One Moment, One Morning

  ‘I’ve been wanting to do that all night,’ Sofia says eventually. ‘But I couldn’t get you on your own.’

  ‘You have?’ Lou’s heart skips.

  ‘Mm,’ Sofia nods. ‘Hours.’

  ‘Me too.’ Lou smiles at her. ‘But they’ll be wondering where we are – I suppose we’d better go.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ Sofia wrinkles her nose, indicating she doesn’t want to.

  They start walking, but a few paces later Sofia catches the collar of Lou’s coat and guides her to a lamp post.

  ‘I think it’s so cute you were jealous!’ she says, and kisses her again.

  This time, Lou feels her whole body melt: it’s as if she is carried up and away by waves of pure physical pleasure, out of her head entirely. As Sofia presses her body against hers, she’s hit by a surge of lust so strong she thinks she would fall over were it not for the post supporting them.

  That second kiss seals it: if Lou had any doubt that they were attracted to one another before, now she has none.

  * * *

  Anna hates nights like this, when sleep eludes her. It is as if the more she thinks about sleeping, the more she can’t, until eventually she’s in a whirl of panic. Worries turn over and over; worries she has no ability to sort or ease. They are like yellow cream in a butter churn, a great slopping unformed mass. Worry about Steve. Worry about work. Worry about Karen. Worry about Molly and Luke. Even worry about Lou, from whom she’s heard nothing since she sent her that text. Worry, worry, worry . . .

  And now she needs a pee.

  Up she gets, heads to the bathroom. From there she can hear the TV is still on, loud, downstairs. Steve must be in the living room: he’s not come to bed with her. Whether he has fallen asleep with the telly on, or is awake and watching some awful film; she doesn’t know. She hopes it is the former. If she goes to check and he is awake, she’s almost afraid of what she’ll encounter. His mood could be beyond appeasement; she can’t face taking that on again.

  But if he is asleep, she would like to turn the television off. The noise might wake him later and she would rather he slept off the booze, right through till morning. She pads softly down, tentatively pushes open the door.

  The only light comes from the screen flashing in the corner; the saturated reds and blues of a 1960s horror movie reveal a pitiful scene. Steve is indeed asleep, splayed out, no blankets, no cushions, fully clothed, shoes still on his feet, on the wooden floor.

  She feels like kicking him.

  Instead she tiptoes round him, turns off the telly. He murmurs something about not doing that, then resumes snoring.

  She doesn’t even put a blanket over him or a pillow beneath his head, because she doesn’t want to wake him. She just pulls the door to, and goes back up the stairs.

  In the bedroom, she opens the curtains a little, just to check what’s going on outside.

  Diagonally opposite her house is an office block with a wide porch where a homeless guy sometimes sleeps. She used to see him there a lot, but recently it’s only been occasionally.

  When Steve first moved in with Anna, he asked her why she didn’t complain about the man to the people in the offices. She said it didn’t bother her, he was doing no harm.

  ‘He’s very tidy,’ she’d said. ‘He puts his cardboard away, neatly, each morning – I’ve seen him. I don’t think he’s an addict or anything like that.’

  He was even there one Christmas, so Steve decided to take him a glass of brandy.

  ‘He didn’t want it,’ said Steve, bewildered, returning with the glass not drunk.

  ‘See?’ said Anna. ‘I told you.’

  ‘You won’t believe what he was doing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Making cottage cheese sandwiches. I offered him some Christmas dinner, but he didn’t want that either.’

  ‘Oh, well, each to their own.’

  He’s not there tonight. I wonder what’s happened to him? Anna thinks, pulling the curtains closed again and returning to bed. She hopes he has found somewhere else, permanent, to stay.

  She thinks of Steve downstairs; how much more aware of his drinking she is now than she was when he moved in. What would happen if she finished with him? Would he be able to look after himself, drinking the way he does? She is not sure he would; though he managed OK before he met her. Would he end up on the streets, too? It is yet another worry she can’t work out, adding to the yellow gloop in her brain.

  * * *

  Lou undresses, conscious of Sofia in the room next door. Respecting Vic’s request that she and Sofia do nothing in earshot, and not wanting to be presumptuous with Sofia, she has given them her futon.

  Now, inhibitions freed by the fact there is no one watching, Lou shimmies out of her jeans with a sexy wiggle of her bottom. To hell with neatly folding them; she can’t be arsed. She hooks them onto her ankle, kicks out, and gleefully watches them fly across the room. They land with an unexpected clunk, and Lou’s mobile shoots out of the pocket across the wooden floor. Best check it has not come to any harm. It seems fine, and she is poised to put it on the table and get into her sleeping bag on the sofa, when the little envelope icon catches her eye. Who has texted her? She clicks, opens, reads.

  Oh dear, she thinks, Anna needs to talk.

  Lou checks the time the text was sent: 22:33. That’s pretty late to have tried to get in touch. Damn it. If she had heard her phone beep, Lou could have called back there and then, but the pub was so noisy. Though perhaps it was for the best – Lou wouldn’t have given Anna her full attention.

  She will ring Anna the next day, just as soon as she can.

  * * *

  Karen wakes, all of a sudden. She is freezing, shivering so hard her teeth are chattering. She’s had a nightmare; she was caught in a whirlpool, being sucked down a vortex into a deep, dark pothole, gasping for air.

  She turns on the light.

  It’s OK, she tells herself, looking round. You are here, in your room. It is fine.

  She has been in a cold sweat. Her nightdress is drenched; she gets up, pulls it over her head, swaps it for a clean T-shirt and gets back into bed. But she can’t stop shivering; if anything she feels even colder. She pulls the duvet right round her, tight and snug, like a tortoise shell.

  Karen has always liked the sense of something protecting her as she sleeps, warm and cosy. When she was little, she used to get all her stuffed toys and lay them along the length of the bed, between the sheets, in a line. She’d get in afterwards and wedge them in, tight against her spine. Only then could she drift off.

  ‘That’s a bit cruel,’ she remembers Simon saying, when she had told him.

  ‘They weren’t real animals, darling,’ she’d laughed.

  She might be grown-up, but still she likes the sensation of something snuggled close behind her. So in winter, Simon would wrap his body round her; he would become her tortoise shell. At the very least, their bodies would be touching somewhere: their legs would be intertwined, or they would be holding hands; she would know she was loved, and vice versa.

  So that’s why she can’t stop shivering. It isn’t OK: Simon isn’t here.

  Shake, shake, shake, go her muscles, contracting involuntarily. She tries to keep them still, to no avail. Judder, judder, judder, go her teeth.

  She pulls her knees into her tummy, foetal.

  Perhaps the shivering is another symptom of shock: a physical reaction to trauma. She is reminded of a cat she found once, that had been knocked over. It was in its death throes, by the side of the road outside the house. Juddering, as she is now. She had made Simon go and break its neck, out of kindness. She couldn’t do it herself, but he had managed to.

  Part of her would like someone to break her neck, put her out of her misery. But they can’t; that is not a choice she has. She must go on, for Molly and Luke. There is simply no way she could leave her children; they need her more than ever. She focuses on them, her babies. And as she thinks of them – how small they
are, how vulnerable, how much they love her, how much she loves them – gradually, gradually, the shivering subsides.

  ‘Why don’t you wear your red T-shirt? It really suits you, and you might be a bit hot in that, doing the barbecue,’ says Anna. Steve is pulling a navy sweatshirt over his head. She flings open the window to get a sense of the temperature – inhales. Smiles. Ah! How she loves this view. The house is near the top of one of Brighton’s several hills, and rows of pastel-coloured terraces spread before her like a toy town. Compared to London’s endless sprawl, the city has clearly discernible boundaries, and in the distance, fields swoop up, green and brown, onto the South Downs. Above, the sky is hazy blue. ‘It looks like another real scorcher.’

  Anna pauses as she puts on her make-up to watch him. Steve’s back is broad and strong, his skin tanned deep gold from outside labour, and, as he reaches into a drawer, she can see the definition of his muscles. He is blessed, she thinks, to have such a beautiful body.

  ‘Well, madam.’ He turns to face her. ‘This all right for you?’

  The scarlet top offsets his straw-blond hair – he looks his very best. Anna has a new dress herself, bought especially for today. It shows off her figure; they will make a handsome couple at Simon’s fiftieth.

  Who cares that she has just put on her lipstick? She is so proud of Steve; he looks irresistible. She has to kiss him that moment.

  *

  Well, that dress won’t do, Anna decides, returning it to the wardrobe. It is too summery, too revealing – it would be disrespectful; the likes of Phyllis might be offended. Yet being in black from head to toe seems too sombre for Simon. How about the skirt and polo neck she wore earlier this week with her dark-green boots and pebble necklace? She loves those boots and at least she’ll feel like herself: she is sure Simon would have wanted that.

  It feels so strange – thinking in terms of what Simon would have wished for, when he won’t be there. She can’t remember the last time Karen had a gathering on this scale where he wasn’t around. Anna can hear him now, in full sociable mode, chuckling at some crass joke, arguing about politics, chasing children round the house with a monster roar . . .

  Once again Anna is struck by her mother’s words: life isn’t fair.

  If it was fair, why should Steve live on, his physique his blessing, a vessel for endless mistreatment, whilst Simon – whose only transgressions seem to have been that he worked too hard and stressed too much – be cursed with a body that let him down so?

  Whereas Steve is astonishingly resilient physically, which invites abuse: it is hard to motivate him to curtail his drinking when he recovers so fast.

  My, how her feelings for him have altered since that barbecue.

  She still loves him, for sure, but she no longer worships him so blindly. She can’t, because if she is honest with herself – which she has frequently failed to be – Steve’s consumption has been gradually escalating since he moved in, and with it, his temper.

  Anna recalls the evening when he first really alarmed her. They’d just finished eating, and she’d tried to prevent him drinking more wine. He – they – had had enough already, she’d thought. Certainly she had.

  ‘You can’t stop me,’ he’d said, provocatively.

  Swiftly, she’d grabbed his glass from the kitchen table. Steve – reactions slowed – carried on pouring; wine had gone everywhere. And he’d gone ballistic, snatching the glass from her; the stem had snapped in the tussle. He had then taken the bowl of the glass, thrown it on the floor and stamped the pieces into the quarry tiles.

  ‘There,’ he’d snarled. ‘Satisfied?’

  Frightened of what he might do next, she’d fled to Karen and Simon’s, even though it was late. They’d comforted and calmed her, but she’d remained shaken and upset for days. Of course, afterwards Steve was full of remorse, pledged to make amends. They’d both given up alcohol for a month as a consequence: Anna has never had a problem herself, but she’d hoped her abstention would make it easier for him. Yet when the month was up, he was back to where he had been before within days.

  Since then he has had many, many chances; she has borne countless promises of sobriety. The words sound hollow these days, his humility a pretence. He has let her down repeatedly, run her ragged.

  And where is he now? Exactly. Crashed out downstairs.

  Viciously, she shakes out her skirt.

  Damn him.

  This morning Steve can choose his own outfit. She will save her energy for Simon. It’s his day, after all.

  * * *

  ‘What’s the matter with this one?’ Karen holds up a navy velvet pinafore.

  Molly stamps her foot. ‘Want to wear my new dress!’

  ‘But your new one isn’t a party dress,’ says Karen patiently. How can she explain that turquoise and pink flowers are too jolly for a funeral? It seems ironic, as Simon liked Molly’s new dress. ‘This is your Christmas dress,’ she lures, and before Molly can descend into a full tantrum, pops the pinafore over her head. ‘There.’ She turns her daughter to face her and tugs down the hem. ‘You look really pretty. Can we brush your hair next?’

  ‘Noooooooo!’ wails Molly. Her hair is soft and fine, like candyfloss, and forms knots at the slightest opportunity.

  ‘You can’t go to Daddy’s special party with a great big tangle in your hair.’

  ‘Ow!’

  She carries on, despite her daughter’s protestations. ‘Right, you’re done.’ She kisses the top of Molly’s head. ‘Good girl.’

  What’s the time? she wonders, and checks her watch to see how long they’ve got.

  * * *

  ‘It’s nearly nine,’ says Lou, poised at the bedside with two mugs. ‘You wanted me to wake you.’

  ‘Did I?’ mutters Vic. She rolls over and snuggles under the covers.

  ‘Yup. I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’ Lou edges a cup onto the bedside table. ‘You’ve got your party today.’

  ‘Bloody hell, so I have.’ Vic flings her arms out over the duvet. ‘My house is a wreck.’

  ‘Never!’ Lou teases.

  The noise causes Sofia to stir. ‘Hello . . .’ she says sleepily, and smiles up at Lou.

  She looks adorable, Lou thinks, all ruffle-haired and bleary-eyed. But she simply says, ‘Tea.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sofia manoeuvres herself to a seated position and reaches across Vic for her mug.

  Lou perches on the edge of the futon. ‘Don’t feel you have to rush.’

  Vic takes a noisy slurp. ‘I thought you were going to your mum’s?’

  ‘I am, but I don’t have to leave till just gone midday.’

  ‘I need to get home, tidy up.’ Vic pouts. ‘Why did you let me get so drunk?’

  ‘I think you did it all on your own,’ Lou laughs. She finds bantering with Vic enjoyable anyway, but this morning Sofia’s presence adds a special thrill. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks Sofia, her heart aflutter. She has been awake since six, consumed by hope and trepidation. Sofia said some lovely things last night, but was it the wine talking? Lou can’t be sure Sofia will want to see her again.

  ‘I’m good. A bit hungover, maybe . . . but yes, really good.’ Sofia opens her eyes wide, locking her gaze with Lou’s. ‘I had a lovely evening.’

  That is a signal, surely it is! Inside, Lou jumps for joy. ‘Me too.’ Once more she can feel herself blushing.

  Vic coughs pointedly. ‘Great,’ she declares loudly. ‘I am glad you two had such a good time. I feel fucking dreadful.’

  ‘Ooh, you!’ Sofia knocks Vic’s elbow, nearly spilling her tea. ‘I tell you what. I’m not busy today. Why don’t I help tidy up your place?’

  ‘Have you seen it?’ warns Lou.

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘She’s not wrong when she says it’s a pigsty.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ protests Vic. ‘It’s only a few papers and stuff.’

  Lou shakes her head. ‘It’s a tip!’

  ‘It’s fine,’ shrug
s Sofia. ‘I come from a big family, I’m used to mess.’

  ‘I’d love you to help me.’ Vic kisses Sofia’s cheek.

  Lou has a pang of envy. She wishes she were alone with Sofia; she would like to be the one spending the day with her; she wouldn’t even mind if they had chores that needed doing. Silently, she curses her mother. She switches focus. ‘What do you want for breakfast? I’ve lots in.’

  * * *

  I wonder how much of this they grasp, thinks Karen as she follows Luke’s forthright stride and Molly’s more careful bottom-sliding down the stairs. They seem to dip in and out of understanding; one minute connecting with surprising perspicacity, the next distracted by more immediate issues. So, ‘Did Daddy die because he did something bad?’ and, ‘Is he coming back after the special party?’ or the heartbreaking, ‘Was it my fault?’ jostle alongside, ‘Will there be cake?’ and, ‘When are we going in the shiny car?’

  She has had to repeat some answers again and again. They seem to take in as much as they can manage, then change the subject abruptly when they’ve had enough.

  Yet, in a less obvious way, isn’t she doing this too? Connecting and disconnecting, facing grief then turning from it? One minute she is caught up in minutiae: Will her feet get sore standing in heels at the church? Have they made enough food? Will the kitten get scared by dozens of strangers in the house; should she shut him in a room upstairs? The next moment she is weeping uncontrollably, taken over by pain so profound she can barely move. Then there was the salad bowl incident; her own fury scared her.

  But maybe these are different ways of dealing with events, for all of them. Molly and Luke are infantile echoes of her; their emotions pared down, their reactions simpler but similar, for if they have difficulty taking in what has happened, then so, too, does she.

  Why is she dressing up, for instance? Why can’t she wear clothes to reflect the fact that she is at her lowest ebb – a tracksuit, a jumper full of holes, dirty jeans? Why can’t she leave her hair a mess, her face unmade-up? The crazed and grieving Karen doesn’t care about her appearance. Yet she must go through with this charade, polish herself and her children to perfection: she, in particular, must hold it together. Oh, she can cry, yes, that’s allowed, people expect that, they will sympathize. But what about screaming? Howling and hurling plates like she did yesterday? She imagines the shocked faces as she shouts and swears and smashes everything. But she is so angry, surely others must feel the same. Maybe a plate-throwing ceremony would be a more fitting ritual than church. Then everyone could have a go, smashing crockery up against the back garden wall.