Single (ARC)

by K. L. Slater

  I put the phone down and immediately start to feel sick. I wish I’d lost a bit more weight before he sees me naked. Have I got any razors to defuzz… and what about decent underwear? And I’m so pale! The ancient bottle of Fake Bake wedged at the back of the cupboard is bound to have gone off.

  I push the negative thoughts from my mind and focus on getting the boys ready.

  I’m relieved when Leonard turns up at 10 a.m., bang on time as usual. He’s carrying a large brown box.

  ‘This was on your doorstep.’ He sets it down on the floor. ‘Organic vegetables with the looks of it. Very healthy!’

  I frown and pull out the delivery note attached to the top.

  Welcome to the family. Thank you for subscribing. This first delivery is FREE!

  I shake my head. ‘I haven’t ordered this,’ I say.

  ‘They must have got it wrong,’ Leonard shrugs. ‘Sent it to the wrong address.’

  But my name is on the address panel, too. I push the box away with my foot.

  ‘Have a lovely, lovely time at the football,’ I tell them all. ‘Hope Forest win.’

  The boys kiss me and troop outside eagerly, but Leonard hovers at the door.

  ‘Bren and I were just saying, love, we haven’t seen much of you recently.’ He looks sheepish, and I wonder if Brenda has put him up to questioning me. ‘Is everything all right? Are you coping? We heard about… the house problem.’

  ‘Yes, fine!’ I say, a bit too brightly, ignoring the reference to my inadequate parenting skills again. I’m conscious of little ears listening in. ‘Everything is fine, Len. Just busy, you know?’

  ‘Busy. Yes, of course.’ He turns to follow the boys, and then looks back at me. ‘Brenda told me about Daniela coming back. She’s…’ He seems to be choosing his words carefully. ‘She’s worried this will set you back again, you know… make you ill again, like before.’

  I stand stock still and stare at him.

  ‘I was grieving, Len. Trying to deal with betrayal, too, if you remember.’

  ‘I know you were grieving, love. We all were.’

  He’s been well schooled by Brenda in the art of skirting around any unpalatable references to Joel’s abhorrent behaviour.

  ‘There’ll always be a place for you in our family, Darcy,’ he continues. He hesitates before sticking the knife in. ‘But we do feel for Daniela too.’

  I bite down on my back teeth, but there’s no stopping the words that rush forward.

  ‘Well you shouldn’t be sympathising with her at all,’ I say in a low voice. ‘Joel belonged to us, me and our sons, not to her. You’d do well to remember that.’

  He opens his mouth to say something, but I hold up my hand, signalling that I don’t want to hear it.

  Silently he turns, pale-faced, to follow his grandsons outside, and I swallow down a bitter bile that rises in my throat.

  I stand there in the kitchen and glare at the brown box at my feet. Another job on my list to sort out. Had someone played a trick on me? If so, it was a stupid thing to do.

  If so, whoever it was knew my name and full address.

  Something dark and predatory slinks through my guts.

  Twenty

  When the boys had gone outside to play, Leonard walked into the kitchen and saw immediately that his wife had been crying.

  He felt a twist of guilt knowing he could have spared her this pain, but he’d decided that honesty was the best policy. Brenda needed to be aware what was at stake here. If things became unpleasant, it was crucial his soft-centred wife was onside.

  ‘Come here, love.’ He held out his arms and she fell into them, pressing her face against his chest.

  He kissed the top of her head and inhaled the scent of her, the heady mix of white lavender and jasmine he loved. She’d smelled the same since the day he met her when she’d been the prettiest girl on his A level English course at Nottingham College.

  Leonard himself had been muscular and strapping, whilst Brenda had been slightly built and curvaceous. They’d both changed over the years; age came to everyone, didn’t it? That was just life.

  They took the view that reaching their late sixties was a bonus to be celebrated. Too many people these days fought against it, putting their energies into chasing the elusive fountain of youth. Meddling with their faces and bodies surgically instead of just enjoying life. Enjoying family.

  Without physical work though, Leonard’s muscles had deserted him. Now, when he looked at his reflection in the bedroom mirror in his boxer shorts, he looked pale and stringy, with pigmented patches all over his skin. ‘A bit like a runner bean past its best,’ he’d suggested to his giggling wife only last week. At least they could still laugh about getting older.

  Brenda had filled out into her womanly shape and had a little too much padding here and there, as she always complained. But to Leonard, she was perfect. Just as beautiful, in his eyes, as the day he’d met her.

  They loved each other deeply and had always been loyal and true in their long marriage.

  They had loved their son even more, if that were possible, and when he had died, it had ripped a piece from both of their hearts. Those wounds would remain raw until the day they met their own maker and were reconciled at last with their boy, Joel. They held on to that.

  But Leonard and Brenda’s saving grace, their reason for living in the early months after Joel’s death, had been the love and joy their grandsons brought to their lives. Every time they saw them – which, thankfully, was frequently – each lad grew a little more like his father in different ways.

  Young Kane had Joel’s physical characteristics – the hair, eyes and mouth – and Harrison had inherited his father’s build and sporting prowess. Looking at those boys felt like Leonard and Brenda’s own future looking back at them, and nothing and nobody could be allowed to get in the way of that. That’s what he’d explained to his wife before he told her of the plans that were afoot.

  Brenda had sniffed and leaned into him.

  ‘If you’re right, and she’s purposely distancing herself from us, we can’t risk losing the boys, Len,’ she murmured, on the verge of tears again. ‘I’d rather die than let her keep us from seeing them.’

  Leonard stroked her hair. ‘That’s not going to happen, Bren. I’ll never let it happen, you know that.’

  ‘But you can’t stop her! I read about it all the time in my magazines: grandparents becoming estranged from their own flesh and blood.’ Brenda pulled away from his embrace, her eyes flashing. ‘But it’s our responsibility to ensure they’re safe. Sometimes, I wish we’d never agreed she could take them back.’

  ‘We did what we thought was right for the lads,’ Leonard remarked.

  ‘I worry, though. She seems of sound mind but still can’t accept the reality of what happened.’ ‘However crazy Darcy is, she’s their mother and we’d do well to remember that. Whatever happens, we have to carry on. We can’t let the mask slip.’

  ‘Leave it to me and Steph, Bren. Trust us to sort this out… if it even comes to that. Perhaps we’re worrying needlessly.’ Leonard stared over his wife’s head and watched his two grandsons, both wearing their red and white football scarves and gloves Brenda had bought them from the market yesterday. They were chasing each other around the garden, their breath leaving a frosty trail in their wake. ‘Under the circumstances, Daniela coming back here might just be the best thing that could happen.’

  Twenty-One

  An hour after Leonard takes the boys, I make sure I’ve turned everything off and locked the back door, then I pick up my overnight bag and handbag and step outside. I pull the front door closed behind me and walk down the path to George’s gleaming black Audi.

  He gets out and meets me at the car, taking the large bag to stow in the boot. He’s wearing jeans and a thick knitted navy sweater that looks brand new. He smells of soap, and the ends of his hair are still damp from the shower.

  ‘You look gorgeous as usual,’ he says, planting a k
iss on my lips.

  I’d hardly call it gorgeous exactly, but I have made an effort, wearing my new denim skinny jeans and knee-length flat black riding boots. A simple knitted mustard sweater and an old leather jacket from the back of the wardrobe that sponged up decently complete the look I’m aiming for. Casual but well put together, I hope.

  I washed and dried my shoulder-length brown hair before the boys left, so had time to style it with the curling tongs to show off my new caramel balayage.

  ‘Did the boys get off OK?’ he asks.

  I nod, pushing away thoughts of my disagreeable exchange with Leonard. ‘Did Romy?’

  ‘Oh yes, although I had to call her back for a kiss and a hug before she left.’ He grins.

  Romy has gone to a play park for the day with a little friend and her family. ‘They’re extending it into a sleepover,’ George told me when he called earlier.

  We get in the car and he leans over for another kiss.

  ‘And you know what they say. While the cats are away…’

  My stomach churns, and I pray it won’t start gurgling the way it can sometimes do when I haven’t eaten for a while. I’m so out of practice with this dating game, I’m bound to embarrass myself in some way.

  * * *

  George lives in Papplewick, a village around a half an hour’s drive from the city centre.

  We chat amicably about this and that on the way there. Then, out of the blue, George ups the ante.

  ‘Are you happy to stay put for the day, seeing as we have time to ourselves?’ he asks. ‘I plan to pan-fry us a couple of rib-eyes later, rather than eat out, if that’s OK with you?’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ I say happily.

  We chat about this and that and in what seems no time at all, the car is slowing. George points a fob at a single wide wrought-iron gate and it begins to slide open. The car sweeps up a short driveway and comes to a stop outside an imposing stone house complete with a small turret at one end.

  ‘Wow, you didn’t say you lived in a castle,’ I joke lightly when I get out of the car, but suddenly I do feel quite small and insignificant.

  ‘Hardly.’ He grins. ‘It might look sixteenth century, but it was only built about fifteen years ago.’

  There he goes again, with that humble, easy manner, making me feel I’m good enough, when the old ‘less than’ feelings stir inside.

  Inside, the house is immaculate, not a thing out of place. I look around the spacious hallway as I slip off my shoes.

  ‘Oh!’ I start as a figure appears at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘This is Maria, my housekeeper,’ George says. ‘Maria, this is Darcy.’

  She is a handsome middle-aged woman with short dyed hair, tall and broad shouldered. She wears a dark dress and a white full apron.

  ‘Hello, Maria, pleased to meet you.’ I offer my hand and she takes it.

  ‘Welcome to the house,’ she says rather formally. ‘I’m just leaving for the day but I hope to see you again soon.’

  ‘She looks like a proper housekeeper,’ I remark to George when Maria leaves.

  ‘She’s a godsend,’ George says. ‘Housekeeper, nanny, cook and cleaner all rolled into one. She’s a member of the family.’

  ‘How sweet,’ I tease him and he slaps my backside lightly.

  He reaches behind me and hands me a small white bag with the Apple company logo on it. ‘So you can read my text messages properly.’

  I open it up and peer inside. A brand new iPhone and the latest model no less.

  ‘George! I can’t believe it!’ I lift out the box and stare at it. ‘This must’ve cost a fortune. Are you sure?’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I love it! Thank you.’ I kiss his cheek.

  ‘That’s all that matters then. Now,’ he takes the bag and places it back on the hall table behind me, ‘fancy a drink?’

  ‘Give me a guided tour first, please,’ I say brightly, as if the grandeur doesn’t phase me. ‘I want to see every room!’

  We start downstairs.

  ‘Kitchen is hand-made and the floors downstairs are all reclaimed wood.’ George is matter-of-fact; there’s not a hint of a brag about him as he shows me around the cream Shaker-style units and the huge island with a sink and induction hob in the centre of the room.

  ‘Heated, too,’ I murmur, pressing my socked feet into the solid warmth beneath them.

  He opens a heavy oak door and I step inside a large, bright room with an enormous log burner. At the far end, an oversized wooden table with chairs and a matching bench sits before bifold doors that lead out to a large deck.

  ‘Living room, dining room,’ George says, already leading me back into the hallway, where he opens another door. ‘Games room.’

  ‘What?’ My mouth falls open at the sight of a full-size table tennis set up and a big television screen on the wall complete with a gaming console equipment shelf underneath it and scattered bean bags. ‘You realise that when the boys see this room, you’ll have made friends for life, whether you want them or not?’

  He laughs, disappearing out of the room. I rush after him.

  ‘Downstairs loo.’ He points to a door and starts to climb the stairs.

  He shows me several bedrooms and an enormous bathroom with a whirlpool bath, and then leads me into a huge bedroom overlooking the garden.

  ‘And this is the master bedroom,’ he announces, sweeping his arm low as I follow him in. ‘This is where the magic happens.’

  He bursts out laughing, and I do the same, even though my stomach does a little flip when I see the super-king-size bed with its padded floor-to-ceiling headboard. It’s very impressive, but after years without intimacy, I’m not sure I’ll be able to live up to a room like this.

  George points out the en suite and dressing room as we walk back out to the landing. ‘And that’s it,’ he says, as if it was all no big deal.

  I think this is where I’m supposed to pretend it’s all no big deal too, but it is. It’s a very big deal. I don’t say another word, but under my clothes, my skin crawls. I don’t even know how to act.

  George reaches out and pulls me to him, and we kiss, there on the light airy landing. Our kiss begins gently and quickly progresses to become passionate and wild. In the space of a few seconds, my entire body is burning from the inside out.

  He takes my hand and leads me back into the bedroom. He presses a button on the wall, and the window blind closes and a soundtrack begins to play.

  I look into his eyes and I see my future looking back at me.

  But you don’t belong here, the voice in my head insists.

  I peel off my sweater, and George pulls me over to the bed.

  Twenty-Two

  ‘Daddy, why aren’t there any pictures of Mummy up on the walls?’ Romy said, brushing the violet tail of her My Little Pony toy. ‘Like there are at Sophie’s house, I mean?’

  George looked up from his case file, stunned. He felt the muscles in his face tighten. Sophie was Romy’s little friend at school who was being raised by her father but also partly by her aunt. Her mother had died just last year and Romy had visited her aunt’s house for tea for the first time yesterday.

  Aware that his daughter’s eyes were still on him, he wiggled his taut jaw and smiled.

  ‘But we have so many nice pictures up there already, darling. Ones we’ve both chosen.’ He turned and looked to his right at the longest wall in the lounge. ‘There’s the woodpecker print that you chose from the craft fair last year, remember? And then we have that nice painting of the church in the village where you sang in the school carol service last Christmas.’

  ‘Yes, but there are none of Mummy! Sophie’s aunt has lots of her mum up in the house.’

  George nodded, biting his tongue. He’d made the mistake of visiting Lucy’s parents’ house in France just after her death. Martha and Colin’s house was like a shrine to Lucy. Totally understandable on the one hand. She had been their adored, only daughter, after all
.

  But George had always felt there was also something about it that stopped life moving on in a healthy way… it felt morbid, having the walls so completely swamped with Lucy’s image at the expense of anything else at all.

  Starting at the front door, the images showed Lucy as a baby, Lucy winning the egg and spoon on her school sports day, Lucy accepting a reading prize at senior school. Then the photos tracked, via the slightly claustrophobic hallway, her journey through college, university and finally her graduation with a 2:1 in the History of Art at Newcastle outside the lounge door.

  George had pondered before if their entire wedding album was represented in the rooms of the house: up on the walls, in solid silver frames and on the digital photo slideshows that Martha had installed in every room, upstairs and down.

  They had tried, in the early days, to get him to agree to Romy staying in France with them during the school holidays but he had soon put paid to that. His daughter was generally happy and settled and their morbid attitude would be a bad thing to inflict on her.

  They’d visited the house a couple of times last year but contact had dropped off to a bare minimum now as both suffered from various health complaints.

  ‘You have a lovely picture on your chest of drawers of you and Mummy holding you, don’t forget, darling.’ George reached for something comforting to say as he thought about one of the rare photographs he’d taken of Lucy holding newborn Romy. ‘She watches over you every night as you sleep.’

  Romy put down her pony and folded her arms, looking out of the window.

  ‘When I told Maria, she said you have lots of pictures of Mummy packed away in boxes and that really, they should be on the walls,’ Romy said archly. ‘Then we could see her every day in all the rooms and it would be like she was still here, with us.’

  Maria was sharp and George knew that nothing escaped her eagle eye. Usually, the housekeeper kept herself in check admirably but he might have to have a word with her about this photograph business. She had her feet firmly under the table here and it wouldn’t hurt to remind her who was in charge.