by Beth Morrey
Adrian chuckled. ‘Well, now, you see, I don’t think she does want me to know. But I do … very much … want to know.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’ Angela was frightened; I could see the tension in her trembling frame. I thought of what she’d just gone through, how vulnerable she was, and was horribly afraid for her.
‘Oh Angela, I’m sure you could help me, if you really wanted to.’ Now both of his fists were gripping the railings, knuckles glowing white against the black.
A fury began to build in me. How dare this man turn up at Angela’s home and intimidate her, like some villain in a soap opera, with his silly insinuation, playing the hard man. I might be afraid for Angela, but all of a sudden my rage boiled over, overriding everything else. And for once – unlike that terrible day, shouting at Melanie in my kitchen – I was going to get angry with the right person, at the right time, in the right way.
‘Oh, go away,’ I said, stepping forward and putting my own hand on the gate. He blinked, as if seeing me for the first time, and watched in astonishment as I pushed past him. He wasn’t that tall.
‘Not until I’ve seen my wife,’ he said, turning back to Angela.
‘Well, she’s not here, so you can bloody well leave us alone.’ I pivoted on the pathway, one step up so I could look down on him from a distance. He was all those self-serving, empowered men that I’d grown so sick of: the feckless Sean, the burglars who raided my home, Angela’s tip-stealing date, Percy the Lunger all those years ago. He was even, in some dim recess of my mind, Leo, who’d retreated when he should have stepped up.
‘I can’t stand men like you,’ I spat. ‘Turning up like you own the place, like we should all get in line to give you what you want. I’ll tell you what I want. I want you to get the hell away from Angela’s house, this instant, or I’m going to call the police.’
‘And what are you going to tell them?’ Adrian replied softly, doing the proper menacing thing now, fists gripping the gate.
I put my head on one side. ‘I’ll tell them that you did this.’ I grabbed the front of my blouse and ripped it downwards, pearl buttons popping and scattering down the path. Then I started to twist the skin around my collarbone, hard. ‘Old ladies bruise so easily,’ I murmured, enjoying his shocked expression.
He stepped back, perplexed. ‘You’re insane.’
‘Yes,’ I grinned like an old witch. ‘And I can’t be bothered to hide it.’ I bent and rubbed some soil across my brow. ‘Oh dear, I fell over. I think I might have wrenched my arm.’
‘I just want to see my wife.’ He turned back again to Angela, almost pleadingly.
‘And it all got a bit out of hand, didn’t it?’ I replied, pulling strands of my hair out of its plait, mussing it up.
‘You stupid bitch,’ he hissed, turning back to me. But as he grabbed the gate, there was a snarl and Bobby appeared between us, teeth bared, straining at her lead. Adrian fell back; recognition flashed across his face and he looked back at me, flushed with rage and confusion.
‘That’s my dog,’ he spluttered, pointing.
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘She was Felicity’s dog, and now she’s my dog. So get the FUCK out of here before I set her on you.’
With Bobby still growling, I held out my hand to Angela, who stumbled up the path towards me, while Adrian watched, unsure what to do next.
‘Ten seconds to make your mind up, sunshine, then I call the police,’ I said, getting out my phone. I started my countdown, shaking with anger and euphoria and also uncertainty, as I really wasn’t sure what I would do if he didn’t leave before I got to zero. But at six, he slammed the gate closed with both hands and stepped back.
‘Fine, I’m going,’ he said. ‘No need to get your knickers in a twist.’ He turned and marched back down the road, shoulders hunched in his jacket, and we both watched him go, making sure. Cheap shoes with built-up heels; Achilles’ heels, vile little man. I turned back to Angela and put my arm around her.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ I said, squeezing. ‘You’ll be OK.’
She looked up, torn between tears and laughter. ‘Fucking hell,’ she panted, lowering herself onto the steps of the porch. ‘Fucking hell, Missy. You were … amazing.’
‘It was nothing.’ Feeling suddenly very wobbly myself, I sank down to sit with her, looking down at my ripped blouse and wondering if I could sew the pearls back on if we found them. Bobby stood in front of us, wagging her tail, and we gave her a big fuss – she had been magnificent. We sat for a while, crying and laughing together, while Bobby licked our faces and nudged us for treats, then Angela said I should stop indecently exposing myself to all of Stoke Newington, so we stood up, brushed ourselves off, and went inside to look for wine and Bonios.
Later on, after Angela had fetched Otis from school, he was back in his own bed, and we were eating pizza and watching some pleasingly frothy drama, she looked shiftily at me over her glass.
‘Earlier I said I didn’t talk to Sylvie because she was too nice,’ she said. ‘I felt bad about that, because it implied you weren’t.’
‘I’m not,’ I agreed. ‘Not nice like Sylvie.’
‘No,’ she nodded. ‘But sometimes you need more than nice. And that’s what you were today. And last night.’
‘That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.’
She laughed. ‘Don’t get used to it. But I tell you one thing. That vote of yours – you can strike it off the record. We’re good.’
I grinned at her, feeling a weight lifting. ‘Thanks.’ Then more seriously. ‘What will you do if he comes back?’
She didn’t miss a beat. ‘Punch myself in the face and call the police.’
‘Good girl.’ We were just pouring out the last of the bottle when there was a flump from the bedroom followed by the patter of tiny footsteps.
‘Mummmeeee,’ said Otis, rubbing his eyes. The front of his pyjamas were soaked through.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Angela. ‘I forgot to take him for a wee before bed.’
‘Clear up and carry on,’ I said, knocking back my glass. I would have helped her, but I wasn’t that nice. So instead I thought about Adrian and how satisfying it had been to take the little shit down a peg. When the bedroom had been silent for a while and Angela hadn’t come out again, I went in and found them both asleep, Otis curled in his mother’s arms in his single bed. I tucked the duvet around them and tiptoed out again, clicking my fingers to Bobby.
We clattered down the stairs together, her claws scrambling for purchase, and she turned to grin at me halfway down, pink tongue lolling. Nothing was insurmountable when she was there.
‘I think you’re more than nice,’ I said. And together we slipped out of the flat, down the flights of stairs and back along the road, her tail waving alongside me as we made our way home.
Chapter 38
We spent a week or so on edge, wondering if Adrian would come back, but then Angela got a message from Felicity saying she had decided to press charges. At the same time, I received an email from the police officer who visited after my burglary the year before, saying the crime had been investigated ‘as far as reasonably possible’ and the investigation was closed ‘pending further investigative opportunities becoming available’. Once again, I was passionately grateful for Bobby’s presence, and hoped Fix fared better with her own case.
A few days later, I found a bunch of flowers on my doorstep, with a note attached, from Sylvie. ‘You ARE as nice as me,’ it read. Purple gladioli, from the Latin gladius, meaning ‘sword’. I enjoyed Sylvie’s penchant for plant symbolism; it was like our own secret language, and I hoped it meant Angela had told her the whole story, not just part of it.
March came, bringing with it the burgeoning spring, and once again the park burst back to life, the cold mud drying out, buds blossoming, the green gradually edging back in. Our walks became warmer and more leisurely, no longer huddled against the chill. There were more people to talk to as we amble
d round, not to mention marathon runners to dodge, as they all upped their training. Now I was a bona fide (or should that be Fido?) dog lover, I was perfectly happy to snap back when they barged through us, tutting as they dodged the pack, or shouting when a cyclist flashed by too fast. We dog walkers were the self-appointed police of the park, the benevolent bobbies who patrolled and informed the wardens when there was an injured swan in the lake, or a wasps’ nest swarming in the fallen logs.
I loved those mornings, gathering at the picnic table for a coffee and a chat, as the dogs frolicked and romped. Philip and Dexter had enrolled themselves in a training class in Finsbury Park and Dexter had run off with the trainer’s clipboard; Maddie and Simon had called in a sleep consultant to help them with Timothy – they’d spent £250 and he’d slept through three times before reverting back to his usual screaming, but they felt the money had been worth it for a few blissful nights. Denzil had tried to buy a light switch at a Martin Creed exhibition, before discovering that it was, in fact, just a light switch: ‘saved me ten grand.’ Sylvie had redesigned a housewife’s living room with artificial turf instead of carpet: ‘she said “bring the outside in”, silly mare.’ We carolled under the tentative spring sunshine, amidst swaying hindquarters, and then Bobby and I would saunter home, waved off by hands and tails.
One Saturday after a companionable stroll, Sylvie suggested a trip to Upper Street, and after dropping the dogs off at my house, we caught a bus and made our way along the bustling high street. To my surprise, Sylvie took my arm and marched me into a very smart-looking hair salon. When we arrived in the reception, the lady behind the counter smiled and handed me a glass of champagne. ‘Good morning, Mrs Carmichael.’ I turned back to Sylvie, bewildered, and she winked. ‘This is my treat.’
I was led to a twirling leather chair, where a very hip young man with several piercings introduced himself as Barnaby. ‘What are we having today, darling?’ he asked, sitting me down and spinning me round to face myself in the mirror.
‘I don’t know.’ I gazed at my puzzled reflection.
‘I do though,’ said Sylvie, lurking behind me with her own glass of champagne. ‘Cut it all off.’
Ignoring my protests, Barnaby rubbed his hands together and stuck a comb behind his studded ear. Sylvie put her hands on my shoulders and looked at me in the mirror. ‘Trust me,’ she said. ‘It’s time for a change.’
So I fell silent and let Barnaby put a gown over my arms. He and Sylvie had a brisk discussion about blunt cuts and waves and lowlights, then she left us to it, waving as the lady from reception brought me a brownie on a tiny white plate. Barnaby swung me this way and that, releasing my hair so it fell around my shoulders, putting his fingers to my temples and looking into the mirror intently. Then he swept me off to the basin, and feeling the warmth of the shower water trickle onto my scalp, I drifted off.
The whole experience was intensely soothing. Barnaby didn’t talk because he was busy, pulling me one way and then the other, chopping and pinning, folding foils, and such was his concentration that I found myself unwinding like my plait. Luó; Gr λύω – to loose, untie, release. It was more than two hours later that I suddenly came to, hearing the sound of clapping. I blinked, and saw Angela and Otis in the mirror, both grinning.
‘Well,’ said Angela. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’
Confused by their sudden appearance, I was nonetheless entranced. My hair had been chopped into a short, blunt bob, the natural wave enhanced to a slight curl. He hadn’t tried to hide the grey, just added a few darker strands to even it out a little. It made my eyes look greener. I looked distinguished – chic, even. Behind the sags and wrinkles, I looked like my mother, and Jette, and Melanie, and somehow more like me than I’d ever felt.
I smiled at Angela in the mirror. ‘Not bad for an old crone.’
‘Not bad?’ she replied. ‘I’ve said it before: Sylvie’s a genius! Now, follow me.’
Then Angela took me shopping, to a charming boutique I’d never been to before, would never have dared go in. She marched about, grabbing items off the rails, barking instructions to the sales assistant who had started off haughty. We closeted ourselves in the dressing room, while Otis played with his cars just outside, and Angela handed me a pair of black trousers and an olive-hued chiffon blouse. She went off to look for accessories, while I put them on.
I paid very little attention to the clothes, because I was so distracted by my hair, shaking my head and tucking strands behind my ears. Leo always liked it long and on the few occasions I’d grown tired of it and suggested a chop, he’d protested so vigorously that I’d abandoned the idea, flattered by Leo’s strong emotions on the subject. I wondered what he would say if he saw me now.
Angela burst back in with various garments over her arm and looked me up and down. ‘Yes,’ she said. Then she turned me away from the mirror, helping me into a cardigan and shoes, and putting something around my neck, adjusting and tweaking.
‘Right, you’ll do.’ She spun me round and we both admired the new me. Tall, and rather sparse as ever, now there was a new elegance to my disposition, the sharp twenties hairstyle, the tailored trousers, cut slightly short to reveal green suede block heels that matched the softly draping pale green cardigan with the darker blouse beneath. I looked neat and put-together in a way I’d never managed for myself before – ding, dong, the witch was dead.
Just before Aunt Sibby died, I went to see her, withering away in her bedroom in Yorkshire. She was nearly ninety by then, a grand old age, but it was still pitiful to see. A lot of the time she didn’t make much sense, drifting in and out of lucidity, one minute asking who was looking after her animals, the next talking to her husband Randolph, who’d been dead for years. But one thing she said stuck with me. ‘I hate how ugly I am,’ she rasped. ‘I’m so beautiful on the inside; why can’t the outside be the same?’ As I grew older, skin sagging, the flecks and crevices of dotage creeping in, I saw what she meant. There was part of me that believed I should still look like the adoring bride who gazed up at Leo all those years ago. I’d lost those versions of myself – the girl in the cellars, the student, the wife, the young mother – but now I could see traces of those previous selves etched in the lines on my face, and felt a fondness for them all.
I fingered the jet-black beads at my throat. ‘It’s lovely, but I couldn’t possibly afford all this.’
‘Nonsense,’ replied Angela, firmly. ‘The haircut was Sylvie’s treat, and this is mine and Denzil’s. Mainly Denzil’s. But he doesn’t like shopping.’
‘But … but …’ I gestured to the outfit. ‘It’s too much.’
‘Bullshit,’ she said, gathering up my old clothes. ‘Otis wants his adopted grandma to look cool. I’m just following orders.’
As we emerged from the dressing room, Otis dissolved into tears.
‘It doesn’t look like Missy!’ he wailed, his lip trembling.
Angela was conferring with the delighted sales assistant, so I knelt by him and took his hand.
‘It’s still me,’ I said. ‘Just a bit more dressed up.’
He sniffled and wiped his face on his sleeve. ‘You’re still a witch though?’
‘Of course. Always will be. This way, it’s our little secret. No one else will know.’
He nodded, satisfied, and we left the shop with my old clothes in a bag. Outside we were met by Sylvie, looking even more twinkly-eyed than usual.
‘Marvellous,’ she exclaimed, tweaking my beads. ‘You look sensational. I don’t know about you but all this grooming makes me fancy a spot of lunch. How about it?’
Angela said she knew a little place around the corner, and linking arms, we made our way there, Otis skipping ahead. Gripped firmly on either side, I wondered what had provoked Sylvie and Angela to embark on a Missy-makeover like this. And then, as we pushed open the door of the restaurant and a huge roar went up, it became apparent.
We were greeted by a crowd of people, all holding glasses, milling
around and shouting. Denzil and Miguel, Deirdre from the library, Hanna from the café, Simon and Maddie with baby Timothy, Philip, numerous other dog walkers and finally Mel and Octavia, who were holding hands and beaming. Turning, astonished, towards a smirking Angela, I saw a huge banner had been hung along one wall:
HAPPY 80TH BIRTHDAY!
‘Surprise!’ shrieked Sylvie, thoroughly overexcited.
Lost for words, I thought back to the other me sitting dejectedly on the sofa a year ago, and it seemed impossible that I could be standing here now, in my finery, with all these people. Once again I felt a lump in my throat, but this time it was a joyful nugget, a heralding of happy tears. So I swallowed it down, and smiled at everyone, as they surged forward to congratulate me.
We had a splendid lunch, all piled onto one long table, making far too much noise and drinking far too much red wine. It seemed everyone had bought me a present – candles, books, bottles and chocolates galore. I opened and exclaimed, and toasts were raised, mostly to Sylvie, who loved to drink to herself on every occasion. And then it was my turn. I stood up, waiting until they fell silent, groping my way to a script.
‘I didn’t expect this,’ I began, to laughter. ‘I didn’t expect any of this. I feel so very grateful that you’re all here, but also sorry that someone else isn’t.’ I thought of Leo, of Alistair and Arthur, so far away, but for once I didn’t mean any of them. ‘I’m sorry Bobby isn’t here, because she is the reason I know you all so well, the reason you’re all here. So I’d like to toast her.’
We all clinked our glasses: ‘To Bobby!’
Afterwards, Angela sidled up to me and said, ‘Bobby isn’t the reason,’ handing me a parcel. I opened it and found a small string of pearls – the buttons that fell from my blouse the day I confronted Adrian. They’d been re-strung as charms in a delicate little bracelet with a tiny silver clasp. I held it in my hands, fingering the ivory baubles like rosary beads, thinking of them scattered down Angela’s pathway and imagining her scooping them up.
