by B P Walter
* * *
MICHAEL: You heard him doing it? With another woman?
* * *
JESSICA: No, no. I heard him talking to Mum. They thought I was asleep, but I heard her mention to him he’d have to throw a shirt away because there was lipstick on it. And from what she said to him, it wasn’t the first time.
* * *
MICHAEL: What did she say?
* * *
JESSICA: She said, ‘You could at least have the decency to try to hide it. You used to make up an excuse.’ And he just said, ‘I thought you’d be pleased I’m no longer insulting your intelligence.’
* * *
MICHAEL: How did she take that?
* * *
JESSICA: She said, ‘You know, sometimes, you really make me hate my life.’
* * *
MICHAEL: Fair.
* * *
JESSICA: It isn’t fair. I’m in her life. I’m part of it. Or am I not enough? I’m so fucking sick of both of them. Of all of it.
* * *
MICHAEL: One day you’ll leave them. And they’ll realise what they missed when they were dealing with their own shit.
* * *
JESSICA: Yeah. Maybe they will.
* * *
MICHAEL: My mum always knew.
* * *
JESSICA: I thought you’d fallen asleep.
* * *
JESSICA: Knew what?
* * *
JESSICA: Oh, you mean…
* * *
MICHAEL: Yeah. She always knew about my dad. I think that’s what makes it so difficult for her to deal with. And why I can’t ever forgive her. It wasn’t like she found out after or when he’d gone. She knew at the time and did nothing.
* * *
JESSICA: I’m so very, very sorry.
* * *
MICHAEL: I know. I am too.
Chapter Fifteen
The Mother
May. Three months after the attack.
I end up parking by one of the huts selling sweets and soft drinks, attached to one of the seafront restaurants. As soon as I smell the scent of cooking I realise how hungry I am. It must be way over twelve hours since I’ve eaten. Mingled with next to no sleep, it is a marvel I am still standing upright. I go over to a young woman in the process of opening the shutter and ask when they start serving food.
‘Well, not really until lunch time – but we’ll have a batch of fresh doughnuts cooked in a sec. They’re just in the fryer.’
The thought of doughnuts for breakfast sounds rather decadent, but I nod and say I’ll take a bag of six small ones with cinnamon sugar. The first taste of the warm, slightly greasy surface and the crunch of the sugar instantly takes me back to my youth. We always used to get something like this whenever we went to a seaside town. My father had a bit of a thing about them – particularly British ones, although he preferred Brighton and Eastbourne to Southend. We started our own tradition of seaside visits with Jessica, when she was very young and still content with building sandcastles, spending hours making moats and drawbridges out of sticks, then shrieking with excitement as the sea came in and steadily washed them away. Then, when my work really took off and we became more than just financially comfortable and into the realms of ‘relatively wealthy’, we ended up always jetting off somewhere more exotic. More glamorous and sophisticated, perhaps, but I missed the simplicity of those early days, spent running around the sand with my little girl, wondering when the changeable British weather would send us all scurrying back to the car.
I turn my back to the sea and look at the mass of buildings facing me. One of them is a hotel, apparently called The Carriage Way Hotel, and I cross the road to go and take a look. According to its sign it’s five star, although from the outside you’d never have thought it, nor with a name like The Carriage Way – something you’d expect to see doubling as a country pub. The once-white paintwork is now greying – green, even, at the edges of the windows – like something once fresh and new steadily rotting at the corners. It’s got character, but not the type of character I often go in for these days.
The foyer is a rather confusing mixture of the dated and the modern. The armchairs, rugs on the floor, and elderly clientele sitting by the unlit fire, knitting and talking quietly to each other, plant me firmly in Miss Marple territory, though this is ruined by the addition of a row of pristine iMacs down the side of one wall, and a disconcertingly modern large LED TV to my right in what looks like a larger lounge area. Though slightly odd, it at least feels clean and welcoming, and I try my best to smile at the lady on the desk.
‘Hi, I need to get a room,’ I say, taking out my purse. ‘Just for one night. One day actually, I may be going back tonight, but I just need to lie down. I have a migraine and can’t drive.’
The woman looks instantly concerned, ‘Oh dear, I am sorry. Oh God, on a nice day like this too. Ruined your day at the seaside, has it?’ She tuts and shakes her head, then carries on enthusiastically, ‘I get terrible migraines myself. Have to go and lie down in a darkened room until they go. Like someone twisting a blade in the side of your head, aren’t they?’
Her accent is broad Essex and irritatingly loud, and even though I don’t actually have a migraine, I can’t help fearing that her voice might really bring one on. ‘Yes, that’s exactly it. Do you have a vacancy? Anything will do.’
‘Hmm, let me see,’ she says, tapping on the computer in front of her. ‘Yes, we’ve got some superior suites available, but I suppose you won’t need those if you only have a sleep. Would a standard do OK? They all have double beds, so you’ll be able to stretch out.’
‘That’s fine,’ I say curtly. I’m keen to avoid any more heart-to-hearts on the trials faced by migraine sufferers. I just want to sleep. Getting out my purse, I pay for the room and shake my head when she asks if I need any luggage brought up.
‘Do you have a car?’ she asks, as I turn to leave. I tell her I do and it’s parked almost directly opposite on the seafront.
‘Oh Christ, don’t leave it there. You’ll get a ticket. Like ninjas, they are, round here with their bleedin’ fines. We have a car park…’
‘I don’t care,’ I say and leave, heading towards the lift and up to the room that will take me away from all the heat, noise, and light, and allow me to sink into my own terrible oblivion.
I sleep for nearly eight hours straight. By the time I wake my phone says it’s nearly 4pm and I’m almost out of battery. I scramble for my charger and when the screen lights up properly I see I have ten texts and fourteen missed calls from Alec. I open the iMessage app and type in:
Yes, I am alive. I’ve gone away for a bit. Don’t worry, I’m safe. Just need time to think.
I see that he starts typing almost immediately after the message is delivered but I lock the phone and set it back on top of the bedside table. The room is nice – nicer than I expected – and surprisingly roomy for a standard double. I enjoy the cool sensation of the sheets against my bare legs as I roll off and pull off the rest of my clothes and walk towards the shower. The cool water falling down my shoulders is even better – I feel like I’m washing away the stress of the past twenty-four hours. The horror of seeing the terrorist attack in Piccadilly on the news, the argument with Alec about the boy, my sudden departure for Southend in the early morning. All of it seems to be a life lived by somebody else, and I’m now stepping out of the shower onto the soft mat feeling like a different person.
I see that Alec has phoned again when I get back to my phone, but I don’t bother listening to the voicemails. The battery’s still only at 16 per cent, so I sit, wrapped in my towel, reading the rest of A Murder is Announced in the armchair by the window while I wait for it to charge. After about an hour, I remember Jessica’s phone and swap that over to give it some power too. I probably won’t need it, but just in case. By the time it gets to 5.30pm and the sun is taking on that golden summer evening glow, I decide to get properly dressed and go out to find so
me food.
The woman at the desk has gone, replaced by a young man who smiles at me as I walk past him. The elderly ladies around the fireplace are still there – perhaps they haven’t moved all day, still knitting and chatting. Must be a nice life, if you can afford it. I catch myself fantasising about what it would be like to live in a hotel; a childhood dream I once harboured. ‘You’d have to earn a fortune,’ my mother had said when I used to go on about how I’d get room service brought up to my room on a tray every day. I think about my finances now. Although I wouldn’t be able to live in a hotel for the rest of my life – the money would run out quicker than I could recoup it – I am substantially more financially free than my parents could have ever dreamed of being, especially after pouring all of their savings into an outrageously large and unpleasantly gothic-looking house in Perth. After that, they had to live a frugal existence just to be able to maintain it. It became a weight around their necks. Until my father died, and his life insurance kicked in. And suddenly, my mother wasn’t poor any more. My mind flits back to a memory of her, sitting in front of her accountant in the living room. He was trying to be as kind and understanding as possible, apologising a number of times about the circumstances and how, if she needed to stop, just to say and he’d come back another time. But she told him to carry on and he gave her a piece of paper and started to explain when she’d receive the first amount of money from his policy. She kept looking sombre, right up until he straightened up to go. Then, from where I was observing, unseen in the hallway, I saw it: the small quiver of a smile flickering across her lips. She continued to keep up the sad-widow act, though. And made sure to remind me not to get used to our sudden windfall.
‘Wealth isn’t something one should get used to. It can vanish like that!’ She snapped her fingers in my face. ‘It’s unlikely you and the rest of your generation will ever be able to support yourselves. So enjoy it while it lasts.’
I suppose I’ve spent my life proving her wrong. Last year I earned just under £80,000, and Alec, with his marketing job, around the £70,000 mark. I wonder what my mother would say to that if I told her. I shake my head, trying to clear the thought from my mind. I really shouldn’t be thinking about my mother right now.
The woman at the desk was right – I have got a parking ticket. £35 to be paid within ten days, or risk the fine increasing. I’m tempted just to tear up the ticket and tell them to go whistle for it, but instead I stuff it into my handbag.
I leave the car where it is and decide to take a walk further down to where there are some smarter restaurants, filled with people eating what looks like gourmet seafood. One of them, named The Seaview Palace, looks pleasant and has a nice menu, so I wait to be served and when a waiter comes I ask to be seated outside. The evening is gorgeous, even if the view is still mostly just the stretching expanse of mud. The sea must have come and gone while I was sleeping.
While waiting for my food – a large battered cod, thick-cut chips, and side salad – I take out the notepad I carry everywhere, almost out of instinct. Usually, if I’m on my own having food or a coffee I’ll be busy planning out my thoughts for new TV series, or puzzling through a plotting issue in my head. I like to have a good crop of ideas on the go, so that when one is finished I’m ready to power on to the next. But this notepad has been barely written in for months. It’s like a light has gone out inside of me – a once-flowing stream of creativity has now dried up, leaving behind it a dry wasteland free from inspiration or enthusiasm.
I’m saved from my thoughts ten minutes later by the arrival of my food. The batter is satisfyingly crunchy, the chips a beautiful golden-brown, perfectly cooked, and for a few moments I allow myself to think about nothing other than the food and how good the sun feels on my neck as it steadily sinks lower down the horizon. And then, as I’m polishing off the last of the side salad, I see him.
A group of boys are walking along the seafront towards me. One of them is holding a giant panda, the type of thing you’d win on one of those throwing-game arcades, and the rest are eating candyfloss or drinking what appear to be Monster energy drinks, laughing and shouting. And the boy at the front, with a bottle clasped in his right hand, is Michael Kelley. I recognise his face instantly – his expression is practically identical to his smug Facebook profile photo. I sit completely still as they come up level with the restaurant, my hand frozen on the way to my mouth with a few rocket leaves dangling from my fork. I probably look ridiculous, but I don’t care. I just sit and watch. His eyes meet mine for a second, then he moves on, tipping his head back to take a sip of his drink.
I drop my fork with a loud clatter, causing the couple at the table next to look over. Standing up quickly, causing more of a racket as the table jolts, I throw down two £20 notes – almost double what the meal cost, but I can’t wait for change – I can’t just watch him disappear quite literally into the sunset. I can’t.
I follow the group of boys, keeping a safe distance, so they don’t spot me. The pavement is crowded with families with prams and children running around and I have to be careful not to lose them completely. Eventually they stop, near a row of benches, and appear to be saying goodbye to each other as one group takes off up a winding steep path away from the seafront. One other boy stays talking to Michael for a minute, and I contrive a reason to pause where I am, squeezing myself up against a lamp-post as if I’m checking my bag for something I may have forgotten. And then he’s alone, the other boy crossing the road and away from us, leaving Michael walking along the pavement. I follow him, picking up the pace. Then, when I’m just a few metres away, I pull out my purse, take out the last twenty I have in there and say: ‘Excuse me!’
He doesn’t turn round straight away. Probably lost in his own world. ‘Excuse me!’ I call out again and finally he stops and looks over. He faces me and I feel at once a chill wrap itself around my body as if the temperature has just dropped and we are actually standing together in a snow drift. I hold out the money and say, as brightly as I can manage, ‘Hi there. I think you dropped this.’
He looks at the banknote in my hand, clearly a little puzzled. ‘Er, I don’t think so.’
Fuck, I think to myself. What is it with kids not carrying cash, these days? It’s all bloody contactless and Apple Pay.
‘Well, I saw it fall out of your pocket. Or it may have been one of your mates. You passed my table at the restaurant and it was left on the pavement when you’d gone and it definitely wasn’t there before.’ I smile and hold it out again.
He looks around him, as if I might be either insane or part of some elaborate hidden-camera stunt. I stand there, waiting for him to come up with a suitable response.
‘OK, I mean, I don’t think it’s mine, but if you’re offering me twenty quid and it’s going spare, I’m not going to say no.’ He reaches out to take it and my hand grazes his slightly as the note leaves my fingers. I can see why Jessica was attracted to him. Even if she never met him in person, he has a charisma and carefree charm that seems to fit with the messages I read during their Facebook conversations. He says thanks and turns to leave. No, I think. I can’t let it end here.
‘Wait,’ I say and he turns back to me again. That puzzled expression is back, coupled with the ghost of amusement. ‘This sounds a bit weird, but… I’m from a modelling agency. We do all kinds of things, really, but the majority of it is youth modelling – brands like Hollister and Gap – and I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’re very good-looking and I think you’d be absolutely perfect for one of our campaigns.’
I don’t know where the lie comes from. It just arrives, perfectly formed, ready for the moment and I thank God I’ve got a creative brain.
He still looks wary, as if I might be trying to trick him in some way. Of course, this must all look rather strange, but I stick to my guns. ‘It wouldn’t take much – just a few headshots and I can see what my colleagues think. Maybe we could have a quick chat about it first, if you like.’ I don’t wait for a re
sponse, just fish inside my bag for my notepad and pen and tear off a blank sheet of paper and write down the name of my hotel and my mobile number. ‘I’m staying here locally for a bit – at the hotel, The Carriage Way, a short walk up there. Do you want to pop in now for a chat? Or tomorrow maybe?’
I hand him the page and he looks at it, still unsure. ‘Ahh, sorry, I’ve got to get back home now…’
‘That’s OK, I’m here for a while. Tomorrow, then? Just come to the hotel foyer and we can talk.’
I think he’s going to say no. I think he’s just going to hand back the sheet and say sorry, he’s not interested. But he just shrugs and then smiles, a wide beam lighting up his face. ‘All right. Don’t see why not.’
It takes me by surprise, but I try to keep my flow. ‘Great. That’s really great,’ I say, returning his smile. ‘So, what kind of time? Would lunchtime suit?’
‘Ah, I have school…’
I’ve completely forgotten it’s a school night – with all the little children running around, the whole place has a summer holidays feel. Apparently parents take their kids on trips to the seaside on weeknights during termtime nowadays.
