He’s not sure how to answer this statement. It’s an emotive subject, a sensitive topic. So many variables and possibilities. So much that can go wrong.
‘And with me not having Stuart around any more, I suppose it’s never going to happen, is it? Time is against me.’
They reach the car before he can reply which he thinks is probably for the best. He presses the key fob and opens the passenger door for her to climb inside, relieved that she’s still smiling. Relieved that she hasn’t turned around and fled. This is how grief works. So much unsaid. So much left undone. He thinks about her husband, his death and how little she has said about him. Soon he will ask, but not just yet. They have time enough to cover that area of her life. For now, he’s content to just be with her.
‘Right,’ he murmurs, thankful the moment of awkwardness has passed, ‘let’s see if that daughter of mine is up out of bed, shall we?’
The journey takes just a few minutes. He breaks the silence by turning on the radio and humming along, a deep thud starting up under his sternum as the music fills the air around them.
They pull up outside the house and he can see that Lauren’s curtains are pulled back, the window cracked open slightly. He wonders if she has a hangover and then thinks about how reckless he was at that age, drinking everything and anything just because he could. He likes to think that his daughter has a little more about her, a greater level of sensibility and decorum, and fewer bad influences driving her on, but isn’t entirely sure.
‘Well, it looks like she’s out of bed,’ he says, traces of optimism in his voice as they step out of the car.
He slips the key into the lock and opens the front door, the smell of fresh coffee wafting through as they head into the kitchen.
Lauren is sitting at the table, her hands clasped around a large mug, her eyes rimmed with smudged mascara, a haunted look carved into her expression.
‘Good party?’ He leans down and kisses the top of her head, something he hasn’t done for a long time. There seem to be a lot of things they have forgotten how to do. Like being truthful and honest.
She doesn’t reply, closing her eyes and taking another sip of the steaming liquid instead.
‘Lauren, there’s somebody I’d like you to meet. This is Alice. Remember I told you I was going out for coffee?’
He is relieved when she stands up and holds out her hand like the polite young woman that she is, even though she is clearly suffering from a mammoth hangover.
‘Lovely to meet you, Alice. I’m Lauren.’
They shake hands like old friends and a small blossom of joy unfurls deep in his chest, green shoots of hope that this thing is going the way he wants it to. Every act of kindness and joy is a step closer to eradicating the badness, the festering darkness that sits at the base of his belly, clawing its way up, reminding him of the past. Of what he did.
‘Right,’ he says a little too loudly, clapping his hands together for added effect as if to scare away the demons that continually nudge their way into his brain. ‘Who’s for more coffee?’
11ALICE
She’s perfect. Everything I hoped for and more. Amenable, gracious, affable. I have a feeling this is all going to work out just fine. I have to remember keep my cool, not get too over excited at being welcomed into their little family unit. I don’t want to reveal my hand too early in the game. Not when there is so much at stake. I have a lot to gain from this venture. I also have a lot to lose should it stray off course.
‘Lauren, I love the way you’ve styled your hair. I wish mine would look like that. I’ve got dry, frizzy, split ends. I can’t seem to do anything with it.’
She runs her fingers through her curls then reaches out and touches my hair, her fingers long and lean, her nails painted a pale shade of pink. ‘It’s lovely, your hair, but I could curl it for you one day, if you like? It’s really easy to do.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Peter smiling, a relief evident in his features. He is as happy about this little set-up as I am. Except my reasons are different to his. Very different indeed. If only he knew, then he might not be standing there grinning, his face soft and gentle, his eyes full of hope and wonderment.
‘That would be great. I’d really love some kind of hair makeover. I’m useless with things like that.’ My voice sounds disembodied. I’ve rehearsed this scenario in my head so many times and now it’s happening, it feels surreal. It’s like an out-of-body experience. I’m floating up above this, watching it all as it unfurls, my mouth saying the words while my brain is disengaged, busy observing it from afar.
‘Well, next time you come around, I’ll have my things ready. It’s just that today, I’m a bit under the weather.’
‘Under the weather?’ Peter stands beside us, laughing. ‘That’s the best euphemism I’ve ever heard. Did a bottle of vodka do that to you, put you under the weather?’
Lauren blushes and dips her head away, sliding down into the chair again and groaning. ‘Oh God, don’t. I am my own worst enemy. Never again.’
‘You’re also underage, young lady,’ he whispers and ruffles her hair playfully. ‘Come on, Alice. Let’s head into the living room and let Lauren recover in peace.’
I follow him out of the kitchen into an average-sized living room. In the centre is a small, oak coffee table. On either side are two cream, leather sofas. There are pictures on the wall. A shelf full of books. Pictures of Peter and Lauren. And Sophia. She is there, smiling down at me. I try not to look but my eyes are drawn to them, to her casual, effortless poses and charismatic smile. She’s attractive. There’s no denying that. But of course, I know the real Sophia, the one that maybe her husband doesn’t know. I know all about her secrets and her alluring manner. I know all about her devilish, wily ways and how she tried to rip my family apart. I know her all right. And I wish I didn’t.
‘I did consider taking some of them down.’ Peter is standing next to me, following my gaze as I pore over the collection of photographs. ‘But it felt a bit disloyal. An insult to her memory.’ An unfathomable look flits across his face, his eyes darkening as he tries to disguise it. ‘So I kept them up and even added a few more.’
I don’t know what to say. I want to question why he would do that, add more of that woman to this house. I remain silent for a few seconds before speaking. ‘I think they’re beautiful. She was obviously a very attractive lady. You must miss her so much.’ I watch his eyes mist over, see his face colour up and wonder what he is thinking. So far, our conversations have been directed towards his family, his partner. I wonder when he will ask about mine – my absent partner who is now dead to me. My philandering shit of a husband.
‘She was beautiful. Very photogenic. I see a lot of her in Lauren. Every single day, there is another look that I hadn’t noticed before.’ He turns and glances at me. ‘But we have to move on with our lives, don’t we? No point in continually harking back to the past.’
I take a step towards him and squeeze his hand. I can feel the heat from him as he moves even closer to me. ‘We do need to move on,’ I say, choosing my words carefully. ‘But we need to get the equilibrium right, don’t we? Carving out a new life for ourselves whilst making sure we still honour their memory.’ I almost laugh out loud at myself. Listen to me. I sound like a grief counsellor. Anybody would think I had taken notice in those sessions, learnt how to comfort people who have suffered a bereavement. If only I could apply those strategies and wise words to my own losses. If only people would see the truth and know my suffering. I may not have actually experienced the death of a loved one but what I have suffered is far worse than that. It’s an ongoing process with no end in sight. My life has been torn to shreds while here Peter is trying to get back on his feet, on the lookout for a new partner. He has a chance to start again. I am stuck on an endless, bumpy ride with no way of getting off.
‘Anyway.’ Peter nods then shakes his head as if to clear away all those memories. ‘Enough of being surrounded by all these pictures. Why don’t we sit in the garden instead? It’s lovely and warm out there.’
I nod and follow him back out into the hallway where more pictures and photographs adorn the walls. I wonder how many he added after she died. Grief can do strange things to a person. A tumult of emotions rushing around their brain. This place is a shrine to Sophia. He is far from over her. I am going to have to work very hard here. Very hard indeed.
The garden is a spread of lush foliage and vegetation. The sun is making its ascent into the azure sky as we find a seat, Peter clearing cobwebs off the table and then pulling out a chair for me to sit down. Beside me is an array of pot plants in dire need of attention, their stems wilting, the soil desiccated.
‘You’re growing azaleas?’ I point to a clump of pink flowers in the corner of one of the borders that surround the lawn.
Pete laughs and runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Am I? To be honest, I wouldn’t know an azalea from an African daisy.’
‘Ah,’ I say raising my finger and pointing it at him. ‘But you do know that African daisies exist so that’s a start.’
‘You’re a gardener then?’ He leans back, raises his face to the sun and I see him relax, his body bending in the middle, a slight twinkle dancing in his eye as he looks back to me, watching me intently. I wonder what he sees when he glances at me? Does he see a grieving widow or is he able to view the real me – the spiteful, embittered me that can see only darkness ahead and will do anything, anything, to clamber back into the light?
‘I try. I’m not an expert by any stretch of the imagination, but I do enjoy pottering about and doing a bit of planting whenever I can.’ I’m lying. I’m not averse to gardening but neither am I well versed in the ways of horticulture. I know what I know from listening to my parents who loved their garden with a passion. I do have a garden but I do very little out there; it’s a lawn with a few plants dotted about. I tended to it when I had something resembling a life. But now look at me. I have nothing. At least I used to have nothing. I now have Peter and Lauren. I say those names over and over in my head like a mantra, and smile, the sound of them, the feel of them, as they roll around my brain like warm syrup. I think he likes me. And I am almost certain he believes me too, isn’t able to see the real me. The destructive, angry me. This is good.
