Another Night, Another Day

  ‘I couldn’t ask you to lower your costs,’ says Tim.

  Could have fooled me, thinks Michael. He waits, watching, strangely fascinated, as Tim’s normally pale face continues to redden until he matches the peonies.

  ‘Trouble is . . . It’s, er—’ Finally Tim blurts, ‘ – Lawrence’s daughter.’

  It takes Michael a few seconds to compute. ‘As in the Lawrence, owner of this hotel?’

  Tim can’t meet his gaze. ‘Mm.’

  It’s an axe to Michael’s knees. ‘I see.’ Bile rises in his throat. I hate this man, he thinks. I’ve never liked him, now I fucking loathe him.

  There’s another silence and implications tumble like dominoes.

  For any retailer to lose their biggest customer is invariably bad news, but at this time of year, for Bloomin’ Hove, it’s potentially catastrophic. The shop doesn’t make much profit on the business from Hotel sur Plage, but it’s the only contract Michael has: his anchor in a sea of crazily fluctuating income. Without it he will find it hard to pay this month’s rent, and he has been running up credit with Jan and another supplier in the Big Smoke. But he’s damned if Tim should glean any of this, and he’s aware of the lad behind reception, pretending not to listen.

  ‘Of course, we’ll settle your outstanding invoices . . .’

  ‘Right.’ Michael nods.

  The vase of sickly scented peonies, the bowl of mints to sweeten guests, the glass-topped counter polished to perfection – if Michael had a sledgehammer to hand, he’d smash them all to pieces.

  Instead he turns and marches straight out of the building.

  Outside, he stops. Suddenly he’s desperately short of breath, heart beating so fast he feels it might burst through his ribcage. He grabs hold of the wrought-iron railing to steady himself.

  His MPV is parked in a nearby loading bay, and after what seems a long while, the wind blowing along the promenade and the sound of waves crashing on the shingle calm him enough that he feels able to drive.

  Through the car window he can see the giant red blooms rising up from their boxes, garish and defiant. His heart starts to thump again.

  They’re all trumpeting at him, jeering. ‘So what are you going to do with us now? Sell us for a song at your sorry little shop?’

  4

  At lunchtime on the way back from school, Karen and Molly stop at the Co-op in Seven Dials. Karen is reaching for their usual wholemeal loaf when Molly asks, ‘Aren’t we going to get Grandma some bread?’

  Karen’s mother prefers sliced white, so over Christmas Karen has been buying that too.

  ‘We’re not seeing Grandma for a bit,’ says Karen.

  Her little girl looks worried. ‘Has she gone back to Portugal?’

  ‘Grandma doesn’t live in Portugal any more,’ Karen explains as they join the queue for the till. ‘She’s much closer to us now, remember? She’s gone home to her flat, near Grandpa.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Grandma live with Grandpa?’

  Lord, thinks Karen. Out of the mouths of babes. She considers how best to explain. ‘Grandpa’s not well, so he’s in a special home where nurses can look after him.’

  ‘So does Grandma live on her own?’

  Karen feels a stab of guilt. ‘Yes, sweetheart, she does.’

  ‘Oh.’ A small line forms between Molly’s brows. ‘Does that make her sad?’

  Her daughter’s question surprises Karen. It seems so grown up. ‘Maybe,’ she says, flummoxed.

  ‘Like you’re sad without Daddy?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘If Grandma’s sad, she should come and live with us,’ announces Molly.

  Just then they reach the till. Thank goodness Karen can focus on the cashier – she’s utterly lost for words.

  * * *

  ‘Oh dear, not in?’ says Ali, when Michael gets out of the MPV back at Bloomin’ Hove.

  ‘He was in all right.’ Michael’s voice is a growl.

  ‘But—’ Then Ali sees the boot full of amaryllis and his face falls.

  I may as well tell him, decides Michael. If anyone will understand, it’s Ali. His neighbour’s trade has taken a nosedive since the opening of a Tesco Metro a hundred yards down the road – luckily they’ve not much room for flowers.

  ‘Fired.’ He flings the trays of roses onto the pavement in frustration. He cut the stems short especially for the hotel restaurant – how on earth can he sell dozens of such blooms now?

  One by one he lifts the precious arrangements from the vehicle and lays them by the door. As he struggles with the display he made for reception, he feels his skin prickling with resentment.

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ says Ali, and together they lower the amaryllis to the ground.

  ‘Tim could have bloody tried the landline,’ says Michael as he finishes explaining. ‘I’m sure I would have heard that.’

  ‘He should have made sure he spoke to you in person,’ Ali nods.

  ‘You know what he said before Christmas? “Off the record, Mike, it’d be smart to feature more traditional flowers in the arrangements you do for us. You’re the creative one, of course, but I thought you might appreciate the steer, as the boss, you see, he’s got a penchant for roses.” What bullshit. If Lawrence is so wedded to roses, what the hell were giant peonies doing on reception?’ Michael kicks an empty box.

  ‘That Tim is a tosser.’ Ali’s family are from Rajasthan, but working alongside Michael has broadened his vocabulary. ‘Why didn’t he say to this Mr Lawrence he already has a supplier? You have been doing those arrangements for many years.’

  ‘Over a decade. Wouldn’t have occurred to him to stand up to Lawrence – pigs would sooner fly.’

  ‘We all have businesses to run,’ says Ali. ‘But even if he did want to replace you, he could have given you some notice. To show such disrespect – it is not kind.’

  Michael sighs. Twenty years ago no one would have dared treat me so badly, he thinks. I was a big shot locally then, though no one would guess it now. Once I had several outlets close to Hove Station . . . When did it all go wrong?

  * * *

  As Karen and Molly are leaving the Co-op, Karen catches sight of a figure walking ahead.

  ‘That looks like Lou,’ she says, recognizing her friend’s spiked crop and parka. ‘Do you want to run and see?’

  Molly doesn’t need asking twice. ‘Lou! Lou!’

  Lou turns round. Her anorak is unzipped over her domed belly. ‘Molly!’ She beams, clearly as delighted to see the little girl as Molly is to see her. ‘Look at you in your uniform!’

  Even from where she is standing with her bag of shopping, Karen can tell her daughter is thrilled to have the chance to show off.

  ‘Hi,’ says Karen, when she’s caught them up. ‘What are you doing here?’ Lou lives in Kemptown, a couple of miles away.

  ‘It’s my day off and I’ve been to Pilates. There’s a class in West Hill Hall for mothers-to-be.’

  ‘You got time to come to ours for a quick catch-up?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Back at the house, Karen offers her friend a cup of tea.

  ‘I’m fine with water,’ Lou says, taking a seat at the pine kitchen table alongside Molly. ‘Don’t you worry, I’ve got some here.’ She pulls a bottle from her bag.

  How organized, thinks Karen. Lou’s always so good at looking after her health. I must make more effort. I’ve put on weight since Simon died, and I was hardly slim in the first place. She riffles through the utensils looking for the tin opener to open some baked beans for her daughter’s lunch, but can’t seem to find it anywhere.

  ‘So how was Christmas at your mother’s?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, I’d been dreading it – you know we don’t usually see eye to eye. My sister was horribly judgemental. Banged on about how selfish it was for me to have a child because I’m gay.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Karen shakes her head.

  ‘I’m used to it. The extraordinary thing is that Mum had a real turnaround
. She even ended up defending me.’

  Eventually Karen locates the tin opener in the wrong drawer. I seem to mislay things all the time, she thinks. As she empties the beans into a saucepan, Lou tells her the full story. When she’s finished, she says, ‘Enough about me. Was your Christmas OK?’

  ‘Oh, fine,’ says Karen brightly.

  Lou gives her a sideways look.

  Karen hesitates. She’s not sure she’s up to talking about this, plus she’s conscious her daughter is present. ‘I suppose I’ve been feeling a bit blue,’ she says carefully. ‘And today was a big day, you know, for Molly . . .’

  ‘It can’t be easy, seeing her starting school.’ Lou cups her hands protectively over her belly.

  She’s got all this to come, thinks Karen, with a twinge of jealousy. I’d love to have the children’s first few years over again. An image of Simon holding a newborn Molly flashes into her mind, but she pushes it away. ‘No, it isn’t . . .’

  Her recent exchange with Molly has underlined that her daughter is likely to pick up on their conversation. True to form, Molly pipes up, ‘Didn’t you want me to go to school, Mummy?’

  Karen laughs. ‘Of course I did, sweetheart. It’s only that Mummy will miss you.’

  ‘But you’ll still see me.’

  ‘Of course I will.’ Karen and Lou exchange glances. Then Karen says, ‘Tell you what, Molly, would you like to watch a few minutes of CBeebies while Mummy and Lou have a chat? You can have your lunch on the coffee table in there if you like. Special treat.’ She struggles to ignore the guilt she feels for allowing Molly to eat in front of the screen.

  ‘OK!’ Molly follows her into the living room.

  ‘I don’t know, sometimes I just really miss Simon,’ Karen admits back in the kitchen.

  ‘It’s only natural.’

  Karen sighs, reaching for the loaf and cutting two slices. However much Lou sympathizes, however perceptive she is, how can Karen explain that a voice inside her head is telling her that she should not be feeling this way? People keep saying time heals, she thinks, but my heart seems to break more with each passing day.

  ‘What about your mum and dad?’ says Lou. ‘How did it go with them?’

  Karen senses she’s trying to be diplomatic by changing the subject, but this is another topic she finds hard.

  Still, if I can’t talk to Lou about it, who can I? she cajoles herself, putting the bread in the toaster. Lou must witness all sorts of upset as a counsellor, and she’s seen me at my worst – she was there when Simon died. Karen pauses on her way to the fridge. ‘You know they’ve just moved back here?’

  Lou nods.

  ‘Mum’s had to sell their villa, which is such a pity. They’d been planning to spend their retirement in the Algarve, and we had some lovely holidays out there over the years.’ Karen smiles as she recalls the whoops and laughter of Simon playing with the kids in the paddling pool; her father’s cry of ‘Coo-ee! Drinkie time!’ that announced he was poised to pour their evening aperitifs; she can almost smell the Ambre Solaire . . . Then her smile fades as she considers her parents’ current difficulties. ‘Mum was finding it increasingly hard to cope with Dad’s Alzheimer’s virtually single-handed and living abroad.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘So now Dad’s in this home in Worthing.’

  ‘How’s he finding it?’

  ‘It’s not really a case of how he’s finding it. I’m not sure he knows quite where he is any more.’

  ‘Does he still recognize you?’

  ‘He rarely recognizes anyone. Not even Mum.’ Again Karen sighs. Slowly but surely my father is disappearing, she thinks. He’s only a shadow of the dad I once had. The gleam in his eyes he used to have on seeing me, the excitement on hearing my latest news – both have shrunk so they are barely perceptible. His concern for anyone else these days is sporadic, fleeting, and his ability to retain new facts and stories, or converse at length about people and places, has gone completely.

  ‘That’s tough for you.’

  ‘Actually, I think it’s worse for Mum than it is for Dad. He can’t remember what he’s lost, whereas she’s acutely aware.’

  Lou nods. ‘So where’s she living?’

  ‘Goring. She’s renting a flat to be near him.’

  ‘I like that stretch of beach – it’s great for water sports.’

  Before she was pregnant, Lou was extremely active. I bet she’s fitter than me even now, thinks Karen. Look at her, going to Pilates. ‘I can’t really see Mum windsurfing.’ Karen laughs at the thought.

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘She’s had to leave all her friends, too.’

  ‘Though I’d have thought she’d find kindred spirits in Goring?’

  ‘You’re right – it’s full of retired folk, and she’s making a real effort. Still, it must be so hard starting again at seventy-five. I’ve found it tough coping without Simon and I haven’t had to move hundreds of miles. She didn’t know anyone but us round here when she came, so I try to see her as much as I can.’

  ‘Sounds like a brave lady,’ says Lou.

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Reminds me of someone else I know.’

  Karen brushes the compliment aside. ‘I do worry. The flat she’s in is tiny.’ She pictures the basement flat: with its pink woodchip wallpaper and narrow single bed, turquoise bathroom suite and poorly fitted kitchen, it’s a far cry from the big, bright villa her parents owned in the hills near Faro.

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Along with the fees for the care home, she can’t afford much.’

  ‘That’s awful. Your poor mum.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Mum’s having to spend the money they made selling the house on Dad. Heaven knows what she’ll do if that runs out. I suppose we’ll have to have her here.’

  ‘God, are you sure?’

  ‘The kids would love it. She came to stay over Christmas and she is great with them.’ Karen pauses, recalling how on top of one another they were. Then she adds, ‘It was nice having her,’ as much to convince herself as her friend.

  ‘Never mind Molly and Luke, how about you? Crikey, I could never live with my mother again.’ Lou grimaces at the suggestion.

  But Mum and I get on well, Karen tells herself. Still, it’s not how she envisaged spending her forties: herself a widow, living with her mother.

  ‘It would be fine,’ she says, turning to take the pan off the heat and thus avoid Lou’s gaze.

  Just then Molly comes back into the room. ‘Mummy, I’m hungry.’

  ‘Yes, Molly, it’s coming!’ Karen snaps. At once she feels bad; it’s not Molly’s fault. Lou must think she’s a dreadful mother.

  ‘Er . . . Karen, something’s burning,’ says Lou. Smoke is billowing from the toaster on the adjacent worktop.

  ‘Oh no!’ She rushes to press the eject button, but it’s too late: both slices of bread are charred and inedible. ‘I’m sorry, Molly. We’ll have to start again. It won’t be long, I promise.’ Tears prick behind Karen’s eyes.

  ‘I’m really hungry . . .’ Molly’s bottom lip begins to tremble.

  Dear me, thinks Karen, checking the clock. It’s way past when she normally eats. I should have seen this coming.

  Lou gets to her feet. ‘You sit down. I’ll do it.’

  ‘You mustn’t.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m pregnant, not ill. I’m quite capable.’

  And I’m not capable at all, thinks Karen sorrowfully. What’s got into me that I can’t make a couple of pieces of toast?

  ‘Thanks,’ she murmurs, taking a seat.

  At once she is overwhelmed with exhaustion. Maybe it’s going up and down to the loft so many times, or the distress of seeing Molly off to school and talking about her mum and dad, she isn’t sure. But if someone were to say she could go to bed for the rest of the day, she feels she could sleep till next Christmas.

  5

  Eva has been gone ten minutes before Abby remembers they have
n’t done the weekly grocery shop. Having the estate agent round at short notice has thrown her off kilter.

  ‘Damn,’ she says under her breath. Taking Callum to the supermarket is far easier with two people, but she finished what little food was in the fridge making lunch. A proper stock-up can wait, but she’ll have to go to the Co-op nearby to get supper.

  Thankfully the walk is a familiar journey through quiet residential streets, so Callum is compliant and contained. Yet as they approach the automatic door of the store he starts to tug urgently at Abby’s jacket and before she can stop him, he’s on the pavement having a full-blown meltdown, banging his head on the ground, arms flailing.

  This was a mistake, she thinks, kneeling to hold him as best she can to prevent him coming to harm. I should have asked Glenn to pop into the shop on his way home from work. But her husband is quick to gripe at her these days, and can’t be relied upon to be back at a reasonable hour. She tries to serve Callum’s meals at set times – even if he won’t eat properly, routine is important. Tempted as she is to go home, she can’t. She has no choice but to ride this out.

  ‘Hey, darling, hey, hey,’ she soothes. Still Callum kicks and thrashes.

  It’s a scenario Abby weathers often: taking her son into crowded spaces has long proved an exhausting mix, as her energies are divided between looking after him and managing the distress of other people.

  He has autism! she’s tempted to declare loudly to the elderly lady who walks past them with an expression that looks like horror. Abby can imagine she’s thinking that Callum shouldn’t be having a tantrum at his age, and on such a filthy pavement too. She longs to explain that the Co-op might seem like a relatively small, ordinary supermarket to her, but for her son it’s an assault on his senses. He can’t process so much information, she wants to tell her, and his brain is in overload. It’s as if my little boy is being gunned down – bullets fire from every direction, showering him with messages. Wouldn’t you be scared, too?