by Lucy Diamond
The flat Becca shared with Meredith was in Northfield, on the west side of Birmingham. After ninety minutes of driving along the snaking, traffic-heavy roads the view from her window had changed from rolling fields and farmland to blocks of flats, double-decker buses, roadworks and tightly packed terraces of houses; a higgledy-piggledy urban sprawl. The evening sunshine was still golden, glinting off every car bonnet and wing mirror like hundreds of metallic fireflies; cats rolled languorously on dusty pavements, and the air was thick with diesel and the smell of hot chips. As she waited at traffic lights she could hear reggae blaring from an open window, and she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the beat. Hello, summer. Hello, best city in the world. I’m back.
Chapter Twenty
It was Friday evening and Rachel was gagging on a disgusting high-protein smoothie, wondering if Lawrence had arrived on time to take the kids for the weekend. Knowing him, probably not.
How she hated this, the shuttling back and forth, the passing and passing back of their children. It didn’t seem a good solution for anyone. ‘Do I get an actual suitcase now, like in The Suitcase Kid?’ Scarlet had asked (she was a big Jacqueline Wilson fan) and Rachel, trying to find niceness in this worst of all situations, had bought them each special overnight bags to take for their first weekend; a pathetic attempt to soften the blow. Now she wished she hadn’t. Seeing the cases lined up in the hall every other Friday afternoon, it was as if they were child evacuees in the war, leaving her indefinitely. She might as well have hung cardboard signs around their necks with their names and ages. Please look after this child.
Worse was the moment when Lawrence drove away with them each time, and the rooms fell empty, as if the whole house was holding its breath for their return. Keep busy, advised the other divorcees on the single-parent forum she had taken to frequenting. Enjoy some me time for once – you’ve earned it! But what was she supposed to do during this ‘me time’? It was impossible to relax when you felt so alone. Everyone else she knew was busy with their own families; the gardens full of barbecues and laughing children and music. The sounds taunted her as she paced around the quiet house, counting down the hours until she heard his car in the drive again.
Nobody had been a winner in the divorce. Not one of them was happier for it. Whenever one of the children was upset, had a bad dream, said how much they missed Dad or the dog, or went a bit quiet after speaking to him on the phone, it was as if a hand had reached inside Rachel’s stomach, grabbed her guts and wrenched. Your fault, your fault, your fault, her conscience kept accusing. Technically speaking, it was Lawrence’s fault too, of course, but it always seemed easier to blame herself.
She wondered how the conversation would go with Becca when he picked up the children that evening. Knowing smiles, meaningful glances? Nudge-nudge, wink-wink? Ugh. Thank goodness she didn’t have to witness that. She just hoped they didn’t make it too obvious in front of the kids. Mum, it was so weird, right, because when Dad picked us up, he gave Aunty Bee this really big kiss. Like, REALLY big. Conversations you did not want to have with your child, number 3,089.
Sighing, she found herself wishing for the millionth time that she could rewind and replay things differently, prevent the split from occurring quite so messily. She wouldn’t mention Craig, for starters. Would not even utter his name. She should have known not to, anyway, it was just . . . Well, he was kind of creeping her out, that was all. Calling and texting her out of work hours, standing a bit too close when they were in the office together. And she was pretty sure the silver necklace that had appeared mysteriously on her desk was from him, too. ‘Oh, bore off,’ she had muttered one evening, when he texted her a link to a funny news story. Thought you might like this, he had written jauntily. No, Craig. You thought wrong.
Lawrence had never openly said he resented Rachel’s success at work, but he was always tetchy when her phone bleeped with new texts or emails in the evening. Unlike his wife, he hated his job as a middle-grade accountant and thought work should end the moment you set foot outside the office. ‘Who is it?’ he asked immediately.
That was when she should have said the texter who’d annoyed her was her boss Samantha or one of the cliquey mums from school, in order to close the subject down. But she wasn’t thinking straight and she was stressed because she had a promotion interview hanging over her later that week, and so she blurted out, ‘Just Craig, this new guy at work.’
Match to the firework, right there. BOOM. Six little detonators falling carelessly from her lips because her mind was elsewhere. And so began the dagger-eyed grilling: Who the hell was Craig? Why was he texting her? Why hadn’t she told him about this before? Keeping secrets, was she? Fancy him, did she? What else had she conveniently neglected to tell him, then? She might as well come out with it! He’d find out soon enough!
It was like the unleashing of a storm that raged and whirled and refused to be calmed. Not content with giving her the third degree at home, he turned up in the office the next morning and ostentatiously kissed her in front of the other staff members, one hand possessively clamped to her behind. One of the secretaries giggled but everyone else, including Rachel, was mortified. Craig wasn’t even there to get the not-so-subtle hint.
Back at home, he kept chipping away, asking every night how Craig had been that day, had she seen him, had they worked together? Rachel was an area manager for the region and spent many days of the week in her car, but Lawrence became convinced she was sneaking off for secret rendezvous with Craig, and would phone repeatedly to check on her whereabouts. It was like being stalked by her own husband; everywhere she went, she realized she was just waiting for him to surprise her with an appearance, a comment, a put-down. She found herself imagining surveillance cameras trained on her from all angles, hidden microphones picking up her every conversation, spies on each corner. Her sleep began to suffer, and she didn’t get the promotion.
Things ramped up a gear one dreary, dark Saturday in November when they bumped into Craig in B&Q of all places, the children in tow. ‘So this is him, is it?’ Lawrence snarled over the tinny Christmas music, piped through the over-head speakers. He drew himself up to full height. ‘This is the Casanova, eh? We meet at last. I’m the husband.’
‘Lawrence, please,’ Rachel begged, acutely embarrassed. They were in the bathroom aisle, in front of a display of mirrors, and every way she looked, she could see her flustered reflection, pink in the cheeks, desperate for this not to be happening.
Lawrence paid no attention. ‘I’ve a good mind to smack you into next week,’ he went on, advancing menacingly on the bewildered, blinking Craig, while Rachel hustled the children away, telling them to go and look for tree decorations in the Christmas section. We WISH you a merry Christmas, trilled the music, we WISH you a merry Christmas.
Poor Craig, who had been innocently shopping for a shower curtain, backed into a shelf full of gleaming chrome taps, dropping his wire basket with a clatter. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he stammered, casting agonized glances at Rachel.
‘Is everything all right here?’ a burly shop assistant asked, glancing from Lawrence to Craig with his hands on his hips. We WISH you a merry Christmas, and a happy new YEAR!
Christ, it had been awful. And still he wouldn’t let it go. All the way home he had banged on about it, savage and cruel. ‘Spineless little shit. What the hell do you see in him?’
‘For the last time, Lawrence, I don’t see anything in him,’ she had cried, feeling like thumping her head against the car window. ‘There’s nothing going on. Nothing whatsoever! Now – please. Can we forget about it? I don’t want to talk about this in front of the children.’
‘Oh, no. Not in front of the children! We wouldn’t want them thinking their mother was anything less than perfect, would we, now? We wouldn’t want them knowing what a slag she was, hey?’
‘Daddy, stop it,’ brave Scarlet had said from the back seat, and thankfully it had been enough to silenc
e him for the rest of the way home. But of course that wasn’t the end of it. Because then, in the next week, it was her work Christmas party and Lawrence had burst in, drunk and belligerent, and had marched down the table of party-hatted staff, midway through their mince pies and chocolate fondant puddings, and swung a punch at Craig. Someone – Lacey, the receptionist, she thought – had screamed. Bruce, their accounts director, had jumped up and tried to push Lawrence away. There was grappling and shoving from the men, a table crashing over, a shrill ‘Gentlemen, please!’ from Samantha, and then along came the police, just to round the evening off nicely. Well done, Lawrence. And a merry bloody Christmas to you, too.
Anger and shame had swirled up inside Rachel like the muddy waters of a lake, as well as a steely new determination. That was it – a line had been crossed; her limit reached. No, she thought. She would not put up with this any longer. She certainly wasn’t about to condone her husband’s behaviour by standing by him after that. ‘It’s over,’ she had told him the next morning. ‘I can’t live with you any more.’
Craig hadn’t pressed charges (thank God), but the story made it into the local paper and Lawrence lost his job because of the whole thing. Naturally, the likes of Sara Fortescue thought Christmas had arrived early, with all this scandal on her very own doorstep. I couldn’t believe it, Rachel had heard her twittering to her cronies at the school gate. I mean, he always seemed such a nice man. A bit sexy and dangerous, you know, but not violent. Gosh. Do you think he’s been hitting her, too? And the children?
Despite all the arguments, despite the atmosphere of constantly walking on eggshells, the children were still unanimously shocked when the news was broken to them. Daddy’s going to move out. We don’t love each other any more but we do still love you three. No words could soften such a blow, however kindly you said them. There had been that awful beat of silence as they took it in: dawning bewilderment on Luke’s little face, betrayal on Scarlet’s. Mabel, meanwhile, had sat there, eyes glittering, digging her fingernails into her palms before leaping to her feet and erupting. ‘I should have known!’ she’d yelled furiously. ‘I should have known this would happen!’ and then she was storming out of the house, and Rachel had to chase after her up the street and attempt to hug her, Mabel wrestling to get free, both of them streaming with tears.
Dark times. Bad times. And of course, after the Christmas party debacle, even though it was probably the worst financial move she could possibly have made, she’d felt she had no choice but to resign her job at GoActive, the job she’d loved so much and been bloody good at, too. Because how could she go back and work there alongside Craig, when Lawrence had been so appallingly abusive towards him? Samantha hadn’t even argued when Rachel offered her resignation. ‘Well, we’re sorry to see you go, but in the circumstances . . .’ she had said, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Yeah. In the circumstances, you can take that vile husband of yours and bog off, love.
Worse than all of that, though – the pinnacle of worstness – had been what he’d said to her, packing up his things on that last day, hatred radiating from his entire body. ‘By the way, she was better in bed than you, you know,’ he’d said casually, almost carelessly, for his parting shot. ‘Way better. Your sister, I mean.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Oh, but it was good to be home, thought Becca as she walked back into her flat. The joy of nobody to look after or worry about. The smell of her own bed. A whole weekend with absolutely nothing to do. Well, okay, not strictly nothing – she had a medieval diadem to make for Meredith, and then it was the weekly Dad dinner with her mum on Sunday, but those were both nice, non-taxing things. Nobody needed cooking for, or soothing, or taking anywhere. Bring it on.
Meredith was in the kitchenette, and called out hello. She wearing a panda onesie, even though the temperature was still in the mid-twenties outside (and felt even hotter inside their stuffy top-floor flat), and eating a Pot Noodle. Despite being extremely clever – she worked as a research associate in the History faculty at the university – Meredith rarely attempted to cook anything more complicated than a sandwich. The Pot Noodle was actually a rare culinary achievement. ‘Hey,’ she said, waving a fork in the air and narrowly avoiding flinging a wet noodle at her flatmate. ‘You’re back. How was it?’
‘We all survived to tell the tale, although Rachel’s still in hospital until next week,’ Becca said succinctly, retrieving two cold bottles of beer from the fridge. ‘The kids are with their dad for the weekend.’ She popped open the beers and passed one over. ‘So, this diadem, then. What’s the plan?’
Meredith beamed. ‘Well, you know Galadriel?’ she asked, putting the bottle to her lips. ‘Cheers for this, by the way.’
‘Um . . .’ Becca replied, taking a cold, delicious swig. Galadriel? One of Meredith’s weird mates, she guessed. Becca had once accompanied her friend to a re-enactment battle event and met so many people who called themselves things like ‘Althanos’ and ‘Peronell’ that she had tuned out after a while. Besides, they almost certainly had names like ‘Steve’ and ‘Alison’ in real life anyway. ‘I’m not sure I remember her. I mean, him,’ she admitted doubtfully, as Meredith looked amused. Shit. Maybe it was some famous historical queen she was supposed to have heard of.
‘From Lord of the Rings? She’s a royal Elf. Cate Blanchett played her in the film. Oh, you do know!’ Seeing the blank expression on Becca’s face, Meredith abandoned her Pot Noodle and began searching for an image on her phone. ‘Whatever, anyway, she has this really cool circlet crown in the film. Like this.’
She handed over her phone and Becca peered at the image. As well as an impressive pair of elf ears, Cate Blanchett was indeed wearing a gold and silver circlet that formed a V point over her forehead, twisting into a teardrop shape at its tip. ‘Nice,’ she said, handing it back to Meredith, her brain already trying to work out how she could create something similar. The jewellery business she and her friend Debbie had set up had begun very simply – threading earrings and bangles – but then they’d both got really into it and taken silversmithing evening classes so that they could tackle more elaborate designs and projects. Somewhere in her bedroom, along with the rest of her kit, Becca seemed to recall there was some lovely thick silver-plated wire that shouldn’t be too hard to weave into the requisite elven swirls.
‘I’d like mine a bit simpler than that,’ Meredith went on. (Simpler – good, thought Becca.) ‘Maybe with a whopping great jewel in the middle. A midnight-blue crystal to go with my dress, if you’ve got one.’
‘I’ll have to check the colours,’ Becca said, ‘but essentially, yeah, I could definitely make one like that for you.’
Meredith was not a huggy type of person, but she clinked her beer bottle against Becca’s and beamed. ‘It’s good to have you back.’
Becca spent Friday night and Saturday morning working on the circlet and – call her smug for saying so – was thoroughly proud of the result by the time she had finished. It was absolutely bloody gorgeous! She had found an oval moonstone cabochon that gleamed blue and gold for the central forehead jewel, and from there had woven three strands of silver up and out each side like wings, curling them gently so that they would lie in shining, twisting patterns around her flatmate’s head. The back of the diadem was to be fastened by a black ribbon, which would lie unseen under Meredith’s long brown hair.
‘Oh my goodness, Becca, this is fabulous,’ Meredith said, admiring herself in the bathroom mirror. ‘It’s really beautiful. Better than I ever thought.’ She twisted her head left and right, tracking a finger along the undulating silverwork. ‘Thank you so much. Consider that gas bill well and truly paid.’
Becca beamed in return, feeling a genuine glow of satisfaction. Thank YOU, she wanted to say. Thank you for asking me to do it in the first place. She had loved digging out her soldering equipment and getting stuck in to a new creative project; it had been so long since she’d attempted anything artistic. Since . . . Actua
lly, it must be since before her dad had died, now that she thought about it. There had been thick dust on the top of her bead box and her tube of solder paste had dried right out (fortunately she had some unopened spares). She had forgotten how it always lifted her spirits to think creatively, to feel the unique sense of achievement that came from crafting something with her own hands. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said happily. ‘I enjoyed it.’
She decided to sort through the rest of her art supplies while Meredith went to get ready for her banquet. As well as the jewellery kit, there were all sorts of other bits and pieces – fabric and wool, some fake fur remnants from when she’d attempted to make herself a coat two winters ago, lampshade rings, paints, silver clay, even some bags of googly eyes from a short-lived stint as an after-school club volunteer. It had all been boxed up and put away for over a year now, though, as if she’d closed down that side of herself entirely. Seeing the contents again felt like reawakening something inside. There was the sketchbook she’d been halfway through when her dad had died: quick pencil sketches of a cake-themed tea cosy she’d planned to make for her mum that had never come about; ideas for stuffed toys she’d wondered about pitching to one of the posh toy shops in town; drawings of beautiful dangling earrings, silver spirals studded with gemstones. Where had it gone, that imagination of hers, that love of creating? Leafing through the pages now, it felt as if someone else had dashed off those sketches, come up with those ideas. And yet . . .
