Somebody to Love: Sigh With Contentment, Scream With Frustration. At Time You Will Weep. (7 page)

‘Hey, little one, how are you doing, hmm?’ Donna crouched down to trail the pad of her finger the length of his velvet-soft nose.

‘All right, hon?’ She blinked lovingly at him. Findus stopped gnawing his carrot to fix her with one sideways bright eye.

‘You’re all fur, aren’t you, sweetie, hey?’ Donna continued to stroke him, gentle strokes over his head — careful to avoid his sensitive ears — and down his back, feeling the fragility of his little bones beneath her fingers. ‘A big furry fluff-ball, aren’t you?’

She reached to gather him up, as Findus warmed to her touch, always a bit wary, being a one guy kind of rabbit. ‘A gorgeous, big, furry fluff-ball,’ she cooed.

Findus observed her, unmoved, bar a twitch or two of his nose.

Donna smiled and twitched, and then kissed him; she couldn’t resist. ‘Smitten, aren’t I, sweetie, hey?’ She laughed as Findus offered her another startled twitch back, then held him close to pop him back safe in his cage.

‘Between you and me, I think I might be smitten with another gorgeous guy, Findus,’ she confided, nuzzling his cheek as she carried him there. ‘And I’m not sure I want to be,’ she fluffed up his hay and encouraged Findus to find his way home, ‘because I’m not sure I can give all of me.

‘So what should I do?’ she asked herself more than Findus, as she closed the cage door. Not that there was anything much
to
do, now she’d more or less told Mark where to go. She sighed again, then smiled, as Findus demonstrated his thoughts on the subject and hopped merrily into bed.

‘Hmm? I suspect this is more the male point of view, Findus,’ she told him, making sure the door was closed tight, then checking Sadie was safe on her chair, before trailing upstairs in search of sports gear that wouldn’t make her look like the back end of a bus. Should she ring Mark back, she debated. She could always say she was calling about the damp jacket he’d left behind when he’d read his urgent text. He couldn’t be very authoritative in only half a police uniform, after all. She walked over to where she’d hung it on the wardrobe door to dry. Brushed a bit of fluff from it. Trailed her hand over it. Sniffed it.

It smelled of him. She breathed deep the citrussy scent of his aftershave.
Joop Homme
. Yes, definitely,
Joop
. She’d identified it in her lunch hour at Boots. Orange blossom, cinnamon, jasmine accented with amber, cedar, vanilla — and pure essence of man.

It suited him.

No, she couldn’t ring him. Even if he wanted to speak to her, she’d be doing it for all the wrong reasons. She had another quick sniff, then wandered across the room to peer into drawers, hoping for inspiration. She’d be ringing him out of guilt and guilt was a problem she’d struggled with throughout her marriage. Jeremy always seemed to make her feel as if everything was her fault if they argued, jumping on her every mood, asking casually if it was ‘that time of the month’ whenever she’d been upset over things he’d said, and done, and had been doing for a very long time behind her back. She’d been such a fool to let him treat her so badly.

But Mark wasn’t Jeremy.

Mark was nice. She was beginning to think that that’s what she would have found at the core of him, if only she’d given him a chance. No hidden depths or dark secrets, just niceness.

Jeremy was most definitely not nice.

His overt condescension hadn’t taught her that. It was a combination of things. The way he’d laugh at her, belittling her in front of friends. Drawling, ‘Donna’s domestic Goddess gene doesn’t work very well, does it, darling?’ when she’d spent hours in the kitchen and things had gone a bit awry. He’d create situations where he
could
laugh at her. He knew she was terrified of spiders. He’d pretended to throw one at her once. It was just a crinkled-up leaf from a plant, but Donna hadn’t known that when it landed in her hair. They’d had company around that time, too. She’d been hysterical and the man she’d once thought herself safe with had laughed at her.

And then, when the guests had gone, they would argue and Jeremy would stomp about and bang things and shout.

He’d scared her. Donna shuddered involuntarily and reminded herself never, ever, would she go there again.

Mark scared her too, she supposed, though in a completely different way than Jeremy. No one could be as perfect as he seemed. Donna didn’t want be there when the gloss wore off. When Mark got bored and stopped trying. The opposite of love, it seemed to Donna, wasn’t hate. It was indifference: Treating a person as if they were nothing more than a mild irritation, or didn’t exist at all.

No, she wouldn’t ring him, she decided, pouring herself into her too-tight sweatpants and vowing to diet immediately after she’d finished her bar of Cadbury’s Whole Nut.

What happened with Jeremy wasn’t Mark’s fault, but she couldn’t go through that again. Donna honestly didn’t know whether she was damaged goods now, or whether she’d never functioned properly in the first place, inviting a man into her life who didn’t truly care for her. Whatever, she didn’t feel able to cope with the aftermath if she made the same mistake all over again with Mark.

And she could, quite easily.

Except… it was all history now, wasn’t it? And if it wasn’t, it soon would be if he caught a glimpse of her in this little lot. Donna appraised herself in the mirror, rolled her eyes and hastily tugged off a breast-flattening vest in favour of baggy. Finally, as ready as she could be in mismatching sports gear, she wrestled her hair into a band and dashed downstairs.

‘Bye, baby.’ She kissed Sadie, left Matt pizza money — he being out, having progressed from Facebook to face-to-face with a girl, and plucked up her car keys.

Just as she reached the front door, the phone rang. Donna’s mouth went dry. She glanced at the caller display. It was Mark. Her heart boomed against her chest as she plucked up the receiver.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘It’s me. How are you?’

Donna took a breath. ‘The same as I was earlier. Okay, you know.’

‘Any chance you’ve changed your mind? About dinner?’

Donna chewed on her lip.
Say yes. Say yes
, a little voice said in her head.
Go back upstairs, put on some make-up, pick out your best dress and say yes. ‘
I can’t, Mark, not tonight. I…’

‘Look, Donna, don’t blow me off again,’ he said quickly. ‘I understand. You don’t want to get too involved. Can’t we just talk though, over coffee maybe?’

Donna agonised. ‘Mark, I can’t tonight, really. I have to meet my sister.’

‘Tomorrow?’

Donna closed her eyes. ‘I… I’m not sure. I have something on,’ she said, part of her backsliding already. ‘Can I call you?’

‘Okay,’ Mark said, with an audible sigh. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you, then. Bye, Donna.’

****

Would she call? Mark didn’t think so. Well, he’d tried. There was nothing else he could do, short of driving past her house with blue lights flashing and a banner flying behind saying, “Donna O’Connor will you please give me a bloody chance?’

Not much point if she really wasn’t interested. He supposed he should just forget about her and move on. He’d got too much on his plate already anyway. Pulling in a breath, he started the engine, then switched off again as his mobile rang. Noting the number he didn’t hesitate to answer, though he was disappointed it wasn’t Donna.

‘Hi, Dad. What’s happening?’

‘Power’s gone off.’ His dad sighed. ‘Lights, TV, cooker, the lot. Just wondered if you knew of a decent electrician, rather than me sticking a needle in the old Yellow Pages?’

‘Not one who’s likely to come at short notice, no. You’re sure it’s not just a bulb blown, or something?’

‘Oh, that would do it, would it?’ his dad asked, sounding slightly embarrassed.

Mark guessed why. Working away from home most his married life meant his dad didn’t have a clue about maintaining a house. It had been hard on his mum sometimes, harder when she’d realised it wasn’t all work that kept him away. It was hard on the old man now though. His guilt weighed heavy, Mark knew.

‘That, or a short in the supply somewhere,’ he suggested. ‘You’ll need to flip the switch on the fuse… No. No, leave it.’

Mark pictured his dad struggling to climb the ladder to reach the fuse box. Uh-uh, not with his dodgy hip. ‘Stay where you are, Dad. I’m on my way.’

****

Twenty minutes later, Mark headed through his father’s kitchen with the stepladder. ‘All done,’ he said to his dad, who was standing at the table, looking awkward and out of place in a room that was once solely his wife’s domain.

‘There’s a torch in the utility,’ Mark offered, noting his dad was scraping spilled candle-wax from the table. ‘Mum kept one in the cupboard for emergencies.’

‘Ah.’ His dad smiled. Stiffly, Mark noticed. His dad hadn’t smiled much since his mum died. That was the trouble with regrets, Mark supposed. Life had a habit of moving on before you could do anything about them.

No point in his dad beating himself up about it now though, or for Mark to be laying blame. His dad was getting older, confused sometimes, and, God knew, Mark had a few regrets of his own. The past was the past, best left where it was, he reckoned. Life was just too short to be agonising over stuff you couldn’t change.

‘Do you fancy some tea?’ he asked, trying to ease the awkwardness between them.

‘I’ll get it.’ His father insisted, turning to stride to the cooker, still the proud man with a razor sharp memory Mark had always known his father to be, so long as he wasn’t trying to recall what happened yesterday.

Years ago, no problem. That was his dad’s yesterday nowadays. ‘Brought Emma with you, have you?’ His father asked as he filled kettle, confirming Mark’s fear that he was getting more confused.

‘No, Dad.’ Mark dragged a hand through his hair. ‘We, er… We split, Dad, remember?’

His dad furrowed his brow. ‘Oh. Yes. Sorry, lad. I get a bit forgetful sometimes.’

‘Don’t we all?’ Mark made light of it, because he knew his dad hated being reminded about his incompetent memory. He’d have to organise some home help for him at some point. ‘I’ll just go and…’ He nodded towards the stairs, then went off to scout about for other candles that might inadvertently be left burning.

‘I’ve got some of that walnut coffee cake in, if you fancy some,’ his dad called after him. ‘Your mother’s cake was always better, of course.’

Mark paused on the stairs.

His dad didn’t often talk about his mum, but when he did his tone was always tinged with remorse. Mark had been furious with him, initially, but now… Whatever he’d done, it was enough for Mark that he knew how much hurt he caused.

‘Man after my own heart, Dad,’ he called back, then swallowed quietly as he peered into his parents’ bedroom; at the bed where his mum had sat once, quietly crying. That was the only time Mark had seen her cry. He’d known she was, though she wouldn’t admit it, dabbing quickly at her eyes when he came into the room.

She was fine, she’d assured him, telling him to get off and see to his own problems, of which she knew Mark and Emma had plenty, Karl being at the stage where he seemed to be unlearning all that he’d learned. She hadn’t been fine though. Mark had heard the arguments and the loaded silences when he’d visited thereafter. He’d gleaned his dad had had ‘a fling’ while working away.

It was later though, while his dad kept up a vigil at his mum’s side at the hospital, that Mark had learned how much of a fling.

His mum had been taken ill so suddenly, it shocked both of them. Mark recalled with familiar sadness how she’d seemed to lose weight overnight. She wasn’t going to make it, they’d realised that as they’d watched her slip silently into unconsciousness. Needing to confess, Mark supposed, his dad had started talking to him, telling him how, as the sales director for Mercedes Benz in Japan — where there was cachet in owning a European car, he’d been kept busy; too busy to come home sometimes. There were times, though, he’d admitted, not meeting Mark’s eyes, when he could have come home, and he hadn’t… because he’d had a longstanding relationship with another woman.

That’s what had made his mother cry openly that day, Mark realised then. She’d obviously found out. And his father had examined his conscience every day since, living a frugal existence, donating all of his mother’s insurance payout — other than that which he’d put in trust for Karl — to the hospice. Cutting himself off from the company.

Mark knew it was his father’s way of trying to make amends. He wished he wouldn’t; isolation seeming only to exacerbate his confusion. Knew also that he had to let any resentment he might have go. At the end of the day, hadn’t he walked away from his responsibilities, too? He didn’t blame Emma for leaving, not really. He should have been listening, not getting to work as fast as he could, leaving Emma to cope on her own with Karl, to feel utterly alone. Mark knew how that felt now.

He closed the bedroom door and went back down to the kitchen, where his father was slicing up the coffee cake. He definitely looked older. The perpetual swarthy tan had gone and there was a slight stoop to his shoulder. No, there was no point raking over old coals.

‘Your mum was a good cook, you know?’ his dad said, glancing at Mark, nostalgia shot through with sadness in his eyes.

‘I know, Dad.’ Mark nodded and went to pour the tea.

‘Upstairs, is she?’ his dad asked.

Mark tensed. This was not good. ‘No, Dad. You know she’s not,’ Mark reminded him gently. He looked back at his dad now seated back at the farmhouse table. The same table his mum had stripped of ‘atrocious’ gloss paint and lovingly restored. That was the abiding smell of home Mark always remembered, wax polish, and home-baked cake.

‘There’s plenty,’ his dad said, eyeing the cake, then Mark hopefully. ‘I like to keep some in for…’

… when Mark ever bought Karl round, Mark knew his dad wanted to add. He would bring him, he decided, at the weekend, though the chances of Karl eating anything unfamiliar were nil. His last tantrum in mind, when his food wasn’t arranged on his plate as he needed it to be, coffee cake would be more than Mark dared to put in front of him. He’d need to visit before then though, he suspected, his father forgetting — or more likely not bothering — to keep much else food-wise in.