Too Close For Comfort (21 page)

‘So have I,’ she said, cutting straight across me. ‘This isn’t working, is it? This isn’t like – cosy girl time. This is you doing your
job
.’ She spat out the word like it was something poisonous.

I put a hand back to steady myself and hit the banister, which was piled with coats. I could feel the plasticky fabric of Saffron’s beloved pink raincoat sticking to my palm.

‘You asked me to talk to your friends!’ I said, my voice rising with the unfairness of it. ‘I would never have agreed to do this if you’d said when I came back from the
police station you didn’t want me to.’

Lysette’s mouth twisted into a rotten flower. ‘This isn’t me throwing you out, but I think you should stay somewhere else.’

Why do women fight so dirty? Lies and half-truths are so much more toxic than a sucker punch.

‘That’s fine, but just out of interest, how is that not you throwing me out?’ I could feel the blood rushing to my face, a crimson tide. ‘Which part of the sentence you
just uttered isn’t that?’

‘You saw Max today, didn’t you? That’s why you’re all perky and pleased with yourself. You cosied up to him yesterday, in my garden, and now he’s part of your
investigation.’

‘I’m not investigating anything!’ I snapped. ‘I’m here to provide support. And trust me, that child needs some. Whatever else it is you’re all worrying about,
that’s where the fire is!’

‘You don’t know anything.’

‘Too right,’ I said. ‘You don’t
tell
me anything, but I know enough to be really worried about you.’ There was a crack in my voice, a gap
we could’ve squeezed through and found a softer place. I saw something flicker in her eyes, took a risk. ‘I heard you – I heard a bit of what you were talking about with the girls
in the kitchen.’

The second I’d said it, I knew it was a disaster. Her eyes widened in shock, her skin paling, before she quickly reframed her reaction.

‘I can’t believe you’d do that – spying on us! What the fuck was wrong with you that night?’

‘I’m sorry? What was wrong with me? You were pissed out of your face by the time we left.’

I could hear it, our fifteen-year-old selves creeping into this argument and robbing us of any restraint.

‘Kimberley told me what you did.’

My hands were balled up into fists now. ‘No,
I
told you what
Kimberley
did.’

‘Rifling through her stuff, sneaking around. She said you could barely stand up. She tried to steady you, and you completely freaked out and shoved her. She’s upset, Mia.’

I could barely speak through my rage. ‘What, and you believe her over me? Your . . .’ I paused, humiliated by the fact that I had to. ‘Your friend you’ve known for more
than twenty years?’

Lysette shrugged. ‘Thing is, Mia, you’ve never been able to handle your drink. You never built up any tolerance.’

It was another crossroads, a chance to turn left. I didn’t do it: I simply put my foot down and accelerated. ‘The state you were in after Sarah’s funeral . . .’

Now it was Lysette who looked humiliated: I could tell immediately she’d already had her own dark night of the soul about that.
I hate hurting you
: the words
stayed buried deep inside me, no use to anyone there.

She might have had secret words of her own, but the ones that came out were missiles. ‘What, your friend Sarah you’re so desperate to help?’ she hissed. ‘Sarah never
asked for diagnosis of her son.’ Her eyes were like slits. ‘HER son.’

‘Don’t you . . . I
know
that. I’m just trying to give him a place where he can express what he’s feeling. Surely she would want that?’

Lysette’s self-righteous zeal suddenly seemed to drain away, grief flooding into the gap.

‘You didn’t know her!’ she said, tears threatening. ‘You don’t know what she would’ve wanted. No one knew her, not really. And now it’s such a mess . . .’

I should’ve heard what it was she was saying, the clue she was giving me about how perilous the situation really was, but I was too focused on Max.

‘He’s hurting so much,’ I said softly.

‘And one plus one equals two,’ she said, her mood taking another handbrake turn. ‘I hate to break it to you, but motherhood isn’t quite as easy as it looks on the
tin.’

It wasn’t just the words; it was the pleasure she took in uttering them.

‘Thanks for the advice,’ I spat, already halfway up the stairs. ‘Let’s just hope I get the chance to practise.’

I threw everything into my bag, gave the hated lilo a childish kick and slammed the door, with its peeling blue paint, as hard as I could behind me.

He asked me if I thought something had started, and I said I didn’t know. It was hard to focus. My head was pounding, and my tongue felt like a piece of
stinky old carpet. Staying up till three when the alarm – six years old and full of beans – goes off at seven, is not my idea of fun. Not when you’ve been lying there, heart
racing almost as fast as your brain, trying to work out what’s true.

Has something started? He’s gone away now, three whole days. I’m trying not to think whether she’s gone with him. Trying to scrub the thought out, not give
in to my stalker tendencies. I’ve always been an excellent stalker. Should’ve been a spy, not a waitress. I should’ve been a lot of things instead of this – he tells me the
same all the time. He’s going to find out I lost my job when he gets back. I’ll have to make something up. If I tell him the truth he’ll think I’m a spoilt little bitch.
He’ll have that disappointed face, like he wishes I could be the person he can see in the distance, rather than the fucked up one who’s right there in his eye-line spoiling the
view.

He called me tonight. He said he couldn’t help it, had one thing on his mind. I wish I only had one thing on my mind. It’s a playground or a jungle in there
depending what day it is. It’s definitely a jungle today. And in fact, the playground’s the biggest jungle of my life. There are predators in there that want to flat out destroy me. No
sign of her today. Normally I’d have been pleased, but today – with him away – it just made the snakes worse. They writhe around inside me, invisible to anyone else, waiting to
poison me.

That’s why I got him off the phone as quick as I could – I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Max said he didn’t want to go for a drive and neither did
Woody, but I told them if we did we could stop for a McDonald’s on the way back. Then he put his red coat on over his pyjamas, quick as a flash.

Her lights were on, but that doesn’t mean anything. If I’d been on my own, I’d have stayed there, kept scoping it out, but I’m a good mum, or at least
I try to be. Even if I let him have a Big Mac after he’d brushed his teeth.

I thought I’d drop dead tonight, the sleep deprivation kicking in hard, but instead I’m sitting up writing this. If he doesn’t love me, if he loves her, I
don’t think I can stand it. I can’t lose to her, not after all of this. I need a plan. No, I need something bigger – a strategy, a new way of life.

The truth is, the only way I can survive this is if she doesn’t.

Rita’s arms were folded across her ample chest. A thick gold necklace lay against her sun-scorched skin, her black neckline scooping low enough to expose the top of her
mountainous breasts.

‘I thought you said it was small . . .’ she said.

It was lunchtime: I could see a few punters casting curious glances in our direction, the visiting media types standing out like sore thumbs. At least it would make it easy to dodge them.

‘Well, no, you said that. I mean, it
is
small, but I do need somewhere.’ She looked distinctly unimpressed. ‘It’s cosy. And the pub’s so
lovely. You really are the heart of the village . . .’

She left me hanging for a few seconds, then uncrossed her arms and gave me a semblance of a smile.

‘Fine. But the rate I gave your fiancé was for mid-week. If you’re staying over the weekend it’ll be another matter.’

‘Of course,’ I said, through gritted teeth.

She looked at my wheelie case and holdall, which were languishing on the stained carpet.

‘Haven’t got much anyway, have you?’

I’d already worked out that I’d left my electric toothbrush at Lysette’s, and I was sure it would only be the first thing on a long list.

‘No. I’m going back to London next week,’ I said. ‘In fact, how’s the Wi-Fi? I’m doing sessions with clients on Skype.’

Rita subtly rolled her kohl-lined eyes.

‘I’ll find you the key.’

*

I sat down heavily on the doll-sized bed, patting the surface as if it would somehow conjure Patrick up, like a genie from a lamp. I’d already tried him three times,
without success. I looked yet again at my stubbornly blank phone screen. I couldn’t believe that Lysette hadn’t called me to apologise after delivering such a cruel parting shot.

I was hunched over the tiny sink, pushing some toothpaste around my mouth with my finger, when my phone finally rang. I snatched it up too fast to even see the name.

‘What are you and Lysette playing at?’

Really? Jim?

‘Has the bush telegraph delivered you a message already?’

‘You’d be surprised, Mia, we’ve had telephones for a couple of years now. There’s talk of these – computers?’

I sank back onto the bed.

‘It’s not actually funny,’ I said.

‘I do know that,’ he said, his voice warm and strangely comforting. ‘Where are you anyway?’

I paused a second. ‘The Black Bull.’

‘What, is Rita giving you the stink eye? Hold your nerve, I’ll come and take you for lunch.’

‘No, don’t, I’ve got loads of stuff to do.’

I realised as I said it that it wasn’t strictly true. In London I was continuously busy, continuously moaning about it, but here there were moments of elasticity in my days, time
stretching out like a rope unfurling itself.

‘Yeah, and you need to eat. I know what you and Lys are like,’ he said. ‘You’re feeling like shit. I’m on my way.’

And with that, he put the phone down. I thought about ringing him back, protesting, but hunger and distress had made me weak.

That was what I told myself, anyway.

*

Jim strode into the pub, scoping out the bar as he did so. He wore expensive-looking jeans, artfully scuffed Converse, a white T-shirt with an unzipped black hoodie flung over
the top. It was odd, the way this new Jim was layered over the Jim who’d been my everything – that rangy, self-confident teen with the world at his feet. Sometimes, despite the paunch
and the whisper of grey at his temples, they didn’t seem so different. I bet he loved all the attention he was inevitably getting from the keen young things, hair in bunches, who ran round
after him on set. I was sipping an orange juice and soda in the furthest corner. I jumped up, slightly too grateful for the hug that he enveloped me in. Today had almost broken me.

‘Shall we go?’ I said, voice low, directly into his ear. Rita’s eyes, as bright and sharp as broken glass, were trained on me. I pulled away.

‘Let’s stay here. The cheeseburger’s great. There’s no way I’m going for a stale ham sandwich at The Crumpet.’

Two places – that was it. The world of Little Copping felt like it was shrink-wrapped, and I was no more than a tiny, shrunken thing trapped inside.

‘OK,’ I said, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. ‘Jim, did she call you?’

‘Let’s just get a drink, OK? Do you want a vodka in that?’

‘Of course not,’ I said, trying not to imagine the delicious anaesthesia of it. I was seeing one of the teachers in a couple of hours. What was wrong with me?

‘Fine. I’m ordering cheeseburgers. I saw the way you scoped out the sausage rolls so I know you’ve not gone vegan.’

He grinned to himself, headed for the bar. I sat back down, my body unclenching itself as I watched his retreating back. Rita looked positively animated as they chatted, Jim slapping down a
£20 note on the bar. How was this life big enough for him? Or was that the point – it allowed him to be a big fish in a small pond and never have to reflect on the larger dreams that
had got washed away in the process? He came back, putting a pint down on the table.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said. ‘I start shooting at the end of next week. The hours are brutal – I’m not just asking people if
zey
dreamed about a phallus
.’

His comedy German accent was quite funny, but unfortunately for him I’d had a sense of humour bypass.

‘My job is a huge responsibility,’ I snapped. ‘I support people through the most devastating things.’

I knew as soon as I said it that it wasn’t really him I was snapping at.

‘OK, OK,’ he said, putting up his palm, that smirk of his still threatening. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, aware what bad company I was being. I hated the fact that I sort of needed him – I comforted myself with the idea that it was a small need, in perfect
proportion to the shrink-wrapped claustrophobia of Little Copping itself. ‘I’m just upset. What did she say to you?’

His pause was almost the worst part. For Jim to bother to reflect on how to tell me – to reflect on anything, come to that – it had to be pretty bad. ‘She’s upset too,
Mia. She’s not being herself. She’ll calm down.’

‘Oh what, so it’s all my fault? All I was trying to do was comfort a traumatised child. His father certainly seemed to appreciate that.’ Did I really know that? I paused, took
a sip of my orange juice. ‘Perhaps his mother would’ve done too.’

I’d said it. I’d invoked Saint Sarah, the hallowed friend that Lysette had turned into a deity.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ said Jim soberly.

‘Why maybe?’ I said, my voice rising. I saw a couple of heads twitch in our direction and I reined myself in. ‘I’m so sick of everyone talking in riddles. What possible
reason would there be for her to not want her only child to be allowed a safe place to grieve for her?’

Rita was bearing down on us now, the greasy-looking cheeseburgers wobbling menacingly on our plates.