‘What about my finger?’ She stared at her dad as she held her index finger in the air.
Phil scratched his head. ‘Your finger is okay, as long as there’s nothing on the end of it.’ He kissed her head and shut the front door behind him.
‘Daddy was just telling me, he’s working on a big house that’s got two swimming pools in it! Can you imagine that?’
Naomi considered this as she hopscotched around the kitchen floor. ‘What’s the point of having two? You can only swim in one at a time.’
‘Don’t know, Nay, and I don’t think it’s anything that I am going to have to worry about. Not in this lifetime.’
2
Rosie had a favourite place to sit. It was a wooden bench on the headland overlooking Combesgate Beach, set back from the cliff edge. If she stretched her neck, she could see from one bay to the next, watch the tide rolling in and spot the weather long before it arrived. She thought of it as her bench. They had history that seat and her, and she had to admit, if ever she arrived to find someone sitting on it, she felt ridiculously aggrieved.
According to her dad, her mum had liked to sit and think on the same bench. Apparently they’d done some of their courting there too, which made it extra special to Rosie. When she was younger, she would sit there and chat to her mum. She would tell her all about her day, if there was anyone she fancied at school, what she wanted for her birthday, that kind of thing. Those were special times for Rosie. The fact that she had never met her mum and had absolutely no idea what she looked like wasn’t relevant. The mum she created in her mind, the neat, smiling, attentive listener, was just about as perfect as a mum could be; and she smelt of apples.
At the age of six, sitting in the bathtub in their colourless, austere bathroom, where the tile grouting was grey and the towels were thin and stiff, Rosie had opened a bottle of apple-scented shampoo. Its sweet, synthetic smell was one of the most glorious things she had ever sniffed. Inhaling it until she was utterly intoxicated by the mouth-watering aroma, she decided there and then that this was the way her mum would have smelt. In her mind, anything that smelt of apples could only be good.
All Rosie knew was that her mum had disappeared just a few hours after she was born. There were no photos and sadly, no memories. Ever since she could remember, her dad’s stock response had been, ‘Something happened, Rosie, and she just couldn’t live with me any more,’ and that was always the end of the conversation. Rosie spent her childhood trying to imagine what her dad could possibly have done to make her mum run off like that. During her bench chats she often used to apologise on behalf of her dad, for whatever it was that he’d done to scare her mum away.
Sometimes Rosie used to secretly wonder if, actually, she had somehow killed her mum when she was born and her dad was just covering that up, pretending it wasn’t her fault, to make her feel better. In her fertile, childish mind she would let her imagination run wild with images of her mum slipping away, deathly pale but still beautiful, hands reaching out, lips trying to tell Rosie something really important, eyes fixed and bright, looking at her and trying to convey what her mouth could not.
As strange as it sounded, it was easier in some ways to imagine her dead. Better that her mum was gone and unable to get in touch than that she was alive somewhere but had chosen to remain hidden, scared off by Rosie’s dad.
Or, when she wasn’t imagining her dead, she imagined her with a lust for travel, too far away for contact. She pictured her in the jungle, living wild and tanned among beasts, in tropical heat, carving out paths with a rusty machete and sipping water from clear waterfalls, crouched on slippery rocks with one eye on the lookout for snakes. At other times she pictured her wrapped in furs, trekking across ice floes, navigating icy cold plateaus with frozen lashes and teeth that chattered in the cold, her trusty rifle stuck to her palm in case of polar bear attack. Rosie often placed herself in these imaginings, having either built a tree house high in the jungle canopy or a cosy, concealed igloo. In both, she would have the kettle boiling and a red and white tablecloth set for tea and when her mum stumbled, through the door, relieved and grateful, she would hug her tightly and kiss her face. ‘How I’ve missed you! My beloved daughter!’
The reality was, though, that Rosie had no idea what happened. All she knew was that, not long after her mum went, her dad upped sticks and relocated them both to a new house further out of town. To the adult Rosie it seemed as if he was trying to outrun the memories of his wife, escape the guilt. As a child, it had worried her greatly that if her mum had wanted to return home, wanted to come and find her only child, she wouldn’t know where they’d gone. Rosie used to imagine hiding a note with their new address on it, and she knew just where she would leave it, behind the wonky brink at the back of the coalhole. She was confident that her mum would know to look there, that she could read Rosie’s mind, just as Rosie could read hers. This she still maintained, even now.
Growing up in a house with no mother was confusing. Despite being normal to her, it fascinated her peers. ‘Why haven’t you got a mum? Who does your hair?’ Although she’d never known any different, she still felt her absence keenly. It was like being cold and never having owned a blanket but knowing you could do with one. It was just how it was. Her mum had gone and this was her lot and she accepted it.
That was until Rosie met Phil and became a mum herself. For her, giving birth threw up more questions than it answered about her mum’s disappearance. Her mum... She was a real person, with a real name, and that name was Laurel. This made Rosie laugh. She couldn’t imagine her dad, Roy, who liked Rich Tea biscuits and watching the darts, being with someone as glamorously named as Laurel. In her mind, they didn’t go together at all: Roy and Laurel, Laurel and Roy. She thought her mum should have been with a Damien or at the very least a Brett.
Rosie had hoped that when she herself gave birth, it would provide a moment of clarity, explain her mum’s actions in some way, as if looking through the magic portal of parenthood might reveal secrets. If anything, the opposite was true. Watching her two daughters racing through their childhoods made the breath stutter in her throat. Rosie looked at the lean, rangy limbs that wrapped around her and listened to the steady beat of hearts that were yet to be broken and she knew that nothing, no circumstance on earth would keep her from them. Nothing.
Laurel was obviously cut from different cloth.
She wondered if her mum had gone on to have more children. Was she replaced? This idea had haunted her dreams on occasion. Was there a girl a couple of years younger than her with the same dark irises and a kink to the near-black hair at the nape of her neck that meant she too could never carry off a slick, neat do? Did she have a key in her purse that gave her entry to their mother’s house, a world that she too should inhabit? Did that girl hover in a kitchen in which hands that had briefly swaddled her pulled open drawers and touched shelves in front of which she would never stand, forever unwelcome, a stranger in that kitchen, the heart of the house. And did that girl ever knit her eyebrows in a flash of confusion as her mother accidentally called out ‘Rosie!’ for her to ‘Come eat supper! Get that phone! Bring down the laundry!’ And just for a second, as the two syllables danced on her tongue, did Laurel imagine a different life, one in which her firstborn had not been abandoned and there had been no need for the interloper who slept in Rosie’s bed, fed from her breast and got to share all the things that Rosie could only dream of?
Mostly, though, Rosie was now simply too preoccupied with her own life to spend much time thinking about her mum. She’d given up the obsessive face-scanning and paper-reading of her teens and no longer caught herself staring at women of a certain age on the bus or the television, wondering if they might be Laurel. She’d even begun to forgive her dad, who she could see had tried very hard to make amends for the situation of his own creation.
She could no longer hear the constant hum of abandonment and confusion that used to sit like a background noise to her thoughts. Altho
ugh, as she had come to realise of late, just because it didn’t intrude so much any more, that didn’t mean it wasn’t still there, like a silent wasp, resting. She still longed for the opportunity to look Laurel in the eyes and say, ‘I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, Mum, for whatever happened and you don’t need to feel guilty or worry, because I am married to an amazing, amazing man. I am happy and I am loved.’
And this was true.
3
Rosie bustled into the coffee shop and scanned the tables for her best friend.
‘Psssst!’ A sound came from behind a raised, laminated menu in the booth in the corner.
‘What you doing, Mel?’ she quizzed. Her friend and work colleague appeared to be trying to hide. ‘Are you incognito again?’ She laughed. ‘Although I have to say, I think you’d be a crap spy – you’ve still got your name badge on.’ She pointed to the little plastic oblong with the holiday-park logo on the top. Then she laid her bag and jacket on the vacant seat and slid into the booth to sit opposite her.
‘Maybe I’m a better spy than you think, maybe this isn’t my real name!’ Mel placed her fingers over her name badge.
‘But it is your real name!’ Rosie was confused.
‘Or is it?’ Her friend gave her a sideways look. ‘Anyway, I’m not incognito, I just need a bigger menu.’ She ducked down. ‘I’m hiding!’ she whispered.
‘Who are you hiding from?’
‘All right, you two?’ The gloomy voice of Ross’s wife floated over Rosie’s shoulder, making her question redundant.
‘Hey! Hi, Kayleigh, how are you?’ she enthused, trying to erase any hint of meanness, as that would be her very worst thing, to be mean.
Mel shot her a look. She had broken the golden rule by asking that one question, knowing it could invite hours of detailed response. She sat back, closed the menu and waited for the depressing download.
Kayleigh was married to Phil’s cousin, Ross, who was also a friend of Mel’s husband Andy. When jobs allowed, Ross worked with Phil and Phil’s dad, labouring on site. In all the years that she and Mel had known Kayleigh, the only time they’d ever seen her light up from within was when she learnt of another person’s misfortune. It wasn’t a nice quality. She had, as Phil had once described her, been a bit short-changed in the positivity department.
Kayleigh sighed and looked downcast – her default setting. ‘I’m not so good. Did Ross not say to Phil?’
Rosie faltered, not wanting to get Ross into trouble for not having shared his wife’s latest petty ailment but at the same time hoping to avoid a rerun of the details.
‘Erm... he might have, but you know what it’s like, we’ve had so much going on, what with our mad dash to A&E last night.’
‘Why were you in A&E?’ she asked, with a combination of interest and envy.
‘Oh, it was nothing, really.’ She regretted mentioning it. ‘Leona put some small objects up her nose and we had to get them hoovered out by a professional.’ She flapped her hand in the air, as though this were an unimportant, regular occurrence.
Mel screamed her laughter. ‘Small objects! I love it! How small are we talking? Like pea-sized or baby antelope?’
‘More pea-sized, thankfully, Mel.’ She shot her friend a look.
Kayleigh stared at Mel, trying to work out if she was being funny or was just stupid. ‘Last time I was at A&E, it wasn’t for nothing, it was when I had that suspected tumour.’
‘Oh God!’
‘That’s awful!’
Kayleigh nodded.
‘Was it benign?’ Mel was suddenly interested.
‘No, it was just an infected gnat bite, as it turned out. But I did come over all peculiar. And my foot was itching something terrible. It’s still not right.’ She sighed again.
Rosie looked again at Mel, imploring her not to make a funny remark, and quickly filled the silent pause. ‘In answer to your question, she had a rubber shaped like a little poo with a face on it up one nostril and part of a compass up the other.’
‘Terrible, really, wasting the NHS’s money like that.’ Kayleigh tutted and Rosie swallowed the many retorts that sat on her tongue, the main thrust of all of them being that Kayleigh practically owed rent on the doctor’s surgery, she was in there so often.
‘S’pose you’ve heard all about the big place they’re working on in Mortehoe?’ She pursed her lips and clasped her hands in a sign of disapproval. Ross and Phil were both working with Phil’s dad on the rebuilding project. They were all very grateful, knowing this would keep the wolf from the door in the coming months.
‘Ooh, what big house?’ Mel sat forward, always excited to glean a bit of news.
Kayleigh nodded her head to the left, as if indicating the site with her gesture. ‘Apparently some multi-zillionaire has bought an old farm building and a chunk of land, has knocked down the bungalow and is putting up some huge mansion. Ross said it took him all day just to lug the bags of plaster into the kitchen. More money than sense, if you ask me. Who needs all that space and two swimming pools? Bloody ridiculous.’
‘Two swimming pools!’ Mel was impressed. ‘Whose house is it?’ Gossip like this was grand entertainment in a small town like Woolacombe. ‘Please tell me Daniel Craig has seen sense and not only decided to respond to my emails but also bought us a love nest!’
‘Poor Andy!’ Rosie felt the need to express her loyalty.
‘Poor Andy? He’s a massive James Bond fan, I think even he’d understand if I left him for Daniel Craig!’ Mel sighed. ‘I tell you, that bit in Casino Royale where he walks out of the sea... Oh my word! That image has warmed me on many a cold night.’
‘It’s not Daniel Craig.’ Kayleigh shattered her dreams matter-of-factly. ‘It’s Geraldine Farmer. I’ve seen her!’ Her eyes widened. ‘She’s got an enormous Range Rover and she was smashing it down the lanes like she owned the place!’
‘Well, she does own a great big chunk of it, to be fair.’ Rosie thought it prudent to point this out. ‘Made her money from something to do with computers.’
‘Don’t care how she made it, she’s only been here five minutes and you can’t go racing around like that. Ross said she looks like a footballer’s wife – you know, all teeth and tits – and the way she’s decorating the place...!’ Kayleigh drew breath, as if offended. ‘Apparently she’s going for silver and white and crushed velvet and glitter. If you can imagine that!’
‘Ooh, Naomi would love it!’ Rosie pictured her daughter’s face the previous day.
‘No class, if you ask me,’ Kayleigh said, as she grabbed a handful of sugar sachets from the little bowl on the table and stuffed them in her pocket. ‘They’re useful for when we’re camping,’ she offered by way of explanation. ‘Anyway, best be off. I’ve got a terrible period, feel drained, wipes me out, it does. I’ve been to the doctor’s, but there’s nothing they can do. I think it’s just as my mum would say: a woman’s lot is to suffer. Oh well.’ She sloped off, barely able to lift her feet, her expression morose, her gait lumbering.
‘I’m glad she shared that with us. Poor Kayleigh, imagine having a period! It must be terrible.’ Mel pulled a face. ‘I hope you or I never have to have one. I couldn’t cope with being wiped out and drained, and how would you manage, Rosie? Having to clean caravans with an actual period?’
Rosie laughed, felt instantly guilty and checked to see that Kayleigh had indeed left the building.
‘I always feel so lifted after bumping into our Kayleigh, she’s so full of sparkle!’ Mel continued. ‘It’s like being given an injection of joy!’
‘I feel a bit sorry for her really. She’s obviously missing something if she feels the need to harp on about her many illnesses all the time.’
‘You’re right. I think she’s missing a marble and quite possible has a screw that needs tightening.’ Mel gave her unfavourable assessment. ‘Now can we please get the bloody jacket spuds ordered. I’m starving.’
An hour and a half later and now full of coffee, jacket p
otatoes and up to speed with the latest gossip, the two friends zipped up their jackets and made their way along the shiny pavements, wet with rain, heading towards school. Mel’s son Tyler was two years older than Naomi.
‘Do you think you’ll try again?’ Mel asked, thinking about the pregnancy-test result Rosie had shared with her.
Rosie thought about how rarely she and Phil had sex, let alone in an effort to conceive. ‘I don’t know, really.’ She considered how best to continue, conscious as ever that Andy and Phil were good mates and had been since they were teenagers. ‘I’d like to, but Phil’s not keen. Says we can’t afford it and haven’t got the space.’
‘He’s right. You can’t and you haven’t,’ Mel said. ‘But since when did that stop people having babies?’
Rosie laughed. ‘I don’t know, Mel, maybe he’s right, maybe I am getting past it.’
‘Shut up! Who are you? Kayleigh? Don’t give me that rubbish! You are the best mum. Christ, your world revolves around those girls and Phil. He’s a lucky man. He should be doing all he can to keep you happy!’
‘Not sure he always sees it that way. I wish I could lose a few pounds.’ She looked up at her friend through the fine mist of rain. The air was tinged with salt as it blew in from the sea.
‘What is wrong with you today? You are beautiful, you’ve always been beautiful, inside and out. You’ve got gorgeous curves, and your face, your hair... Blimey, girl, you are sexy!’
Rosie shrugged, embarrassed by the compliment.
‘This weather’s proper shit!’ Mel changed the subject.
‘It’s February, what do you expect? And anyway, it’s a trade-off, isn’t it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, if the weather’s crap, there are no visitors, so we can park and get a seat in the coffee shop, but if the sun’s out, the place is busy and we get the sun but no seats or parking spaces.’
Mel stopped in her tracks and stared at her friend from underneath her hood. ‘You are a right ball of sunshine today, Rosie May Shitstar!’
My Husband's Wife Page 3
