by Adele Parks
We want to make the most of it. I count myself in among this melange of people who wish to harvest joy tonight.
The air has a sense of energy and delight. People excitedly try one another’s dishes—it appears the catering was a case of everyone bringing the dish they most like to prepare. No one was given instructions as to whether that dish ought to be sweet or savory. However, as cling film and tin foil lids are peeled back it seems that the rich thick stews, spicy meatballs, pretzels, strudels, dumplings, buns and breads were designed to complement each other as precisely as if Sara the party planner had written up elaborate directions. There’s a big bowl of punch. If anyone knew the ingredients at the beginning of the evening, by the time I try it, the mix is certainly unclear. It’s sweet; I can taste pineapple and rum, and then I witness someone add a bottle of vodka. It’s careless and crazy, but I couldn’t be enjoying myself more. Toma also catches his friend Vladislav adding the vodka. “Good man, fulfill our cultural expectations,” he says, slapping his friend on the back. He turns to me. “You better eat plenty of syr smazeny,” he warns.
“What’s that?”
“Breaded fried cheese.”
“Sounds perfect,” I comment, and dive in. I meet the couple Toma lives with, Joan and Frank. An English working-class, salt-of-the-earth pair. Frank has brought his slippers with him to the party. Joan rolls her eyes at this but doesn’t seem too disgruntled. “It’s a party, Frank, you are supposed to dress up.”
“Like this one?” he asks, pointing at me. I just laugh because his ribbing is well meant.
Joan is concerned about the washing up and spends most of the evening in the kitchen, rinsing glasses and moving food from one plate to another to “clear some space.” It seems every time a dish is finished, another one lands on the table as more guests stream through the door. Not only does each and every one arrive with food and drink, but their entrance precipitates ever-increasing cheers of excitement. “Probably ’cause they’ve brought drink,” comments Frank with a grin.
Joan tuts, rinses another plate under the tap and says to me, “I hear it’s you we have to thank for finding us our Toma.” I smile, sip my wine. “He’s like a son to us. We’re going to miss him.”
“Yes.” My voice sounds gravelly, as though I’m chewing sand. It feels that way, too. I put down the wineglass I’m holding. It’s empty. I’ve lost count of how much I’ve had to drink, which means too much. I should check my phone. See how my own party is going. I should really return to it. But I don’t because it feels distant and I feel detached. I can hear music playing here and that grabs my attention, holds it fast, more than the thought of my own party. It’s not the pop tunes, blasting from a phone and a speaker, that had people jiggling in the sitting room earlier, but someone has actually started to play a guitar. Requests are being made and whilst I don’t recognize the song that is being sung, many do and lots of people join in. Raucous and tuneless in some cases, as though self-consciousness had never been acknowledged. I stand at the doorway nodding my head, never more aware of my limiting British reserve. Then Toma taps me on the shoulder, takes my hand and leads me away from the singing, through the kitchen and out to the back garden.
He took my hand. I let him.
I hold tight and tell myself it is natural, normal, not in any way wrong. Even though I am a married woman. Even though his thumb is caressing my hand and the warmth of him is shooting through my body like a firework.
The back garden is only a few metres wide, but it is surprisingly long as it falls away to the railway track. There are a number of people smoking and vaping on the small patio near the house. Toma cuts through them with polite determination. We head toward the bottom of the garden. There has been enough rain this spring to mean the grass on well-kept lawns is lush and green. The grass here has bald patches that suggest children’s robust play; the plastic playhouse and stray football confirm as much. There is a washing line, trailing the whole length, where plastic pegs perch, waiting to secure a new load of clean clothes. There are closed dandelions, buttercups and less attractive weeds sprinkled everywhere like freckles on a redhead. We head for two beat-up white plastic sun chairs at the very bottom of the garden.
I suppose this is where Dita and Mandek sit and relax after work. I notice there are two old-fashioned tartan travel blankets slung over the backs of the chairs. It’s not the most peaceful place on earth, with trains thundering by, but I can see the appeal of looking out over the urban scene: train tracks, factories and warehouses. It reminds me a little of London. Maybe Dita and Mandek came from cities and miss them.
As we reach the bottom of the garden, Toma is still holding my hand. I glance at our fingers interlocked and then wish I hadn’t because he suddenly seems to notice and lets go. We sit down. Side by side, but with a proper distance between us. I pull one of the blankets over my lap. It could be the wine, the balmy night, the varied company—I could find any number of excuses—but I can’t pretend to myself there isn’t an atmosphere between us. Something shimmering, stretching between us, because there most definitely is. There was drink at my party, it was the same balmy night and, yes, there was varied company—I felt I hardly knew a soul—yet I did not feel this sense of alertness when I was with Jake. I did not feel my skin prickle, the sky did not seem so black, the stars so bright.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks in a tone of voice that suggests this is the most important thing on earth for him right now. That I am his priority. My happiness is his obsession.
“Very much so.”
“Don’t you have to get back to your own party?”
“I should, yes.” For a few moments we don’t say anything else. It’s half past eleven. I ought to reach for my phone. I should call an Uber. Not so much to transport me back to reality, but to take me back to the unreality that is now my world. Instead, I comment, “I liked your friends.”
“I’ve met some good people. Some recently, some from my days with Reveka and Benke. I wanted them all here tonight.” I nod.
“What time are you flying out tomorrow?”
“Eight a.m.”
“All packed?”
“Yes.” Toma turns to me and leans very close. For a mad moment I think he is going to kiss me, and I wonder what I will do if he does. Will I kiss him back? I have been completely faithful to Jake since the moment our eyes collided in the student union, over twenty years ago. This isn’t a matter of self-discipline or even an admirable and conscious act of loyalty. It simply hasn’t ever crossed my mind to be unfaithful. I haven’t found anyone else attractive enough to be disruptive. I have only ever seen Jake. And, yes, I made vows and promises.
So did Jake.
I don’t think a broken promise can ever be mended. Not really. And I do find Toma attractive. However, he does not kiss me. My hair falls in front of my eyes and he leans forward, tucks the strand behind my ear. He stares at me for a length of time that should be embarrassing; it’s not. It’s nice. “I have to ask you again, Lexi, before I commit the money to the trust. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” I say firmly.
“Because I haven’t spent any of it yet. It’s done a job already, without being spent. Already I have life again. I don’t have to take the money.”
“But you are going to do such good with it,” I urge.
“And your husband is in agreement?”
I consider lying to him and can’t. There are too many lies swilling about my life as is. I can’t add another. “He doesn’t know.”
“Isn’t that going to be a problem when he finds out?”
“Maybe,” I admit with a sigh. “But we’re facing a number of problems at the moment.”
“I don’t want to be an extra one.”
I take a deep and determined breath in. “The way I see it, worst-case scenario is we have nine million each to spend as we like. This is what I wanted
to do with my portion. I’m most likely going to give more away. I don’t really know what to do with it. Other people need it more than I do. That much is clear.” Toma stares at me with unadulterated admiration. It’s the best look one human being can give another. He looks at me with respect, approval, gratitude and eagerness. As though I have shown him something new in the world. It’s embarrassing and also wonderful. Something flickers, boils and melts beneath my breastbone.
“How do you manage it?” he asks.
“Manage what?”
“Caring so much for people you don’t even know? In my experience, it’s cruel enough caring for those you do.”
“I know you, Toma,” I reply. My voice comes out as a whisper although I didn’t mean this to be a secret.
He replies in a bolder tone. One that shakes and sobers me a little. I think maybe because of the alcohol I’m having a moment here, but he is not. I’m being dreamy and romantic. He wants to check that he’s not going to get sued for accepting my gift of three million pounds. “Yes, but it’s not just me. You care for everyone. I’m just one in a long line of people,” he insists firmly. I find his comment infuriating, hurtful.
“How can you say that? I didn’t split my winnings with everyone. In fact, I didn’t split my winnings with anyone other than you.”
“You gave me 2.976 million exactly.”
“Yes.”
“A very particular number.”
“Precisely a sixth of what we won. Your share.”
“My share?”
I need to change the subject. “You are going to make a new life, Toma. You are going to give many people a new life.”
“For a long, long time all I could think of was my old life. The one I lost. I imagined Benke growing up. Playing football with him in a park, walking him to school, sitting with his teachers whilst they tell me he is a smart boy, a kind boy. And I think of more babies. Another son, maybe a daughter. She’d also play football or, if she didn’t want to, I’d sit with a plastic cup and pretend to sip from it at tea parties. I’d look ridiculous. I wouldn’t care.” Toma’s gaze is on the grass a foot in front of him. “Also, if Benke didn’t want to play football, if he was into music, theater or drawing, that would be good, too. Tea parties! This kid could be anything he wanted to be. I wouldn’t care. And Reveka.” He rolled her name around his tongue, around the dark night, and I could hear the longing as clearly as I could hear the happy singing drift from the house. “She’d pass her exams and become an accountant. She’d be very good. Very dedicated. She’d become a big boss. She might come home and be angry with me because I didn’t do the ironing, didn’t make supper the way she wanted. And I’d apologize. And I’d try harder to do more in the house. Even though this is not our tradition, we’d adopt a more modern and fair way.” He turns to me now. I look at him even though his pain is hard to witness. “I’d have thrown myself at all the bright possibilities of the world, exposing myself to anything that might blow in, a kid that needed expensive dentist work, an exam badly failed, a teen scraping the side of my new car, even finding a stash of drugs in their room. The stuff that happens to my friends. I’d have borne it all because those cold winds would have ruffled, possibly brought down a fence or two. But nothing more.”
I love the way Toma talks. He tries harder to grasp at what we mean, what life means, than most people bother to do. I don’t know if it’s because he comes from a different culture or language, or because of what he’s shouldered in losing his wife and child. I just know I could sit here and listen to him all night. He sighs. “I spend a lot of time thinking about that life and being angry with my different life. The one with storms—hazardous, brutal storms, where I try to numb myself. Where I became a man who drank too much and took antidepressants. A man who ended up living on the street.” He shakes his head. “Reveka would have been so sad to see that. Or angry. She could be fierce. She hated waste.”
I smile. “I’m certain I would have liked Reveka.”
“Yes, you would, but you would never have met.”
“I suppose not.”
“When they died, I lost everything. Them, yes, but also the glorious impulse to be better. Without them I had no one to let down but myself. Which I did.” He sighs, shakes his head. “You gave me a chance, Lexi. I can’t live that life. It’s gone. But you gave me a chance to live a different life. You gave me back the wish to be better. I think you have given me the chance of a very, very good life.”
“I just gave you money, Toma. You are deciding what to do with it.” I shrug.
“Question.” Toma taps a finger against my hand to get my attention. He has it anyway, but his touch sends a pulse ricocheting through my body. “Do you think less of me, Lexi, because I stopped searching for the people who owned the property? The people ultimately responsible?” I shake my head. “I thought maybe now I have all this money I should stay and hunt them down. The records are obviously purposefully confusing, but now we could hire private detectives.”
“What then?” I ask. “The man won’t be brought to justice because Winterdale took the fall. It’s a dead end.”
“If we found him, we could hire thugs to kill him.” My eyes widen and Toma laughs. “I’m joking. I’m not a killer. There was a time when I raged that way, but you poured oil on those waters, Lexi.”
“It’s better that you move on. That’s what I want for you. That’s why I gave you the money.”
Toma stretches out his hand. His thumb touches the bit of forehead above my eyebrow, and he strokes me there. I close my eyes and allow the caress. It is slow and gentle; it is as though he’s just found that bit of my body and it is the most erotic part of me. Or precious. He soothes away my cares. I feel my body slacken. He pulls the blanket up to my chin and I feel his firm hands tuck it tightly around me, so I’m snugly cocooned. He pauses, looks me in the eye and then moves forward, kisses my forehead. Chastely, but not really so. Tenderly. I can smell the cold night air clinging to him.
“I should call an Uber,” I murmur.
“Yes, you need to go back to your party.”
Back to my life. Or whoever’s life I am leading now.
CHAPTER 33
Emily
Ridley keeps hold of my hand as he strides through the party, across the field and toward the woods. He’s walking quickly, I can hardly keep up. The boots I’m wearing are high and even though the heels are quite chunky, I fall off them two or three times, hurting my ankle a bit. Every time I do, he rolls his eyes and says, “Seriously, Emily, how much have you had to drink?” And I like it that he’s concerned for me. Even if his concern comes out sounding a little like a condemnation. He’s right. I am drunk. I like it. It’s as if my fingers are candy floss, all malleable and melty, vapid. My fingers, my head, my body.
The neatly mowed grass gives way to longer, wilder stuff and then soon a tangle of brambles, twigs, foliage. I’m glad of the boots, otherwise my legs would be ripped to bits. Ridley only lets go of my hand when he pushes me up against a tree. The bark scratches my bare shoulders and back, but I don’t care because his tongue is down my throat. He’s kissing me hard and I know what this sort of kissing means. I’m glad. I kiss him back. Just as hard, our teeth bang and our tongues clash as though they’ve forgotten how to move with each other, but I don’t stop. I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull his head toward me so he can’t stop, either. His hands are running up and down my body. It seems neither of us have forgotten how good that is. His kisses make everything else just fall away, as though there is just us up against one of those green screens they use in movie making, our own space to create of it what we will. A moment ago, I could hear the party blaring in the background—the DJ, the fairground rides, shrieking and laughter. Now there is no sound except our breathing, heavy and fast. Someone has hit the mute button on the world’s remote, and there is nothing to see, my eyes are closed, all there is is
him. His touch. His warmth. His presence.
After a bit, I know I have to ask. I don’t want to. I want to carry on with his lips on mine, with his hands exploring my body, but I have some self-respect and so I break my mouth away from his. He just attaches his to my neck, to my ears, to my arms and face. His breath is warm and perfect. I can smell beer and toffee apples on him. His fingers are edging into the leg on my leotard. Panting, I ask, “So, Evie Clarke then?”
He stops kissing for a moment to face me and grins. “Jealous?” I am, obviously, but can’t see it would help to admit it.
“Curious,” I say. I’m pretty pleased with that retort. I think I sound witty and sophisticated, not quite as anxious and worried as I am. He shrugs. If I didn’t love him so much, I’d say he looked dumb. Or maybe embarrassed. I freeze, understanding this even through the haze of alcohol and lust.
I thought he’d say she was nothing. He’s not saying she’s nothing.
Which means she is something. The latest thing. But then, he was just a second ago kissing me. I block out the memory of him standing at the door of the school toilets while Megan slapped and kicked me. I try not to think about him taking photos of me with my knickers around my ankles. He starts to look about him, he seems confused. Almost as though he’s suddenly unsure as to how he came to be alone in the woods with me, as though he’s forgotten he was the one who took my hand and practically dragged me here.
“I’m really drunk,” I say. I’ve heard people say this, by way of an excuse, when they’ve done something they regret or when they want to do something they know they shouldn’t and are already making excuses even before it’s happened. And sometimes people say it just because it fills a gap in conversation, and they can’t think of what else to say. I’m not sure which of these applies to me. Maybe all of them. The ease between Ridley and me has been hacked apart. He’s nervous and jumpy and can’t look at me. I want him to look at me more than anything in the world, because my costume is cool and I had my makeup done professionally and if ever there was a time for him to want me, it is now.
