The Woman Next Door(22)

And so she sat back and waited for the explosion of anger. But it didn’t come. Jamie had started to cry and rock, very softly. Greg went to the boy, wrapping his burly arms around him tightly and muttering, ‘Shoosh, it’s okay, it’s all right.’ Soft, meaningless words that seemed to comfort Jamie quickly, and then Greg was wiping away the remains of the globby potato with a paper napkin.

Kathie told Mel sharply that she was to help tidy and wash up. And that later on she would apologize to Jamie.

Mel had obeyed the first command at least, surprised into meek submission by the lack of violence.

She’d then avoided talking to Jamie at all for the first week, but felt his eyes roaming over her constantly. It was obvious that he fancied her, but at thirteen had no idea what to do with the seismic feelings she invoked.

Melissa kneads a fist between her eyebrows now and makes a small sound of repressed frustration. Why is he here, bringing all these unwanted memories in his wake? He carries the past about him, like body odour, and she can’t stand it.

The sound of footsteps above fills her with resolve. He’s up. Time to get him to leave, however badly he takes it. This can’t go on for another night.





HESTER


I don’t know why Saskia would think these flowers were an appropriate gift.

I hadn’t looked at them properly outside. Now I am staring down at them on my kitchen table and I can see they aren’t at all the sort of thing I would buy.

Everything is ugly and alien-looking. There are ornamental cabbages, which I hate, plus white pom-pom things, and orchids with thick purple petals and long red tongues that seem to leer. The worst ones though are almost black; with their spiky tendrils, they look like those fascination hats women wear to the races.

Black flowers! What an idiotic idea.

The entire bouquet makes me think about death. I rush to my bin and thrust the whole thing in there, head first. What on earth would have been wrong with some nice gerbera or some tulips?

I remember now that Saskia had another bouquet, which must surely have been meant for Melissa.

I had also been intending to go round with flowers, albeit from Tesco, rather than Petal and Vine. So those ghastly people have effectively scuppered my own apology.

Damn them.

A tear slides down my cheek again and I angrily swipe it away.

None of it was my fault. But I can’t imagine what Melissa must think of me. Getting drunk like some kind of teenager and being sick like that. Another hot burst of shame washes over me now.

I’ve never been someone who drinks very much. Growing up, we only had sherry in the house for occasional guests, so when I met Terry it didn’t occur to me that he would expect to go to pubs all the time and have wine with dinner. I hated when his face would get all red. He’d start talking too loudly and drape a heavy arm around my shoulders when we were out, as though I belonged to him. I never much liked his friends either. They were all a bit loud for my taste. Plus they all liked pubs just a little too much. In the end, I told him to go out on his own.

So I am the last person in the world who would ever drink too much and behave like that. It makes the cruel joke that was played on me even more savage.

I wipe another tear that slips down my face and look across at Bertie, who is fast asleep in his bed. Such a carefree existence. I envy him sometimes.

It’s then, out of the blue, that I have an idea. Instead of flowers, I’ll make my lemon drizzle cake. It was her favourite, after all. Who can resist a warm slice of lemon drizzle? She may not have needed my help with the catering yesterday, but this is different; a peace offering.

As I’m pulling on my pinny, my still-tender stomach gives a little ripple of protest. But I ignore it and set to work.

Before too long the kitchen is filled with comforting smells, but today the meditative nature of baking doesn’t work its usual magic. I still feel unsettled, ill-fitting in my own skin, and it’s as though my mind is filled with shadows.

When I am done, I look doubtfully at the cake cooling on the counter. Nothing went quite right. The cake feels heavier than it should, sagging in the centre. The colour is all wrong. Still, it is kindly meant. I’m sure Melissa will accept it in the good grace with which it is intended.

I tidy myself up in the hall mirror, breathing slowly, in and out, in an attempt to calm my jumpy heart. I sigh at my appearance; eyes baggy and skin the colour of porridge. But then I suppose I look like a woman who feels truly penitent, and that is as it should be. I’d dress in sackcloth and ashes if I could.

I walk around to the front door, holding the cake carefully, and knock sharply.

No one comes. But Melissa’s Range Rover is parked outside so she must be in. I ring the bell.

Still nothing. Looking up, I see that windows are open at the front. I’m sure someone is there. Maybe it’s just Tilly, but at least I can leave the cake and perhaps apologize to her at the same time.

When our friendship was at its zenith, I would sometimes bypass the front door and go through the garden gate and down to the kitchen at the back of the house. Then I noticed that it started to be locked, which I had to admit was a sensible security move when you live in a city.

Hesitating, I walk to the gate and gently push on the handle. It opens easily.

I’ll just pop the cake inside if the patio doors are open. I’ll find a piece of paper and write a note.

Coming into the back garden I spy some cigarette ends that haven’t been cleared up. I will deal with those when I come back out. There must have been an awful lot to do, cleaning up after the party. Another little puff of shame and humiliation spreads in my chest.