I watch them leave the house, exit through the gate and walk away in the direction that Imogen came from.
Great. I’m going to dinner with Lewis Bromsgrove. That’s going to go down so well with my daughter.
VII
Wednesday, 24 April
(For Thursday, 25th)
Saffron.
I’m glad you didn’t tell the police anything. I should have known that you wouldn’t since Phoebe didn’t tell the police what she knew last time. I had to be sure, though. I couldn’t take the risk that you’d talk this time.
I don’t like giving you ultimatums, but you really left me no choice.
Let’s put all this behind us, OK? Let’s try to move on. You live in your world, I’ll live in mine. I’d love for us to be friends? We have so much in common, after all. Joel was the one man we both truly loved. We’re the same you and me, we both loved him so much. That’s why I’d love for us to be friends. We can share our loss as well as our stories of him.
Please don’t be hurt by that. Yes, we were lovers. But, I think deep down you knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you had him ring me and say all those things. You could see how important I was to him and you were trying to stop it before it got out of hand.
It didn’t work, but I understand why you would try.
I would do the same. I would kill anyone who got in between me and the man I love.
I mean that figuratively, of course. But you knew that, didn’t you?
A
XXVII
Joel’s Mum Calling …
flashes on my mobile as I walk into the house.
She must be desperate – she never calls my mobile. The house phone is her preferred method of communication because she hopes that one of the kids will pick it up and she can avoid speaking to me altogether.
That Day
After a few false starts, I’d managed to get Zane and Phoebe to sleep on my side of the big bed, after the pair of them had sobbed into the pillows as if the other wasn’t there. I’d crept out of the room, shutting the door behind me. I had a desperate need to be outside, to have some air on my skin, to remind myself that I was still breathing. I didn’t feel like I was, everything seemed to be going on around me and I was swept up with it, not influencing it. I wanted a sensory reminder that I continued to be a functioning being.
I descended the stairs and found Fynn sitting on the second step, his head cradled heavily in his hands, his shoulders violently shaking. He heard me on the step behind him and stood, swung towards me. His skin was blotchy, a roadmap of tears and pain, his solid body trembling where he stood. I crossed the distance between us and, on the step above him, threw myself around him.
He’d spent the hours since arriving doing things, talking to people, answering the phone, sending texts, coping with the things I couldn’t do. And, finally, it was time for him.
He almost swamped me as he accepted my comfort, the juddering of his tears moving our bodies together. I couldn’t speak, but he had understood I was there for him. I pressed a kiss onto the top of his head as I rubbed his back.
And she gasped. A slight, wispy noise that escaped from her unlipsticked mouth, but I heard it and looked over at her. She stood in the doorway of the living room, her coat still on so I guessed they hadn’t long arrived. Fynn must have let them in and left them to it because while they intensely disliked me, they absolutely hated him.
I knew what it looked like to her, but then it would if you believed your daughter-in-law was trash and your son’s best friend had ruined your boy’s life.
Joel’s mum had her husband to hold her, Fynn had no one else except me and the most important thing at that moment was being there when he needed me.
The day after That Day
She stood beside me in the kitchen. When there was an expanse of space, she placed herself beside me as I poured boiling water into two cups to make coffee for her and her husband. She had the milk in her hand.
‘I didn’t like what I saw last night,’ she said quietly, as though anyone could hear us above the calamitous silence that shrouded the house. As though in all that had gone in the last twenty-four hours, this was somehow important.
It was all about appearances with her, them. They had come, not because they wanted to be with us, nor to hug their grandchildren, nor to be near where he was, but because it was expected. They had to be seen to be here. It was probably shock, too; an inability to quite believe what had happened so they focused that disbelief on what I was doing wrong.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry, Elizabeth.’ That was the first time I’d used her name. If I had to call her anything it was Mrs Mackleroy, giving her the respect she commanded, trying to earn the approval I craved. It wasn’t important any more. Now we were the same, we no longer slotted into the roles we’d had for all this time because the person we loved that had unintentionally put us into those niches was gone. Even though it was only hours later, we were suddenly redefined. That meant I could call her Elizabeth. ‘I’m so sorry you lost your son. I don’t think I could breathe if that happened to me.’ I replaced the kettle onto its stand, moved the mugs of coffee towards her. ‘There you go, your coffee ready for milk. I’ll talk to you later.’
She was surprised. She’d thought I’d be the same as I’d always been, that I’d continue to turn myself inside out trying to earn her approval until the end of time. That they could silently remind me that they were hoping Joel would meet the woman who would turn his life around by taking him in hand, pushing him to fulfil his potential so he could become something.
I wanted to say to her, ‘That Saffron doesn’t live here any more’ but I didn’t because they’d find out soon enough.
Joel’s Mum Calling …
my phone insists. I hit the call reject button. I’m too paranoid not to listen to the message, though, in case something has happened.
‘Saffron, hello, it’s me. We’d like to visit you all, if that’s possible? Do give me a call back at your earliest convenience.’
That would be when Hell freezes over, I think at her. But I know it’ll be sooner. It’ll have to be.
Friday, 26 April
(For today)
Saffron.
Do you miss him? In those moments between breaths do you think you can’t keep going because you miss him so much?
I’ve been thinking and thinking about this the past few days and I’m not sure you do miss him, actually.
I saw you in the street on Monday night with that guy. Sneaking out of the house, holding hands, hugging, arguing. All very passionate. All very inappropriate. It annoys me that you get to call yourself his widow and behave like that, while I get nothing. NOTHING.
Do you miss him? Ask yourself that, please. Do you really, really miss him like a woman who loves him should? Or do you miss him because the world tells you that you have to?
I think I know the answer.
They stone women like you in some countries, you know.
A
XXVIII
I’m about to eat a large slice of Resentment Pie.
This pie is thoughtfully constructed with its filling of large chunks of the last eighteen months. It is intricately seasoned with bitterness that Lewis exists, irritation towards Phoebe for bringing him so closely into my life, antipathy towards Imogen for trying to force us together, and a dash of umbrage towards Aunty Betty for – technically – being another adult with whom I can leave my children. The thick, creamy mash topping is of shame about Fynn. Sprinkled on like mixed herbs is resentment of Joel for putting me in this position in the first place: this isn’t what I signed up for. ‘Till death us do part’ seems a pretty stupid promise in the light of what’s happened. I could have stayed with him until the end of time, but I agreed death could come between us at some point, and I’m left to handle the fallout of that particular bargain.
It’s a nice-looking pie, so many delicate, unique elements have gone into making it and I’m abo
ut to eat most of it. From the conversation I had with Phoebe earlier, it seems she’s got her own pie to devour – although hers has one ingredient only: acrimony towards her mother.
‘I really, REALLY hate that you’re going out with Mr Bromsgrove,’ she said to me earlier while I stirred chopped tomatoes into the softened onion, garlic and grated carrots on the stove to make a red sauce for meatballs.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘The fact you can’t even see what’s wrong with it says it all.’
‘I’m not “going out” with him, Phoebe. He’s not “going out” with me. We were both invited to dinner at Imogen’s house and you know how she is – she wouldn’t stop until we agreed.’
Phoebe’s reply was a mouth grimace that conceded, at least, to Imogen’s bossiness. ‘Just cos someone wants something, doesn’t mean you should give it to them,’ said the pregnant girl who had unprotected sex because her boyfriend wanted her to.
My hand paused in shaking brown rice vinegar into the tomato mixture in favour of staring long and hard at her. You couldn’t tell she was pregnant by looking at her. I suppose it was still so early that she probably hadn’t had any symptoms such as morning sickness. When I got pregnant with Phoebe it took a while for morning sickness to start, with Zane it seemed to start the second the sperm fertilised the egg. ‘What’s your real problem, Phoebe? I mean, it’s not as if Mr Bromsgrove and I aren’t already linked by you and his son. I didn’t march up to the school and say, “Oi, Bromsgrove, me and you, Friday night at my friend’s house,” did I? If you have a good reason for not wanting this to happen, I’d love to hear it.’
She was silent for a few minutes and I waited for her to speak. In that time she moistened her lips, examined me as if weighing up something. ‘He’s my teacher,’ she then spat. ‘You’re my mother. It’s just wrong.’
‘OK.’ I returned to the sauce, humiliation and disappointment pulsing through my head. I thought in that pause, from the look on her face, that she was going to let me into her life, tell me something, but no. Just my imagination.
‘It is wrong, you know,’ she continued, oblivious to how much those few minutes had hurt me.
‘If you say so. I’m not going to argue.’
‘But you’re still going to go out with him, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not “going out with him”, in the sense that you mean.’
‘Whatever,’ she mumbled and stormed off back to her room.
*
Lewis is uncomfortable when he picks me up. He has on a modern, dark grey suit and a white shirt, with the top two pearly buttons casually left open. I assume it is a casual thing, but he could well have sat in his car for an age opening and closing the top buttons, trying to decide which way would be suitable and wouldn’t give me the wrong impression. The thought of that makes me smile. I haven’t been through that ritual, obviously. After a day of meetings, sarky little digs from Kevin, the call from Joel’s mum, the latest letter and cooking dinner, my effort has stretched to a quick underarm wash, and a change into a white T-shirt.
‘Hi,’ Lewis says, standing on the doorstep, tense and nervous, like a man about to go on a date. It isn’t a date! Am I the only one who realises this? ‘If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, what do you think it is, Babes?’ Joel would have said.
‘All right?’ I say grimly and step out beside him. I shout, ‘Bye’ over my shoulder and then underline the fact we’re not going in by shutting the door, which almost bumps him on his nose when it clicks into place.
‘Oh, we’re not going in then?’ he asks.
‘No, I think we should get going.’
Instead of moving, he stands, an impressive figure in his suit, switching his gaze between our black glossed wood door and me.
‘Is something wrong?’ I ask.
‘I, erm, was hoping to see Phoebe,’ he says.
A swift, chilling breeze of suspicion raises the hairs on the back of my neck, piquing the interest of the goosebumps on my arms and jangling my hackles. ‘Why?’ I ask.
‘It’s not obvious?’ he asks.
I shake my head, sizing him up as the man who did this to my daughter because I do not believe it is down to Curtis. He seems too respectful, honest. Lewis stares back at me, openly sizing me up as a serious contender for The Worst Mother In The World award – again.
‘She’s my pupil, she’s pregnant.’ He whispers the last word possibly to stop the neighbours hearing, possibly so as not to enrage The Worst Mother In The World – me – with such loaded words. ‘Since she hasn’t been to school in three days, I would like to check she’s OK.’
Of course he does, of course he does. What’s wrong with me? The old me wouldn’t even think such a thing was possible, the me before words like ‘murder’ and ‘sexual contact with a child’ became a part of my daily life wouldn’t have even thought it possible.
‘Remember how I said my daughter doesn’t speak to me?’ I say.
Lewis nods.
‘Well, she’s started speaking to me now. To tell me she hates that I’m going out with you even like this, as two people who’ve been invited to the same place at the same time by my bossy, pushy friend. You will not receive a positive welcome if you walk through that door.’ You might even get a taste of what it’s like to be me sometimes.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Well … I can’t say I’m surprised. She must be going through so many conflicting emotions right now, her mother and her teacher going to the same place at the same time to not discuss her must be a huge thing.’
‘Everything feels huge to her right now,’ I say.
‘Yeah, I’d imagine so.’
‘I’ll drive,’ I offer.
‘Are you sure about that?’ he replies, following me down the concrete steps to the garden path and then to the front gate. ‘I mean, if you drive, I might be able to drink and if I drink I may start to have ridiculous delusions that you and I are dating or something equally horrific.’ With an ‘I got the message’ hitch of his eyebrow, he sidesteps me on the pavement and heads for his car.
‘If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, what do you think it is, Babes?’
‘A duck-billed platypus.’
*
Technically, Imogen’s house is within comfortable walking distance, but the plan had been to drive so Lewis and I didn’t have too much time together alone. We’d get to Imogen’s, we’d eat dinner, we’d go home. Not enough time for relaxing and chatting and ‘getting to know each other’ like you’d expect to on a date.
Bossy, pushy and big-hearted Imogen has obviously got other ideas into her head. She will have planned it all out: open the door looking radiant in a blue satin dress, complete with perfect hair and makeup; invite us in, herd us into the living room where Ray – who’d have been warned that any off-key remark would result in him sleeping on the sofa – will be waiting, before she sweeps off to serve us aperitifs and start the banter. The banter will carry us through drinks and then seamlessly through dinner, where she will be conducting the conversation like a maestro to bring out the best in Lewis and highlight all my good bits. After our laughter-soaked dinner, there’ll be port on the sofas in the living room, then coffees before Lewis and I, laughing, exchanging longer and longer meaningful gazes, will share a taxi home. (One home, that is.)
The first spanner in the finely tuned mechanism of her plan is, of course, seeing the car keys in my hand, which means she can’t ply both of us with as much booze as she’d like. The second spanner is seeing my black work skirt and white long-sleeved T-shirt under one of Joel’s black and red hoodies. The third spanner is my lack of makeup. Saffy is not playing, she realises as she grins at us. Saffy is not going to sleep with this man, no matter what I do next.
‘Hello!’ She beams a little wider. ‘Welcome to our humble abode.’ Understanding her as I do, her previous thought has been followed up by: Saffy doesn’t know what’s best for her. She needs a man. And here he is. I’m going to make
this happen.
‘You have a lovely house,’ Lewis says. ‘Thank you very much for inviting me.’
He sounds like someone who has been brought up properly, who would teach his child manners. That’s part of the reason I don’t believe it’s Curtis: there’s something about Lewis that makes me believe he has drummed into his son the importance of contraception and respect for girls.
‘Great to see you,’ I say, receiving her hug and planting a kiss on each cheek in return.
The smell of food coming from the kitchen reminds me that I’ve been so tense and resentful of being forced to spend time with someone I don’t want to be attracted to, I’ve been so worried about what Phoebe will do, I’ve been so distracted by the increasing menace in the letters, that I’ve forgotten I have to eat in front of other people.
I am 10
‘Finish what’s on your plate, Saffron.’
‘I’m full.’
‘How can you be full? You haven’t eaten everything.’
‘I have.’
‘Don’t answer me back. Finish what’s on your plate.’
‘But …’
‘You’re too skinny because you don’t eat. Finish what’s on your plate.’
‘But I’m full.’
‘You children. You have no idea what it takes to put food on the table. If you did, you wouldn’t sit there and tell me you’re full and let good food go to waste. Throwing away food is a sin.’
It’s not how Fynn said. I’m not bulimic. I’m not anorexic. I’m not a mixture of both. I know I don’t have the healthiest relationship with food, but that’s hardly unique.
Yes, if I have to go to a big event I immediately think that I have to lose a little weight to make sure I look acceptable. OK, if I’ll be expected to eat with other people I’ll try to avoid eating for a few days beforehand so I’ve got a buffer zone to stop me being heavier after the event, I’ll just get back to where I was before. Admittedly, when I weigh myself in the morning, if the number is the same as the day before, I’m disappointed, if it’s less, I’m relieved – not pleased, relieved. If it’s more … If it’s more, then it confirms what I know about myself, what I’ve always known by myself.