by Paula Daly
‘This,’ I answer, and gesture wildly around the room.
‘Felicity’s appendix?’ he asks, his tone sceptical. ‘She planned Felicity’s burst appendix? How on earth did she do that?’
He waits for me to respond and, when I can’t, says, ‘You were the one who didn’t want me to come to France, Natty. You were the one who said it was fine.’
Ignoring his words, I plough on. ‘Sean, you need to listen to me. I don’t think she loves you, I think she’s tricking you. This is what she does, she told me this is what she does. This is how she operates.’
He shakes his head.
‘It’s true! Do you really think she loves you?’ I demand.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I really do. Natty, stop this, before the girls come in. Stop being—’
‘She doesn’t, you know. She—’
‘Look, I’m not justifying it any more,’ he says, losing patience. ‘I’ve told you it’s over between us, I’ve done it the best way I can, but’ – he sighs his breath out wearily – ‘but . . . you are making this unbearable—’
‘Do you think I told you the truth?’ I ask, my voice shaking with anger.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Do you think I told you the truth all these years? Do you think I really liked listening to The fucking Doors, Sean? Do you think I like your mother? ’Cause I don’t. I really don’t. That’s what women do, you idiot. We say what you want to hear . . .’
He’s staring at me as if he doesn’t recognize the person in front of him. As if it’s dawning on him that he’s never really known me. But I keep going.
‘You want kooky and interesting?’ I ask nastily. ‘We can do that. You want intelligent and slutty? We can do that, too. You want sex outdoors? That’s what we do to snare you, Sean. That’s what women do!’
He drops his head.
After a moment, he speaks. ‘But you didn’t do that, Natty . . . you stopped doing all those things a long time ago.’
And I burst into tears.
‘That’s because I was fucking busy!’ I shout, and then I throw my keys at him.
19
IF I’D BEEN thinking straight, I would have grabbed my laptop. But I wasn’t. So I didn’t.
I leave the guest room, screaming at Sean, screaming at Eve, only to come face to face with the girls, standing shocked and bewildered in the hallway. They’d barely heard me swear before today (well, aside from the occasional shit! when someone pulls out on me in traffic). Felicity is dressed in her uniform for her first day back at school and Alice is holding her lacrosse stick out in front of her – as if for protection.
‘I need my passport,’ I mutter vaguely as I descend the stairs, and they nod, repeatedly, as you might to a crazy thief . . . Anything you want . . . Take anything you want. I don’t say goodbye, such is my focus on retrieving the passport – my thinking being that, if I leave it behind, any chance of escape from the law is nigh impossible. It’s only when I emerge from the office – heart pounding, brow sweaty from frantic searching – that I see the girls gathering their belongings, and I stop short and realize what it is that I’ve just done.
The girls are speaking in hushed tones, their movements are exact and purposeful – exaggerated, really – and instantly I feel shitty about making them so uneasy in their own home.
Felicity catches sight of me. ‘You okay there, Mum?’
I rush towards them. ‘I’m so sorry about all that,’ I say, straightening my clothes and hooking my hair behind my ears in an attempt to appear less chaotic. ‘Are you both okay? Felicity, are you sure you’re well enough to go to school? How is your tummy?’ I survey her ashen face and I’m gripped by inner rage at Sean’s appalling timing. Could he not have at least waited until Felicity was better to start screwing my friend?
‘I’m a bit sore,’ answers Felicity, ‘but I’ve got a note from Dad to say I can’t do any exercise, and I’ve got a pretty easy day.’
‘You’ll call me if it gets too much? Call me, and I can be there in five minutes to collect you.’
Felicity nods, as Alice leans in. In a forced whisper, her eyes wide, she asks, ‘Mummy, what is going on? Why were you telling Daddy that Eve is lying to him?’
‘It was nothing,’ I say. ‘I thought I had proof that would alter things. But it turns out it was nothing.’
Alice looks dubious, as though I’m sparing her the details because I don’t trust her to be adult enough to deal with them. ‘It was nothing,’ I say, more firmly this time, and she puts her arms around me. Gives a kind of awkward half-hug on account of all the kit she’s carrying.
‘Just don’t do anything else, will you, Mummy?’ she says, more relaxed now. ‘Don’t do anything to Eve, because Daddy’s, like, super worked up about it.’
‘I won’t.’
I tell them I love them and moments later pull off the driveway, head back towards the village. I come to a stop about a hundred yards along at the entrance to an unused track. Turning the passport over in my hands, I close my eyes, thinking: What the hell use is this, Natty? Where are you going to run away to, Acapulco?
Shaking my head at my own absurdity, I look left across Lake Windermere; at the thick grey clouds arriving from the south-west, at the chocolate-box houses perched on the other side of the valley. It’s almost the exact same view I see from my bedroom window every single day. The view I gaze at when I have a problem; when I’m worried or anxious.
‘So what now?’ I say out loud. ‘What do I do now?’
The girls had watched like I was a monster. As though I was sabotaging what little I had left with them. And when that rotund detective turns up again, saying, ‘Sorry, but we need to arrest your mum,’ I can just picture them, relieved, replying, ‘Yes, could you? She seems to have lost her mind.’
All at once I’m regretting being so detached when in the company of the countless newly separated women I’ve known over the years, their faces full of disbelief at having the rug pulled out from under them.
I remember one woman, particularly, saying it wasn’t selling her home that was her undoing, nor saying goodbye to her lifestyle, but the big expanses of time she now had to fill. The whole empty weekends that once took care of themselves. In the past she’d run her son to football, washed uniforms, perhaps gone to the DIY store before settling down to watch The X Factor, the day disappearing without a thought. ‘Who watches X Factor,’ she cried to me, as I stood choosing a card for Sean’s mum in WH Smith, ‘who watches X Factor, alone?’
There’s a hollow, empty feeling as I now contemplate my abandoned future. Realizing that for almost half my life I’ve planned, dreamed, wished for what was to come, with Sean in mind. What happens now to the trips to Bologna, to La Rochelle? What happens to driving through France in a Mercedes Benz 230SL like Albert Finney and Audrey Hepburn in Two for the Road? What happens to spending whole Sundays in bed with the newspaper, or selling the hotel and buying a hillside villa in Sorrento? What happens to all that, Sean?
Fat drops of rain begin to fall, as if on cue. Fumbling with the switch for the wipers, my attention is caught by a nondescript grey car, its headlights on, heading my way. Upon seeing the driver my heart begins jackhammering inside my ribs, because it’s the detective from yesterday. I dip my head and freeze, watching in my wing mirror as she indicates right and swings into my driveway.
DC Joanne Aspinall stands outside Natty Wainwright’s house in the rain and rings the bell. She marvels again to herself that it’s a beautiful home. The lower section is Lakeland stone, the upper finished in white, pebble-dashed render. Must be worth around two million, perhaps even more because of the view across the lake. Most of these big gentlemen’s residences were built at the end of the nineteenth century for Lancastrian mill owners, this being one of the remaining few that hasn’t been split. Many were sectioned into smaller residences – two, sometimes three or four units – and sold off separately in the fifties, mainly because the whole house was impo
ssible to heat. Impossible, that is, without a small army of staff to tend to the open fires in each room.
Joanne tries the bell again and lifts her hood. The rain is really coming down now and it’s the type of rain that soaks a person right through. Eventually the door is answered by Eve Dalladay in her dressing gown.
‘You just missed her,’ Eve says, a flat, malevolent tone to her voice.
‘How are you feeling today, Miss Dalladay?’ Joanne asks pleasantly. ‘Your face looks to be healing nicely.’
Eve ignores the question, says, ‘Natty was here a few minutes ago, causing problems again. Did you see the CCTV? Have you seen it yet?’
Joanne smiles. Gives nothing away. ‘Any idea where she went?’
‘Her dad’s,’ replies Eve. ‘Well, I assume that’s where she went. She’s staying there now.’
‘Moved out, then, has she?’
‘Yes. It’ll be better for everyone.’
Joanne keeps her face blank as she muses on the fact that Eve Dalladay hasn’t wasted much time getting her foot in the door. ‘Do you have the address?’ Joanne asks. She knows which street the house is on – on account of Jackie half living there at the moment – but she’s unsure of the exact number. She retrieves her notebook from her inside pocket as Eve gives a tight smile.
‘An address for whom?’ asks Eve, playing dumb.
‘Mrs Wainwright’s father.’
‘I’ll see if I can find out for you,’ she says, and she shuts the door in Joanne’s face. Leaving her to stand in the rain.
Mad Jackie grabs three cups from the kitchen cupboard and proffers a bag of something herbal. ‘Do you want some of this dyke tea?’ she asks me.
‘What type is it?’
I’m thinking I’m in for a sermon on decaffeinated redbush, or the antioxidant properties of organic camomile. But no – Jackie shrugs, as if she has no idea what kind of tea it is.
‘I’m off milk,’ she explains: ‘Think it’s that that’s causin’ me bloatin’,’ and she rubs her tummy tenderly. ‘So your husband didn’t want to know about the note then?’
I shake my head.
‘You can’t blame him,’ she says, running the cloth around the taps. ‘He’ll be thinking with his dick for now. Give it a few months till the shine wears off . . .’
The kettle boils and Jackie dips the tea bag in and out of the cup repeatedly. She opens the fridge and I see she must have nipped to the shops while I was gone. There are now masses of Yakult probiotic drinks in there – next to the ready meals. I don’t bother to tell her that they’re made from milk.
She hands me the cup and I take a sip. ‘This is peppermint,’ I tell her.
‘Yeah, one of me clients gave me a bagful,’ she explains. ‘Just takin’ up space in the cupboards since his wife died, he said.’ Jackie sips from her cup, pulls a face before flinging its contents down the sink. ‘Not keen on that one,’ she says. ‘It’s like gripe water.’
She refills the kettle and turns back, regarding me for what feels an uncomfortably long stretch of time.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Just thinking.’
‘And?’
‘It might have been a bit daft you going over there this morning, waving that piece a paper in his face.’
‘I kind of worked that out for myself, thanks.’
She pauses for a moment, then speaks. ‘If you’re gonna get them to listen to you . . . and I’m not sayin’ it’ll make any difference, mind, because I’m not convinced there’s anything to that note, but if you’re gonna get them to take you serious, you need something proper on that woman.’
‘On Eve?’ I ask. ‘Like what?’
‘You tell me. What d’you know about her?’
I shrug. ‘We were all at university together, Sean and I left, she stayed and got her doctorate . . . then she moved to the States, where she’s been lecturing and running her therapy practice ever since. She’s squeaky clean. I’ve never known her do anything out of the ordinary.’
Jackie gives me a look. ‘No one is squeaky clean.’
I sigh, wrapping both hands around my cup. ‘She is.’
‘Person who sent that note doesn’t reckon so. What’s her husband like?’ she asks.
‘Never met him.’
‘You never what?’ Jackie says. ‘How come?’
‘Because I’m not allowed inside America, Jackie . . . and Brett’s never been over here, so . . .’
Jackie frowns. With a thoughtful expression she repeats what I’ve just told her, but slowly. ‘You’re not allowed inside America.’
I wait. Widen my eyes a little, hoping she’ll catch my drift without my actually having to spell it out.
She doesn’t.
‘Because of my criminal record?’ I offer.
This piece of information is clearly news to Jackie, because she goes uncharacteristically quiet. Eventually, she says, ‘So, if you’ve got a criminal record you can’t never ever go there?’
‘That’s what I said, yes.’
She nods, processing this. Then she starts chewing the inside of her cheek and I know what she’s doing. She’s trying to come up with an example of someone with a criminal record who has been allowed into the United States.
So, before she can blurt out, ‘George Michael!’ I save us some time and tell her, ‘There are exceptions, but you need a visa. And for that you need to go to the US embassy in London and have an interview. Sean and I looked into it when we wanted to take the girls to Disney, but in the end we decided not to go ahead. We didn’t want to run the risk of anyone finding out, and it seemed like a lot of palaver when we could just go to Paris instead.’
Jackie’s considering this when the doorbell rings.
She ignores it momentarily, asking, ‘Have you got Eve’s work number?’
‘Yes, but I always ring her on her mobile.’
‘How about giving her secretary a call, see what you can find out?’ The doorbell sounds again and Jackie gives me a sideways glance. ‘Make yourself scarce,’ she orders. ‘This might be trouble.’
Jackie tramps towards the front door, and I’m tempted to follow her, to see who it is, but a warning glare from my dad signals me to retreat. He’s seen something from his chair. Probably saw the caller walking up the pathway. He motions for me to leave by way of the back door, but I hesitate: I want to know who’s there.
Jackie’s voice bellows through: ‘She’s not ’ere, Joanne,’ and I think: Joanne? Who is Joanne? Jackie’s clearly shouting for my benefit, but who is—
Then it dawns on me: Joanne is the first name of the police officer who questioned me yesterday; the detective I just saw turning into my driveway. She’s come straight from my house to here. Someone has told her where to find me. I hear more words exchanged and my palms start to sweat. It’s clear Jackie knows this woman personally. I raise my eyebrows to my dad, who whispers, ‘Her niece,’ by way of explanation.
I lean against the wall. ‘You’re quite sure she’s not in there?’ the detective is asking Jackie.
‘’Course I’m sure,’ Jackie replies crossly.
There’s a pause, and the detective says, ‘Can I come inside?’
‘Not unless you tell me what you want.’
‘I want to speak to Natty Wainwright.’
‘And I told you, she . . . is . . . not . . . here,’ Jackie repeats slowly, as if her niece is stupid. ‘Not seen her since earlier. Are you gonna arrest her?’
My dad is staring at me fiercely while at the same time tipping his head repeatedly towards the dining room, like he has a mad tic. He seems at once determined and fearful.
‘What?’ I mouth.
‘There,’ he whispers.
I follow his line of sight and upon moving a step forward realize he’s motioning to his stash. It’s positioned just behind a couple of empty glasses on the table.
I lift my eyes to the ceiling in exasperation and grab the pack of king-size Rizlas and the old worn Player’s Navy C
ut cigarette tin. He’s carried that tin around with him for as long as I can remember. ‘I told you to be more careful with this,’ I hiss.
And he gives me a look as if to say: That woman is not here on account of me.
I move to the kitchen door and crane my neck a little to hear what’s being said.
‘I just want a word with Ken Odell,’ the detective is saying. ‘C’mon, Jackie, I’ll charge you with obstructing a police officer if you don’t let me—’
‘No, you won’t,’ says Jackie dismissively. ‘What do you need to talk to Kenneth for, anyway?’
‘Just want to ask him a few questions. I can’t help this woman out if you won’t let me do my job, Jackie. Maybe her dad can shed some light on things, maybe he can give me something I can use to take the heat off her . . .’
Jackie huffs and gives in. ‘Oh, all right, all right,’ she snaps. ‘If you must. But you’ll have to give me a minute to get Kenneth decent. He’s sittin’ in there still in his drawers.’
20
I WALK FAST, HOOD up, head down, along Queens Drive, making my way in the rain along the back streets of Windermere. Though the town took its name from the lake when the railway opened in 1847, it lies a good half-mile from the lakeshore, so consequently it has fewer hotels, fewer B&Bs than neighbouring Bowness – the more popular tourist destination.
At this time of year the town of Windermere appears tired. Scaffold adorns many of the terraced houses as owners start to repaint, repair, and begin their losing battle against the cruel weather this region receives. Heavy November rains are followed by frost in December, and by the time we get to the sunshine of spring, the buildings have peeling paintwork or else are covered in a green, algae-like layer.
Property repairs are never-ending here. Fall behind and you’re likely to have leaking sills, overflowing gutters, damp patches on interior walls capable of cultivating a large variety of mushrooms. Chimneys are blown clean away by the strong winds of March, and it’s not uncommon to rise after a particularly blustery night to find a tree emerging from somebody’s attic bedroom.
