Another Night, Another Day

  Karen nods.

  ‘Sometimes anger . . . or grief . . . or both?’

  ‘Yes, so I gather.’

  ‘I must have been in denial,’ Abby admits, then laughs. ‘De Nile, river in Egypt, so I heard.’

  Karen laughs with her. ‘We’re getting better at therapy than the therapists themselves.’

  Abby looks down at her plate, and is startled to see she’s finished her sliver of cake. ‘It’s weird, but I do feel lighter having told you that.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have you losing weight when I’m getting chubbier by the minute. Can I tempt you?’ Once more Karen hovers the knife over the gateau, her expression inviting.

  Abby nods. ‘Go on, then.’

  34

  Michael enters the lounge as the racing draws to a close.

  ‘Don’t recognize you,’ says the elderly man, turning from the screen to appraise him. ‘You new?’

  ‘Um, yes,’ says Michael, and takes a seat next to the young lad who keeps scratching himself.

  ‘Finally.’ The lad jumps up to grab the remote control, flicks the TV onto Top Gear, and sits back down again so fast Michael is left breathless just watching him.

  The old man shifts his chair to face the sofa, his cobweb hair catching in the slight breeze created by his movement. ‘First-timer?’

  ‘Sort of . . . I’ve come from Moreland’s.’

  ‘Ooh, get you.’ One of the men playing Scrabble looks up from the table across the room. ‘La-di-da.’

  ‘Oi, I was there once,’ says his opponent.

  ‘I wasn’t paying,’ mutters Michael, riled by the implication he’s wealthy enough to afford insurance, let alone the exorbitant fees.

  ‘Brave chap coming to sit in here,’ says the old man.

  Michael already wishes he hadn’t. What was he thinking? He’s too concerned about his own survival to be able to converse much anyway. He glances nervously at the young lad next to him. Michael can hear him whispering what sounds like ‘Woof! Woof!’ as he scratches his arms.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s not going to eat you,’ says the old man. ‘Just a touch of psychosis – unusual one, Eddie’s – he reckons he’s infested by Dalmatians.’ The old man holds out a hand to Michael. ‘I’m Terry.’

  Michael introduces himself.

  The first Scrabble player looks up. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got OCD, have you, Mike?’

  ‘It’s Michael, actually. And no. Why?’

  ‘Kitchen area could do with a tidy,’ says the second Scrabble man, and the two of them roar with laughter.

  Michael squirms.

  ‘Fancy a tab, Michael?’ Terry reaches in his pocket for a packet. The first two fingers on his right hand are dark with nicotine stains.

  ‘Don’t smoke, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Come for a blast of fresh air.’

  Michael is tempted to run back to his room and hide, but is wary of being branded a coward. Plus the room stinks of bleach, and he’s keen to get away from it.

  ‘Go on then,’ he says. Michael is grateful for Terry’s warmth. He’s seen friendships form in minutes at Moreland’s, and instinct tells him he’s going to need allies here – fast.

  * * *

  ‘It’s him,’ says Abby, seeing Glenn’s picture come up on the screen as her mobile starts to ring.

  ‘You going to answer?’ asks Karen.

  ‘No.’

  They wait until the phone clicks onto voicemail; shortly there’s the bleep of a message.

  ‘Let’s listen.’ Abby puts it on loudspeaker.

  ‘Er, as I can’t get hold of you, I’m not sure what to do . . . I was going to ask Eva to stay late but I don’t know where you are . . . I don’t know which friend’s you’ve gone to . . . Can you call me when you pick this up? And, um . . . sorry the house was such a mess. I didn’t think you’d be back till later.’

  Abby grimaces. ‘I suppose I ought to go and get it over with.’

  Part of her would like to stay in Karen’s kitchen, eating cake. Another part of her is so fired up with fury she wants to scream. She’s also afraid that if she doesn’t act on anger, the sadness she senses lurking close behind, like a big cat creeping up on its prey, will pounce. She doesn’t want to get tearful when she confronts her husband.

  ‘I’m going to go,’ she says. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No need to apologize. It’s fine. I’ve got to pick up the kids soon anyway. Would you like me to drop you off? You’ve got your bag and everything.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer, but it’s not that heavy, and I could do with the walk.’ Abby picks up her bag and Karen follows her down the hall.

  ‘Ring me,’ says Karen, as Abby opens the door. ‘Let me know you’re OK?’

  ‘Sure. Or I’ll text or something.’

  ‘And you can always come back here if you want. With Callum if you need to.’

  ‘That’s really kind. And seriously, Karen, I mean it, thank you.’

  ‘Like I said, think of it as karmic payback. As my mum would say, “What goes around comes around.”’

  * * *

  Outside on the lawn Terry lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, then blows a succession of smoke rings into the air. For a second Michael is taken back to his childhood. I used to watch my father do that, he recalls. He could make different shapes and all sorts. I’d forgotten how enthralling it was. Michael misses his dear old dad, dead a decade now, and he misses that sense of wonder too.

  Terry flicks ash on the ground. ‘How d’you find this place compared to Moreland’s?’

  Michael frowns. He doesn’t want to diss Sunnyvale too much; it could backfire.

  ‘Er . . . this is more clinical,’ he says. Then he remembers that Akono was quite open about Seaview being preferable to Meadows; hopefully that observation won’t cause offence. ‘Have to admit the secure unit looked grim.’

  Terry nods. ‘Started out in there time before last. Sectioned, I was. Not so nice, you’re right.’

  So he’s been in several times. ‘What’s brought you here?’ asks Michael, hoping to shift the focus from himself.

  ‘Recurrent depressive disorder, with a bit of borderline personality disorder thrown in.’

  Michael doesn’t know what this means; perhaps it’ll soon become evident. The prospect makes him wary, but until then he might as well keep going. ‘What are the staff like here?’

  ‘Some good, some bad.’ Terry shrugs. ‘One or two are power crazy, you can imagine. Others are plain worn out – you can see why when the pay’s shit and the hours are dire. Lots of them are agency workers anyway. But there are a few – like that guy Akono, saw he showed you round – he’s OK. He does his damnedest, though it seems he’s firefighting a lot of the time. You’ll get to know pretty quick, and keep your head down, you’ll be all right. None of them have much sway, other than the psychs.’ He inhales again, though this time, to Michael’s disappointment, exhales without forming a smoke ring. ‘But I’m going to be out of here soon. Thank God.’

  ‘Is it that bad?’ Terry was beginning to give him a flicker of hope.

  ‘Nah, it’s OK – or I think so today at any rate – though I’m a bit up and down so I might think different tomorrow . . .’ He takes another drag. ‘Some might tell you otherwise, but you know what I reckon the worst problem in here is?’

  Michael shakes his head.

  ‘Boredom.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There’s TV if you can survive the ordeal. Daytime’s not so bad, but I warn you, evenings there’s nearly always someone wants to watch something else, so you’ll have to fight to see anything you like.’

  ‘Fight . . . ?’ Michael recalls the desperation with which the young lad grabbed the remote control.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean actually fight. People can look violent in here even when they’re not. Medication takes care of that.’

  Great, thinks Michael. So everyone is doped up, as I suspected. I’m buggered if they’re going to do that to me.
/>
  ‘Though you can do art and stuff, if you like. OT, they call it – occupational therapy.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘All the usual classes: painting, pottery . . . And Matt – that chap playing Scrabble – think he was at Moreland’s too, a while back – he’s been running a book group.’

  ‘Pottery?’ Well I never, he thinks, that wasn’t on offer at Moreland’s.

  ‘There’s a kiln and a potter’s wheel over in Riverside. That’s the mother and baby unit, round there.’ Terry gestures to the far side of the building. ‘But you’re allowed to go to classes whatever ward you’re in. Teacher’s good, I hear. They produce some very professional pieces.’

  Somehow Michael doubts this, but he nods appreciatively nonetheless.

  ‘Why, you interested?’

  ‘Dunno.’ I suppose I could make some vases, he thinks. Then Chrissie could put flowers in them.

  It’s so pathetic he could almost laugh.

  * * *

  ‘Would you mind looking after Callum for a bit?’ Glenn asks Eva. ‘Abby and I need to have a chat.’

  ‘Of course.’ Eva looks nervously at Abby. So she knows, thinks Abby. How could Glenn put Eva in that position? And me too.

  Anger courses through her. Nevertheless, it’s better than anxiety. Abby is amazed how clear her head is. She feels like she could accomplish almost anything – sit an exam, bungee jump . . . If only she were doing one of those instead.

  Callum seems to pick up the uneasy mood – or he’s having a difficult day. Getting him settled is hard. He starts to pace around the living room.

  ‘I think it’s because he’s not seen you in a while,’ says Eva.

  Of course, thinks Abby, and sadness rushes up, like milk boiling in a pan.

  ‘Let’s sit for a few minutes, shall we?’ she says to her son, knowing he’s unlikely to do so. But to her astonishment he drops down onto the sofa next to her, and for a while she holds him to her, stroking his hair. He seems to have missed me, she thinks. After a while he pulls away and Abby leaves Eva to take over.

  Glenn is in the kitchen, tidying ineffectually. The mug is now washed and on the draining board. There’s no sign of Abby’s note.

  She switches on the kettle and stands waiting; no inclination to sit. ‘Well, who is she?’

  Glenn swivels round. His face is drawn, his skin ashen. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  He looks away from her gaze. ‘No one you know.’

  ‘Right. So there is someone.’ Ha! That was easy. ‘And – who is she?’

  ‘She’s someone I met through work . . . Her name’s Cara.’

  ‘She live near here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So I suppose you invited her over, then. Nice.’

  Glenn is silent, avoiding her gaze.

  ‘How long has it been going on?’

  He glances up at her; she sees fear flash across his eyes. Perhaps he’s wondering if he can get away with a lie.

  ‘Tell me the truth. You owe me that.’

  ‘Since last autumn.’

  Abby feels sick. That’s – what? – about nine months ago. Nine months he’s been duping me. Nine months. That’s before we put the house on the market, before Christmas, before I felt so bad. Karen’s words echo in her mind: Glenn’s the one who should be having therapy, not you, and she wants to punch him.

  He allowed me to go to hell and back, she thinks. I felt I was going mad. I did go mad. And all the time I was unconsciously reacting to him. No wonder he was so worried I’d taken an overdose. No wonder he was prepared to claim on his policy so I could be in Moreland’s, even though he moaned about it. Well, to hell with him. I’m going to stay there for years now, if I need to. I don’t care if I bankrupt the insurance company. I don’t care if I bankrupt him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Abby, really I am.’ Glenn moves towards her.

  ‘Don’t you DARE try and touch me!’ She shakes her head, incredulous. It’s a huge amount to take in and she can’t digest it all at once. And what about this woman? Has she met Callum? Momentarily she’s furious with this stranger, stealing her husband. No, she thinks, I’m not going to fall into that trap. Glenn is the one who pledged fidelity.

  ‘I want you out,’ she states.

  ‘Out . . . ?’ So it hasn’t dawned on him this might be her reaction. How slow he is.

  ‘Yes, out.’

  ‘What about Callum?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. It’s only in the last fortnight you’ve begun to show the remotest interest in him. We’re OK. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘But aren’t you due back at Moreland’s?’

  ‘Not till Sunday. You can come back then to look after your son. Right now I don’t give a monkey’s where you go. You can go to hers, for all I care. I just want you gone. I need space.’

  Half an hour later, Glenn has packed a bag. He taps on the living-room door and says he is leaving. Eva looks uncomfortable and Abby doesn’t want to involve her any more than she has been already – especially in front of Callum – so leads the way to the front door.

  ‘Get a solicitor,’ she says to Glenn, surprising herself with the words.

  ‘But the house . . . ?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I thought we were going to sell this place first.’

  ‘No, we’re not. I don’t want to leave. Never have done. You know that.’

  The remaining colour drains from Glenn’s face.

  ‘As I said, you might want to get a solicitor.’

  She shuts the door behind him and leans back against the wall. Astonishingly, although she is shaking, she doesn’t feel a drop of anxiety. Sadness, yes, and anger. But the panic has vanished.

  * * *

  Michael is trying to have a bath, but nothing is going right. First, he had to ask for a key before he was allowed to use the unit. Then, when he entered, he found the room wet from the previous occupant. He was in the process of undressing when he noticed a small glass panel in the door – presumably so they can check he’s not drowning himself, but the possibility of being overlooked is unnerving. Who’s to say one of the more power-crazed members of staff won’t come by merely to gawp?

  He steps into the tub; the water is tepid, but it will have to do. He sits down and reaches for the soap; it’s so slippery it slides from his fingers, then he can’t locate it amongst his own limbs. Finally he manages to create enough lather to wash himself. Never has bathing been such a source of mental anguish.

  He lies back, watches the water whiten around his body. The soap forms a skin on the surface.

  What a bloody awful day it’s been, he thinks. I’m not sure how I got through it. Adrenalin, mainly, I suppose. Being in the lounge earlier that evening was overwhelming. There were arguments – not just about the TV but also about a mobile that had gone missing – ‘nicked’, so the belligerent little fellow who owned it believed. Michael was accused not merely of stealing the phone but also of running off with Terry, apparently his lover. ‘Get your hands off him!’ Michael had been ordered, and thwacked unnervingly hard. ‘It’s all in his head,’ Terry had explained. ‘I barely know the guy – we must have set him off by going for a cigarette together. He’s obsessed with stealing.’ There was also plenty of quick-witted banter and raucous laughter, yet Michael found himself yearning for the tempering effect of women.

  Cowardice or not, enough’s enough, he decides as he gets out of the bath and dries himself on a coarse blue towel.

  Then he changes into his dressing gown, returns the key and retreats to his bedroom.

  He can feel his mood sinking lower and lower with each passing minute. He’s frightened by how fast it’s falling. With any luck I can stay in here most of tomorrow, he thinks. I might get fed up with my own company, but I’d rather be bored rigid than re-enter the fray.

  35

  ‘Ooh, look at him!’ says Karen. ‘He’s changed so much already!’

  Lou unc
lips the baby carrier from the pram and edges into Karen’s hallway.

  ‘Let’s sit in the living room. It’s easier,’ Karen suggests.

  ‘Sure.’ Lou follows her, puts the carrier down on the floor, then kneels beside her week-old baby and bends to sniff his nappy.

  ‘Does he need changing?’

  ‘Seems OK for the moment.’

  ‘He’s such a cutie!’ The baby seems to furrow his brow ever so slightly at her words, and Karen coos at him. ‘You’re very alert, aren’t you?’

  ‘He’s called Frankie,’ says Lou. ‘In memory of my dad.’

  ‘That’s lovely.’

  ‘And he’s a right flirt. Aren’t you, my little man?’

  ‘You’re very brave bringing him all this way on the bus. Most first-time mums rarely venture out.’

  ‘Yeah, well, most first-time mums don’t live in an attic barely big enough to swing a cat. Where are Molly and Luke?’

  ‘Mum’s taken them to the park. They’ve been ages. She has the patience of a saint, my mum. I guess they’ll be back in a bit.’

  Lou unzips the bag and reaches for a toy starfish. She shakes it close by Frankie and it rattles. ‘How’s your mum doing?’ she asks Karen.

  ‘You’ll see when she gets back. Not so bad, considering, though I do worry she’s lonely. I’d be interested to know what you think.’

  ‘You know me and mothers.’ Lou pulls a face. ‘I’m not one to give advice.’

  ‘I thought things between you two were better?’

  ‘They are, you’re right – mustn’t complain. She seems to adore Frankie already.’

  ‘My mum relishes spending time with Molly and Luke,’ says Karen. ‘I’ve heard it said grandchildren are the dessert of life.’

  ‘There’s something about having a baby that links us more to our parents, isn’t there? I suppose it’s because we begin to understand what it was like to be them.’

  It’s a shame my father wasn’t well enough to appreciate being with my kids more over the last few years, reflects Karen. He was such a good dad when I was small, carving me wooden toys from scratch, always allowing me to win at draughts and chess, teaching me to ride a bike by running alongside, yelling encouragement. He’d have made a super granddad, if dementia hadn’t depleted him so.