by Sophie King
Simple.
Crazy.
The train took ages – something about engineering works in a place she’d never heard of – and twenty minutes later than the ‘scheduled arrival time’, Lizzie spilled out at Amersham station along with hordes of other freezing commuters, furiously texting for their lifts. She and Tom had often talked about giving all this up and going somewhere warm like Italy or maybe France. And they would! They still could! Provided everything went well tonight!
‘At last!’
Dad, looking surprisingly smart in a canary yellow jumper and smelling of a lemony aftershave, was already waiting for her at the door. ‘Didn’t you get my texts? No. Don’t tell your mother you’re here. I need to talk to you first. This way.’
What was going on? Dad was virtually dragging her down the muddy garden path to his shed. ‘It’s freezing, Dad. What on earth’s the matter?’ A horrible thought struck her. ‘Mum’s not ill, is she?’
‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
His eyes were bright but in a scary way. ‘It’s all Sophie’s fault. If she hadn’t shown us how, it wouldn’t have happened.’
Relief that Mum wasn’t ill made her snappish. ‘What wouldn’t have happened?’
‘George. That’s what.’
Not George!
‘Thought it was water under the bridge until Sophie got us onto Grandparents Reunited and there he was. Popped up like the little popinjay he always was. Can’t think what she sees in him.’
Sees? That sounded ominously like the present tense. ‘Only got him round to tea, hasn’t she? Sitting there, bold as brass, in my sitting room, drinking my beer.’
Beer?
‘Still. She’ll be sorry.’
Sorry?
Dad looked slightly bashful. ’Well what’s goose for the gander and all that.’
Sorry?
‘So I got hold of Marjorie.’
Marjorie?
‘Nice woman. Still lives locally, can you believe and just been widowed again. Seemed very keen to make my acquaintance once more. You wouldn’t believe how much we’ve got in common! We’ve both started going to Yoga for the Over Sixties together. I did ask your mum but she didn’t want to come. And Marjorie’s shown me how to Google the meaning of my dreams.’
Lizzie’s head was swimming. Parents weren’t meant to do stuff like this. Well they were at her age but not at Mum and Dad’s.
‘Come on in, love.’ He was taking her by the arm. ‘I’d like you to meet Marje.’
It was surreal. Totally surreal. There was Dad talking to some enormous woman whom she might have thought of as jolly, if she wasn’t a contender for Dad’s affections. And then there was George, who was painfully skinny and wearing a thin moustache and maroon cardi. One or the other would have been bad enough.
‘This is an old friend of mine, Lizzie,’ her mother said, flushing like some teenager and reeking of the Rive Gauche the kids had given her last Christmas.
He had a cold, limp handshake and it was all Lizzie could do not to throw up. What the hell were her parents playing at?
‘Sorry I can’t stay. I’ve got to get back. Tom’s coming over for supper.’
‘Ah yes, Tom.’ George nodded soulfully. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your marital problems.’
Shooting her mother a look that said, ‘I’ll talk to you later about that’, she gathered up the children and bundled them into the car.
‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ she hissed.
‘What are you on about, Mum?’
‘Getting Granddad and Gran to go on Grandparents Reunited.’
‘I didn’t get them.’ Sophie’s eyes gleamed with indignation. ‘They made me show them. All their friends are doing it apparently.’
Great! Lizzie slammed on the brakes as a bus pulled out in front of her. If grandparents couldn’t get it together, what hope was there for her generation?
So far, it was going really well. She’d hidden the frozen lasagne packet and grated some fresh parmesan on top with a sprinkling of parsley to make it look real. Pity it was plastic (the stuff was so tough it had snapped the kitchen scissors) and she only hoped it didn’t taste of the fish tank (it was actually that fake weed stuff at the bottom) but she’d make sure to scrape it off before dishing it out.
Tom, who had seemed to enjoy it, despite Jack clinging to his knee exactly the way she’d instructed him to, was also lapping up the wine which Sophie was expertly (too expertly) pouring out.
‘Thanks. That was great.’
Jack nodded approvingly. ‘Mum took ages to choose it.’
‘The recipe,’ she butted in. ‘I wasn’t sure which one to pick.
‘Makes a change from her usual cooking.’ Sophie gave her sly look over the corkscrew. ‘She normally burns stuff to make sure it’s cooked properly.’
‘Well I can always burn some more if you’d like some!’
For one awful minute, Tom looked as though he was going to accept. Shit. Sorry. Sugar. She’d only bought one packet.
‘No thanks. That was very nice.’
‘Would you like coffee?’
And that’s when it got weird. As soon as she said that, it felt like she had a stranger in the house. Tom felt it too. She could tell from the way he sat on the edge of the sofa, politely admiring the silk cushions which had been a freebie from an interiors shoot.
Any minute now . . . any minute now . . .
‘I thought you might like to come round for Christmas lunch,’ she began.
‘Ah.’ Tom leaned forwards. ‘Actually, I was going to talk to you about that. Sharon . . . that is . . . I thought . . . ’ An expression of relief crossed his face. ‘Is that the doorbell?’
Hadn’t he lived here for long enough to recognise his own doorbell? Clearly, from the look on his face, he thought it might be Sharon The Slut, coming to see where he was. Either that or he’d swallowed a bit of the plastic fish weed. Still, bang on time. . .
‘Can you get it?’ she said, getting up and pretending to clear away the coffee cups.
She could hear him walking towards the front door. Hear his surprised voice as he opened it, followed by Dan’s equally confused one. Nice acting!
And there he was, standing with a bottle of wine. His eyes went first to hers in a conspiratorial way and then back to Tom’s and then back to her again. ‘Hi Lizzie. Did I get the wrong night?’
23
ALISON
The London train jolted suddenly as it left the station but Alison was so deep in her thoughts that she barely noticed. Her daughter had dropped out of uni weeks ago, but was only now agreeing to see her for the first time at Ross’s flat.
If David had been here, he would have sorted it. But she still had no idea where he was, let alone whether he’d be back for Christmas next week. Well sod that. She was learning to cope by herself. Better, as Caroline had remarked the other day, than any of them expected.
‘Glad you took up my makeover idea.’
Cheek!
‘Actually, I couldn’t afford it. I just went into Boots and got a nice girl to help me.’
Caroline shrugged. Normally, she’d take this as a personal insult. Something was definitely up with her sister! She was brighter. Bouncier. Almost girl-like in that strong confident way she remembered so clearly from their teenage years. If that’s what being on your own did for you, maybe being single wouldn’t be so bad after all. In fact, now it had been three months, she was beginning to start her own rituals. Get up, make a cup of tea and take it back to bed. Eat bran flakes instead of her usual toast. All of which had been Karen’s ideas.
‘You’re probably missing the old routines of your marriage,’ she had said to them at the last meeting. And all of them, including the two men, had nodded with virtually visible lumps in their throats.
‘So create your own traditions,’ Karen had urged brightly. ‘Start doing things your way now; it’s your chance to please no one but yourself.’
Unless,
of course, you had kids. Young or grown up. Still, she’d compromised. Started going round upmarket charity shops in Gerrards Cross and Amersham. Had actually found some different kinds of clothes: a pair of tight black jeans. A skinny black jumper. Why had she never done any of this before when she’d been able to afford new?
Now as the train finally wove its way into Marylebone, Alison gathered up her things. Jules hadn’t been very enthusiastic when she’d suggested meeting up for lunch at Ross’s flat but that was too bad. David might have shelved his responsibilities but she wasn’t giving up on her children. Even if they were trying to give up on her.
‘I’ve told you, Mum.’
Jules was sitting moodily on Ross’s sofa-bed, barefoot and wearing something which suggested she’d just got out of bed. Just like her breath! It was almost as bad as the smell in the bathroom where she’d gone in for one minute before deciding she’d rather hold on.
‘I didn’t like my course. It was boring.’
Boring? She’d have given anything – anything! – to have gone to uni herself. All those new people! All that learning! And at the end of it, a proper qualification that might, if she’d done one herself, have made her a more interesting person so David wouldn’t have run off.
‘If you’re so keen, do a degree yourself.’
‘And what would I live on, now your father’s abandoned me, leaving me to support myself?’ Alison heard the words snapping out of her mouth even though she had sworn to herself not to criticise David (another piece of Karen’s advice).
‘Shut up, Mum. I don’t want to hear about your squabbles. He’s just as bad. Always going on about how he couldn’t breathe at home.’
Alison sat forward on the chair, her skin tingling. ‘What do you mean? Have you spoken to him?’
Jules coloured. ‘Only on Facebook.’
David was on Facebook?
‘He sends me messages every now and then to see if I’m OK.’ Jules glared at her. ‘In fact, he thought it was a good idea chucking it all in. Said he always wished he’d read English instead of Law.’
Had he? But he’d never said . . .
‘Maybe there’s quite a lot of stuff Dad never said.’ Jules was staring at her now with that little-girl-lost look mixed with an angry ‘I’m old enough to take care of myself’ look. ‘Perhaps he was so fixed on trying to bring enough money in to run a family that he didn’t have time to think about himself.’
Alison felt her mouth going dry. ‘Is that what he said?’
Jules got up and stretched. ‘Sort of. Don’t ask me. Ask him yourself.’
‘Have you got a phone number for him?’
Jules gave her a pitying look. ‘I’ll invite you onto Facebook if you like, as one of my friends. Then you can talk to him, I suppose. But you might not get a reply very fast. He’s gone to Goa now.’
Goa? With that woman?
‘I don’t want to talk any more. Ask him yourself.’
She’d have liked to have rung Karen to talk it over but her answerphone was on. How funny that she was the first person she wanted to share this with! But none of her friends with their Country Casual clothes and their NSPCC committee meetings would have understood. In fact, since David had left, the dinner party invitations had petered out to the occasional ‘we must meet up’ phone call from a few of them.
‘You’re a threat,’ Caroline had chuckled wryly. ‘They’re scared you’ll nick their men instead. I’ve done that myself a couple of times and it didn’t go down well.’
But now, having got back from Ross’s flat (which had been such a mess she’d had to stop herself tidying it up), she needed desperately to talk to someone. Anyone. She almost felt pleased to hear a noise from the kitchen even though it was still taking her time to get used to other people using it.
‘Hi!’
Bother. It was Rebecca, rather than Clive who was, she’d decided, actually rather easy to live with. Always polite. Always asking if she minded if he cooked a meal or if she wanted to go first. Always bringing the mugs down from his room. But Rebecca was different. She had an air about her which suggested she owned the house instead of Alison. She could sense it even from Rebecca’s back which was turned towards her, while stirring something at the Aga.
‘Did you know we’re out of milk?’
We?
‘I’ve got my milk there in the door,’ said Alison carefully.
‘Well it’s not there. And I need some for this sauce.’
The girl was talking as though it was her fault!
‘I agreed with Clive that he could keep his things in the fridge but that he’d label them so we knew whose was whose.’
‘Even milk?’
There it was! That tone again which suggested she was being petty. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit silly, Alison? I mean there are three of us in the house so we don’t all want to be buying it, do we? Tell you what. You go and buy some more – I can’t leave this sauce – and then I’ll buy the next lot. OK?’
No it wasn’t OK. But somehow she found herself walking round the corner to the newsagent where Mrs Shah was about to close up for the night. Alison liked Mrs Shah who was possibly about her own age. She and her husband worked hard to keep the shop going at a time when supermarkets and even garages were taking a lot of custom.
Alison glanced at her freshly made up face and jeans. ‘Going somewhere nice?’
The woman nodded, her face shining with excitement. ‘I’m doing a course in computer studies. At the local college. I’ve been doing it since September and I’m really loving it.’ She jerked her head towards the back of the shop where there was the sound of raised voices but not in a nasty way; more the argumentative hubble and bubble of a family eating. The smell made her feel jealously nauseous and not just for the food. ‘My husband,’ grinned Mrs Shah, ‘he moans a bit about cooking but I say it is good for him. Just one evening a week, after all.’
The local college? Alison had always been rather dismissive of it. One or two of her friends’ children had had to go there when they’d been chucked out of their expensive day schools for not getting good enough AS levels. But now, looking at Mrs Shah’s excited face, it seemed strangely attractive.
‘I don’t suppose they’ve got any spare places?
Mrs Shah shook her head. ‘Term started nearly three months ago.’
Of course it did. Silly question. Besides, what she really needed to get was a proper job from someone who wasn’t her sister. If David wasn’t coming back, she had to get her life together. Just like everyone else.
‘Do you have this week’s local paper?’
Mrs Shah eyed her quizzically, knowing perfectly well they were a Times family and occasionally the Mail on Sunday.
‘I’m looking for a job,’ added Alison, wondering why she felt bound to give an explanation.
The other woman nodded thoughtfully. ‘I haven’t seen Mr David for some time.’
‘No.’
They looked at each other and Alison could see the unasked question in Mrs Shah’s face.
‘If you are looking for employment,’ she finally said gently, ‘this is the best paper to look at.’
Alison pretended to rustle in her bag for change in order to hide her expression. ‘Thanks,’ she said, coming up with a couple of pound coins. ‘Thanks very much.’
As soon as she got home she spread the Sits Vac page out in front of her.
If the likes of Mrs Shah and Karen could make their own lives, so could she! After all, there was a new year round the corner. And she was still – with any luck – young enough for a fresh start.
24
KAREN
Some people were Christmas people, thought Karen happily, and some people weren’t. Thankfully, she’d always belonged to the first category which was why, despite everything, she still got a thrill running her hands through the rack of silver and pink tinsel at her local cut price supermarket.
Maybe it was because her own parents – who had l
ed such uncomplicated lives compared with hers! – had made such a big deal about Christmas. Money was certainly tight for the rest of the year but goodness, did they pull out the stops as soon as the beginning of December hit the calendar.
She’d done the same as soon as she’d got married and Paul had gone along with it, partly because Doris, his mum, had been the same. ‘Been saving my stamps since last year,’ she used to say. ‘If I can’t spoil my only grandson at Christmas, when can I?’
But this year was different.
Despite the tinsel sparkle and magic, it was going to be hard to pretend that everything was all right, after seeing Hayley with that man.
‘He’s just a mate at work,’ her daughter-in-law had insisted when she’d come over on the same day that Karen had seen her in the restaurant. ‘There’s nothing in it, Karen. Honest.’
She wanted to believe her! Oh how she wanted to. And surely Hayley wasn’t the type to have an affair. But then again, who was the type exactly?
‘I know you saw him holding my hand.’ Hayley was staring at her, her cool hazel eyes fixed on her as though willing her to believe this story. ‘But it was because I was upset about the . . . you know.’
The baby? She’d told a ‘mate’ at work who just happened to be male, about the baby she aborted?
‘He’s a good listener.’ Hayley’s voice became even more defensive. ‘He’s been married himself and he still sees his kids.’
Been married? Karen was beginning to like this less and less.
‘I don’t mind if you want to tell Adam.’ Hayley’s eyes were still fixed on her. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’
But Karen knew instinctively that that wasn’t how Adam would see it. Far better that she said nothing. Far better that she pretended to go along with Hayley’s story so they could all have a family Christmas – with or without Paul.
That was another question to be dealt with. But not yet. First things first. ‘I’ll have three packets, please,’ she smiled at the young assistant. ‘And have you got any of those party poppers? My grandson loves those!’
