‘Please, no.’ Alan has done – and put up with – enough already. ‘I’ll be fine.’ Frankly, if she were in his place, she would have socked Steve one. But Alan, like his brother, is essentially gentle; it’s not in his temperament to be physically aggressive anywhere other than on the football pitch, and he is caught up in grief, too. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says to him now.
‘It’s not your fault,’ replies Alan.
But Anna feels it is.
Steve has enraged Anna countless times before, but nothing compares to this. How dare he? It is utterly beyond her ken, but that doesn’t make her any less upset. When she gets him home she doesn’t care how drunk he is, she is going to give him a piece of her mind; but first she has to get him there.
‘Come on,’ she says, through gritted teeth, and tugs his jumper towards the door.
‘Wherearewegoing?’ slurs Steve.
‘Home. You’re not welcome.’ She takes his arm, even though contact with him at this moment revolts her, and leads him outside.
‘Bye,’ she says to Alan, over her shoulder.
Steve can barely keep upright; he lurches against the porch, then staggers down the path.
‘Why don’t you put him to bed and come back?’ Alan suggests, from the doorway.
‘I might just do that,’ Anna nods, although she suspects it is unlikely.
She steers Steve through the gate and to the left. It seems to take an age to get him to the end of the street. He trips several times, giggling and saying ‘oops’ with each stumble. Anna doesn’t find it remotely funny; it tries her patience still more.
‘Why are you so cross?’ he asks as they veer across the main road dangerously slowly.
‘I can’t believe you have to ask.’ But of course he has to: in this state, he has lost virtually all memory, and certainly reason.
‘I only had a few glasses of wine.’
‘Yeah, right,’ she snorts. ‘I’ll get you home and then I’ll tell you what you’ve done wrong.’ She doesn’t want to yell at him in the street.
‘Ooh, dear, Anna’s cwoss with me,’ he says, pulling a naughty-little-boy face. Perhaps if he was sober she might find it engaging: now it’s simply pathetic.
Eventually, she gets him to Charminster Street. He falls up the garden path and stops at the door, expectant. She reaches in her bag for her key and opens it with one hand, keeping him upright with the other. Then she shoves him over the threshold.
‘You pushed me!’ he protests as he pitches forward onto the stairs. He braces his arms, just catches himself.
‘Yup,’ she snarls. ‘I did.’
‘Why?’
‘To make sure you got inside.’ She kicks the front door shut behind her. ‘But if you weren’t so slaughtered you wouldn’t have fallen over. Don’t make such a big deal of it.’
‘But you hurt me,’ he whines, precariously returning to standing.
‘I did not hurt you. But anyway, if we’re talking about hurt, what do you think you do to me?’
‘Huh?’
He won’t keep up, and she knows it is a waste of time, but she has to vent regardless. She is too enraged to contain it. ‘Your behaviour today was very hurtful. To me, and lots of others. In fact, I have never seen, or known, anything like it.’
‘Eh?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Steve! People were grieving, you bloody idiot. It was a funeral. A man had died. A man had suddenly, out of the blue, with no warning, DIED. A relatively young man. A man we all loved very much. A man who left a wife, children, and countless friends and relatives, in mourning. And you were abusive first to his brother, of all people, then Karen, his wife, then pretty much everyone who was there!’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t bother with sorry. It’s too late for sorry. I’m sick of it. You even managed to make the whole thing about you. But frankly, Karen was right. Simon is worth ten of you.’
‘What did you say?’ He steps towards her, shoulders braced.
Anna edges back towards the front door. She’s seen it before – this ability to switch not just emotionally but physically too – from a clumsy, embarrassing drunk to someone cruel and threatening. Nonetheless, even though she knows it will lead to trouble, she reiterates: ‘I said that Simon is – or I suppose I should say was – worth ten of you.’ She is so filled with rage that she doesn’t care what happens next.
‘Bitch.’
The insult barely touches her. She lifts her chin, defiant. ‘I am not a bitch. I am simply telling you the truth. Today you turned a circumstance that was going to be tough enough for everyone anyway, into a disaster. We were at a funeral, Steve, remember? My friend’s funeral. Yet you were aggressive. Rude and utterly, one hundred per cent insensitive. Why? Because you got drunk, that’s why.’ Steve may not be articulate at the moment, but boy, Anna is. Rage has sharpened her tongue, wised up her mind.
‘I am NOT drunk!’
‘Do me a favour. You were – are – absolutely shit-faced. You are the one with the problem – if that’s what you meant by “bitch” – because your behaviour took absolutely no account of anyone other than yourself. You are completely incapable of putting yourself in anyone else’s shoes, Steve. And’ – she reaches what, for their relationship, is the crux of it – ‘that means my shoes, too.’
‘Eh?’
‘Try to keep up. I have just lost a friend, a very, very dear friend. I am deeply, deeply upset. But ever since Simon died, which is now – what? Five days ago – you have done nothing, yes, NOTHING to support me.’
‘Yes, I have—’
‘What, you made me spaghetti Bolognese? Oops, sorry. I forgot.’ She gives a mock gasp of apology. ‘Oh, of course, you made all that food yesterday too. That was good of you, I grant you. And actually, you enjoyed it. But it also gave you the perfect excuse not to come to the funeral. Whereas I wanted you, needed you, there. Though that didn’t even seem to cross your stupid, narcissistic little mind.’ He jerks his head up; the insult seems to have penetrated. ‘You think of yourself first and foremost, and you don’t like funerals. Well, get this. No one likes them!
‘I think – hope – you also thought of Karen. But I’m your girlfriend, and you didn’t think – not once – to check it out with me.’
She stops, looks at him. He seems to be sobering up a little, keeping abreast of her tirade, just. Then she says, ‘You know what I want right now?’
‘What?’ They are standing, like two boxers squaring up to each other, a couple of feet apart.
‘I want you to go to hell.’
Then she leans in close, and spits in his face, literally, a horrible stringy lump of gob. It lands on his cheek and slides down, gradually.
Watching it is immensely gratifying.
There’s a pause – he is slower because of the alcohol – then he reacts. He lunges towards her and shoves her, viciously, with considerable strength, so she flies backwards.
She bangs her head on the front door, slips to the floor.
But although she is winded and shocked, in a split second she is galvanized. Now she is in full fight mode, adrenaline coursing. Part of her is aware Steve is bigger than she is, more powerful, but she doesn’t care. He has threatened her once too often. Reason about her lesser strength plays no role in this. She wants him to feel – physically – the force of her fury. So, like a wild animal, she pushes herself up onto her haunches. Before he has a chance to move, she kicks out with all her might. Her legs are long; she reaches high. Her boots – those evil, high-heeled, pointy-toed, dark-green leather boots – are effective weapons. And as she kicks she catches him right between the thighs. Right, right where it hurts.
He doubles over, in agony.
She does not stop. She scrabbles to her feet. And, while he is still bent over, cursing, she opens the front door. Then she grabs him, before he has a chance to realize what she is doing, and shoves him, with every ounce of energy she has, outside.
He falls backwards onto the pa
th, lands on his arse, but she doesn’t pause to see if he is badly hurt: her own safety is paramount. She steps back inside the hallway and: BANG! slams the door. Then she puts the chain across and bolts it.
* * *
‘Do you think Anna’s OK?’ asks Karen.
‘Hope so,’ says Alan. They are both still reeling from the encounter.
Karen bites her lip. ‘Perhaps I’d better ring her.’
‘I think you’ve enough to deal with. Françoise and I can drop round there, if you like, on our way home. We’ll be going soon, I expect.’
‘Would you mind?’
‘No, sure, that’s fine.’ Alan and his family live a couple of miles away; Anna’s house is en route.
‘Steve’s a pillock,’ observes Alan.
‘Sure is,’ Karen nods. ‘I feel terrible for introducing them.’
‘She’ll dump him.’ Alan is confident. ‘You’ll see.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Here.’ Alan opens his arms; they embrace. He leans back, pushes her hair away from her face, looks into her eyes. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. Not about Steve, or Simon either, come to that.’
‘I’m not!’ protests Karen.
‘You are.’ His voice is firm, but soft, kind; her heart lurches, it reminds her so of Simon.
‘OK.’ She nods. ‘But will you text me when you get home, let me know Anna is all right?’
* * *
Shortly, Anna hears Steve getting to his feet, dusting himself down. Then he opens the letter box, peers in.
She moves away from him, sits on the stairs, stares at him.
‘You going to let me in?’ he asks.
‘You fucking kidding?’ Then she realizes what she has wanted to say since the argument started; maybe for days before that, perhaps even from the time she found out Simon had died. ‘You are never coming back in here again.’
‘What?’
‘What do you mean, “what?” You heard me. I said, you are never coming back into my home, ever again.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Try me.’
The letter box flaps shut. She braces herself: she knows what he is going to do next. Sure enough: BAM! She can feel the door, indeed the whole hall, house, vibrate, as he thows his full body weight against the wood. And again: BAM! And again: BAM!
She is worried; will the bolts hold? But she is still too full of adrenaline to give in to anxiety: she runs upstairs, opens the bay window in the bedroom, leans out.
He is down below her, in the dark, his whole body twisted sideways. He takes a few steps back, then lunges towards the door again. He doesn’t seem to care that he might hurt himself.
‘Oi!’
He looks up.
‘You carry on doing that, and I’ll call the police.’
‘You wouldn’t.’ His jaw is clenched, unbelieving.
‘Of course I would.’ She goes inside, gets the cordless landline phone from the dressing table, and returns to the window. She holds it up for him to see: ‘I think this probably warrants 999, don’t you?’
He whines, then. ‘Let me in, Anna. Please.’ She is reminded of the Three Little Pigs.
She laughs, incredulous. ‘No way.’
His face has that same expression she has seen so often before when he is drunk; his mouth is slack, his brow furrowed with confusion. Despite his aggression, his posture is lazy, his limbs ill-co-ordinated. And, at last, it is as if the last vestiges of mist have finally cleared from Anna’s vision. She can see him for what he is.
A sad, pitiful drunkard.
And she understands the message Karen’s speech at Simon’s funeral had for her. That while Karen loved Simon for his faults, Anna doesn’t love Steve for his. She can’t and never will. How can she, when Steve’s worst fault – his addiction – leads to this? She is being terrorized in her own home. It is untenable. They are untenable.
‘You’ve got to let me in,’ wails Steve.
‘No.’
‘Where am I going to sleep?’
‘That’s your problem.’
‘Aw, Anna . . .’
He sounds about five years old, but it fails to touch her. She is resolute. ‘No, don’t “aw Anna” me. I’ve had it. We’re through. Over. You don’t think of anyone as much as yourself. You even made the whole funeral about you. And over the last few days, you’ve acted as if I have to choose between you and my closest friend. So, I’m choosing my friend. And there’s no point you standing out here and arguing. If you yell or bang on my door once more, I’m calling the police. Now go, sleep where the hell you like, I don’t care. I’ll leave your stuff outside for you tomorrow.’
She moves away from the window, goes into the spare room, grabs a couple of old, worn blankets. Then she returns to the bedroom window, leans out.
Steve is sitting on the path, looking sorrowful.
‘Here,’ she says.
He looks up.
‘You can have these,’ she says, holding out the blankets. ‘Catch.’
And she throws first one, then the other down to him. The first lands still folded, heavy, but the second opens, catching in the air like a parachute.
For several minutes, Steve lingers by the front door, swearing. Then he quietens, but Anna can still hear him pacing outside. She doesn’t respond in any way, but then he starts ringing her. First, on the landline. Repeatedly. Until she unplugs it. Then on her mobile. She turns that off, too. Eventually she hears him pick up the blankets and shuffle away.
That’s it, then, thinks Karen, closing the front door. All the guests have departed. Now, she must check her mobile.
Alan has been true to his word.
All quiet on the western front, says his text. Been round, couldn’t hear anything untoward, so didn’t bother disturbing them – reckon they were both asleep and didn’t want to wake them. Rest easy.
Still, something is niggling her. She has had the sense all week that things between Anna and Steve have been increasingly tense, in spite of the Friday they spent happily cooking together. She has been so consumed by events that she has not given it much thought, but this evening’s frightful row has brought her fear to the fore, and she shudders to think what Steve is capable of when he is pushed to the limit.
She decides to ring Anna herself, to be sure.
But Anna’s mobile appears to be off; it goes straight through to voice message. Karen tries the landline. It just rings and rings, with no answer.
‘Leave it, darling,’ says her mother. ‘Anna is old enough to look after herself.’
Karen shakes her head. ‘I’m worried, Mum.’ How can she explain that she and Anna have a connection that goes beyond the bounds of many friendships; that sometimes they seem virtually linked by a sixth sense, psychically, especially when emotions are running high, as they have been lately? Her mother will think she is being melodramatic.
‘I know you’re anxious, and you’re a good friend. But given everything else you’ve got happening, I think you should let yourself off the hook. Let someone else help if need be.’
‘I’m her closest friend,’ Karen protests. ‘And I live round the corner. What if something has happened to her?’
‘Nothing will have happened to her. Alan’s text told you: they’ve gone to sleep. She’s probably just unplugged the phones so they aren’t disturbed. I think you’ve got so used to worrying and being upset about everything this week that you can’t switch off, which is quite understandable, but I am sure they are fine. I’ll look after the children and you can pop round and see her in the morning, if you like.’
‘OK . . .’ But Karen is still unsure.
* * *
Lou is sitting in the lounge with her mother, Aunt Audrey and Uncle Pat. Uncle Pat has a wing-backed armchair pulled close to the television; along with his other ailments, he is deaf, and otherwise – as he has explained loudly – he can’t hear the chat-show host. Audrey and Lou’s mother are sharing the settee, their poker-li
ke spines testimony to their rigorous (‘Sit up straight!’) upbringing. Lou is lounging, feet slung over one of the arms, on the one chair she finds remotely comfortable – a saggy recliner that has only escaped being deemed too scruffy and jettisoned by her mother because it was her father’s favourite.
Uncle Pat is actually blocking Lou’s view of the chat show, but Lou isn’t really watching anyway. Instead she is picking at her nails, a displacement activity for the aggravation she is feeling following the earlier discussion regarding Simon.
Can’t my mother see I wouldn’t be interested in a man? she thinks, as she pulls at a particularly resistant bit of cuticle. Yet she can observe fast enough that I wasn’t dressed appropriately for a funeral. I haven’t had a boyfriend in years, yes, years. Not since I was fifteen. What does she think I have done for all this time? Abstain?
Lou thinks of Sofia and their kiss the night before. Then she glances over at her mother; her helmet of grey hair with its Thatcher-like precision waves, her lips lined from decades of being held in an almost permanently pursed position. But in spite of her uptight appearance, her mother has produced two daughters close in age. She must have conceived them somehow. Lou even recalls her father implying her mother was surprisingly passionate sexually, and after all, there must have been something that kept two such different people together for over three decades.
She must, therefore, be in denial.
It’s a situation that has eaten away at Lou all her adult life. And how perverse it is. Here she is, virtually spread-eagled on the armchair, her body responding to the mere recollection of kissing a woman.
‘I’m gay,’ she murmurs quietly.
But her mother is so engrossed in the television that she does not hear.
* * *
‘You go to bed, Mum,’ says Karen. ‘I’ll be upstairs in a minute.’
‘Why don’t you leave that till tomorrow?’
Karen is emptying the dishwasher. ‘I’m fine, honestly. I’d rather do it now. Then I can put on another load. Why don’t you have a bath, help you unwind?’
‘That’s a nice idea. Would you like me to leave you the water?’