She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down, knowing that Kate will be coming down for her supper at any moment. She slides her hands down her face, sucking in more air, only to see Tom standing in the back doorway, his mouth half hanging open and his eyes wide as he witnesses the scene.
‘Mel, are you OK? I called by a couple of hours ago, but…’ He trails off, noticing the look on her face. He reaches out a hand to her, trying to calm her down, and that’s when Mel sees several of his fingers are smeared with red paint.
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
‘Are you OK?’ Tom says, looking concerned.
Mel frowns, her eyes scanning him up and down, noticing red paint on his jeans too.
Tom looks down, rolling his eyes. ‘I know I’m a mess,’ he says, laughing. ‘Nige and I just came up to collect a few things from the site. There’s another small job we’re going to squeeze in…’
Mel stares at him like a wild animal, slowly backing away.
‘OK,’ he finally continues. ‘I can see it’s not a good time. I’ll come round another day.’ He returns her stare for a moment, his expression confused, then without saying another word, he turns on his heel and walks briskly away.
‘Fuck,’ Mel whispers to herself when he’s gone, slumping back against the wall. Then she catches sight of Rose, who flinches slightly in the doorway. ‘Don’t say a word,’ Mel says through gritted teeth.
Rose makes a pained face, giving a little nod, disappearing back into the kitchen, leaving Mel to slide down the wall and bury her head against her knees.
Thirty-Nine
Mel got up early the next day, determined to put Jacob Ingram’s stupid piece out of her mind – not to mention the sight of the forensic experts removing the remains piece by careful piece yesterday. A man and a woman from the university had spent many hours in the trench, hunched over the burial site as they carefully exhumed the bones, meticulously photographing, labelling and packing away everything they unearthed.
When she came downstairs, she was relieved to see Kate in the kitchen wearing her school uniform, her hair neatly plaited, shovelling cereal into her mouth while watching something on YouTube, one leg swinging idly under the counter.
‘I’m glad you feel like going to school today,’ Mel had said as she made a coffee. ‘It’ll do you good to see your friends.’
Kate had simply glanced up and given her mother a look for a couple of moments before dumping her empty bowl by the sink, grabbing her school bag and heading off. She hadn’t spoken a word since Friday evening.
It’s just not like her.
Mel texted to Michael later that morning, in reply to him asking how they both were.
Hopefully, school will get her to open up. Do you think I should call the GP?
She’d put a shrugging emoji then, followed by several kisses. Michael had replied soon after, advising Mel to give her time, another day or two, and meantime to keep talking to her.
‘Maybe she saw me having my meltdown,’ Mel whispers to herself as she stands at the top of the ladder that afternoon, hanging more curtains. She’d tried to scrub off the vile word daubed in room ten, but the red paint wasn’t budging. There was no option but to paint over it, so she’d ordered another can of the fern green.
‘Frankly, I wouldn’t blame anyone for not speaking to me after my little outburst yesterday,’ she mutters, ashamed that Tom had seen her in that state. And she should have just asked him about the paint on his hands, given him a chance to explain. It could have been from another job… anything. She found it hard to believe that Tom was responsible for the graffiti.
Her cheeks colour as she remembers how he’d walked in on her and Angus embracing. Angus had since made himself scarce, with Nikki mentioning that he’d been down early for breakfast and then gone out for the day. He’d taken dinner in his room both nights, too. Mel knows she can’t put off having a conversation with him for ever.
‘Oh, Tom,’ she whispers, securing yet another curtain hook on the track as the stepladder wobbles beneath her. The surprise dinner he’d made for her seems a lifetime ago now, not just three days. And that kiss… the feel of his warm, soft lips.
As she fastens up the final few hooks, she remembers what Michael had said. Make him a nice meal, a cake – whatever – and surprise him. There’ll be a bit more explaining to do now, Mel thinks, knowing she’ll have to confess everything about Billy for him to understand. And she’ll tell him about the newspaper piece too, how it had sent her into a tailspin. Her mind is made up – she’s going to take Michael’s advice and apologise for it all.
‘Rose, you’re a gem,’ Mel says an hour later in the kitchen. ‘I couldn’t have made this without you. My baking skills aren’t exactly top-notch.’ She smiles, glancing up from frosting the cake. ‘And I owe you an apology for getting my knickers in a twist yesterday. I’ve worked so hard these last few weeks, and I just saw red at what that upstart journo had written.’
‘No need,’ Rose says, placing a flour-covered hand on Mel’s arm. ‘Besides, you should see me cussing and blinding at home,’ she adds. ‘Scares Eddie half to death when I get one on me.’ Her ruddy cheeks swell as she grins.
‘Eddie? Is he your husband?’ Mel asks, arranging the edible lilac and orange flowers on the cream-coloured topping.
‘No, he’s my Jack Russell,’ she says with a pensive look. ‘Married to my kitchen and my dog, maybe, but not to a man.’ She clears her throat, and Mel swears she hears her mutter something about Nige never asking her as she clatters dirty dishes into the dishwasher.
‘Here, try this,’ Mel says, offering a clean spoon for Rose to taste the frosting. ‘It’s not too sweet, is it?’
‘Perfect,’ she says, licking her lips. ‘I bet your sponge will taste delicious, too,’ she adds, raising her eyebrows. ‘And don’t forget to pack the champagne.’
‘Thanks, Rose,’ Mel says. ‘Would you mind checking in on Kate later? She’ll just be in her room doing homework or on her computer. I won’t be back late, but given how she is… well, I’d rather there was someone looking out for her.’
‘No problem at all,’ Rose says, a grin creeping across her face. ‘It’ll be my pleasure. I’ll take her up some hot chocolate, see if I can’t get her to have a natter.’
Mel sighs, staring into the full-length mirror. She twists round one way, then the other, feeling guilty for checking out her appearance when there’s so much else on her mind – mainly Kate. But if she doesn’t do this, she’s told herself a hundred times already, then she knows she’ll regret it.
‘You deserve to be happy too,’ she says to her reflection. ‘Even if you do always self-sabotage anything good in your life.’
After a shower and a blow-dry, and some light make-up, she’d slipped on her new dress, having given it a quick iron. Now, she fastens up the necklace she bought last week and puts on her flat cream sandals. Turning up in paint-covered dungarees and a headscarf to hide her dusty hair wasn’t going to cut it, but she’s wondering if the little white flowers on the coffee-coloured fabric make her look too…
‘Too feminine,’ she says to herself, scowling as she adjusts the short, ruched sleeves. But she has nothing else decent, so she heads down to the kitchen to grab the cake tin and the basket. On the way, she stops in on Kate, explaining she’s going out for a couple of hours. Or maybe more if it goes well, she thinks, knowing that Rose will look after her daughter and call her if anything happens.
‘I’ll check in on you later then, love,’ Mel says, crossing her fingers behind her back in the hope of a response. Kate is sitting at her desk, hunched over her schoolbooks. She thinks she sees a tiny nod of her head – which, after everything, is a breakthrough.
As she walks past the colourful terraced cottages on the way into the village, Mel gives a cheery hello to the old lady who’s sitting out on her phone-book-propped stool again, a cup of tea to hand as she watches the world go by. With the basket ove
r her arm and a shawl draped round her shoulders, Mel tries to put everything out of her mind – at least for this evening.
‘Just be heartfelt and honest,’ she whispers in time with her footsteps as she trots down the steep hill. ‘Hi, Brian,’ she says to a familiar face, one of her regulars, as he comes out of his front door. For a moment, he doesn’t say a word and Mel wonders if it’s because he’s read the newspaper piece, but then he gives her a wave and greets her with a smile, giving her directions to Tom’s street.
‘Oh, this is charming,’ she says five minutes later as she turns down a cobbled passageway. It’s on an incline, heading down towards the sea, with half a dozen or so painted cottages tucked away. She tries not to be nosy but can’t help a little peek through several of the windows that face directly on to the alley.
Picking her way carefully along the uneven cobbles, she catches sight of the setting sun glinting off the waves as it dips behind the hill to the west of Halebury, and she hears the seagulls crying and circling over the shore. As she approaches Tom’s cottage, number seven, she pauses, taking a breath to gather herself.
Here goes, she thinks, tapping the top of the cake tin, hoping Tom doesn’t mind her calling by unannounced. Surely he won’t turn down cake and champagne? She’s just about to knock on the front door when she spots movement inside his front window. She can’t help a quick glance.
Tom… yes, it’s Tom standing there, the lamp on the dresser beside him lighting up his face as… as…
Mel goes giddy, trying to work out what she’s seeing. She knows she shouldn’t be looking in, that she should now be walking briskly on by, but she’s transfixed, frozen, wanting to make certain that what her eyes are telling her is actually true.
Tom has his arms wrapped around a woman – a beautiful woman with long, dark hair trailing down her back as she tips up her face towards him – and he’s pulling her close, her back arched, each of them smiling and gazing into the other’s eyes.
‘Oh my… God,’ Mel whispers to herself, thinking that they look like the happiest couple alive. Tears well up in her eyes.
Later, alone, Mel will recall the flash of the woman’s straight white teeth, the look of adoration in Tom’s eyes as he gazes down at her, the way his big hands slowly move up her slim and shapely body, along her tanned arms and onto her face, cupping it, gazing at her as if they’ve missed each other for a hundred years.
Finally, she prises her eyes away from the window, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other. A moment later, and she’s running. Running down the cobbled passageway, stumbling, her ankle twisting sideways as she careers towards the sea.
A loud car horn makes her jump, causing her to dart back as she tries to cross the esplanade. She turns, panting, her heart thumping at the near miss. The car made no attempt to stop, and Mel swears she caught sight of the vile man from the newsagent – Donald Bray – driving.
She lets out a self-indulgent whimper as she crosses the narrow esplanade, not having a clue where she’s going. All she knows is that she can’t go back to the hotel just yet. Not without having to explain and lose face even more.
Stupid, stupid woman! she cusses in her head. Why would you think he was interested in you? Did you see her? She was stunning.
‘Please don’t let them have seen me,’ Mel pleads, sniffing back the tears and trying not to show she’s upset. ‘Please…’
She walks westward along the esplanade, dragging her feet and staring at the pavement, the basket of cake and champagne still hooked over her arm. Eventually, the houses peter out, indicating the edge of the village. Up ahead on the beach are some flat rocks, so she veers down onto the shingle so she can lie low and watch the waves for a while. She doesn’t know what else to do.
Forty
The first few swigs of champagne do nothing to calm Mel’s nerves. As soon as she’d sat down on the rocks, she’d wasted no time ripping the foil and wire off the bottle and popping the cork. She’s angry – angry with herself for thinking Tom would be interested in her in the first place.
‘You’re broken,’ she says out loud, knowing no one apart from the gulls can hear her. The tide is creeping up the beach, the water getting closer with each set of waves as she sits, knees drawn up, on the shelf of smooth rocks. ‘If your mother abandoning you didn’t completely break you, Billy finished the job off,’ she mutters, coughing and spluttering on the bubbles as she takes a large swig directly from the bottle. ‘And ain’t karma a bitch,’ she says, wishing she could get the image of Tom and that woman out of her mind.
She puts the bottle down on a flat bit of rock and takes the cake tin from the basket, removing the lid. Inside, the thick frosting still looks as perfect as it did when she applied it.
‘I’m ridiculous,’ she says to the cake. ‘Thinking you’d make everything OK. You’re just a stupid sponge made by a stupid woman.’ Then she digs the fingers of her right hand into the centre of the cake, paddle-like, and scoops out a fistful of sponge and cream, pushing it into her mouth greedily.
‘Mmm, deli…’ she says, then stops. Licking her cream-covered lips, she frowns, thinking it’s not that delicious after all. There’s a strange taste to it – as though some other ingredient has been added. She can’t quite place it, so she plunges her fingers into the cake again, enjoying the sticky feeling between her fingers. Not caring about the odd flavour, or the strange colour of the sponge, she shovels in more and more, washing it down with a couple of swigs of champagne, coughing as the bubbles fizz up her nose.
‘It’s disgusting, but somehow makes everything feel a bit better,’ she says in a bitter voice, stuffing her mouth again. Crumbs spray out and she knows she has cream and jam all over her chin, but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t care who sees her necking from the bottle either. Anything to take away the pain, the humiliation. How the hell, she wonders, holding up the bottle fifteen minutes later, seeing that only half of it is left, can so much bad luck come out of so much good?
‘Curry,’ she says suddenly, turning up her nose as she sniffs her fingers. ‘It tastes like it’s got bloody curry powder in it.’ She wonders if she mistakenly used that instead of baking powder, though doesn’t think that even she, with her limited cooking skills, would have made that error.
Shrugging, she stuffs in more cake, swigs more champagne. Then she hiccups.
‘Jinxed, that’s what you are.’ She belches, her entire body jumping with another hiccup. ‘Oh, God,’ she says, holding her stomach, feeling sick. She cups a sticky hand over her mouth, closing her eyes and breathing in slowly, listening to the sound of the waves lapping at the pebbles as she wills herself not to throw up. When the nausea doesn’t subside, she dumps the tin and the bottle in her basket and lies back on the rocks, ignoring the pain as a jut of shale digs into her spine.
For a while, she stares up at the sky, watching the clouds scudding across the blue, trying to see shapes and faces in them like she did as a kid with Michael. But she can’t see anything – not even the vaguest hint of an animal shape or anything else she recognises. With the sea breeze wafting over her body, she pulls her shawl tightly around her and closes her eyes, willing the nausea to subside.
And it’s only when she feels something cold and wet lapping at her feet that she jumps, sitting up quickly, realising she’d fallen asleep and the tide has crept up her legs, soaking the bottom half of her dress.
A few people in tonight, Mel sees, as she walks past the bar window, trying not to stagger. She creeps through reception, holding onto the wall, and heads straight upstairs, the basket hooked over her arm. She doesn’t want to see anyone, knows that Nikki and Rose can easily handle whoever is in. She just needs to sleep and forget tonight ever happened.
Kate, she thinks, wanting nothing more than to hold her daughter. Mel glances at her watch, hiccupping again. She covers her mouth: 8.25. She must have fallen asleep on the rocks for at least an hour. The nausea has all but subsided, but she won’t be eating anything el
se tonight, she knows that.
Tomorrow’s a new day, Michael would always say when things got her down. Simple, but true, she ponders, tapping lightly on Kate’s bedroom door before going in. In the morning, everything will seem different.
At first, she thinks Kate isn’t in there, that perhaps she’s downstairs with Rose, but the curtains are drawn and the room is dark. It’s only when her eyes adjust that Mel sees the outline of the lump in the bed, that Kate has buried herself under the duvet, obviously wanting an early night. There’s a glass of water on the bedside table and her phone is plugged in, charging beside it.
It’ll probably do her good to get some extra sleep, Mel thinks, deciding not to disturb her. She blows her a silent kiss and closes the door, turning to go to her own room. But she stops, placing a hand on the wall to steady herself, feeling a thrumming headache brewing behind her forehead.
Having no idea if it’s the alcohol driving her on, or just plain bad judgement, Mel heads to Miss Sarah’s room, knocking sharply on the door. She’s about to go straight in when the door opens. Miss Sarah is standing there in a cream nightdress and an expression on her face that makes Mel wonder if she somehow knew she would be paying her a visit.
‘Since you don’t speak,’ Mel says rather too loudly as she steadies herself on the door frame, ‘you can listen to me instead.’ Uninvited, she squeezes past Miss Sarah and goes into the room, dropping down into the armchair by the window, putting the basket at her feet. She pulls the tin out, takes off the lid and holds it out to her. ‘Cake?’ she says, offering the broken-up and messy remains. Cream, jam and orange-coloured sponge are smeared around the inside of the tin, making it look anything but edible.
Single Mother Page 21
