The Rose Petal Beach

  I know she’s right. I know I have been fooling myself that he has simply given up his secret sex life because I asked him to.

  ‘Look, I just don’t want you to end up like me – with your self-esteem on the floor and your body covered in “consensual” bruises, and him leaving anyway. You need to take charge. You’ve been blind-sided too many times already. And if he’s lying to you about that, then he might be lying about being committed to your new start, he might even still be cheating on you.’

  I need to know. But do I want to know? A tiny voice inside is telling me it’s better not to know, it’s better to leave well enough alone. These are the thoughts that Pandora probably had before that moment where she chose poorly.

  Beatrix

  ‘Oh, great,’ I mumble to myself. ‘Just f-ing great.’

  Across the gym is that woman. Mirabelle. Even saying her name in my head is like spitting out green, slimy phlegm. She’s on the running machine. She has a headband around the front of her hair, the rest of her voluminous curls bunched back into a ponytail. She’s wearing a black, long-sleeve tracksuit that looks far too hot for in here and with the way she is running, the anger with which she is pounding the machine, I’m surprised no one has been over to tell her to back off. It’s that glass-fronted gym down on the seafront. The running machines are mostly facing the windows so you can run as if you’re running outside. There are also stationary bikes and an area at the back for free weights.

  I didn’t know she came here. She always seemed to be about running outside, rain or shine. Dragged Tami into it, too. I remember asking Tami if she fancied coming to the gym with me a while back, it was something for us to do together, as mates without the girls and without Scotty. She’d nearly burst a lung laughing. ‘As if!’ she’d gasped between laughs. ‘You know me,’ she’d said when she saw the hurt on my face, ‘I walk to keep fit.’ Next thing I know, she’s picking out running shoes and a running bra and going out in the filthiest weather to run with Mirabelle. I couldn’t believe my ears! We could have had such fun at the gym, but no, when Mirabelle says ‘Let’s run’, Tami goes, ‘Where to?’ and that’s it.

  It sounds a bit like I’m jealous, doesn’t it? I’m not. Truly, I’m not. Me and Mirabelle, we don’t gel. Never have, never will.

  *

  Twenty-one months ago

  ‘Aren’t we a bit old to be having a sleepover?’ I asked Tami. She was all a dither because we were going to be sleeping down in the living room with duvets and popcorn, snacks and champagne cocktails. From the way she was fluttering around, checking she had enough plates for the snack-dinner and glasses for the champagne and the right duvets, and pillows, and an extensive DVD selection, if I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she had a girl-crush on Mirabelle. I’d met her a couple of times since she and Tami had become friends, but this was the first time I’d be spending an extended period of time with her.

  I knew – knew – she and Tami would be falling over themselves with the in-jokes and talking natural hair and bonding, while I’d be sat there like a lemon. Scotty was away so I couldn’t even speak to him as an alternative.

  ‘Who on Earth is ever too old for a sleepover?’ Tami said.

  ‘Anyone over twelve?’ I said, and it sounded so snarky Tami stopped her fussing and focused on me.

  ‘Sorry, I kind of railroaded you into this, didn’t I?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  Tami came over and linked her hand through mine, confirming our friendship with the warmth and surety of her touch. ‘Thing is, right, you and Mirabelle are my two best friends. I’ve known you longer and you’re so wonderful, I want her to get to know you like I do. I want you to get to know her. It’d be great if we can do this sort of thing all the time, the three of us.’ She stopped while she thought it through. ‘To be really, really honest, I don’t have that many friends any more. Most of the ones I had were through work. I don’t have many people down here I can trust and I’m too much of a wimp to get involved in school gate politics. I drop the girls off and run. You and Mirabelle are my circle of friends, which makes us more of a triangle, but you know what I mean.’

  I did know. A lot of my friends did come and go in my life, drifting in and out like clouds. I sort of admired her for being honest enough to try to change that, to try to hang onto the friendships she had in her life.

  ‘So, will you try? For me?’

  I nodded, like a sulky teenage girl. I’m usually far more mature, but I’ll admit Mirabelle got my goat because she was prettier than me. There, I’ve said it. She was better-looking, more striking and taller than me. Tami, lovely as she was, was kind of ordinary. In a good way, in a wonderful, earth mother, ‘be your best friend who wouldn’t steal your man’ way. When she smiled she was radiant, but Mirabelle had an edge. She could break a man’s balls without even trying. It’s awful to admit this, but I liked being the prettiest woman in the room. I generally was, unless Mirabelle was there, too. ‘But if she starts tossing her hair and being all, “I’m ever so pretty” I am going home.’

  Mirabelle drifted in, the picture of perfection, and I wanted to swear at her. She’d brought her make-up collection, nail polish, hair stuff. I’d brought a bottle of Blue Nun. Warm.

  We had a good time, but whenever Tami was out of the room the chat dried up. I could see how Mirabelle was looking at me when we were alone, her eyes glaring down at me from on high, like she was better than me, so there was no way I was going to talk to her. I had tried, like I promised Tami I would, and this was how she behaved. After that night, I didn’t bother again. We even saw each other in the street and pretended we had never met, neither of us were going to make the first move on that score.

  She’s seen me. She’s doing a very good job of looking through me, though. I take my towel and move to the other side of the gym to the cross-trainer at the back, nearest the free weights. She cuts her eyes at me as I go past. The cheek of her! THE FLAMING CHEEK OF HER! She lies and lies about one of the people I’m closest to in this world and then cuts her eyes at me. Unexpectedly, my body is aflame, all at once. How dare she! Who does she think she is?

  I’m too angry to move from the spot; I glare at her until she finishes her run and jumps off the treadmill. I watch her hand close around her big, white fluffy towel and head for the changing room. We’re the only ones in here, the person behind the desk out of sight so if I speak to her, give her a piece of my mind, no one will know. It’ll be my word against hers if she goes to the police. Since she’s a proven liar having retracted her statement, they’ll never believe her.

  She’s still dressed, her face drenched in sweat, her locker door stands open as she takes out her rucksack and belongings.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ I say to her.

  ‘Oh, this should be good,’ she says, pausing in filling her bag and spinning towards me. ‘Have you got something to say to me, Beatrix?’

  The way she says my name incites a whole new level of rage inside me.

  ‘You are … I can’t even think of the word. You’re a disgrace. I’ve known women who have been—’

  ‘You know women? I seriously doubt that,’ she cuts in.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You are what people call a handmaiden. You don’t like women very much, probably been brought up to think you have to compete with all women or act like a man to get ahead – join in all the derogatory stuff men say in the work-place. And because you’re nobody’s “victim” you think you’re all empowered and feminist. Except you’d never call yourself a feminist because that means manhater. When actually,’ she makes her face soft, mockingly understanding and patronising, ‘being a feminist means striving towards equality for women. Most feminists have no issue with men at all. Did you understand that, or do I need to repeat it in words of one syllable?’

  ‘Scotty was right about you. You are a—’

  ‘A frigid, man-hating dyke? I think you’ll find he says that about any
woman who doesn’t follow him around with big doe eyes, letting him feel her up whenever the mood takes him. Of course, you wouldn’t know what I mean about that, would you, Beatrix?’

  ‘If you’re implying that I am after Scotty—’

  ‘You wouldn’t dream of doing that with dear Scotty, would you?’

  ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You think because Tami hasn’t noticed how you are around her husband that no one else has? Newsflash for Beatrix—’ She makes a loudhailer out of her hands and calls: ‘Everyone knows you fancy him.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off.’

  ‘Or what, you’re going to tell your boyfriend on me? Guess what?’ She remakes the loudhailer: ‘I’m not scared of him.’

  If she wasn’t so much taller than me, stronger-looking than me, I would have her. I’d grab handfuls of that hair she takes so much pride in and rip it from her head before scratching her eyes out.

  She returns to packing her bag, hoists it onto her shoulder and then goes to leave the changing room. It’s a small white-tiled space, stolen from the men’s changing room because it used to be a menonly gym, so it doesn’t take much for me to block the exit.

  Anxiety momentarily twirls on her face then she seems to find the idea of me doing her harm hilarious. She literally laughs in my face. ‘I wouldn’t try anything if I were you, it’ll end very badly for you,’ she says.

  I step aside and without another word she goes, leaving the bitter taste of anger and outrage in my mouth.

  I hate her so much I could do her serious harm.

  Bitch! Why doesn’t she do everyone a favour and just disappear? Stupid, entitled bitch! No one speaks to me like that and gets away with it. Especially not someone like her. Mirabelle, the bitch of Providence Close, has a whole world of pain coming her way, I promise you.

  8

  Tami

  Last night, I slept in my clothes. And I went walking in my bare feet. Streaks of dirt and tiny pieces of gravel, which must have been hell to walk on, were stuck to the bottom of my feet when I woke up earlier. I also have scratches on my hands, and my forearms are sore. I may have fallen over or something.

  I have no memory of what I did last night.

  Well, I remember sitting in the kitchen, listening to Whitney (Houston) and Donna (Summer) and downing glasses of the most expensive wine I could find in Scott’s wine store which was once the under-stairs cupboard. The raw edges of my feelings started to abate, the hurt subsiding even as ‘Your Love Is My Love’, which had been one of the readings at our wedding and our first dance, started. Fury frothed up in the place of the hurt. Blinding, boiling rage, and the need to hurt Scott and Mirabelle was all consuming.

  I could almost feel the weight of the pillow in my hands seconds before I pushed down on Scott’s face, holding it there until he stopped moving. I could almost feel the silkiness of the chocolate-brown skin of Mirabelle’s neck as I closed my hands around it and squeezed. I remember being horrified and fascinated in equal measure that I felt the need to hurt them so acutely it was almost real. It was in me. I had said it to Beatrix, but that was rational, that was explaining a thought I’d had, this was actually feeling the emotion. Knowing that a part of me could actually do it. I was capable of lashing out – physically – with the intention of causing damage.

  It’s fuzzier, hazier after that. The music stopped, I knew I should go to bed. I’d drunk two bottles of expensive wine on an empty stomach, but I didn’t go to bed. I went out. We don’t have a gravel path or drive, I do know who does, though. I wouldn’t have gone there. Would I?

  The orange-red gravel washed down the drain in the shower this morning and now I am here, making breakfast.

  I move around the kitchen, getting two bowls out for the girls, making toast. I pour juice into their pink and red beakers, place them in front of their cereal bowls. I take out the milk, put the cereal selection between their two place settings and then I fill the kettle. I am one shallow breath too many away from being sick right now, and two more accidental plate clashes away from my head splitting in two.

  I don’t make breakfast for Scott any more. I cannot bring myself to do it, and he doesn’t seem to expect it.

  What Beatrix said the other day about him still looking at porn is playing on my mind. I should check, but I can’t bring myself to do that, either. It sounds pathetic but I can’t cope with any more, it’s all too much already. And what if he is? Will it change anything? Really? I am treading water, waiting for counselling. Waiting to have someone else there so I can explain to him that I want to split up. That is why I am still here. That is why I am being a robot in my own life, and drinking myself to sleep every night. I know splitting up will be bad, but staying together is worse. We are still here, not because I think the girls will be devastated beyond repair; not because I still love him because I feel more hate towards him than anything. It is because if he stays, he will leave me alone. If he goes he will constantly be on my case to make it work again. I’m waiting for counselling to have someone else there when I tell him we can’t work this out. Because right now, as things stand, I know he won’t accept it and until we’ve ‘tried everything’ I can’t walk away with a clear conscience.

  Standing at the table, I stop. Pause. Let the moments wash over me. I need this stillness, I need nothingness in the chaos of everything.

  The thump upstairs tells me the stampede is on its way, breakfast has begun.

  ‘What you thinking about, Mama?’ Anansy asks. I have not sat at the table, I am tidying, moving things around, keeping busy so I don’t have to sit opposite my husband.

  ‘Nothing,’ I reply.

  ‘Are you thinking about chocolate cake?’ Cora asks.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Are you thinking about how many stripes a zebra has?’ asks Anansy.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you thinking about your ring?’ Cora says.

  Spinning towards the table, I see the pair of them watching me. Scott is staring into his cereal bowl. Now that I have stopped making him breakfast he doesn’t seem to mind eating whatever cereal there is available instead of needing a cooked breakfast every day. ‘Why would I be thinking about my ring?’ I ask.

  ‘Because you’re not wearing it any more,’ she replies. ‘Have you lost it?’

  ‘No, it’s in …’ Where is it? I didn’t take it out of the skinny jeans I was wearing yesterday and put it in today’s jeans. Actually, I didn’t have pockets yesterday, did I? I put it in my bra. ‘I don’t remember. It’s upstairs somewhere, I haven’t lost it.’

  ‘OK, who’s ready for school, and who’s going to be running behind the car like the Pink Panther?’ Scott says, almost bounding out of his seat.

  My stomach lurches and upends itself as it always does when he speaks. I turn back to the sink to avoid having to engage with him.

  ‘Me! Me!’ The girls shout in unison and I’m not sure if they mean they’ll be running behind the car or that they’re ready, but there is the scrape of chairs and then the thud of feet on tiles before they run out of the room.

  ‘Tick-tock, you’re against the clock,’ Scott calls jovially. ‘How’s my gorgeous wife?’ he says, coming behind me, linking his arms around my waist and pressing his lips against my neck.

  My whole body freezes, unable to respond. This is the first time he has made bodily contact since we had sex that night. I don’t know why he has crossed that boundary, why he thinks it’s acceptable. The revulsion I feel is in my blood, it is infecting every part of me.

  ‘Tami, I’ve said I’m sorry,’ he says, releasing me, stepping backwards. He’s probably buried his hand in his hair, he’s probably looking as wounded as he sounds. ‘You have to believe me when I say I’m trying really hard. What more do you want from me?’

  ‘You believe me now, don’t you?’ Mirabelle says in my head. It feels like it was last night she said that. Like she had told me something, explained everything and I knew the tr
uth. Finally I had the truth. And the truth was I believed her.

  ‘I thought we were getting back on track,’ he continues to my silence. ‘I’m doing everything here. Everything that you wanted and you’re giving me nothing. Not even a hug. I can’t carry on like this, you know.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m saying I don’t know how much more of not getting anything back for the efforts I’m making I can take. You’re not completely blameless in this, you know?’ he said.

  ‘How many times did you tell her you loved her?’ I ask.

  Silence is his reply.

  ‘How many times did you make love to her in our bed?’

  Silence.

  ‘Were you planning on leaving me?’

  Silence.

  ‘See, this is it – I don’t know how much more I can take of not knowing the details. I haven’t asked because I know you won’t tell me. When you feel you can tell me anything I ask, I’ll see if I can give you “anything back” for you doing the things you should be doing for your family anyway.’

  ‘You believe me now, don’t you?’

  ‘Look, T—’

  ‘Dad, can I sit in the front?’ Cora asks as they reappear.

  ‘No way!’ he says, slipping smoothly into doting dad mode. ‘It’s much safer in the back for little tykes!’ He scoops her up, I don’t need to see it to know that’s what he does.

  Anansy comes to me, slips her arms around my legs. ‘Have a nice day doing your work, Mama,’ she says brightly. She is a tiny version of me, sometimes. She thinks the world is a wonderful place, and I can see the sun of life shining deeply, clearly in her eyes. That’s how I look sometimes in my head. Like a little girl who thinks the world is a full of joy and awe; that there are always new things to discover, there is always fun to be had.

  ‘Aww, thank you,’ I say to her, getting down on my knees and wrapping my arms around her. Thank you for reminding me that there is good in the world. Even if I am not living with it at the moment.