Читать книгу Chances - Freya North - Страница 12

Something for the Weekend

‘I remember this shop,’ Oliver told Boz as they drove past That Shop towards the end of that week. ‘Not that I’ve ever been in. But when my wife – but when my late wife and I – used to come into town, she’d always say, I’m just going to pop into That Shop. And ten hours later she’d always bought some tutt or other.’

‘Tutt!’ Boz liked the word. Then he looked worried. ‘The box – thing – I’ve bought Megan, it’s not tutt. It’s nicely made – it’s not cheap. Value, I’d say. She’ll love it.’

Oliver smiled as he scouted for a parking place in the multi-storey. ‘By tutt, I don’t mean the quality, I don’t mean tat – I mean girl stuff. The bits and bobs females never grow too old to fawn over and buy. Yet more photo frames, vases, candles, strange holders for wooden spoons, retro tea towels, bowls that are pretty but shaped too oddly to actually be useful. Heart-shaped stuff. Cushions. Bloody cushions – to be arranged daily, meticulously, on the bed or sofa yet always chucked off.’ He raised an eyebrow at Boz. ‘I’ll stay in the car, thanks.’

‘Might be a trinket that tickles your fancy, boss?’

‘I’ll stay in the car.’

‘I’ll be quick.’

Boz thought, Poor fucker. Boz and the boys always gave each other a look on Oliver’s behalf which said, Poor fucker, whenever he referred to DeeDee as if she was an old pal who had simply moved away from the area temporarily instead of being the victim of a tragic road accident three years previously.

I’ll stay in the car.

I’ll make a couple of calls.

No signal.

I’ll stay in the car.

Christ, this car park is a hellhole.

I’ll listen to the radio.

No signal.

I’ll stay in the car.

Boz won’t be long.

There’s only so much tutt even a young bloke can take, surely.

Vita heard the door open and read fast to just near the end of the page where there was a convenient line-break before she looked up.

‘Ah! I was wondering when you’d be along.’ She presented Boz with the wooden box. ‘I hope you like it. And, of course, your sister Megan.’

Boz was delighted as he inspected it from all angles. ‘It’s cool. It’s very very cool.’

‘I did her name, as you see – but I also added this little design. I was going to do a grapevine but I chose hops. They’re native to Kent, tell her. Which is known as the “Garden of England”, tell her – not that I’ve ever been. Tell her, we make beer from hops.’

Boz looked at her quizzically. He wanted to say, Like we don’t have beer in Oz? But though there was an engaging artlessness to this woman, there was a fragility too – and she was so serious about this box and the extra design – and he thought perhaps a tease might be heard as sarcasm. So he nodded and thanked her. She wrapped it in pretty paper, swathed it in bubble wrap and parcelled it up in heavy-duty brown paper. And then he saw a photo frame. It was in a soft padded faded floral fabric and it reminded him of the dress that Jessie had worn to her sister’s wedding.

‘I’ll have this too,’ he said. ‘It’s for my girlfriend, Jessie.’

‘That’s nice,’ Vita smiled.

‘She’s back home.’

‘You must miss her.’

‘Yeah – but you know what? We’ve been together ages – we’re cool.’

‘I could unwrap this lot, then you could put it inside your sister’s box and tell her to deliver it for you – save on two packages.’

Boz thought this was quite the most brilliant plan and told the lady so as she unwrapped and rewrapped the goods. If he was still in the UK at Christmas-time, he told her, he’d do all his gift shopping right here.

I’ll take some fresh air, I think.

I’ll wander down in the vague direction of That Shop.

Oliver looked at the window display, glanced beyond it, noted the sales assistant sitting on a stool, reading, absent-mindedly tucking her hair behind her ears as it fell forward again and again. Stuff. Everywhere. Tables and shelves of stuff.

Oh God, DeeDee, he would groan when they used to meet back at the car after one of her forays. Not more stuff.

But I love That Shop, she’d protest with a pout that turned into a smile. And Oliver would unlock the car and say, Get in, Mrs Bourne, we’re going home.

He wasn’t about to break the habit of a lifetime ago, today. But he did pop his head around the corner of the door and immediately felt he should raise his voice a little – as if the colliding fragrances from all the candles and soaps were a sound as much as a scent.

‘Come on, Boz. Back to work.’

‘Scented drawer liners for you, boss?’ said Boz, holding up a pack.

Oliver laughed. The sales assistant looked up momentarily before returning her attention to her book.

* * *

‘You are coming to a party!’ Michelle breezed into the shop, moments later, fresh from the hairdresser; her chestnut hair glossy and well cut, her eyes glinting at Vita who looked up from her book, a little confused.

‘Am I?’ She wracked her memory but could only conjure an image of all the empty boxes for June on the calendar on the back of the kitchen door at Pear Tree Cottage.

‘You are coming to a party,’ Michelle said again, this time in a fairy-godmother tone as if telling Vita, You shall go to the ball. ‘It’s on Saturday. You remember Mel and Des? It’s their party – they’re having it at the George and Dragon. They said to invite you. They said they haven’t seen you for ages. They said for me to tell you that there are a couple of other single women going.’

Vita was just about to dwell on this fact being an anathema to someone who’d so liked being half of a couple when Michelle told her to hurry up, grab her bag and put the Back After Lunch sign up in the shop door.

‘My treat,’ said Michelle, linking arms with Vita and heading off towards the brasserie.

‘Two for One,’ Vita read the offer emblazoned over the lunchtime menu. ‘Cheapskate!’

‘Shut up and eat,’ said Michelle. ‘You look like you’ve lost half a stone since I saw you last – and that’s not a compliment.’ She pushed the bread basket towards Vita and poured a little olive oil into a saucer. ‘It’s quiet in here, isn’t it? The weather’s glorious, there’s no World Cup or Olympics – where is everyone?’

‘I ask myself the same question,’ Vita said. ‘The shop’s been dead today.’

‘Mind you,’ said Michelle, ‘I saw some strapping young bloke with a big package coming out of your shop.’

‘You ought to rephrase that,’ said Vita and Michelle laughed before noticing that Vita was miles away, staring into the middle distance and pulling little pinches of bread off the slice.

‘Earth to Vita?’

Vita gave Michelle an unconvincing smile before masticating excessively over a small crust. Michelle tipped her head to one side and dunked her foccaccia thoughtfully in the oil. She never needed to say anything for Vita to feel she could offload; no invitation required, no subtle extraction of information necessary.

‘Having a bit of a wobble?’ Michelle simply said.

Vita stopped chewing. ‘A bit,’ she nodded. ‘Been feeling a little thrown off balance this last week.’ She shrugged. ‘Stupid, really.’

‘What does it boil down to?’ Michelle asked, shooing away the waiter with a two minutes, please gesture.

Vita took a moment. Then she placed her hands palms down on the table as if laying her proverbial cards out. ‘I wasn’t doing too badly recently,’ she said at length. ‘The weird thing is, while I have no regrets – I do still hurt. I do. I’m sorry. I know it frustrates you. I know you all hate him. But I find myself at thirty-three on my own, alone, when all I wanted was to be part of a pair.’

‘Tim was the rotten part of the pair,’ Michelle said carefully. ‘And if I was Candy I’d be able to think of some pithy allusion to the plentiful pears on your ridiculously big tree.’

Vita looked at Michelle and shrugged. ‘We were together six years. We lived together for almost five.’

‘I know,’ said Michelle. ‘But you wouldn’t want to go back.’

‘No,’ Vita said quietly. She paused. ‘You’ll be mad at me for saying this – and I know it’s probably irrational – but last week, finding out he’s still with this bloody Suzie woman, it’s knocked me sideways. I’ve been feeling – Christ! – insecure. It now feels like it diminishes what we ever had, as if he left me – for her.’ She gave Michelle an embarrassed smile.

Michelle wanted very much to call her crazy but she resisted. ‘You don’t want to be her and you don’t want what she has.’

Vita shrugged. ‘It’s. Just. Hard. It’s tough knowing there’s a woman placing her head in the crook of his shoulder where mine used to fit so nicely; that he’s spooning up to her at night. There they are, watching telly, side by side, while here’s me who can’t see the point of watching TV any more – how can you watch The Apprentice without someone with whom to marvel at the atrociousness of the contestants?’ Vita paused. ‘Then there’s the sex. And Sundays. And the domesticity of a shopping list. And something as stupid and enjoyable as compiling future rentals on Lovefilm dot com.’

Michelle nodded as she thought of her husband and the domesticity and the closeness and the lists on Lovefilm dot com. The safety and the pleasure.

‘I’ve been doing a lot of what-if thinking,’ Vita confessed as if it was a crime.

‘Let me guess,’ Michelle interrupted. ‘What if he’s changed! What if he’s turned over a new leaf! What if you gave him one more second chance – which would, over the years, probably amount to, let’s see, his third second chance? What if love means never having to say you’re sorry!’

‘What if I hadn’t been driven to check his messages and I hadn’t found “Sxxx” all over them like a rash – would it have run its course? Would we still be together? What if we’d set the date for the wedding – would he have been less tempted?’

Michelle looked at her levelly. ‘What if there’s a fantastic new breed of leopard that can miraculously change its spots! What if it’s all your fault – what if it’s you who made a stupid mistake in leaving him!’ It was as ridiculous as it was challenging.

Vita stared down at her uneaten goat’s cheese tartlet. ‘What if she’s the new me?’ she shrugged. ‘A new version, with improved features and a lifetime guarantee?’

‘What if it’s not about you,’ Michelle countered, ‘and it’s not even about her. Just him.’ Her tone softened. ‘Look, lady – you wanted what was wholesome but you were doomed, V, from the start – not from any failing on your part, but due to inadequacies on his. Please don’t fret about floozy Suzie. If Candy was here, she’d be banging on about her Laws of Karma – for the person who behaves badly, worse things await them. For those who behave well, rewards will be reaped. You’re entitled to something good now. I just can’t tell you when. Probably not this Saturday night at Mel and Des’s party – but you never know.’

Vita smiled and took a forkful of tart. ‘For all his faults, I did love him, you know.’

‘I do know,’ Michelle said, ‘and you’ll take all that love forward with you.’

‘Closure doesn’t come with one slam of the door,’ Vita told her. ‘Moving on isn’t a continuous forward momentum. It’s a process and this last week, it’s been a bit demoralizing for me to realize I’m not as near the end of it as I thought.’

‘It’s a journey, V – and you’re well on your way. Don’t dwell on all the crap that made you so sad – let’s welcome summer and all things new. Go home tonight and sort out what you’ll wear on Saturday – or borrow something of mine – and start gearing yourself up to enjoy yourself. It’s party time. It’s summertime. Look around you – everything is bursting with colour and warmth and vitality. The evenings are long. The days are gorgeous. Lie out in your deckchair on the patch of grass which that flipping tree doesn’t cast into shade – and get yourself a little bit of a tan before Saturday night.’

Vita tried to look convinced. Michelle could see she was trying and that was good enough for her. She’d be all right, her best and oldest friend. She’d get her bounce back. This was Vita – and her name meant life and it suited her very well.

‘Saturday, then?’ Michelle kissed her on each cheek, having walked her back to That Shop.

‘Saturday indeed,’ said Vita, not with reluctance but with a little trepidation.

She phoned her mother later, when she was home. She was sitting in the ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ deckchair, her T-shirt sleeves rolled up and over her shoulders, her skirt pulled right up to her knickers. Fortunately, Mr Brewster next door was very short-sighted. He was very short, full stop. And polite too – he’d never think of looking over the fence. Not that he’d be able to.

Vita was about to tell her mum about the party; she thought it would make her happy, relieved. But suddenly there was something far more exciting to tell her because, from her deckchair, when she looked up, she could see that pears were just beginning to form. Small, misshapen and bitter green. But growing. Lots of them. Look at them all!

* * *

Jonty was doing homework when Oliver logged into his email account, the Hotmail one, the private one, the one his son couldn’t possibly know about. As a family, DeeDee had set them up with their own web address, all of them at Bourne three dot com: deedee@bournethree.com, jont@ bournethree.com, oliver@bournethree.com.

From the start, Oliver had rarely used it, entrusting DeeDee to check his inbox, to physically drag him to the computer, when absolutely necessary, to read some missive of merit. He told her he was always happy for her to respond on his behalf. She often did, signing off as Ols and sometimes having the last laugh by adding an inappropriate x or two. Nowadays, he logs in and deletes most of the messages, making a note on a pad of paper who’s been in touch so he can call them at some later date if he can remember. That evening, the inbox was crowded but he deleted most of them, still unread. Then he checked DeeDee’s account. New emails still arrived. Today, there were offers from Johnnie Boden and Jo Malone – as if they were personal friends. Ocado was trying to coax her back with discounts and free delivery if she could order before Friday. It was comforting that out there, she was still seen as alive.

Mostly, for email, Oliver used his work account bourne@ arbor-vitae.co.uk, but actually, he preferred the phone. A man in his mid-forties doesn’t really do the whole email thing as a social communication tool. Nine months after DeeDee died, however, he set up the Hotmail account, realizing there was a useful distinction between communication and contact. This account he does check regularly – not obsessively, but regularly and very privately. Furtively, rather than privately. A secret account, really, rather than simply a private one.

He logged on. There was an email in the inbox. He opened it. It was an invitation for that weekend. He thought he’d better respond straight away.

Saturday is good, he wrote. Let me know where and when.