Heartbreak Hotel (18 page)

‘Don’t be so pathetic, Douggie!’ Rosemary yelled. ‘Just bung it in and switch on the cycle for Wool and Synthetics … What? … How would I know, I haven’t seen the blithering machine, have I? It’ll have
numbers
on it, on the
front
!’ She rolled her eyes at Amy.
Men
. ‘What?
What?
’ A lorry thundered past. ‘Course you have to defrost it first, just stick it in the microwave.
What?
Well, get your little friend to do it, that’s
her
job now … What? … I’m not being sarky. And remember it’s Hannah’s birthday on Friday, don’t forget to send her a card. You do know how to stick on a stamp, don’t you?’ There was a crash of glass. ‘I can’t hear you! I’m at the bottle bank, it’s a Transition Town, everybody’s bloody at it, bottles flying everywhere, they’re recycling-mad …
What?
You don’t know
her address
? Your own bloody
daughter
?’

Rosemary switched off her mobile and turned to Amy.

‘He’s moved into this bedsit, you see,’ she said. ‘He’s as helpless as a kitten. Well, tough titties – he shouldn’t have left, should he? She’s got her own flat but there’s no room for him there, she’s got a child, she doesn’t want him cluttering up the place.’ Eyes glittering with tears, Rosemary shoved the mobile into her handbag. ‘I bet he’s not taking his pills. I used to lay them out for him, you see. His blood pressure’s probably going through the roof.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Funny, isn’t it?
I’m
supposed to be the helpless one, can’t work a car, all that. Hence this course. But it’s not me, it’s him, the nincompoop.’

Rosemary turned away abruptly and strode across the bypass, holding up her hand like a sergeant major and causing an approaching car to slam on its brakes.

Amy punched in Ellie’s number, praying that she would be at home. Nearby, a bearded man fed newspapers into the mouth of a skip. Some item caught his eye; he pulled out the newspaper and sat down to read it.

Ellie answered the phone. Yes, she was at home. Yes, Amy could borrow her make-up kit. Amy arranged to drive to Llandeilo the following morning to pick it up. She would have to miss the lesson – Maintaining Your Vehicle’s Bodywork – but too bad.

Amy walked back along the high street. The church clock struck six. Swallows still swooped in the sky but soon they would be gone. She felt a surge of exhilaration. How chancy it all was; how fragile the moment that might change one’s life! If Ellie had been away on a job … if Neville hadn’t spotted a clump of mint growing in her front garden … Already she was racing ahead of herself; nothing might come of this – indeed, it probably wouldn’t. And yet she felt flooded with joy, smiling at a pink-haired woman who was locking up the magic crystals shop. Amy strode along the pavement breathing in great lungfuls of the invigorating Welsh air. Even her stomach ache was gone.

At dinner Rosemary, eyes puffy from crying, was knocking back the wine. She said that a man had tried to pick her up when she was standing at the bypass, talking on her mobile. ‘So thrilling – at my age, too. He stopped his van and asked me how much I charged.’ She gave a shrill laugh. ‘They obviously like the older, more experienced woman here.’

Voda, who was collecting the plates, asked: ‘What sort of van?’

‘Blue, covered in rust.’

‘Thought so.’ Voda nodded, her earrings swinging. ‘That’ll be Gareth. He’s got brain damage from sniffing the paraffin.’

Rosemary put down her glass. ‘Thanks for that,’ she said.

Something had been unleashed in Nolan. He had never talked about his mother like that – certainly not with his mates. They talked about cars and motorbikes and getting stoned on the various illegal substances that were swilling around the council estates of Knockton and the badlands up in the hills. They used to talk about girls, of course, but various pregnancies, and the ensuing shackled domesticity, had put paid to that. The erstwhile hellraisers could now be seen at the playground, acne still inflaming their cheeks, smoking a furtive cigarette while their toddlers ran amok.

No, mates didn’t talk like that. But then this girl appears out of the blue and suddenly the words pour out of his mouth. Until that moment Nolan hadn’t even known the words existed. Was that because Amy had spoken the truth?
If she got well, you’d leave
. Now he thought about it, several of his romances had been sabotaged by some medical or emotional crisis in Shirley’s life. He remembered a cancer scare putting the kibosh on a weekend in Aberystwyth with Cath. He had gone out with Cath for six months; to celebrate, she had booked them into a fancy hotel in Aberystwyth – en suite jacuzzi, the works. Instead, he’d had to drive his mother on a mercy dash to Hereford hospital where a contemptuous nurse had diagnosed a mild case of vaginal warts. The ensuing row with Cath – she accusing him of being a mother’s boy, he accusing her of being hard-hearted, she demanding he pay the lost deposit, he accusing her of meanness, she accusing him of being a loser, him accusing her of kicking him when he was down, he was busting himself to find a job … even now he shuddered to think about it. And a year later she got married to his best mate.

It was six o’clock; work was over for the day. Nolan stood at the kitchen sink, washing his hands with Swarfega. Outside, swallows swooped low over the rooftops. He was exhausted. Teaching was harder work than he had imagined; the trouble was, none of the students had a clue. To them, a car was simply something that got them from A to B. They seemed to have no curiosity at all about what went on under the bonnet. Of course they made polite noises, they were by and large a pleasant bunch, but some of them had already drifted off to join a rival group making jewellery. He had seen them in the garden, heads bent over their work, chattering away as if released from prison. One of them had come over and touched his arm. ‘It’s no reflection on you, honestly. It’s just that we’ve realised why we weren’t interested in the first place.’

There had been no sign of Amy all morning. He had scanned the necklace-makers, of course, but he hadn’t expected to see her there – he had never met a girl who took so little interest in her appearance. This was something of a surprise, considering her job; perhaps all her efforts went into making other people beautiful. In fact, she wasn’t bad-looking – a round, merry face; freckles; flyaway reddish hair cut into a fringe. But she dressed like a tomboy in jeans and T-shirt, her feet grubby in flip-flops. This was a relief; he didn’t have to make an effort. If he had a gang, which he didn’t any more, she would be an honorary member.

Suddenly Nolan was weak with a longing for his youth, when things were simple, when his mother danced with him around the kitchen. When he had a gang, as hopeful as himself. When anything was possible – he would be a Formula One driver, he would take the world by storm. He would walk tall; men would look up when he entered the pub.

Now, as he pulled off the kitchen towel, he thought: How can I be a grown man when there’s no world for me to be a grown man in? Just now he had a job, just for a week, and then what?

It was a brief moment. Nolan was an optimist, he mustn’t think these thoughts. He dried his hands. Amy was due at his house at six thirty. As luck would have it, his mother Shirley had gone out for the evening. She had an appointment with an aromatherapist in Leominster, and was then meeting her sister for a curry. But would Amy turn up? Maybe she had been summoned by a famous film star!
I’m not going in front of the cameras unless Amy does my make-up. Call the girl here!
At this very moment Amy was bowling back to London, her engine overheating due to that familiar Punto problem, a blocked rad – a problem he had meant to address before he was diverted by talk of horror movies. And then Miss Long Legs had arrived in her BMW and it was too late.

At that moment the doorbell rang.

Shirley was already in a bad mood by the time they arrived at the Jalalabad. During the massage she had listened to her sister, in the next cubicle, boasting about her children’s achievements at school. Julia had then gone on to talk about her relationship with her husband, how they were still besotted with each other after twenty years of marriage, how he had bought her a set of Ann Summers underwear for her birthday. Her voice had sunk to a whisper, then she and the aromatherapist had burst into giggles.

And now they were sitting at a table opening their menus, she and Julia – Julia the slim sister, the pretty sister, the sister who still had great sex with her husband, the sister tanned from her holiday in Thailand. When Julia dropped her napkin, two waiters dived for the floor.

Shirley ordered three poppadoms for herself, for starters.

Julia raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure you should?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing!’

It escalated from there. They were sisters; they knew each other’s raw spots. Soon they were hissing at each other across the table, ignoring the waiter who was hovering nearby, ignoring the glances of the other diners. Later, Shirley couldn’t remember the breaking point; it would be one of three or four, they were always the same. All she remembered was pushing back her chair and saying ‘I don’t need this.’

She got up with a stagy flourish, a toss of her head – an actress, just for a moment – and stalked out into the street.

Driving home, seething, her stomach rumbling with hunger, Shirley thought: Serve her right if I crash! See her face then! It was only seven thirty but already dark. She opened the glovebox with one hand and rummaged around; as she suspected, she found nothing but wrappers. Panic rose in her throat but she told herself to calm down. Soon she would be home and Nolan would give her a hug. All the pent-up tears would come tumbling out; Nolan would understand, he was on her side, he hated that stuck-up bitch too, he would defend his mother to the death. They would get stuff from the freezer – chicken tikka, rogan josh – stick it in the microwave and have their
own
Indian meal. She’d been mad to visit her sister, it always ended in tears. In fact she’d been mad to go out at all – what was the point when she had everything she needed at home? Besides, she never had anything to wear.

Shirley pulled up outside her house and switched off the engine. A profound feeling of relief spread through her. Lights glowed through the lounge curtains. Nolan was home. How surprised he would be, to see her back so early!

She walked up the path and let herself into the house. A murmur of voices came from the lounge. Opening the door, she peered in.

A young woman was bent over Nolan. He sat slumped in the armchair, his head flung back. His face was covered in blood.

Shirley screamed.

‘Hi, Ma.’ Nolan sat up. His cheeks were crusted with gore; one eye hung down his cheek.

Shirley screamed again. A sharp pain shot across her chest and she fell onto the floor.

Buffy gazed fondly at his guests as they sat down to dinner. Several of them wore their new earrings; they glinted in the candlelight. Day two and things were going swimmingly. Who cared if some of them had abandoned car maintenance and taken up jewellery-making instead? Anything to keep them happy and Nolan hadn’t seemed to mind. If Buffy had learned anything in life, it was that nothing goes according to plan.

Take India. Until recently she had been a Shoreditch girl, her world boundaried by Brick Lane and Columbia Road. In Buffy’s view its inhabitants scored highly on the wankerometer but he was an old fart, he would think that. Now, however, his stepdaughter was a breathless convert to the delights of small-town living. Everybody knew everybody! They left their bikes unchained! They left vegetables outside their doors with a sign saying
Help Yourself
. Instead of being spattered with vomit, the pavements were chalked with hopscotch.
Hopscotch
.

Nor, until recently, had India shown the slightest interest in cooking. Her usual meal, he seemed to remember, was hummus, scooped out of the tub with her finger. Now she had become an enthusiastic sous-chef, chopping, stirring, testing recipes and sipping sauces from Voda’s outstretched spoon.

This volte-face pleased him hugely, of course, as did her high spirits, especially as his sons had told him how gloomy India had been recently. She was also taking more care of her appearance. Tonight she had brushed her hair and clipped it up with two plastic butterflies. She was also wearing a flowery granny-dress, bought from Jill’s Things in the high street, a change from her usual baggy layers and leggings. It was only now, however, that Buffy realised the reason for this transformation. It wasn’t the cooking that had brought a flush to her cheeks; it was Des.

Des, the only man on the course. Des, who due to his shyness had been the object of some speculation. He was a sandy-haired chap, a rugby player; BMW Bella had attempted to chat him up on the first evening but had met with little response except for the fact that he had been given a car by a mate of his who had lost his licence for drink-driving. A broken relationship didn’t seem to have been involved, but then it hadn’t in her case either. Despite having this in common Bella had made little headway with Des, a matter of some gratification to Buffy whose loyalties lay with his stepdaughter.

For now he was recognising the telltale signs. Tonight’s starter was artichokes. He watched India squat down beside Des, who was looking bemused at the object on his plate, and demonstrate how to eat it. India even pulled off a leaf and tore at it with her teeth. All the while she was smiling at him, balancing herself against him as she swayed on her haunches. Des said something and she burst out laughing – a shrill, flirtatious laugh that suggested it wasn’t that funny but she was giving him the benefit of the doubt because she fancied him.

Buffy smiled to himself as he uncorked the wine. When he had thought up his plan he’d had a vision of battle-scarred veterans like himself, casualties of the war between the sexes, pitching up at his establishment and finding comfort in each other’s arms. He himself had retired from the field, a grizzled soldier weighed down with medals for service in dangerous and hostile terrain, but was on hand to give advice. India had not figured in this scenario but then, as he had noticed, nothing goes according to plan.