by Paula Daly
‘I always knew you’d do this,’ Penny snaps, dismissing my attempt at explanation.
‘Knew I’d do what?’
‘Knew you’d . . . never mind,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘We need to talk about this somewhere more private. Follow me,’ she instructs. Then she takes one last, disdainful look at the girl to my right and says, ‘Make sure you bring all of your belongings, Natty.’
I don’t bother telling her I haven’t got my handbag with me, that my purse is inside my pocket. Instead I rise silently from my chair and traipse after her to the library entrance, next to a dinosaur display from the local primary school.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘The most important thing now is of course Alice and Felicity. And I have to say, Natty, you’re setting a terrible example. Whatever must they think, conducting yourself in such a manner?’ I go to speak but she lifts her index finger, silencing me, and I’m reduced to giving a tortured little smile. ‘It goes without saying I understand what a terrible situation this is for everyone, and Lord knows I am not condoning Sean’s behaviour . . . but ramming Eve’s car, Natty? What on earth were you thinking?’
‘I wasn’t really thinking anything,’ I mumble.
‘Evidently not,’ she says, ‘but you’re going to have to start. You can’t go on pottering mindlessly through the days feeling sorry for yourself, and you certainly can’t go attacking Eve. So my question is this: What are you going to do?’
‘What am I going to do about what, Penny? I’m not following you.’
Penny exhales and reaches out, clutching my wrist with her hand.
‘You need to build a new life, Natty. You need to get back into the swing of things instead of mooching around after Sean. How do you think I felt when David had his nervous breakdown and went off with that . . . that child? I’ll tell you, I was grief-stricken. I felt like I’d never get through a full day again. But I did. I absolutely did. Because I made myself. Now, you needn’t say yes to this straight away, because I appreciate there are things you’ll need to organize. And I know you can’t just drop everything . . . but they’re positively crying out for help at the Save the Children shop.’
I withdraw my arm.
‘I don’t think so,’ I tell her.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Penny, as of yesterday, your son has installed another woman in my house, in my home, and you think the answer to this problem is . . . charity work?’
‘If you don’t keep active, Natty, you’re certain to become depressed. And you might think me forward in my approach here, but, as a mother, the one thing you should never ever do is let your children see how a breakdown in a relationship is affecting you. Sean and Lucy were never witness to David’s illness; I shielded them from it. And that’s exactly what you should be doing with—’
‘David’s illness?’
‘His nervous collapse.’ She looks at me questioningly. ‘You remember that, Natty, surely?’
‘Penny, David was never ill. He left you.’
She gapes at me, genuinely astonished, as if I’ve slapped her hard across the face. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Because it’s true!’
She backs away, saying, ‘I assure you it is not true.’ Her eyes are prickling with tears. ‘I assure you David had a series of complicated problems long before any of that started.’
She places her audio books on a display table and rummages inside her handbag for a clean tissue. Dabbing her eyes, she casts me a wounded look and instantly I feel terrible.
‘Aww, Penny,’ I say, reaching for her, ‘I shouldn’t have said that, I’m—’
But she folds her arms across herself.
I stand helpless, not able to find the right words. Wishing I hadn’t let her push my buttons, because I know – have always known, in fact – that sustaining the lie about David is the only thing keeping Penny from unravelling spectacularly. The only thing keeping her functioning like a normal human being.
Eventually, she’s able to bring herself to speak. ‘I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself in the future, Natty,’ she sniffs, and it’s bordering on tragic, because I know she’s trying to say this forcefully, but it comes out strained and weak.
As she gathers her things to leave, she says, ‘I do hope you know I was only trying to help you.’
I nod sadly, watching her disappear into the fiction section. There’s a sudden whoosh of air behind me as the automatic doors are thrown open.
I turn around and freeze.
‘Hello, Mrs Wainwright,’ says Detective Joanne Aspinall.
My face must register instant alarm because she tries her best at a consolatory smile. ‘I’m here to take you in,’ she says, carefully gauging my reaction. ‘I expect you’d prefer for me not to read you your rights in a public place?’
‘You’re arresting me?’ I ask.
She places her hand on my elbow and begins guiding me towards the door. ‘Let’s get you straight to the station and there’ll be no need for a scene,’ she says. ‘I don’t think we need the cuffs, do we?’
‘What?’ I gasp, confused, then realize she’s being serious.
‘No. No, of course not,’ I say, and follow her out.
23
IN THE END Eve decides against a trip on Lake Windermere. It’s drizzling, again, and she can’t stand the wet. In the short time that she’s been here it has done nothing but rain.
In the village, at the hotel, at the hospital, Eve’s heard people joke that last summer occurred on the second Tuesday in June. Following it up quickly with: ‘Of course, if we didn’t have all the rain . . . then we wouldn’t have the beautiful lakes.’
Eve’s not sure the lakes are actually that much of a trade-off. How do people spend all year in this dank, dreary corner of the world? How, when there is day upon day of thick, low clouds, the horizon blurred between the sky and the fells?
And there are no decent shops. Just gift shop after gift shop selling brightly coloured crockery. Selling high-waisted smock dresses with gaudy embroidery along the hem. Selling tall, ugly, wedge-heeled boots for ladies with thick calves.
Eve would have thought the combination of bad weather, restricted sunlight and limited choice of consumer goods would have an effect on the common psyche – as it’s purported to do in, say, Alaska. But she has seen no evidence of this so far. The people here seem happy – particularly the pensioners. Eve’s noticed that they appear fitter, more cheerful, more vigorous even, than pensioners in other parts of the country. Naturally, she has no intention of staying here long enough to become old herself. No, she’ll stay as long as it takes to get a decent payout from Sean, and then she’s off to Malaga. She’ll try her luck on the Costa del Crime with all those rich Russians. That is, unless she can persuade Sean to leave the girls and sell up. That could work, at a push.
Today Eve determines it’s more important for Sean to desire her rather than feel woeful about her injuries. If he stays in that sorrowful state for too much longer, he might be liable to forget why he left Natty in the first place. And Eve can’t take the risk.
So it’s for that same reason she decides to remove every scrap of her pubic hair.
Better, yes, to have it done professionally. She knows that. But Eve’s not going to chance using one of the provincial waxing salons in Bowness. She’ll take care of it herself.
But should she go for the whole vajazzle, she wonders? Perhaps not. Sean is fairly traditional when it comes to sex: too much sparkle and he may get spooked.
She picks up the phone and calls him.
He answers on the third ring. ‘Come home,’ she whispers, and he tells her he’s on his way.
She puts on the blood-red lipstick she saves for occasions such as this, applies two coats and a layer of gloss. She runs a comb through her hair, twisting it, securing it, into a loose chignon with a number of shiny pins. Then she strokes a coat of mascara through her lashes.
She brushes shimmery highlighter along her c
heekbones, remembering to dust a little on to her breasts before fastening her bra, and pulls on her stockings – seven denier with black lace at the top. She clasps her suspender belt – wears no briefs for now – and slips her feet into her heels, walking over towards the bed.
Lying on her back, she begins rubbing almond oil into her newly shaved skin. After a few minutes of kneading, the flesh there is engorged, baby-soft and plump. Almost ready.
She slips a finger inside to be certain she’s thoroughly wet, and, satisfied, she turns on to her tummy. She lies in her bra, stockings and shoes, facing towards the brass headboard, so that, upon seeing her, Sean will benefit from the full rear view.
And now she waits.
When she hears the front door slam and Sean’s eager foot-steps on the stairs, she parts her legs. Looks over her shoulder, sexily, from beneath her lashes.
Sean arrives in the doorway, panting.
Before he can speak, Eve shoots him a filthy smile and gets up on to her hands and knees.
I try Sean’s mobile for the third time. ‘This person’s phone is switched off . . .’ comes the haughty, pre-recorded voice of the Vodafone woman. I’ve always thought they could get somebody far nicer for that role. It’s bad enough that you can’t get through, without her making it worse. A lovely, lilting Highlands accent would be such an improvement . . . Och, dearie, this person’s phone is—
‘Perhaps you could try calling someone else?’ DC Aspinall says flatly. She casts the desk sergeant a quick glance: they’re beginning to lose patience. ‘What about your father? Maybe give him a call?’
I shake my head. ‘He can’t help me,’ I mumble, because I’m thinking: Where is Sean? What the hell is Sean doing?
We’ve always had a rule about mobile phones: They never get switched off when the girls are not with us. They can be set to silent. But phone calls from family cannot be ignored. No matter what time of day, no matter what we’re doing. No exceptions.
Of course, I know Sean and I are not technically family as of late, but still. The girls are at school and so Sean’s phone should be on. And if I go wasting my one phone call on somebody else, it will be just that: a waste.
Finally, on the fourth attempt, it goes to voicemail. ‘Sean,’ I say, my voice shaking with emotion, ‘Sean, please . . . I’m at Kendal police station, I’ve been arrested. I need the name of the lawyer you mentioned . . . you know, the guy you met at . . . I can’t remember where you met him.’ I pause, the gravity of my situation starting to sink in as I speak it out loud. ‘I don’t know who else to ask, Sean. Please hurry, I’m on my own here.’
I lift my head to see the desk sergeant busying himself, pretending not to listen. He’s dressed identically to the bar staff at the hotel – black polo shirt, black pressed trousers. He’s slim-hipped, with strong, sinewy forearms – joiner’s forearms – and is experimenting with pointed sideburns. For a moment I’m distracted, because, since when did police officers stop wearing shirts and ties? When did the chequered Juliet Bravo epaulettes disappear?
The desk sergeant meets my gaze and I snap back. Dropping my voice, I finish the call. ‘Sean, I’ve got no one else to ask . . . please get in touch with the lawyer. They’re waiting to question me, and I’m scared.’ As an afterthought I whisper: ‘Don’t tell the girls I’m here.’
I replace the receiver and turn to DC Aspinall. She’s already read me my rights and I have been arrested on suspicion of assault: grievous bodily harm and dangerous driving. I used my vehicle as a weapon.
‘What happens now?’ I ask quietly.
‘Not a lot,’ she says. ‘We wait for your solicitor.’
‘But what if he can’t get here? What if he can’t get here till tomorrow? I don’t know where he’s based, so it could be . . .’ My words evaporate as I try my hardest to recollect the conversation Sean and I had about this guy. All I remember is Sean saying he was nicknamed something corny like Dr Fix-it, because he had quashed numerous motoring charges against idiotic Premier League footballers.
DC Aspinall shrugs, giving me a sympathetic smile as if trying to convey something obvious that I’m failing to grasp. ‘If you’re declining the services of the duty solicitor, then there’s not a lot we can do.’
I sigh. ‘Can I go home?’ I ask her. ‘I promise not to leave the country.’
She shakes her head. ‘’Fraid not,’ she answers. ‘We can’t let you go . . . not this time.’
I look at her aghast. ‘You mean, I actually have to stay here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Surely there must be something,’ I say helplessly. ‘Some reason you can find that will allow me to go home.’
DC Aspinall’s face is impassive. She thinks I’m acting like a silly, spoilt woman, but that’s not it at all. I’m terrified. Beyond her is a skinny man arguing with an officer. The officer is trying to calm him. The man, emaciated, no more than seven or eight stone, has bad skin and a terrible, twitchy manner. He is swearing loudly and I’m finding it deeply unsettling. Someone has bumped his car and he’s incensed that the police are claiming it’s an insurance matter. The man is warned to lower his voice or else he’ll be removed from the station and, as he slams his fist down hard on the counter, we all shudder.
‘I cannot stay here,’ I whisper to DC Aspinall, my voice pleading. ‘You don’t understand . . . this is not my life.’
‘Mrs Wainwright, you don’t have a choice.’
Suddenly I can’t seem to catch my breath. Logically, I knew on the way here that being arrested meant I was likely to be charged. Which meant I would have to appear before magistrates in a few days’ time for sentencing. I said all this to myself, said, ‘Brace yourself, Natty.’ But in the fifteen minutes it took to get here – DC Aspinall hurtling through the floodwaters in a way a person would do only in a company car – I didn’t actually conjure up the image of my being led to a cell. Of sleeping behind a locked door. Of pissing on a low toilet without a seat in the corner of the room.
Sensing my terror, DC Aspinall touches my arm.
In a steady, controlled tone, she says, ‘I’ll make this as clear as I can, Mrs Wainwright. Unless Dr Dalladay changes her mind and decides to drop the charges against you, you will remain here until questioned. And then—’
I go to interrupt but she stops me.
‘And then, if charged, you may well be released on police bail. But I can’t guarantee that, on account of your previous conviction.’
‘You mean I’ll be remanded in custody?’ I cry, horrified. ‘You’re telling me I’ll be shut away until I go to court?’
‘That’s usually how it works, yes.’
I fight back the tears. ‘Don’t do this,’ I beg. ‘Please don’t do this, this is not who I am.’ And I can only think of my mother. She hadn’t brought me up with all that love, all that integrity, for me to end up here. She hadn’t invested so much of her good, decent self in me, for me to be locked up.
Sean’s mother was right. What sort of an example do I set for Alice and Felicity?
I am an embarrassment.
DC Aspinall tilts her head. ‘You’ll be okay,’ she says, guiding me by the elbow towards the cells. ‘It’s not going to be half as bad as you think.’
The problem with noisy sex, thinks Eve Dalladay, as she comes loudly and aggressively on top of Sean, is you’re not always aware that someone’s approaching until it’s too late. And Eve always comes loudly.
Men are such simple creatures, after all, and with an innate need to please. ‘Like loyal mongrels,’ Eve has mused more than once; dogs whose entire sense of well-being comes from pleasing their masters.
And what could be more pleasing than making a woman’s legs shake, making her shout out with pleasure? All the while under the happy delusion that you are the only man on earth capable of such a feat? This is what makes Eve such a good fuck. It’s not what she does in the bedroom, but how she reacts. This is what makes her
a generous lover. A lover that men have a hard time giving up.
She climbs off Sean’s naked body and tells him they have a problem.
He’s out of bed in an instant, pulling on his underwear, his socks, his shirt. Striding around the room in a state of utter despair.
‘You’re sure?’ he asks again. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’ The fear is clear in his voice.
‘It was definitely Felicity,’ Eve repeats. ‘She headed towards her room.’
‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘Jesus!’ He picks up his mobile from the dresser and stares at Eve, horrified. ‘My phone’s been off. She’s probably been trying to call me from school.’
He turns it on just as the ring tone blares out. His face registers further alarm. ‘Natty,’ he says, by way of explanation.
He cuts Natty’s call, puts his phone inside his back pocket.
‘What am I going to do?’ he asks. ‘What the hell do I say to Felicity? She’s fourteen. She should not have seen that. No child should see that.’
He pulls his fingers through his hair. Wincing, Eve supposes, as he relives the scene: the bodies. The noise. The animalistic, almost bovine, groaning that comes from deep within Eve when she’s about to come.
‘Let me talk to her,’ she says.
Sean’s mouth drops open. ‘No!’ he says emphatically. ‘Absolutely not. That would be worse. That would be so much worse.’
‘Would it?’
‘Christ, what am I doing?’ he says. ‘What am I doing letting that happen? What kind of father goes and . . .’ His words fade in his throat as he gags, and Eve thinks he’s about to vomit.
She gets off the bed and stands. She’s still in her heels and bra. ‘Close the door, Sean,’ she says gently, and he does as she asks. ‘Just wait for a moment. Don’t do anything rash. You’ll regret it, I promise.’
He starts pacing again. ‘What have I done?’ he asks her, and Eve tries not to panic, lest he lose it completely. She senses this might not just be about Felicity; the way he says it suggests a wider implication.
