‘I don’t think you’re nuts,’ Jared says. ‘I just think you’re not thinking straight at the moment, and it would be good for us to have some time apart.’
I glower at him. I know bloody well what he meant. He was comparing me to my mother. He’s worrying I’m going to lose the plot like she did.
‘I’m serious, Lou. I want us to take a break. And I want Joe to stay with me, so you can rest and get back to normal.’
‘You’re working,’ I point out. ‘How can you look after Joe while you’re at work?’
‘It’s okay, I’ve got it covered.’
‘Not Darcy.’ The ground feels like it’s shifting beneath my feet. I place the flat of my hand on the wall to steady myself and bend forward to take a breath. There’s no way that bloody woman is going to be looking after my child. And I’m certainly not having Joe forced to play with her bully of a son. ‘Anyone but her, Jared. For God’s sake, the woman’s set me up for murder! And Tyler is a little bully – he’s been pinching Joe and getting him into trouble. Ask him. Ask Joe. He’ll tell you.’
‘Calm down, Lou,’ he says. ‘It’ll just be for a little while. Just till you get back on your feet again.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No way. Joe can stay with me at Beth’s.’
‘You need a break, Lou. You need peace and quiet.’
‘Beth has a four-year-old, in case you’d forgotten. I’m hardly going to get peace and quiet with Megan in the house. Anyway, Beth and Carys will help me – not that I need helping. I’m perfectly capable of looking after my own son.’ I glare at my husband for his insensitivity and lack of support. I thought we were stronger than this. That he would take my side, no matter what.
He’s shaking his head, but I can tell he’s going to relent. There’s no way on earth I would allow Darcy to look after Joe, and I can’t believe Jared’s even suggesting it.
‘Okay,’ Jared says. ‘But Joe stays with me at weekends.’
‘Fine,’ I snap. ‘I’ll pack a bag, shall I?’
Chapter Twenty Five
Winter 2002
‘You’re a treasure,’ he said, reaching up for the delicate china cup of tea with a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand.
‘It’s my pleasure, Arthur,’ she replied in the overly loud voice she always had to use with the partially deaf octogenarian.
‘Did you leave the teabag in?’ he asked. ‘You know I don’t like it when it’s weak as dishwater.’
‘Yes. Teabag’s in there, Arthur.’
‘Lovely.’ He brought the cup up to his lips and took a loud slurp. ‘Nice and hot, too,’ he said approvingly. ‘You make a good cup of tea, Nicole.’
‘Would you like a couple of biscuits with that?’
‘Custard creams?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Let me go and check what you’ve got in the cupboard.’ Nicole left the sitting room and made her way down the narrow hallway – with its flowered wallpaper and framed prints of the countryside – to the kitchen. This room was where you really felt like time had jumped back several decades, with its ugly brown wall tiles and sludge-green Formica kitchen units. The whole place was dingy. Probably hadn’t been decorated since 1972.
She opened the larder door and shuddered as a family of silverfish scuttled beneath the floorboards to hide from the unexpected shaft of daylight. The biscuit tin sat on the third shelf up – a faded red and black metal box with a picture of a man in a kilt playing the bagpipes, which had once, long ago, contained Highland shortbread. Prising open the scratched lid, she saw that Arthur was in luck as the last carer had bought a selection of the old man’s favourites – custard creams, jammy dodgers and bourbon biscuits.
Nicole scooped out a couple of the creams, replaced the lid and stuck the tin back on the shelf. Then she closed the larder door and opened one of the kitchen units, selecting a rose-patterned china plate. When she’d first started working here, six months ago, she hadn’t known how particular Arthur was about having his tea and biscuits out of the right cup and plate. Apparently, his wife had always insisted on proper china, and now he did it to honour her memory. Nicole thought it was a load of sentimental crap. His wife was dead and couldn’t give two shits whether he ate off bone china, or stuck his face directly into the biscuit tin.
‘Here you go,’ she said brightly, plastering a smile on her face as she returned to the sitting room. ‘Custard creams.’
‘Wonderful.’ He smiled and patted her hand as she set the plate down next to him on the lace-doily which adorned the wooden side table. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pointing to the faded flowery armchair opposite him.
Nicole sat gingerly on the edge of the musty chair. Why were all old people obsessed with flowers? Flowered cups, plates, carpets, tiles, wallpaper, furniture – everything was covered in frigging flowers. It was depressing.
‘Have you got yourself a cup of tea and some biscuits, too?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to sit here eating and drinking while you go without. You look like a skinny, young thing, what I can see of you. You could do with feeding up.’
‘Thanks, but no. I had a late lunch, Arthur.’ She patted her stomach to show how full up she was, momentarily forgetting that he was registered blind and probably couldn’t see her anyway.
‘Did I ever tell you about my Margaret’s homemade biscuits?’ he said.
Only about five thousand times. ‘She liked to bake did she?’
‘Best biscuits you ever tasted,’ he said. ‘Not like the shop-bought rubbish you get nowadays.’
Still, you don’t mind shoving shop-bought custard creams in your fat gob, these days, do you, Arthur? ‘Lovely. Sounds like you were lucky.’
‘I was, I was, I don’t mind telling you. And the smell of those biscuits when they came out of the oven – like heaven it was. She’d stand there, with her oven gloves on, slapping my hand away if I tried to pinch one before they’d cooled down. “You’ll burn your mouth, Artie,” she used to say. “It’ll be worth it,” I’d reply. And it wasn’t just biscuits, either – She’d bake Victoria sponges, scones, rock cakes . . .’
Arthur had about five favourite memories of his wife that he liked to recount on a loop, over and over again like a stuck record. And Nicole was the mug who was expected to sit and listen and pretend to be interested. Honestly, his wife was the lucky one now – at least she didn’t have to put up with his droning voice going on and on anymore. Some days, Nicole thought, if he didn’t shut up, she’d bash him on the head with one of his stupid dead wife’s tacky china figurines. For Christ sake, she was nineteen, supposed to be out there having fun, not sitting in a decrepit old person's house trying to stop her ears bleeding with boredom.
To make matters worse, she still hadn’t found anything of any value, and she’d looked everywhere, in all the usual places – under the mattress, in the larder, the wardrobe, chest of drawers, bathroom cabinet. But, so far, nada, zip, zilch. Just some pictures of his ugly, dead wife. He had to have some valuables stashed somewhere. He lived in a swanky house on a posh road – one day soon, she’d have a house like this, only it wouldn’t smell of cabbage and farts.
Old fogies like him always kept cash at home, didn’t they? They didn’t trust the banks to look after it properly. Arthur had moaned about them enough times. But where did he keep it? That was the question. Where did he hide all his lovely money? It was the only reason she’d taken this crappy carer job – the pay was shit, so she had to make it worth her while somehow. And anyway, Arthur wasn’t ever going to spend it. He’d pop his clogs soon enough. He had no kids – probably leave it all to some ridiculous cat charity.
She couldn’t believe how many of these old gits and miserable old biddies were living out their lonely days, sitting on stacks of money, rattling around in their big, old houses all by themselves, pristine cars in the garage that they never drove, while she had sod all. Some well-meaning person had decided that it was better for them to stay in their massive houses – apparently, they’d live longer and feel more s
ecure and comfortable. Sod that. Stick ‘em all in care homes and let other people have their houses. People like Nicole who was living in a grotty bedsit that stank of fish. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
No, Arthur had had his life. Now, it was her turn.
He was still yammering away, but Nicole had perfected the art of saying yes and no, without actually listening. She stifled a yawn and checked the time on the gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece. That tacky piece of shit was probably worth at least a hundred quid, but it was too obvious. He’d notice if it went missing. She needed to be clever about things and not get herself in trouble with her employers, or with the law. She was smart. She’d figure it out.
‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ Arthur said, deviating from his usual boring monologue.
Nicole made appropriate sounds of interest.
‘You’re my favourite,’ he said. ‘Out of all the people who come here and look after me, you’re the only one who’s interested in my stories. The only one who really listens, or who makes my tea just the way I like it. You’re a good girl, Nicole. If I’d ever had a daughter or granddaughter, I’d have wanted her to be like you.’
Nicole wasn’t used to hearing words like this spoken about her. Sentimental old codger, she thought. Just shows what a crap judge of character you are. ‘Thank you, Arthur,’ she said, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze, ‘that means a lot. You know I haven’t got a family of my own, so maybe we could pretend? You could be my fake grandad if you like.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ he said, wiping a tear from his rheumy eyes. ‘And, also, I’d like you to know something important . . . I’ve changed my Will.’
Nicole’s heartbeats sped up as she held her breath waiting for his next sentence.
‘I’m going to leave you a little something. Not too much, don’t get excited, but enough to maybe help you put a deposit down on your own house.’
Yesss! Nicole tried hard not to show her excitement.
‘I know how difficult you youngsters find it today, what with the house prices and the cost of living, so this little windfall will help you along. And then, maybe, when you’re settled with a family of your own, you’ll look back fondly on old Arthur, and I won’t be completely forgotten about.’
‘Arthur! I can’t believe it. You really didn’t have to―’
‘Nonsense. It’s my pleasure, dear. I wanted to tell you myself. I wanted you to know how much you’re appreciated.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning forward and kissing his cheek. ‘You’re a sweetheart, Arthur. A real gentleman.’ She knew he loved to be called a gentleman. It was something he prided himself on. In Arthur’s world, there were three types of men – layabouts, oafs and gentlemen.
Now . . . she just had to wait for the old fucker to die.
Chapter Twenty Six
2016
I sit on Beth and Carys’ sofa flicking through the Sunday papers. I purposely haven’t bought any newspapers since Joe’s birthday – that awful morning when I first read the column Darcy stole from me. Beth and Carys buy a more serious, left-wing newspaper – one that doesn’t have throwaway pieces like mine or Darcy’s, so it doesn’t hurt too much to read it.
‘Please come,’ Carys says, putting a cup of tea on the side table next to me. ‘You’ll love Tom and Sally. They’ve said the more the merrier.’
I appreciate Carys inviting me to their friends’ house for Sunday lunch, but the last thing I want is to be sociable. I can barely string two sentences together today, let alone make small talk with total strangers.
‘Yes, come,’ Beth says coming into the lounge and sitting on the sofa opposite.
‘Thanks, guys,’ I say, meaning it, ‘but I’m not good company.’ I lay the newspapers back down on the table and pick up my tea.
‘Want me to stay with you?’ Beth offers. ‘Carys and Megan won’t mind going without me. We can curl up and watch girly movies and eat cake.’
Carys smiles. ‘Sure. That’s cool with me.’
‘You two are the best, but no, Beth. You go. You’re already dressed up to go out. Anyway, I think I’ll be better off on my own today.’
‘You sure?’ Beth asks with a frown. ‘I’m worried about you. You’ve had a traumatic experience, and bloody Jared should’ve been more supportive.’
‘I think the whole thing has freaked him out,’ I say, not quite sure why I’m defending him, when what I actually want to do is punch him.
‘Hmm,’ Beth replies.
Carys remains tactfully silent on the subject of my husband.
Last night, when I arrived at Beth’s, I broke down and told her what Jared had said. How he’d compared me to my birth mother. How he thought I was having some kind of mental breakdown. Beth wanted to march straight round there and give him a piece of her mind. She’s my adopted parents’ natural daughter, and when I went to live with them, at the age of ten, she took me under her wing and nurtured me. Made me feel so loved and welcome. She’s always been there for me. She’s my sister, but she’s also my best friend.
‘When are we going?’ Megan pokes her head around the lounge door.
‘Any minute,’ Carys replies. ‘You need to go and have a wee before we leave.’
‘I don’t need a―’
Carys gives her a look, and Megan rolls her eyes and goes dutifully to the loo. Beth gets to her feet.
‘Have a great time,’ I say, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Thanks so much for letting me crash here . . . again.’
‘I feel bad leaving you alone after what you’ve just been through,’ Beth says.
‘Don’t be daft. Go. Eat lunch. I’ll be fine. I’m happy to relax here.’
‘If you’re sure,’ Carys says.
I finally shoo them out of the house with further blandishments to ease their consciences.
As the front door closes, I heave a sigh of relief, even as the first brutal wave of melancholy hits me in the chest. I’m in no mood to hang out with strangers, yet the sense of abandonment knocks the breath from my body. Nothing and no one could make me feel okay today – well, maybe Jared could. He’s the only one. I wish with all my heart that he would come over and apologise. That he would tell me he trusts me and believes in me and that he knows I’m right about Darcy. I know that’s not going to happen. My accusations against Darcy have unnerved him, and the police allegations have confirmed his fears. He thinks I’m losing my mind. He doesn’t know what to do.
I get up from the sofa, wishing I could pick something up and smash it. If this was my house I would hurl something heavy at the wall. But I don’t think my sister would appreciate me vandalising their pristine flat. I need to do something to relieve my anger and hurt. My skin prickles, my brain races. I need to get out of here. I march into the spare room and throw on an extra jumper. Then I grab my coat, hat, gloves and the spare set of flat keys Beth gave me, and I leave the flat, slamming the door behind me.
* * *
I’ve walked and walked and walked, almost to Hengistbury Head and back again. Until the soles of my feet throb and my legs ache. Trying to tire myself out so that I’ll sleep tonight. So that I won’t think about what a mess my life has become. Now I’m back at Branksome Beach where all the benches have been taken by sickeningly happy families and loved-up couples, so I’m perched on the edge of the concrete promenade, my legs dangling above the sand. The damp seeps through my jeans, numbing my thighs and backside. I shift position a little, but that just makes it worse. The weak, winter sun throws out zero heat, and the lukewarm coffee in my gloved hands isn’t comforting me like I hoped it might.
Sunday on the beach is not a great place for a sad, lonely person to come. Not when the sun is shining and the place is packed out with cheerful people. I had hoped to walk off my anger. Instead, it seems to be building to a crescendo. A hard, bitter lump sits in my chest and I can’t shake it free.
I remember back to the summer when we all came down here for the day. When we gather
ed on rugs beneath sun umbrellas to shade us from the blistering sunshine. It was a perfect moment in time. Our happy, secure family. Even when Darcy and Mike happened upon us that evening, I welcomed them. Introduced them to my family. I had no idea the woman was my enemy. That she would pick apart the strands of my life like a poorly made jumper.
It seems the harder I try to hold onto everything, the more it’s slipping away. I don’t know what to do next. When I try to explain to my family and to the police about Darcy’s subtle games, I end up sounding crazy. But if I do nothing, then my life falls apart anyway. It’s a win-win for Darcy. And I still have no idea why she’s got it in for me.
Tipping out the remnants of my coffee, I watch the foamy liquid splatter onto the sand. It’s too weak, too cold to finish. The sun is already sinking. I suppose I’d better go back to Beth’s before I freeze. I heave myself up, my cold joints protesting, my bad knee clicking. There’s a blue bin to my right. I drop my empty coffee cup into it, tug my hat down over my ears and start walking.
The beach empties out as the sun dips behind the low cliffs. I think I’ll head back along the top path to make the most of the last rays. Leaving the beach, I turn off into Branksome Chine – one of the narrow gullies that leads down to the sea. The muddy path has been paved over, flanked by steep, thickly wooded banks, dotted with ornate Victorian street lamps. As I huff my way up the steep incline, my breaths puff out into miniature clouds that hover and melt. No one else is around, but I’m too wrapped up in my thoughts to feel uneasy about the lack of people. Anyway, it’s not far to the cliff top.
I reach the last few steps and turn left onto the narrow ridge path, the sky darkening over the sea, the citrus rays of the sun splaying out from behind a thin veil of cloud, like pale shooting stars. An elderly black Labrador trots past me, his equally elderly owner coming into view seconds later. He nods good evening and continues on his way. I pause for a moment to get my breath. At least I’ve warmed up now.