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Angel had watched Leon slide out of bed and pat his naked belly in a self-satisfied way. She’d hated him then. So, she’d picked a fight – hard to even remember what it was about, but it didn’t really matter because it had quickly escalated. She’d thrown some stuff and tried to scratch his face. He’d twisted her arm behind her back and called her a mad bitch. He’d looked like he wanted to cry as he said it. Idiot. Then he had stormed off to work.
She feels strangely cleansed now. It’s over. He can go ahead and burn her stuff if he wants to. She’s got what she needs right now in her rucksack.
Before she had left though, some strange impulse had driven her to do one last thing.
Leon was vain about his looks. He spent a lot of money on shirts, lining them up in the wardrobe by colour, so they ranged from white through the pinks and purples to blues and patterned varieties at the other end. Before she left the flat for good, she found herself with a pair of scissors in her hand.
Snip, snip, snip.
It felt good.
For a little while, anyway.
Angel pushes the memory away.
She’ll get to the end of this shift, pick up her pay for the week and then Ron, with his manure breath and his clammy little roving hands, can go fuck himself. He won’t even know until Saturday, because she has a day off tomorrow. And then she’ll get on a bus and go away for a bit.
Scotland, she thinks, picturing the landscape of watery green mountains and lacy mist. The air is cleaner there. It will sort of scour her on the inside. She can start again, and leave all her mistakes behind her. A fresh start.
Lucas comes into her mind then; a cloud across her positive thoughts. She’d like to see him properly before she leaves. Make things right.
She never really meant what she’d said to him. There was no need for him to cut her off like this. She’s been trying to catch up with him for weeks and he never responds to her texts, WhatsApps or calls.
Well, if he’s going to be like that, she doesn’t have time for it.
This, rather than anything else, is what drags at her now. He doesn’t really need her any more. When they were small they’d clung to each other like the inhabitants of a sinking lifeboat but maybe those days have gone.
That’s a good thing.
It is.
Angel idly watches the choking woman fussing about getting her stuff together, flashing small grateful smiles her way. She’s glad she could help. Learned how to do the Heimlich Manoeuvre years ago, when she’d thought about being a nurse. Never had to do it before though. The woman looks beleaguered, and almost blurry at the edges, like she is trying not to take up any room in the world. She’s actually really pretty, with those big brown eyes and curly auburn hair. Bit frumpy, maybe. She definitely has potential, but it’s her expression that’s off-putting. Mouth turned down. Sad eyes. It’s depressing, looking at her.
Angel doesn’t want to end up like that.
It’s definitely time to make some changes.
3 (#ub6323ad9-a870-50f5-bdd3-25cc96ed932b)
Nina (#ub6323ad9-a870-50f5-bdd3-25cc96ed932b)
People say two things about where I live: ‘What a great house’ and, ‘How do you stand living next to that?’ Not necessarily in that order.
I live at the far end of a country road that runs parallel to a stretch of dual carriageway on the outskirts of the city of Redholt. The road has an unusual name, Four Hays, which often confuses people because it sounds like a house, not a street name. There are only two properties – mine and my immediate neighbour’s, which has been empty and for sale since my elderly neighbour died six months ago. The main road makes it feel less isolated, but we still don’t let Sam walk home alone.
When we first moved in, I thought I might never get used to the constant traffic, which throbs and pulses all day and all night. Now, I barely register the sound of the cars and lorries that thunder past twenty-four hours a day.
Proximity to the road was one of the reasons we could afford to buy this in the first place, one of a pair of red-brick semi-detached cottages, originally designed for railway workers. The railway line running towards the back of the property is now defunct, only a small portion remaining at the bottom of the steep bank that borders our back garden.
Inside the house I gratefully kick off the offensive shoes and peel off the dress, pulling on a shapeless vest top and a loose skirt. I examine the sore, red patches on my heels glumly and for a moment contemplate what it would have been like if I had taken Carl up on his offer. It hadn’t felt like much of a compliment, considering he hadn’t shown the slightest sign of being attracted to me before this outburst. Maybe he thought I looked desperate.
Grimacing at the prospect of revealing my overweight forty-five-year-old body to a fitness evangelist like him, I go into the kitchen, hesitating only a moment before opening the fridge and eyeing the bottle of white wine in there.
When Sam is around and I’m ferrying him to swimming, judo and Scouts, I barely touch a drop of alcohol on weeknights. But on these evenings when I’m alone in the house, it’s too easy to numb myself with a glass of something. I’ll stop next week. Designate week-nights as alcohol-free nights. Maybe I’ll even invest in a Fitbit like Carl and try not to be a boring git about it.
I take the wine and my laptop outside to the patio chairs and make myself comfortable there.
The evening sun is kinder now, the brutal intensity of the day finally having burned itself out. I breathe in the sweet air, scented with the jasmine creeper that Ian had diligently trained up a trellis on the back wall. The low droning mumble of bees in the plant is soothing.
Then I turn on my laptop.
It’s impossible to resist. In seconds, I’m back on Laura’s Facebook page, looking at the smiling couple. I almost relish the pain it brings. This is what masochism is, I’m sure, but I can’t stop myself from scrolling through Laura-related posts. I seem to be making a habit of this self-destructive behaviour.
It feels like they have everything to look forward to.
Ian has told me that she wants kids.
The other day, I somehow found myself mournfully looking through Sam’s old baby clothes in the attic. Pathetic, really.
I’m not friends with Laura on Facebook – even I’m not that much of a mug – but she hasn’t made much effort to keep her profile private. She is an enthusiastic selfie-taker, and her timeline is packed with images of her and various friends gurning into the lens against a variety of backdrops. She’s ten years younger than me and Ian, whose birth dates are only a few months apart, and has some sort of job in marketing for a sports clothing chain.
I scroll to a picture of Laura and Ian at a skating rink with a group of other people who are clearly Laura’s friends. Ian looks a bit sheepish. Skating, for heaven’s sake …
Then I click on the photo to enlarge it, studying my husband’s familiar face.
Ian used to claim that I was ‘at least two leagues’ above him when we were young. His mates would tease him he had struck lucky. Pretty ironic.
Something seems to have shifted now we are middle-aged. All I can see is the weight that clings to me now; the wrinkles and the sagging bits. He, on the other hand, has grown into his age. His short grey hair suits him, more than it ever did when he was young and strawberry blond. He’s comfortable in his skin, the angular gangliness of youth replaced by a sturdier build.
The gym membership had been one of the changes he made after his mid-life epiphany, or whatever it was. I get to the swimming pool now and then but that’s about it. I know I should do more. Would it have made a difference, if I had joined him at the gym? Or had he been unhappy for years? These are the questions that plague me in the middle of the night. Trying to find the piece of thread that came loose and unravelled a whole life.
Was it as obvious as last year, when Ian had a semi-breakdown? Or earlier?
Ian’s depression was precipitated by the death of his long-time boss and friend, Adam, whose cancer took only weeks from diagnosis to his death. Ian works for a medical software company that sells packages to the NHS and other healthcare providers and he and Adam had worked together for over ten years. I never got on that well with Adam’s wife, who seemed to have stepped out of the pages of a 1950s housewife manual. She was one of those competitive mothers, always banging on about tutors and violin lessons and asking my advice ‘as a professional’ about whether the expensive school their child attended was basically ruining him for life. We didn’t tend to socialize as a foursome much, but Ian took Adam’s death very hard. After he had lost weight and not slept well for several weeks, I suggested he try some counselling.
It had worked, at least in terms of helping him get through his depression. Unfortunately, it also prompted him to decide that his life was too short to – what was it again? – ‘Waste it in a marriage that isn’t working any more.’
I genuinely never saw this coming. When he said it, I actually burst out laughing. It sounded so fake. So staged. Not like the things people really say. Married people. Friends.
Maybe that was the trouble. OK, so we spent a fair bit of time apart, and we didn’t have sex that often any more. But wasn’t that like most marriages, when people had been together half their lives? Well, clearly it was more. I hadn’t realized the cracks were signs of serious stress until the marriage broke in two.
Oh damn it, here I go again. My eyes are leaking all on their own, without any warning that it was about to happen. Was this what Ian was like, privately, in that dark time? Maybe I’m having a breakdown too.
I picture Sam, my quiet, serious boy, lying in his unfamiliar bedroom. He had been quietly fretting in his usual way about the upcoming holiday. Even with the promise of access to a dog, he’d been worried. It had taken some gentle cajoling to get him to talk, then I’d been able to reassure him that the boat wouldn’t sink, and that Laura’s parents wouldn’t force him to eat frogs’ legs. He’s always been a worrier, ever since he was a tiny boy who would stand watchfully at the playground while others climbed like happy monkeys. For a hot, shameful moment, I hope he will be too upset to go tomorrow and that Ian will bring him home.
This feels like a new low.
My arms prickle now and I look up, aware suddenly I’ve been out here for some time. The air feels alive with the prospect of rain. The setting sun has disappeared behind a dark band of gathering cloud. For a moment, I contemplate stripping all my clothes off and standing in the coming rain to feel the cool freshness on my skin. It would be wonderful after all the nights I’ve spent lately, twisting in sweaty sheets.
I could do it if I wanted, too. The house next door has been empty and for sale since my elderly neighbour died. No one would see me. Isn’t this the sort of thing I should be relishing now I’m alone? Dancing naked in the rain? Not giving a shit?
But I’m already starting to feel a little cold, so I gather up my things.
I’m stepping through the back door as the first fat drops begin to fall, releasing the sharp smell of ozone, hot brick and parched earth.
Inside, I tip the last of the wine into my glass before curling onto the sofa and turning on Netflix on the telly. There’s a trashy American comedy I’ve become mildly addicted to.
We used to hoover up all the crime series and Scandinavian dramas but now, alone in the house, stories about murder are less appealing. There are enough shadows in real life.
It feels like this is yet another thing that has been taken from me. Ian is no doubt enjoying ‘educating’ Laura, whose tastes had previously, he once let slip, extended only to reality TV and soaps.
Without even knowing I’ve slept, I’m somehow being pulled awake. Groggy and confused, I squint at the clock on the mantelpiece and see it is two am.
For a moment, I think I’m hearing the sound of thunder.
Then I realize someone’s hammering on my front door.
4 (#ub6323ad9-a870-50f5-bdd3-25cc96ed932b)
Lucas (#ub6323ad9-a870-50f5-bdd3-25cc96ed932b)
Rain dashes into his eyes and mingles with tears and blood, stinging his cheeks and dripping off his chin. The burden he carries seems to be getting heavier by the minute. Sometimes, though, he imagines there isn’t anything there at all and his chest swells with panic. This doesn’t make any sense. But he stops and checks anyway, peering awkwardly inside the neck of the coat that’s sucking in water like a sponge and making him move twice as slowly as usual.
Reaching a brightly lit mini roundabout he stops, disorientated, and has a moment of confusion about which way to go. Right? No, left. It’s left here. He’s sure of it.
He hurries on but this place is not designed for pedestrians. He is forced to huddle at the side of the slip road, his stomach swooping as a car blares an angry horn, and then he reaches the narrow grass verge. Lucas stumbles along next to the main road, cars roaring past, so close he could stretch out his fingers and lose an arm.
But he welcomes the terror, the biting cold and the pains in his face and ribs. These sensations are too powerful to allow contemplation to creep in. He almost wants to keep moving forever but the tiredness is getting to him now. For a second he pictures himself taking two steps to the right and stopping it all, but he knows he can’t do it. And it’s not just about him, is it?
Not far now. But what will happen when he gets there? Lucas stops for a moment, breathing hard.
This whole thing is a terrible idea.
But it’s the only one he has right now so he stumbles onwards.
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