The Woman at Number 24 Page 19
The countdown stopped dead.
‘Sarah, you promised.’ Leo sounded panicky. ‘We agreed the end of August. I’ve been patient. I’ve waited a whole year. Your time’s up, darling.’ He waited. He tutted when she said nothing. ‘Sarah! Are you listening?’
Not really.
Leo receded as Sarah mapped out the next few months. Mavis would deteriorate, and die – that was a given. But she would die with love all around her. She would die cared for. ‘Leo . . .’ Sarah knew how it felt to have no one. She stood, water cascading down her body. Love is as much a decision as a feeling; Sarah loved Mavis and she’d see it through.
‘Yes, darling?’ Leo sounded hopeful, as if he thought Sarah might have come to her senses.
‘Leave your key.’
There was a clang as something hit a small brass bowl. The flat door slammed.
Sarah was alone.
It could have been Sarah’s imagination, but Jane seemed to jump when they ran into each other in the hall.
‘Hi there stranger! Haven’t seen you in a few days.’ Just because Sarah was paranoid didn’t mean she wasn’t right: Leo’s poison had done its work. ‘How was the latest recce? You must know Suffolk like the back of your hand by now.’
‘Suffolk was . . . Suffolk.’ Jane didn’t meet Sarah’s eye. ‘The last few days have been interesting, though. In lots of ways.’ Jane’s brio was playing truant; she was a glass of champagne the morning after. ‘Some good, some bad.’
‘Bad? In what way?’
Jane took an audible deep breath. ‘Would you tell me if—’ She shut her eyes. ‘Are we friends, Sarah? Really friends?’
‘Absolutely.’ Sarah waited.
‘People are such shits. Why can’t we all just play nicely?’
Sitting it out to see where it was going, Sarah discerned confusion, concern, but no anger.
‘Listen, I’m worn out.’ Jane headed for the stairs. ‘But we should . . . let’s have a chat tomorrow evening, yeah?’
‘About?’
Jane was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
Notting Hill, W11
This calendar is FREE to valued customers!
Tuesday 23rd August, 2016
HE WHO STRIKES THE FIRST BLOW LOSES THE ARGUMENT
The sunflowers nodded their heavy heads, and the grass grew a centimetre or two even as Sarah watched from a deckchair. Late August laid a heavy hand on the hot garden.
A small finger poked her in the side. Una held up Mikey for inspection. A spiny sphinx, the hedgehog saw everything with his one good eye but never commented or got involved. Sarah could learn a lot from him. ‘You’re getting fat, Mikey.’
Una smiled happily. Mikey’s weight had been a source of worry throughout his recuperation. Now that he was living the high life as a hedgehog-about-town, his plumpness was often commented on approvingly. No body-shaming for Mikey.
The little girl flew back to Tom. That evening’s session was over; Lisa was often late coming out for Una. Sarah didn’t mind. She had nothing else to do; work was finished on the flat, now a white uncluttered series of rooms.
Sheers hung at the windows, stock-still in the heat. The carpet that had been there when they moved in was gone, as were the dusty patterned rugs Leo had brought home from the Old Church; Sarah’s toes hugged the floorboards when she drifted through her transfigured home.
There was space between the few items of furniture she’d chosen. There was ease and certainty. The hated deadline, now abandoned for Mavis’s sake, had forced Sarah to concentrate. For so long she’d felt helpless, like a leaf blown about by the breeze. She resisted the breeze now; the leaf was in charge of its own destiny.
It was a bold, empowering feeling. The tragedy unfolding in the basement had shocked Sarah back to life. She was a lady-in-waiting no more; she was queen of Flat A. And about time too, she thought.
Avoiding Leo since she got home from work, Sarah knew she had to face him at some point. They had to talk money. Disentangling him from the flat would sting. Giving up the hanging-on-for-dear-life fantasy that Leo still loved her would take some doing; the hope was all that had kept Sarah going some days.
Tom laughed, saying, ‘Careful, Una!’
Sarah knew where he was without watching him. She felt him move around the garden as if he gave off more heat than other mortals. Leo’s assessment was only half right; Sarah couldn’t help her gut attraction to Tom, but Tom had moved smoothly on. They only spoke over Una’s head. The rest of the time they passed each other like ghosts, as if neither saw the other.
She risked a glance at him and saw him look over at the windows of Flat C. Sarah followed his line of sight to where Jane stood, half hidden by the new striped curtains Sarah had helped her hang, before stepping back and out of view. Sarah flinched; she’d soon find out what Jane needed to ‘chat’ about.
Clambering up the steps from the basement, Graham’s body language semaphored extreme umbrage. Sarah stood, awkwardly finding her sandals with her bare feet in the grass, as he marched towards her.
With graceful speed, Tom inserted himself between Sarah and Graham, so that Graham had to lean around him to jab a nicotine-stained finger. ‘This is getting out of hand. I don’t pay you to play with hedgehogs, love!’
‘You don’t pay me at all, Graham.’ Plus I’m not your love. Sarah took a step to stand shoulder to shoulder with Tom, her face the calm mask she’d worn for just this kind of confrontation at St Chad’s. ‘Why not say hello to Una?’
‘Why not keep your nose out of my business?’
‘Dude.’ Tom inclined his head. ‘Hey. Come on.’
‘No kids of your own, love?’ Graham wobbled his head mockingly. ‘So you mess with other people’s, is that it?’
‘Hey.’ Tom upped the ante, standing straighter, radiating strength. ‘No need for that.’
Accustomed to parents blaming her for situations that had been years in the making, Sarah didn’t take it personally. ‘Graham, let’s not discuss this in front of Una, eh?’
‘No wonder your husband dumped you.’ Graham took Una’s hand and wrenched her over beside him.
‘Enough!’ Tom was angry.
‘Tom, I can handle this,’ said Sarah quietly.
‘Why can’t you just tell me what Una’s problem is?’ Graham was wild now, looking from one to the other as if they were keeping a secret from him. ‘Is she mental?’
Tom shook his head in disbelief. ‘Your little girl’s right there,’ he hissed.
‘Tom.’ Sarah took charge, even though it meant losing the reassuring bulk of his presence. ‘If Graham agrees, could you take Una over to check on the sunflowers while he and I talk?’ She looked to Graham, who nodded gracelessly.
Tom whisked Una into his arms with a flourish, the way she liked.
‘See you in two ticks,’ said Sarah to Una, composing herself to face Graham.
‘I’m waiting,’ said Graham sarcastically.
‘Graham, we have to examine the family dynamic.’
‘I’m not interested in your fancy phrases. What’s wrong with my daughter?’
‘This isn’t an Una problem. It’s a family problem.’
‘I knew it!’
Sarah sensed Tom’s ears prick up at the increase in volume.
‘Graham, I’m not—’
‘You’re accusing me! Like it’s my fault! Typical woman.’
‘If you just listen—’
Graham grabbed Sarah’s upper arm, hard. Hard enough to leave livid marks, it explained Lisa’s penchant for sleeves.
‘No, you listen!’ Graham got no further because Tom had crossed the garden in two strides. He bundled Graham to the floor and pinned him there.
‘Listen, idiot,’ shouted Tom, leaning into Graham’s face, invading his space the way Graham had invaded Sarah’s. ‘Don’t annoy an actor ’cos at some point we all learn some moves. Sarah’s trying to help.’
‘But,’ said Graham, wriggling.
&nbs
p; ‘No buts.’
Una dashed to Sarah and threw her arms around her legs. Her two heroes were fighting.
‘Your dad’s a bit overexcited.’ Sarah smoothed Una’s tidy chestnut hair. ‘It’s going to be fine. Isn’t it, Graham?’
‘Yes,’ snapped Graham, with the fury of the impotent. He leaped up, bristling, when Tom released him, trying to look as if he could have jumped up at any point.
‘Let’s go and find your mum, Una.’ As Tom passed Sarah, he murmured, ‘For God’s sake don’t annoy him. That’s the sum total of my moves.’
After a few moments decompressing, Graham was calm enough to talk. His restless eyes were reminiscent of Peck’s.
‘As you know, Graham, I saw you go into the flat you share with your new girlfriend. That’s none of my business. You can live where you please. But Lisa doesn’t know: am I right? OK. Have you specifically asked Una not to tell Lisa about your living arrangements? Right. In that case, Una has a secret. It’s unhealthy for small children to keep secrets from a parent. You can double that when the secret’s about the other parent. At the moment, Una feels responsible for your family’s happiness.’ She felt Graham move, as if to protest, but he said nothing. ‘Obviously that’s not true, but Una also believes in unicorns so we’re not dealing with Stephen Hawking here.’
‘This isn’t my fault. Lisa’s a bitch and I—’
‘If it’s not your fault, it’s not Lisa’s either.’ Sarah could go schoolmarm when necessary. ‘If you could try – just try, Graham – not to bad-mouth Lisa around Una, then maybe Una can start to relax. She desperately wants to believe that her mummy and daddy respect each other, that there’s love there.’
‘I did love Lisa,’ said Graham.
‘I know,’ said Sarah. ‘Una wants the family back together. That can’t happen the way she wants it to, but you and Lisa can learn how to co-parent so that Una feels secure.’
‘What do you mean, “learn”?’
‘Don’t worry. It doesn’t entail going back to school. All it takes is a little consideration, thinking before you open your mouth, and placing Una front and centre. I know you can do that.’
‘Of course I can,’ said Graham. ‘Una’s my princess.’
‘First of all . . . bring the secret into the open.’
There was a long silence filled only by hip-hop bleeding from a passing car out on Merrion Road. ‘You mean, tell Lisa I’m living with Ruby?’
‘Exactly that. It won’t be fun, but it’ll set Una free.’ Sarah knew what she was talking about when she said, ‘Little girls need to see their daddies doing the right thing or they grow up with warped ideas about men.’ Hoping it had penetrated the heavily fortified area where Graham kept his feelings, Sarah said goodbye and started to clear up the pencils and drawing paper she and Una had used.
Now for Jane.
She felt rather than saw Tom come out of the house and cross the grass. She swallowed when he touched her arm.
‘Be careful with Jane.’ He was earnest, steady, his eyes on hers.
‘What does that mean?’ Sarah glared at Tom. Another man expecting a woman to keep his secrets!
‘This has really thrown her,’ said Tom. ‘Just, you know, be careful,’ he muttered, turning away as if he knew his words were wasted.
‘No, Tom,’ said Sarah to his back, hating how she could only relate to him in this spitty, sarcastic manner. ‘You be careful.’
Chapter Sixteen
Notting Hill, W11
This calendar is FREE to valued customers!
Thursday 25th August, 2016
DISTANCE TESTS A HORSE’S STRENGTH, TIME REVEALS A PERSON’S CHARACTER
Notting Hill was gearing up for the annual madness of carnival. Barriers sprang up. Sound systems rose improbably high on street corners. Life sprang from the pavements. From Friday to Bank Holiday Monday, W11 would party.
In the calm before the storm of good times, Tom stood on the steps of number twenty-four, watching Sarah and Jane drive off, with his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans and his broad shoulders hunched.
‘He’s not a happy bunny,’ said Jane.
‘That’s an understatement.’ Sarah was still settling down in the passenger seat, playing with the seat belt and stowing Fruit Pastilles in the glove compartment. It was going to be a long journey.
‘He keeps calling it “your cock-eyed road trip”. Said we’re a poor man’s Thelma and Louise.’
Tom hadn’t been protecting his own interests when he warned Sarah to be careful: the dreaded chat with Jane hadn’t been about him. Relieved to the point of lightheadedness at the time, Sarah now half wished the decision to tell Jane about the kiss had been taken out of her hands. It still weighed heavily on her thoughts, but the matter at hand was dark enough and thorny enough to require all her attention. ‘Mavis is against it, too.’ Sarah didn’t describe Leo’s reaction. His belly laughter had undermined the seriousness of the situation and she’d found herself, once again, pointing out that he’d missed the point. She’d come away exasperated; he’d refused to discuss the flat, saying airily there was nothing to talk about. She remembered him saying, with great good humour, ‘We’ll stick to the plan, darling. You’ll thank me later. Although,’ he’d added, ‘we’ll have to think of somewhere else to meet.’
Nothing dented his iron-clad confidence. Sarah had always found that amusing. The joke was wearing thin.
‘How is number twenty-four’s favourite witch?’ Jane knew about the motor neurone disease.
‘Too thin. Not sleeping enough. Disregard for personal grooming.’
‘No change there, then. Was your boss cool about taking today off? I know you were worried about it.’
‘Cool-ish.’ Keeley had listened and put her hand to her mouth. She’d advised Sarah not to do it and then hugged her and sighed that, yes, of course she could take the time away from St Chad’s. Being Keeley, she’d muttered something about how come Sarah could be so decisive when making a foolish decision, yet drag her feet when it came to restarting her career. ‘She’s nagging me about going back to my proper job.’
‘Is that how you think of it? Your proper job?’
‘Yes and no. It feels as if somebody else took the exams.’
‘But you’re doing so well with Una.’
‘S’pose.’ Sarah wasn’t sure. Was it therapy or friendship? She knew better than to blur the boundaries.
‘You know, getting a mortgage is tough enough without taking a hit in salary. God knows, I don’t want you to leave number twenty-four, but . . . ’
‘I know. The sensible thing is to sell up and move on.’
‘But doing the sensible thing,’ smiled Jane, ‘is no longer your style. Got it.’ She mimed pulling a zip across her mouth.
Conversation, usually so bouncy and plentiful, lapsed. Sarah registered the looks Jane threw her as the car ate the road.
‘You’re OK?’ said Jane as they turned onto the A12.
‘Too late to turn back now. Besides, I love Southwold.’
Jane’s ‘That’s my girl!’ almost made Sarah cry; providence had given her this staunch friend, but had also provided her with a pin to prick Jane’s bubble.
Southwold hadn’t changed since Sarah’s weekend there with Leo. The small town was a dream of an England past, its high street colourfully eclectic, and its eccentric bathing huts keeping watch over a murky sea. That Thursday it came complete with Hitchcockian theme music.
Jane locked the car. They both shilly-shallied, checking their bags for purses, locating their sunglasses, until Jane grasped Sarah’s hand and said, ‘We don’t have to. If you can’t face it.’
‘We do have to.’ Sarah drew strength from Jane’s slender arm.
‘In that case, it’s just up here on the right.’ Jane led the way out of the car park, past a row of shops so full of geegaws and what-have-yous that the stock dribbled out onto the pavement. ‘Here goes nothing.’ She pushed at the door of Dolly’s Kitchen.
The menu was just a mass of squiggles to Sarah.
‘If we’ve chosen the wrong day . . .’ Jane drummed her fingers, craning her neck to peep past contented menopausal women ploughing through cream teas. ‘Oh God. Here she comes.’
‘What can I get you?’ The waitress was chummy, her apron a strange match for her punky clothes. ‘The quiche is . . .’ She took in Sarah’s face and gaped. ‘Off,’ she said eventually.
‘Hello, Smith,’ said Sarah.
*
The stones of Southwold’s beach dug into Sarah’s bottom as she and Smith, together again, sat staring out at the sea. A bird, wide-winged, swooped.
The cafe owner had allowed Smith to take her tea break there and then, her face concerned as they left. Evidently Smith had found herself another benefactress.
Sarah was determined not to speak first. She was afraid her anger would flood out and consume them both. A head of steam that had been building all morning threatened to blow.
Smith forced out a question. ‘How, you know, how are you?’
‘How am I?’ Sarah was stupefied by the banality of Smith’s line. ‘How do you think I am?’
‘If you just snap my head off we won’t get anywhere.’ Smith was sullen, as if Sarah had caught her stealing the last biscuit.
‘What if I don’t want to get anywhere?’ Sarah mimicked her cruelly. ‘What if I just want to . . .’
‘Punch me?’ suggested Smith. ‘You can if you want. I deserve it.’
‘You deserve worse than that.’ Sarah felt anger bleed through her, like acid. She fought it. And wondered why she was fighting it. Smith deserved every syllable that queued on the tip of Sarah’s tongue.
Smith put her head in her hands. Her shaved hair had grown back. Now dyed black, it was augmented with extensions and pulled into a ponytail. She had a new piercing in her nose. She’d put on weight; her arms were arm-shaped again.