‘We don’t like it.’
‘We?’ Her thick dark brows – very Cara Delevingne – would have shot up her forehead – if it could actually move.
‘Yes – Matthew and I. My husband.’ I warm to my theme. ‘It kills, you know. Smoking. Very nasty.’
‘Oh how things change.’ But she drops her hand. Perhaps she doesn’t look quite as confident as a minute before. ‘Matthew was a twenty-a-day man. I must say, you don’t look like his usual type.’
‘And what’s that?’ Trembling, I plough on. ‘Tall blondes?’
‘Something like that. Skinny women usually. But then he’s had all sorts – hasn’t he said? Sounds like you two have got some catching up to do.’ She gathers her Mulberry bag. ‘That’s the best bit of a new relationship, isn’t it? Finding out stuff about each other. I’ll leave you to it.’
‘What does that mean – all sorts?’
‘Whatever you want it to.’ She yawns widely. ‘Just be cautious please. My daughter’s my best friend in the world. I’ll protect her against anything. You know how it is.’
‘Really?’ I meet her gaze. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea – being best friends, I mean?’ My voice has risen a little now, I realise too late. ‘Kids need boundaries, don’t they? Parents, not friends.’
‘The mouse roars, eh?’ She smirks.
I see the red blood in the white bathroom.
‘To know where they stand. Kaye…’
‘Sorry, ladies.’ Matthew reappears. ‘Got distracted by footie results.’ He hands me a mug. ‘I thought you might enjoy a chat.’
It is all I can do to not let my mouth drop open in disbelief.
‘Yeah, we caught up on the goss, didn’t we, Jeanie? I’d better get off.’ Kaye’s artful stretch reveals a well-toned brown midriff. ‘Appointment with the masseuse. Very stiff at the moment; so much stress.’ She rolls her head, demonstrating stress – probably at whether it was the Atkins or the 5:2 diet this week. ‘Yassine’s got the magic touch – but he’s working with Arsenal today.’
My arse, I nearly say, grinning at the thought.
‘I’ll walk you out.’ Matthew shoots me an inscrutable look. ‘Finalise the holiday plans.’
‘God I can’t wait to get back to Barbados at Easter,’ Kaye is saying as they leave the room. ‘Daiquiris are calling! You remember Slow Joe’s place? We had fun, didn’t we, babes? Back in the day.’
Oh just fuck off, I find myself thinking.
Alone, shaken, I pour some cold coffee into the old mug Matthew has brought in, the mug that says ‘World’s Best Washer-Upper’ on it. I wonder why I got this chipped old thing.
But it is obvious, I suppose – I get the homely mug because this is my home now. Kaye gets the best china to show off.
This warped civility confuses me. They didn’t do things like this down my way – a middle-class sharing of kids after marriages collapsed. Generally the mothers were left to cope alone. Calling Matthew and Kaye friends was stretching it – but they were friendly enough to chat about arrangements.
And yet God only knows what has gone on between them.
When my mum and dad split up, we almost literally never saw him again. Once, I think, when he was trying to soft-soap some landlord about back rent and tried to play happy families – and once when he fancied some woman who worked in the local nursery. Turned out she loathed kids.
My mum, when she could get out of bed, or wasn’t slumped in front of the old television, watching old Hollywood black and whites, brought home a string of miscreants and no-hopers, most of whom hated us, ignored us – or, on the odd occasion, liked us a little too much.
I shudder.
Marlena has espoused therapy during the last few years, several times – partly after her own spectacular misdemeanours and then again when I had my ‘incident’ – but the truth is I’d rather eat my own heart than pour it out to a therapist.
Through the window I watch Matthew open the car door for Kaye – and then lean forward towards her.
Oh God he’s going to kiss her, right in front of me.
Horrified, I can’t tear myself away.
But he doesn’t kiss her. He just peers into her eye as she blinks, looking up to heaven. She must have something in it.
I walk away and sit slowly on the sofa.
Kaye’s lighter is lying on the coffee table. I think about rushing out to return it, then think again. She deserves no favours from me.
Picking it up, I read the inscription.
* * *
To my darling Queenie on her birthday.
Love, always.
Your King, September 2013
* * *
It was from him, from my husband. Matthew King.
Only ten months before I met him.
I shove it down the side of the sofa and wait for him to come back from bidding his ex-wife farewell.
This is it now. No more hiding.
There is no choice any more.
Thirty-Two
Jeanie
5 March 2015