but he says that he doesn’t mind a bit if we bring Daisy along. Paul’s nice like that and so I tell him that I'll be ready by seven.
I don't want to go.
It doesn't seem right.
Paul starting a stint on night duty and it's nice that he wanted to take me out but, the thing is, it’s his birthday.
Not Paul's.
It just seems wrong to be going out when he's lying cold in the ground.
I had the most terrible dream last night.
About him.
About him in the ground. I don’t like my thoughts sometimes. I don’t like the horrible images that flash in my mind sometimes and I can’t tell anyone.
I can't really discuss it with Paul.
It's the only thing we can't talk about.
Well, it’s not the only thing, but it’s a big thing.
He gets awkward when I bring him up. I suppose it's understandable really. Given that we’ve been divorced for years, I should be well and truly over my ex. I am but it just feels different knowing that he's dead.
I’m obsessed about his last minutes. Did he talk about me, did he think about me for even a moment, did he suffer, did he know he was going to die?
There’s no one I can talk about it to.
Were so close in everything else. I can tell Paul anything.
Well, not anything.
There are some things I could never tell him, some things I could never tell anyone.
I let him talk about his ex though, but as soon as I bring up mine, or talk about Lucy, Paul just clams right up.
It's a problem really.
A deal breaker perhaps - because when I started dating again, I made a promise to myself that if I ever got serious again, then good or bad I’d be myself and, today, my self is sad.
I'm about to ring him, to tell him that I don't want to go out, that today is a hard day for me, but the phone goes again and I’m saved from cancelling, saved from speaking my truth. His work has rang and asked if he can go in tonight.
‘Honestly,’ I say. ‘It's fine.’
‘Are you okay, Gloria?’
I’m about to say yes, but I change my mind, I keep that promise to myself. ‘Actually no,’ I admit. ‘It’s his birthday today. He’d have been sixty.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Paul answers. ‘You should have said.’
‘How?’ I ask. ‘You don’t like it when I talk about him.’
‘No, Gloria…’
‘Yes.’ I interrupt.
‘Gloria, it’s not him, it’s…’ then, as always, he just stops. There’s just this mumble of sympathy and I hang up on him.
I know he’ll ring back.
Or come over.
I know I’m important to him.
But I’m important to me too.
Daisy is crying and, as I pick her up, I feel like crying too.
When is Eleanor going to sort herself out?
She comes round sometimes and she stays for a couple of hours but the rest is left for me.
I’m too old to play mum.
I want my life back.
Then I look at Daisy’s green eyes. They’re just like her grandfather’s and I regret my thoughts, because I cannot tell you just how much I love her. I cannot stand how her mother refuses to see just how beautiful Daisy is. I hold her close as I give her her bottle and she soothes me. She soothes the anger that is building inside, because I asked him to look after his girls and he hasn’t.
Aside from Eleanor, I can hardly get Bonny to even come to the phone – the only one remotely normal is Alice and that’s worrying enough in itself.
Like, she’s so happy with Hugh.
What happens if it ends?
What happens if they break up?
She’s fine now while they’re all happy, but they’ve never had to face problems…
Daisy’s hand finds my cheek and I press it to mine and I correct myself. They have faced problems. He’s been dead for more than three months and they’ve got through that.
‘Let’s go and see him,’ I say to Daisy. ‘Let’s go and see Granddad.’
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Lucy
‘Mum!’
From a distance I hear her scream.
‘Mum, please, wake up!’
I force my eyes open.
‘We’re going to be late,’ Charlotte begs.
If Oprah ever comes back to our screens, or if she's franchised, 20 years from now, Charlotte will be sitting on the couch and I think that will be the moment, she says, when it all went wrong.
Only she could explain the significance of that morning. What it must have felt like to come downstairs and there was no breakfast table set up.
It’s the one thing I’ve kept to.
She's teary as she stands by my bed and tries to wake me. I stagger downstairs and I go to put the kettle on, but first I have to fill it. Charlotte’s dashing about pulling out plates but there is no bircher muesli and there's nothing defrosted. I feed frozen bread into the toaster and try to sort her out something for lunch. In the end I give her money to get something from the tuck shop.
‘I haven’t slept like that in ages.’ I give her a smile, the coffee is working and I'm starting to think. ‘That bath was lovely.’
‘You enjoyed it?’ Charlotte checks. ‘You didn't even empty it.’
‘I loved it, but it sent me straight to sleep.’
She relaxes a little; she even manages a smile as she dashes off to get ready. I haven't put her uniform out and I scrabble for socks. We get to school just before the bell rings and I watch her dash off. I sit there for a moment, with my heart still hammering and I curse myself for last night.
I've always felt as if I was a day away from things falling apart.
I was right.
I go home and the house is a mess, the beds are unmade and, as I walk in the bathroom, the bath is full, the water clear and cold. I roll up my sleeve and put my hand in to pull out the plug.
It’s his birthday.
I’m not back at work till Tuesday.
I can get it all sorted by then.
She’s got a sleepover at Felicity’s tonight.
It’s his birthday.
I try not to think about it.
Maybe I should put the golf clubs on eBay?
It’s his birthday.
I have to sort things out.
I can't make sense of last night.
I’m sorry if I scared you.
I’ve scared myself too.
Remember at school and those horrible changing rooms where you had to get undressed for the showers - and the showers didn't have a curtain? I found them torture. I used to wrap a towel around me and just dampen my hair
, just as loads of the other girls did. We were all embarrassed about getting undressed in front of each other.
Well, I did that last night.
I didn’t get in the water.
I put on my dressing gown and dampened my hair just in case Charlotte came out, like I used to in the changing rooms.
Except, the only person that I didn’t want to see me last night, was me.
I go through the leaflets Doctor Patel gave me.
There’s something wrong with me.
They all recommend talking but I don’t want to talk to anyone.
And how’s a pill going to help?
Will a pill clean my house, will it sort out the money, will it put everything back as it was?
I read on though, I know that there’s something wrong with me.
I read about bi-polar and mania and I want some of that – I want some energy back.
In fact, I realise, I have some.
It’s an angry energy though.
I am so angry with him today, so angry with him for leaving me.
I start cleaning, except it doesn’t soothe me.
It’s his birthday.
It’s all right for him, cold and dead in the ground.
It’s all right for him, resting in peace.
While I have to carry on.
I hate him.
Not just for leaving me.
But for what he did to me when he was here.
And, I decide, I’m going to tell him so.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Gloria
I get some flowers, which is a bit of chore, because there are all these adverts about not leaving kids in the car, so I can’t even nip into the shop – no, I have to haul out her pushchair.
It’s one of those jogging ones.
Noel bought it for Eleanor when she told him that she was pregnant.
Me, with a jogging pushchair!
It’s embarrassing.
Still, once I've strapped her in and bought the flowers, it's easier to walk to the cemetery than to get back in the car. Beryl says I should walk more and I know that I haven't done enough exercise this week.
We walk up the hill. Daisy's asleep and I think of all the chocolate I’m earning but it shouldn't be like that should it? I should be thinking of him instead of food.
Why do I always think about food?
Why, when I'm walking to the cemetery to visit my late ex-husband, instead of thinking about our marriage, our kids, about heaven and God, instead I'm thinking about a Walnut Whip.
Instead of thinking about God and an afterlife, and this great plan that we are not privy to, and the ground that he lies decomposing in, I can see myself biting the head off that Walnut Whip and getting to the goo in the middle.
There's a shop on the corner and surely after puffing up that hill I've earned one?
Maybe it's the pushchair, because I'm almost jogging. I can taste that sickly fondant and it’s so much sweeter than my thoughts. I don't want to think about him dead in the ground, I don't want to think that all it comes to is that.
I look down and Daisy’s awake now but she’s quiet, enjoying the motion. She's just lying quietly, her little rosebud mouth smiling and I don't want to disturb her, I don't want the movement to stop, so I push past the shop and the Walnut Whip and I’m running up that hill and I’m crying.
I don't know why.
He’s not my husband to mourn.
I’ve been a single parent for years, so why am I so scared of being one now?
Because I really am the only one there for them.
What will happen if I'm gone?
I hate the cemetery.
I slow down to a walk but I still want to run.
I hate walking past the plaques and the stones with the names and dates. To get to his, you have to walk past the baby bit and I just want to close my eyes but I look at Daisy instead. She's blowing bubbles and smiling and waving a hand in front of her face. She’s so innocent and happy and oblivious to the pain that inevitably comes.
Her hair’s really growing. Rose is coming over this afternoon to show me how to look after it but it should be Eleanor doing this.
Bloody Eleanor.
Why won’t she grow up and take charge of her life?
Yes, she’s on tablets now. Yes, she’s getting on better with Noel.
But what about Daisy?
I'm really crying now.
I was stupid to come, I’ve gone and upset myself. I’m just going to quickly put these flowers on his grave and then turn around and go home and I’m going to have my Walnut Whip on the walk back…
Then I see something I shouldn't.
Something private.
Something she wouldn't want me to see.
For the first time I don't want to kill her.
Lucy must have put on two stone (I’m quite good at gauging these things now since I joined my slimming club) and she's certainly not the natural blonde that she would have us believe that she is, because she's got inches of roots.
Maybe she’s just been riding, because she’s wearing boots and she’s filthy.
Her face is brick red and she's all bloated and she's crying, though not like I was crying just before. She's crying in a way I haven't for a long time. She’s crying like I did in those dark months after he left, when the kids were all out, when I had the place to myself…
Remember at the hospital, when I saw Charlotte?
Remember how I wanted to wrap my arms around her and take away the pain?
How I felt as if she were mine, that she was a part of me?
That's how I feel this moment. I want to take Lucy home and look after her. I want to tell her that it gets better, that she shall get through this.
I know her pain.
I recognise it.
I’ve felt it.
But I don't understand this surge of compassion.
She stole my husband I remind myself, as I turn the pushchair around. She caused my babies so much pain. I look down at Daisy who is starting to cry and I remember that that bitch screwed her father as well; she fucked with my daughter’s marriage too.
Daisy’s really crying as we go down the hill. It’s rare for Daisy – she’s such a happy natured baby.
She's crying though and carrying on so much that I don't even stop and get my Walnut Whip.
I get home and sort out Daisy and then I put the flowers in a vase to brighten up the living room but they don’t make me feel any better. It’s there, it’s still there rising up in my chest - the loathing and anger is still there. I want to pour cool water, I want to be a better person, to be forgiving and calm and to care.
Except, I don’t want to care about Lucy.
I pick up the flowers and I take them outside and I bin them.
Fuck you, Lucy!
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Lucy
I drop Charlotte off at Simone’s for a sleepover and then Jess rings to see if I’m okay and if she and Luke can come over.
I tell her I just want to be alone.
I do.
I head to the supermarket and then I change my mind and head for home.
I think of the cupboards and freezer all groaning.
It’s all waiting for me there too.
I know that I’m going to do it, so I turn around and go back to the supermarket.
I might as well get what I want.
Tomorrow.
I’ll start properly tomorrow.
I mean it.
Just once, I decide.
I haven’t done it in ages and this really is the last time.
Charlotte’s safely out of the way.
I make up a long convoluted story in the chemist’s.
‘My husband is having an IVP tomorrow and I can’t find the tablet, the laxative, that he was told to take.’
What are you doing Lucy? Your husband is dead. Why are you making up a story?
Why don’t I just bung them in my basket?
&nbs
p; Why do I have to make things so complicated?
I just do.
My hand closes in relief around the lovely packet.
Then it’s in to the supermarket. I get a trolley and finally I’m shopping for me.
Not for work.
Not for Charlotte.
Not the healthy meals I used to make for him.
I’m shopping for me.
Vanilla ice cream.
A good one this time, not the crap I used to buy when I was home alone with Mum.
Then off to buy Maltesers and Crunchies and Snickers and Flakes. I’ve got Baileys at home.
I add a mud cake to my trolley.
I’ve got the black forest gateaux all cut up and in the freezer and if I pull it out as soon as I get home it will be ready if I need it.
I know that I won’t cook sauces – I won’t have time for that, so I go to the ice cream sauce aisle.
I haven’t been here for years – I mean – not for me.
He caught me once when Charlotte was about six months old. It was the most shameful moment of my life, well, at that time, it was the most shameful moment of my life, and I stopped then.
We’ve never had ice cream in the house since.
But I’m having it now.
I come to this aisle maybe fifty times a day for work but I just sort of zone out, or I try to.
Except I notice.
There are ice cream sauces that you can warm in the microwave now – butterscotch and chocolate. Jess really didn’t need to go to all that trouble.
My trolley is groaning but, so that the check out lady thinks I’m having a party, and not about to go on a bender, I add candles too.
‘Having a party?’ she says as she slides my purchases through.
Perfect!
I mash the Snickers and Crunchies and stir in the Maltesers and I break up the mud cake. I don’t use gloves as I stir it in but I’ve forgotten the Baileys. I go and get it and see my smeary hand print on the sideboard and I’ll wipe it off later. I put it into the biggest bowl and then I shove it in the freezer and I just have to wait.
But I can’t.
Just wait Lucy.
I swallow a handful of laxatives and then a few more to be sure.
I can see the answer machine flashing as I wipe down the benches and I remember my mobile was ringing as I mixed the ice cream too but I ignore it.
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