‘My feet are killing me,’ she comments, and I glance down between us. Ridiculously high chunky grey and yellow wedges still don’t bring her up to my height.
‘Poor you,’ I say, although, in truth, I don’t really mean it. I feel annoyed with her.
Distracted, I stand on tip-toe again and spot it, littered with empty glasses. ‘Quick,’ I say, right up close to her ear. She smells of cinnamon. ‘There’s a table free.’ I make no apologies for legging it across the pub and lunge down into one of the three chairs just as another couple are about to settle in. I can’t help noticing that the woman is pregnant. I look away, pretending not to have seen.
‘Well done,’ Cecelia says. She’s wearing fuchsia tights and a short patchwork skirt. She wiggles it down as she sits, legs primly folded away from me.
I don’t know how to begin so I sip my drink instead. I wish I’d ordered a double. Triple. The whole bottle. A distillery. ‘How’s the work going?’ I ask, and she immediately tips her head at me and pulls back her hair. ‘Oh, wow,’ I say. ‘They’re stunning.’
‘It’s Diana. She’s a fertility goddess.’
I feel the lump that’s sitting deep in my neck pulse. Did she wear them to make a point? I lean towards the earrings and take a closer look. Anything to distract myself. ‘She’s half tree.’ I sound inane.
‘I morphed her legs into an oak tree. Diana was a hunter, too. She’s kind of my heroine.’ She says this with a slow laugh from over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip.
I already know this. She’s told me a million times. I suddenly feel very inadequate. Cecelia is very talented. I uncross my ankle and bump her leg with my boot. ‘Sorry.’
‘How’s the new job going?’
I can’t believe she’s asked. My nose wrinkles and my lips part but nothing much comes out. What am I supposed to tell her? ‘We were talking about your work,’ I say.
Cecelia seems happy enough to veer back to her jewellery. It’s part of her, intrinsic to every day of her life. ‘I got a new order today.’
I nod. ‘Good.’ I imagine the client choosing from her bizarre pieces. She once designed a controversial range of jewellery that she called ‘Rape’. She was even featured in a couple of Sunday papers. The next day, there were loads of complaints about the accompanying photographs. What did she expect? The model was semi-naked, draped in what appeared to be used condoms, and blood, and was bound up by handcuffs and had a masked man, also semi-naked, looming menacingly over her while the designs glittered somewhere in the mess. She was accused of glamorising sex crimes. I can’t say the jewellery was particularly pretty or wearable although it certainly got her noticed as a designer. A couple of stores in London regularly order as a result, although what she supplies to them isn’t quite as eye-widening as the phallic necklaces with removable female body parts. That was Cecelia on drugs or something.
‘So. How’s it going?’ I ask lamely, simply to postpone the inevitable.
‘Yeah, like I said, I’m OK,’ she says, peering at me over the top of her glass as she takes a sip of wine.
‘Cecelia . . .’ I put out my hand but she halts it with her look.
‘No need,’ she sings. She tilts her head. ‘What did you want to see me about, anyway?’ She knocks back the rest of her drink. A sure sign that she’s becoming angry. A sure sign that I did the right thing by moving out.
This is it then. The proper end. No going back. I’d better get it over with. ‘I thought you should know, after everything’ – after all your hopes, your plans, your dreams – ‘that I’m not pregnant.’
She stares at me a long while before getting up and leaving.
15
LORRAINE LEFT ADAM at work. While the Frith case was currently eating up most of their time, he’d told her that he had some other matters to take care of. She’d stood there winding her scarf around her neck, pulling on her leather driving gloves before slinging her bag over her shoulder. She’d hoped he’d come home with her. ‘Sorry,’ he’d said, glancing up from behind stacks of files. She’d walked out of his office feeling empty, slightly bereft, and sad. It was the first time she’d felt like that about him for ages. Since he’d told her, actually.
‘Grace?’ Lorraine called out when she got home. ‘Stella? Anyone home?’
In the kitchen, Lorraine found her eldest daughter sitting at the kitchen table with several files of work and a text book spread out in front of her. There was a plate of uneaten burnt toast and a glass of water sitting beside her. Lorraine wondered how she could see well enough to study. The main lights were off with only the under-cupboard lights casting a vague glow across the room.
‘Hello, love. That looks nourishing. Didn’t you see my note?’ She waved the morning’s quickly-scribbled instructions under Grace’s nose. ‘Stew in fridge. Microwave for five mins. Too hard?’ She was about to ask where Stella was but then remembered she’d gone to her friend Kate’s for the evening. No doubt she’d get a phone call at about ten to come and fetch her.
Grace said nothing. She looked worried, Lorraine thought, sitting there like a lost waif, twiddling her pencil and clearly not paying a scrap of attention to her books. She was determined to apply for university but this didn’t look like the studious daughter she knew.
‘Don’t you feel well, love?’ Lorraine stood behind Grace’s chair and stroked back her long hair. It felt a little greasy. Grace pulled away, so Lorraine went round and sat down opposite her daughter. ‘What’s wrong, Gracie? Bad day?’ Lorraine blew out in a big sigh to signal that she too had had a taxing one and perhaps they could compare notes, have a giggle like they usually did. ‘Gracie?’
Grace definitely wasn’t looking at her books. She was staring at the table. The old pine surface was stained with years of spilled wine, rings from hot coffee mugs, bored kids scratching grooves with pencils, compasses, fingernails, and what looked like some of last night’s dinner still stuck to a placemat. Surely the history this bit of furniture contained wasn’t that captivating. No, Grace’s eyes were focused on somewhere a long way off and, sitting there in her crumpled school uniform – she hated that the sixth-formers at her school still had to wear it when other local schools did away with it in the A-level years – she could have passed for a miserable fourteen-year-old rather than the burgeoning, happy young woman Lorraine knew her to be.
‘Better get a clean one ironed for tomorrow,’ Lorraine said, leaning forward and swiping a finger down the front of Grace’s white shirt. ‘Bit grubby.’ She tapped her on the nose but Grace flinched away again. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’
Nothing. No response.
Lorraine had had enough. She stood up. ‘If you won’t tell me what’s wrong, I can’t possibly help you, so I’ll say no more about it.’
‘Is this how you interrogate criminals?’ Grace suddenly said. Her voice quivered over the words.
‘No, I go much easier on them.’ She tried to sound light as she sat the kettle on its base and flicked it on. She leant back against the worktop staring at Grace’s back, noticing how her spine was rolled forward a little, having the effect of drawing her shoulders protectively up round her ears. Her shirt had come untucked from the grey pleated skirt that she insisted on wearing ridiculously short. Her black woolly tights ended with pink velour slippers with red check bows on the front. They were old and worn at the toes.
She’s still just a kid, Lorraine thought.
‘Aren’t you hungry, or is there something wrong with my cooking?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with the food,’ was Grace’s lean reply.
‘Shall I warm some up? I might join you. Dad’s going to be late back.’ She was careful not to allow any bitterness into her voice. They’d kept his confession from the girls, and both intended to leave it that way. But sometimes, just sometimes, she wished she could pour it all out to Grace, have her stroke her head for a change, bring her tissues and a hot water bottle, watch a rubbish movie and scoff a pile of chocolate together. The ti
mes she’d done that for her girls over the years, she thought, as the moppings-up of countless best-friend fallouts, bad grades at school (in Stella’s case) and boyfriend woes (Grace) tumbled through her mind. Each, in its own way, was as immense to her girls as the crap she was stuck with in her head about Adam. The stupid thing was, she still loved him.
‘What?’ Grace shifted in her seat, turning round to see her mother staring at her.
Oh God, had she just said all that out loud, Lorraine wondered? ‘You look pale and tired. I’m not taking no for an answer. I’m going to heat up the stew and—’
‘I’m leaving,’ Grace said matter-of-factly. She turned back to her books, reanimated by something.
Lorraine frowned. She began warming up the food. ‘Surely you’ve got time to eat before you go.’ Her mind tracked through her daughter’s schedule. Leaving? What did she have on tonight? Drama club? Was Matt picking her up? Were they off out – cinema, bowling? As the food warmed, a comforting smell of onions, garlic and red wine permeated the room. She poured a glass of Merlot for herself.
‘I mean I’m leaving, Mum.’
‘It’s not drama tonight, is it?’ Lorraine said, puzzled. Grace didn’t respond. She must be seeing Matt then. ‘Where are you two lovebirds going? Try to be home by half ten.’ More than once she’d had to stop Adam charging down the stairs and out into the street to prise Matt’s mouth off his daughter’s as they said a prolonged goodnight. The lad was nice enough, but being older than Grace and owning his own car meant that he had a lot of freedom. And he expected to enjoy a lot of it with their daughter.
‘Not leaving as in going out for the evening,’ Grace said impatiently. ‘I’m leaving home. For good.’
Lorraine dropped the wooden spoon into the pot and watched it sink. She took a large swig of wine and paced over to the light switch. With a forceful click, she illuminated the room.
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I can’t say it clearer than that, Mum.’ Her eyes stared into nowhere again. ‘I’m just sick of it here.’
Lorraine stared at her daughter, trying to read the resentment behind her tired eyes. She looked exhausted. Had she been eating properly? Lorraine couldn’t be sure, and with all the pressure of looming exams and the extra-curricular stuff she took on, no wonder she was having a blow-out and cooking up crazy plans. It would probably all be over by morning.
‘I understand exactly how you feel,’ Lorraine said. A stock reply, straight out of a parenting book. She knew it meant nothing really; meant nothing because, if she was honest with herself, she hadn’t a clue how Grace felt.
‘Mum, don’t bother. I’m moving in with Matt. It’s all arranged. I’m leaving school, and we’re getting married soon.’
No! Lorraine forced the explosion to stay inside. It was all so sudden, sounded so final. What the hell had got into Grace? She sloshed more wine into her glass and turned to find her daughter standing, packing up her books.
‘What are you doing?’ Lorraine took another mouthful, the Merlot searing down her throat.
‘Putting my stuff away. And don’t bother trying to change my mind.’
‘And just how do you think you’re going to support yourself?’ She trembled at the thought. Her daughter, her precious Gracie, was leaving home, quitting school, and getting married. A bad day had turned into the shittiest one of her life.
Grace glanced at her watch. ‘Matt and I are going to get jobs, of course. I’ve already applied for some.’ She smiled tersely, which made Lorraine feel as if it was all her fault. Of course it was her bloody fault! ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got it all worked out.’
‘And what do you think your father will have to say about this hare-brained plan? What about your exams, university, the rest of your life? Do Matt’s parents know?’ Lorraine felt her face redden and prickles of sweat break out. At the other end of the hormonal spectrum, this was no time to be getting a hot flush.
‘Mum,’ Grace said with a laugh – a laugh! – ‘you’re overreacting, as usual. You can’t stop me doing what I want. And yes, of course Matt’s parents know. They’re giving us our own room until we get a place of our own.’
Lorraine suddenly felt about ten years older than when she’d arrived home. ‘I didn’t even know you and Matt were . . .’ She trailed off, trying to block the thoughts of her daughter and Matt in bed together. ‘I hadn’t realised . . . ’ – it was that serious, but she couldn’t finish. ‘What’s wrong with living here, with us, your family? What about Stella?’
‘Mum, just drop it.’ Grace swished back her hair. ‘We love each other. We’re engaged.’ She thrust out her left hand to show off the slim band of gold with a small, faintly glittering stone. ‘He’s going to get me a better one when he can aff—’
‘You stupid, stupid little girl!’ Lorraine shouted. ‘Do you honestly think I’ve got time for this?’ She was visibly shaking. ‘Get this ridiculous idea out of your head right now and go and finish your studies or do something useful like ironing a shirt.’
‘You’ve forgotten already, haven’t you, Mum?’ Grace was standing with her hands on her hips, her chin jutting forward, the crests of her prominent cheekbones flushed rose. Her eyes still appeared sunken with grey circles beneath, and Lorraine couldn’t help noticing again how thin she looked. Hadn’t she been wearing that same school skirt for aeons? ‘You once promised me that whatever happened, whatever I did, whoever I became, you’d love me and support me and respect me.’
The words were bullets and sank directly into Lorraine’s heart. She had indeed once said those words, probably when Grace was about six or seven.
‘So show me you actually meant it,’ Grace said, walking out of the kitchen and closing the door quietly behind her.
*
She’d finished most of the bottle by the time Adam got home.
An hour earlier, she had taken some food upstairs. ‘Love?’ She’d knocked on Grace’s bedroom door and put the tray on the floor outside. ‘There’s some dinner here.’ She’d then gone directly back downstairs knowing that her daughter would, fox-like, be more tempted to open the door and take it if she weren’t there watching, ready to pounce. She’d poured herself more wine.
God, she could do with a cigarette. Then she remembered the emergency packet tucked away at the back of the booze cupboard, mainly for when their friends Sal and Dave came round for supper. Perched on the back-door step, they would inhale the smoke and blow it all out again through drunken giggles as Adam, who didn’t smoke, sat alone at the table chucking insults and health statistics at them. ‘Poor Adam, he’s fuming in his own way,’ Sal had once noted through a bubbling laugh. It had seemed hilarious at the time.
She pushed aside sticky bottles of Southern Comfort and Baileys that only ever got drunk at Christmas. There. At the back. The red and white beacon of a pack of Marlboro. She reached in and shook it. Not full by any means, but there were some left.
A few moments later she was standing in the back garden, hidden by the shadow of the shed, shivering, freezing, wishing she’d put on gloves as well as her coat and scarf, sucking as deep and hard as she could on the first cigarette she’d had in ages. It felt bloody glorious.
Stamping her feet to keep warm, she allowed Grace’s shocking news to gradually sink in. Leaving home? Getting married? Her daughter was serious. Adam still had the sickening swell of realisation to go through; at least she was one step ahead of him there, although she felt regret at her outburst. She knew she’d overreacted, but Grace’s announcement had pressed a button. Was her daughter’s life so intolerable that she wanted to move in with another family? If she was honest, it was this which stung the most.
There was a noise. A shaft of light fell across the darkened lawn as the back door opened. ‘Ray?’ Damn it, don’t call me that! ‘Are you out here?’ Then she heard low murmurings followed by ‘you were supposed to fetch Stella’. The door slammed.
Shit.
Lorraine dropped the half-
finished cigarette, knocked back the rest of her wine and left the glass on the low wall beside the shed. She dashed back to the kitchen door, feeling wobbly and unsteady. She made it inside just as Adam was leaving the kitchen with his arm round Stella.
He turned and glared at her. ‘You forgot her. She’s been phoning you but you didn’t answer.’
‘Stel, I’m so sorry, love. Time got away and . . .’ She ran the tap, poured herself a glass of water, and downed it in one. Her fingers smelt disgusting.
‘What’s the matter, Mum? Are you mad at Dad?’
‘No, love, I’m not.’ More mad at myself, she thought.
Lorraine glanced at the clock. Ten-thirty. She needed to be at work at six. ‘I need sleep, and so do you. Plus I want to have a word with your father.’
It usually meant trouble when she said ‘Your father’ instead of ‘Adam’ or ‘Dad’. Adam pulled a face and yawned.
‘Night then, Mum. And don’t worry about not fetching me. Kate’s mum didn’t mind. She said you were probably working. Catching criminals and stuff.’ Stella pecked a kiss on each of her parents’ cheeks and went upstairs.
Only when Lorraine heard her bedroom door close did she speak. ‘You’re not going to like this,’ she began. ‘Sit down.’
Adam frowned but remained standing. ‘The case?’
Lorraine shook her head. ‘It’s Grace.’ Then she held up her hands at the sight of Adam’s concerned face. ‘She’s upstairs. She’s fine.’ She paused. ‘Fine-ish.’
‘What is it?’ He folded his arms. Strong forearms, Lorraine noted, somehow feeling slightly saved now that he was home to share the burden. ‘Tell me.’
‘She’s dropping out of school and fucking getting married, that’s what.’ There was no easy way to say it.
Adam walked over to the drinks cupboard, fished out a bottle of Scotch, and poured himself a glass. They both sat down and looked at each other across the table. The house was silent apart from the large kitchen clock, which suddenly sounded ridiculously loud.
He wiped his hands over his face. ‘Christ. Surely not?’ was all he said.
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