Someone Else's Shoes(66)

“You like him,” says Jasmine, who catches her watching him as they eat their sandwiches.

“I do not.”

Jasmine raises an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“He’s a short-order chef with no money and no prospects. Why would I like him?”

Jasmine finishes her mouthful, and dabs at her lips with a handkerchief before she speaks. “Girl, if I were you I’d climb that like a tree.”



* * *



? ? ?

For almost five months Cat has played a game with herself in the last few steps of her walk home. As she closes the gate behind her and walks up the little path to her front door, she makes a bet with herself as to what position her father will be in when she gets home. Mostly it’s lying on the sofa, his head nearest the side table. Occasionally he will be the other way around with his feet nearest the table and his head resting on two sofa cushions. On the few occasions she has guessed right she has awarded herself “Sloth Bingo.” Now she walks past the rotting camper-van with its massive hippie sunflower, which is, frankly, an embarrassment as well as an ecological disaster, puts her key in the door, and decides it will be a standard day. Her father will have his head by the side table. It’s what the bookies call a sure thing. She opens the door, closes it behind her and looks through the living-room door. But the television is off and he is not there.

Cat hangs her coat on the peg and walks through to the kitchen. It’s seven fifteen but yet again her mother is not home from work. Cat feels a clench of dismay when she thinks of what life was like here even eighteen months ago: the way she could arrive home and know with some certainty that her mum would be cooking something, Dad leaning against a worktop, chatting away, the radio burbling in the corner. She hadn’t understood the deep sense of security that gave her. And now there is no one, just this heavy silence.

She eats a couple of rice cakes from the cupboard (there is barely any food just now) then heads upstairs to her bedroom. And it is then that she sees him: her dad, just lying on the bed, staring at the wall.

She pauses by the open bedroom door.

“. . . Dad?”

He turns his head toward her. He looks exhausted. He always looks exhausted, these days.

“Oh, hi, love.” He raises a small smile.

“What are you doing?”

“I just came up for a rest. Bit . . . tired today.”

“Where’s Mum?”

He blinks, as if it has only just occurred to him. “I don’t know. Probably at work?”

“Have you called her?”

“Uh . . . not today. Not now.”

“But it’s seven fifteen.” Cat stares at him. At his passivity, his refusal to act even as everything around him is falling apart. And suddenly she cannot bear it any more. “Jesus, Dad. Wake up!”

He looks startled, and it’s weirdly gratifying.

“Where do you think Mum is?”

He shakes his head. “I—I don’t know.”

“She’s with a man. And you—you’re just sitting here like a fucking . . . potato. Just letting her walk away. What do you think is going to happen, Dad? That if you just sit quietly everything will settle back into place? You have to do something. You have to get up and see what’s going on under your nose!”

“A man?”

“I saw her.” Cat feels tears spring to her eyes now, feels the blood flush to her face, but she doesn’t care. “I saw her from the bus. Hugging him. And every day she puts on makeup and comes home late and you act like nothing is even happening.”

He looks shattered. She doesn’t care. She wants him to be shocked. She wants to shake him.

“That’s . . . that’s not—”

She flings open their wardrobe and begins rifling through the bottom until she comes up with the bag. “See this?”

“A bag?” He looks bewildered.

She unzips it. And there they are, just where she found them two days ago. A stark reminder of everything that is wrong.

She holds up one of the shoes. “These are Mum’s. Your wife’s. This is what she’s wearing to go and meet her lover. And if you took the slightest bit of notice of anything rather than just being stuck in your—your pit, then you’d realize you have to do something!”

“Those belong to your mum?” He is staring at the shoes, disbelieving.

“Oh, my God. Do I have to spell it out? Ugh. You guys are meant to be the adults here! And I’m having to literally point out what’s wrong with your marriage! Jesus! Dad! Wake up! Wake the fuck up! I hate it here! I hate it!”

Cat cannot bear to look at him any longer. She bursts into tears, hurls the shoe across the room and strides out, slamming the door behind her.



* * *



? ? ?

Sam lets herself in through the front door, still warm from the brisk walk home. She seems to walk faster everywhere at the moment, arriving at her destination glowing with effort, as if she is suddenly more purposeful.

Tonight the gym had been amazing. Simon had been in a foul mood all day, picking at her and sending dismissive glances her way whenever he was in sight, and she had felt so anxious and ground down by it that she had nearly decided not to go. But Joel, almost as if he had known, had sent her a text which said: These are the nights you have to go. So they had walked there together at six and now, almost two hours later, she feels as if she could conquer the world. The trainer, Sid, had taught her the different ways she could hit someone, how she should tighten her core and jab and swing, the way she could make an impact rather than feebly throwing a punch, limp-wristed and ineffective. By the end he was yelling, Yes, girl! Yes! And even as every muscle in her body screamed, she felt her gloves connecting with his pads—one two, one two—she was in charge, everything she felt pouring out through the red gloves, her knuckles bruised pleasurably at the end like she was someone much tougher than she was.