It should, you know—it’s not a good thing. You get habituated. That’s not healthy.
I shrug and the room tips a little.
Lots of things aren’t healthy, I tell him.
Your job is, he says. The job you do is healthy.
I try to think about my job, but in my head it dwindles and slips away from me.
It’s all I can do. I’ve never thought about it like that.
Yes, but do you like it? Does it give you a buzz?
I laugh.
I can cure babies of colic and make them sleep all night. I can make old people walk more comfortably. I can take pain away.
He stares at me.
That’s wonderful. It’s just what I would expect you to be able to do.
Would you? I ask him.
Yes, he says. You’re an angel. I thought that from the start. There’s something boundlessly good and true about you.
I laugh.
Boundlessly good and true? I like that!
No, he says and his face is suddenly serious, there is. I mean it. I wouldn’t say it otherwise.
In the end I begin to cry.
What? he says. What is it?
Nothing, I tell him. Just—I may be drunk.
He gets up and moves over to me. It only seems to take a second, too little time to stop him.
It’s your fault, I tell him.
What is?
All of it.
His hands are on me, on my shoulders, but I pull back.
Tell me, he says. What’s made you cry?
I ought to go, I tell him and I put down my glass and reach for my coat. He looks at me.
You know something? he says.
What?
No. Forget it. I was going to say a bad thing.
Don’t, I tell him, suddenly wanting more than anything for him to say it.
OK, I won’t. But look, tell me something. Is it working?
Is what working?
This thing of ours—is it wearing off?
I glance at his face.
I don’t know, I say as I pull on my coat. It may take a little while.
He says nothing. He just lies back on the bed and smiles.
Will I see you again? he says, and when I don’t answer he doesn’t look at all surprised, just goes on smiling.
I can’t lie to Mick. I tell him half of the truth. A version anyway. That I ran into Lacey and had a drink with him. That’s where I’ve been. Yes, really. All of this time.
A drink?
Well, two.
He stares at me blankly from the sofa where Livvy is lying, cranky and fidgety, across his lap.
But what about the exhibition?
Oh, I say as casually as I can, they had enough people. More than enough. They were fine.
He stays looking at me and saying nothing.
What? I say.
More than two drinks, he says.
No, I chuck my coat at the chair but I miss and it slithers off onto the floor. I pick it up again. It’s just—I’m not used to it.
It’s true. I haven’t drunk properly since Liv was born.
He says nothing. He looks at the TV, then back at me.
This baby’s very hungry, he says at last.
I know, I tell him because my breasts are bursting.
You think you should feed her when you’ve been drinking?
I shut my eyes.
I have to—now. But OK maybe we should start trying her on formula.
He makes a face of surprise.
I thought you wanted to carry on as long as possible?
I do.
Well, then.
He stands up, hands her to me. Livvy’s eyes gleam at the sight of my face.
My head aches. As she gasps and closes her mouth over my nipple, fixing me with her hot black eyes, Mick goes to the kitchen and returns with a glass of water. Passes it to me. In silence.
Thanks.
I put my finger into Livvy’s small, proffered fist. She releases the nipple a second to register pleasure, takes a quick breath, latches on again. How could I be late for this child?
Mick sits down in the armchair, watches the TV, then watches me. Eventually he flicks the TV off.
So. What did you talk about? he says. I feel a rush of sympathy for him.
What? With Lacey?
Of course with Lacey.
Not a lot.
Come on, Tess—
Oh, you know, all sorts of things, I tell him vaguely.
It’s nearly the truth. When I think back, there are no words I can grasp.
Stuff about his work, I tell Mick.
Fair enough, he says, and what are you doing now?
I’ll feed Liv and maybe watch the telly a bit, I say. And then go to bed.
Fine, he says and gets up.
Where are you going?
Bed. I’m skipping the TV part. I’ve done that. Turn off the kitchen light before you come upstairs, he says.
I change Liv and put a clean sleepsuit on her and lay her gently in her cot. I wind up her mobile, the one that takes a full seven minutes to run down.
Normally this would send her off, but tonight she barely needs it, she’s ready to sleep. Maybe it’s because she had a chance to get properly hungry, because I wasn’t on tap for once.
Anyway her eyes flutter open briefly and then shut again. Her thumb is jammed in her mouth, the cuff of her sleepsuit pulled up over it, her fat cheek moving furiously as she sucks. If we’re lucky, she might not wake now for a whole six hours.
In the bedroom, Mick looks asleep, the duvet pulled up right over his head and only the top of his black hair poking out.
I take off all my clothes then go to the drawer on the landing and pull out the boned and buttoned and strappy thing in violet lace that Mick bought for me before I got pregnant with Liv, in the days when I still had a body and knew what to do with it. A piece of underwear, I don’t remember what you call them—half alive it seems now as I turn it over and around in the thick, drunk half-light and try to remember how it goes on.
Hooks and eyes, maybe twenty pairs of them. You do them up in front of you and then when they’re done, you twist the whole thing round. I hold my breath, feel the lace rub on my skin. Then push my two breasts, tired and empty of milk now, into the funny, strapless cups.
I try not to look in the mirror. Instead I go back in the bedroom and sit on Mick. He makes a small sleeping noise and then he half wakes up.
What? he says. Tess, for fuck’s sake, what’re you doing?
I turn off the light, kiss him as if I mean it.
Sex.
What?
I thought we could do it.
I think at first that he’s going to resist but then I feel it—him moving under me—and I think how I’d forgotten how easy it all is. So easy if you just don’t think about it first. He touches the tops of my breasts, the place where the flesh is crammed in and jiggly. Then he slows and hesitates.
No, he says.
What?
You’re drunk.
I’m not.
I know you are.
Not any more.
OK. Then come here, come and kiss me first.
I tell him I don’t want that, I just want to do it.
He lets his hands fall back on the bed.
I want you to be aroused, he says.
I am—I am aroused.
He sighs and puts a hand between my legs.
Wet me, I tell him. Go on—do it. Spit on your fingers.
But he doesn’t. Instead he kisses me—a small, snappy kiss on the inside of my arm. It’s not enough.
I bend my mouth to his ear, smell the warm sleep and skin smell of it.
Hit me, I suggest in a whisper. Hit me if you want.
He touches my mouth.
No, he says, in a voice thick with the beginnings of desire, I don’t want.
I want you to do things, I tell him.
Come here, he says. Let me get you wet proper
ly.
No.
I want you to enjoy it too, he says again, moving his fingers over my thighs, trying to put his tongue on any part of me he can reach.
Fed up of trying, I sit and put my hands on his bare chest and I wriggle on him and try to stuff him into me. But it won’t go, it just bends, only half stiff. He pulls me off at last and sits up.
Ow. Stop it. What are you doing?
I don’t know, I tell him truthfully. I notice in a distant kind of way that my eyes are closed.
I don’t know either.
He sounds hurt. As he speaks I feel his hardness sliding away. He gives a long sigh and reaches for his watch and tips the face to read it.
I don’t know what’s the matter with you, he says. I can’t begin to work out what the matter is. Don’t you want me any more? Is there something else you want?
I lie down in silence, arms folded on my chest like a stone person on a tomb.
Is there?
I close my eyes. The world tilts. I’m spilling out of it.
Is there something or someone else? he asks me again, and as he says the words, I try to listen, try to ask myself the same question, Is there?
Speak to me, Tess, he says as sleep comes up and punches me in the face.
In the morning, the garment is somehow off me, down by the side of the bed. Downstairs I can hear the sound of the TV and, above it, the children shouting. My head hurts and my throat is sore. Mick brings me coffee.
Last night, he says, a weird thing happened.
I know, I say.
He doesn’t seem angry any more. He sits there on the edge of the bed in his old saggy jeans.
No, he says, not that. I mean while you were out.
I’m sorry, I tell him.
He ignores me.
Well, at about six or six thirty, the dog went crazy—barking furiously as if there was someone there—and when I went down, there was no one. But the back door was open—
I sit up.
My God, Mick, I say, but who’d have opened it? Were the kids downstairs?
Well, he says, it could have been anything—the wind, or maybe it wasn’t properly shut in the first place—
It shouldn’t open on its own like that.
No, he agrees, but listen. That’s not all. Fletcher was really going berserk, you know, running in and out and growling and growling—
Someone was there?
No. But I could hear the sound of talking. Just a very low, quiet voice, barely audible—and then I realised Jordan was in the room and he looked like he’d been crying and I asked him what was the matter and who had opened the door and he wouldn’t tell me.
My heart goes cold.
It wasn’t Bob? You’re sure Bob hadn’t just popped round and forgotten to close it or something?
No. It wasn’t Bob. In fact Jordan said it was Rosa who’d opened it. So I called her down and I could tell by her face that she knew what was going on, so I assumed he was telling the truth. And then I got quite cross—and guess what she told me?
I stare at him and shake my head.
She said that Lennie had done it.
I take a sharp breath.
What?
She said that she and Jordan keep on seeing her.
Panic squeezes my heart.
I don’t—
Mick looks calmly at me, watching my face.
Just that. That’s what she said.
But—I put my coffee cup down—seeing Lennie? What do they mean, seeing? Mick—?
She said they keep on seeing Lennie and she keeps on telling them things.
Oh God no, I say. What sort of things?
He laughs suddenly.
Tess, he says, look at you. You look petrified. You don’t believe it, do you?
But—
Come on, he says, it’s one of Rosa’s funny stories. Except it’s not funny—she’s scaring Jordan. I told her so. I’m not having it. It took a while to calm him down.
Jordan’s seen her too?
Mick sighs.
He says he has. Christ, please don’t get in a state about it, Tess. Or I wouldn’t have told you. It’s a game, clearly.
I say nothing.
It’s perfectly natural. It’s a child’s game, a way of dealing with a terrible situation. The only slightly worrying thing is the door.
But—I thought it was Rosa?
No, I told you, Jordan said it was her, but she denied it. She swore she’d been nowhere near it. And for some reason I believe her.
But someone opened it.
He frowns.
The wind? There’s no other explanation.
But—you’re just going to leave it? Aren’t you worried?
He thinks about this.
I don’t know, he says. Are you?
Suddenly his face collapses and he looks a little tired. He looks at me.
At least I was sober, he says. Christ, at least I was bloody well here.
Chapter 12
ALEX HAS NEARLY FINISHED THE COFFIN. IT LIES ON THE workbench in the draughty outhouse where he works—a huge, sleek thing, carved out of the reddest wood I’ve ever seen.
He watches me look at it.
Well?
I shiver.
It’s beautiful, I say, it’s very—big.
Yes, he says softly. Yes, I wanted it big.
He waits, clearly expecting more.
I like how the sides are curved, I say. It looks like it’s been blown from inside—
That’s the wood. It’s the best stuff to work with—you can do just about anything with it.
I run my fingers over it. It feels warm.
Expensive, he adds, and hard to get hold of.
It’s lovely, I say.
He tells me that both boys helped him polish it.
They wanted to, he adds quickly as if I might have doubted it.
Rosa comes in. Stops when she sees it.
Is that—?
For her, I say quickly, yes.
She frowns.
It looks more like a bath.
Alex smiles.
Oh well, he says, fine. That’s OK. I think that’s cool.
Rosa gives him one of her looks.
Rosa—I take her firmly by the shoulders—shush. Go out. Find Jordan—go on, I mean it. Out.
Alex pays no attention.
And look, he says, touching my arm, have you seen?
He shows me where he’s sanded a small area on the side and the boys have drawn pictures. Even Connor. A pirate with strange bobbly feet, waving a flag saying Mum. Max has carved his name and a long and steady row of kisses.
He wouldn’t do a picture, Alex says. I left him alone and that’s what he did—one kiss is for every year he knew her, that’s what he said.
We stand there for a few moments. He wipes his hands on his jeans. So, he says, how’s things?
All right.
Still seeing Lacey?
I flush.
What do you mean?
He smiles.
Al, I say, for God’s sake.
I’m sorry, he says, keeping his eyes on me. But look here, don’t you ever think of Mick?
He slides a cigarette from a pack on the bench and lights it.
What do you mean, think of Mick?
He says you got drunk. You and him.
I sit down on the bench.
He told you that?
Yes. It’s funny because he said nothing to me about it.
Who? Who said nothing?
Lacey.
Why would he?
No, he says in a colder voice, I suppose you’re right. Why would he?
I look at him, standing by the empty coffin, smoking and waiting.
So is it true?
I look at his cigarette.
Give me some of that, I say.
He passes it.
Is it true? he asks me again louder.
Yes, OK, we had a drink. So?
He smiles and says nothing.
<
br /> We both look at the coffin.
All we need now, he says, is to get her back—
I stare at him.
Her body, he says, to go in it.
Ah.
You know, the undertakers recommended I put some kind of upholstery in it.
Really? I say, enjoying the dirt-taste of smoke in my mouth.
Oh you know—they’re so conservative these people, wanting to do things in a certain way. I’ll have that back now, he says about the cigarette. You shouldn’t smoke you know.
Neither should you, I say. Handing it back.
He takes it. His fingers are filthy, the nails yellow.
No, he says, but you really shouldn’t. I’m expendable.
What a ridiculous thing to say. Your boys need you.
He looks at me.
They needed their mother, too.
You know what I mean.
He sighs a long sigh and stubs out the cigarette.
There, he says, OK?
Ignore them, I tell him, the undertakers—you don’t have to do as they say.
Oh I did. I am. I told them—it’s only going to be bunged in the ground for fuck’s sake—
Quite.
He smiles.
But then I went one better, he says. I told them I’d make my own lining anyway. And do you know what I’m using?
I shake my head.
Con’s old baby sheet. The flannel one he used to drag round when he was little—
I swallow.
The one he had to take with him everywhere, remember?
You’ve still got that?
Upstairs in a chest. Lennie must have put it away for, well, I don’t know for what.
It’s not something you’d throw away, I tell him quietly.
Women, he says. Typical Lennie. I mean, I wouldn’t have kept it.
I shake my head.
But it’s come in useful now, he says.
But is it big enough? I ask him. It’s not very big, surely?
He laughs.
Do you think she’ll mind what the fuck size it is?
No.
He passes me a roll of kitchen towel and I wipe my eyes, blow my nose.
I don’t understand you, he says at last.
What? What don’t you understand?
You were always there for me, my best friend, I could say anything to you.
Al, I say.
And then—
No. Don’t do this.
Lennie dies and—
Al—
You stop loving me. Just like that.
I say nothing.
I’m serious. I really don’t understand it, he says.
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