Читать книгу The Secret To Happiness - Jessica Redland - Страница 8

‘What are you doing this afternoon?’ Chelsea asked as they approached the end of their shift.

Alison hesitated. Chelsea – early forties, divorced – had a strong opinion on anything and everything, especially other peoples’ relationships, and was never shy about voicing it. She was also like a tracker dog when it came to sniffing out a lie. ‘Food shopping then preparing a roast dinner for Dave,’ she responded, trying to sound casual.

Chelsea tutted. ‘Spoiling Dave for a change? Why do you bother? He never spoils you. He forgot the anniversary and your birthday. Why not have an afternoon for you instead of that idiot?’

‘He’s not an idiot.’ Cheeks burning, Alison grabbed the handover log and pretended to check it. What gave Chelsea the right to criticise Dave all the time? She’d never even met him so why did she hold such a low opinion of him? Alison nearly laughed out loud as the irony struck her. It was her fault. Chelsea’s opinion came from what Alison had told her and clearly she hadn’t painted him in a favourable light.

‘And he didn’t forget my birthday,’ she added in a calmer tone, keen to redeem Dave. ‘He got the dates mixed up. That’s all. He was only a day late with his gift and it was exactly what I wanted.’

Chelsea’s shriek of laughter ricocheted off the marble walls, drawing curious glances from guests seated in the lobby. ‘A gift card?’ Chelsea cried. ‘So much deep thought must have gone into that.’

‘You know I love reading so it was the perfect gift for me. Anyway, there’s an ulterior motive for the roast. I’m hoping to persuade him to go abroad when we’re off next month.’

‘I thought Dave was finally fitting the kitchen.’

‘He was, but it’s waited four years already, so what’s another few months? Besides, I’m used to the chaos.’ She wasn’t. Drawer fronts coming off in her hands, cupboard doors hanging from their hinges, and a cold concrete floor had turned her creative space into a place to avoid.

‘You hate your kitchen, though,’ Chelsea said. ‘Why not get the kitchen done and book a holiday for later?’

A guest approached the reception desk, ending their conversation.

Alison completed some paperwork while Chelsea checked the woman in and answered a barrage of questions. Was Chelsea right about prioritising the kitchen over a holiday? Dave had never hidden his resentment at spending his free time on home improvements. Only last night, they’d spent an hour checking through the flat-pack boxes filling the dining room when he’d muttered, ‘Can’t believe I’ll be spending my week off doing what I spend my working days doing. Some bloody holiday. I wish we were going abroad instead.’

She’d looked up from her checklist. ‘Ooh, me too. Where would you fancy?’

He smiled then winked at her. ‘Do you remember Corfu?’

‘Best holiday ever,’ she said, pulse racing at the memory of the last-minute deal they’d taken to celebrate turning twenty-one. It was six years ago but she could remember every detail like yesterday.

‘Why don’t you open that bottle of Rioja?’ he suggested.

‘But it’s a school night.’

‘I feel like living dangerously.’

Giggling, Alison headed for the kitchen. The last time he’d suggested sharing a bottle of wine was the last time they’d been intimate. Maybe…?

Curled up together on the sofa, they spent the next hour or so reminiscing about Corfu. Lazy days by the pool had transitioned into nights filled with hot, passionate sex everywhere: the beach, a dark corner of a club, the pool, their balcony.

‘I never wanted that holiday to end.’ Alison gently stroked Dave’s thigh.

‘Me neither.’

He leaned towards her and she held her breath. He was going to kiss her. He was going to… But he placed his empty wine glass on the lamp table beside her and yawned. ‘I’m done in. Early start. Night.’

‘Oh. Okay. I’ll finish this, then I’ll be up.’ Her voice sounded small and distant, but Dave didn’t seem to notice. Without so much as a peck on the cheek, he left the room.

Alison swigged the last of her wine, sighed, and sank back into the sofa, shoulders slumping. Not like Corfu, then. Never like Corfu.

She put her glass down and picked up an A5-sized photo frame.

‘What happened to us?’ she whispered, running her fingers across the image of the pair of them sipping cocktails at a swim-up bar, tanned, happy, and besotted with each other. ‘You promised me you wouldn’t change. You said we were family. Just the two of us, always and forever.’ Alison swiped at her damp cheeks. ‘I need you to be my family, Dave. You’re the only one left.’

Mercedes arrived for the next shift just then, bringing Alison’s focus back to the present. Chelsea was trapped answering a guest’s questions so Alison ran through the handover log then escaped, keen to avoid more of Chelsea’s Dave-bashing.

Five minutes later, standing outside Bay Travel, Alison deliberated. Holiday or kitchen? She desperately wanted the kitchen fitted but she also desperately wanted the man she loved to look at her the way he used to, to touch her, to kiss her, to tell her how much he loved her, to tell her she was his family, always and forever. She wanted intimacy. She wanted conversation. She wanted Corfu. Sod it. She pushed the door open and strode towards the section labelled: ‘Greek Islands’. Holiday one, kitchen nil.

Rushing home from the supermarket, travel brochures weighing her bags down, Alison prepared the joint of beef then popped it in the oven. She peeled and chopped vegetables, mixed Yorkshire pudding batter, and set the kitchen table.

She lightly brushed her fingers over the gorgeous cerulean Denby dinner set; a housewarming gift from her grandma. ‘It’ll be quiet without you,’ her grandma had said when she presented it to Alison. ‘But it’s time for you to have a new home and start a new family.’

‘I miss you, Grandma,’ Alison whispered, holding one of the plates close to her chest. ‘Why did you have to leave me too?’

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she took a deep breath and re-focused. Special plates, posh cutlery, real material napkins instead of kitchen roll and… this shit-tip of a kitchen. But it was fine. She could cope with it. The holiday would be more than worth the sacrifice if it helped them rekindle what they’d lost. Maybe she should make an effort too? Put a bit of slap on? Wear something nice?

After showering, Alison slathered herself with some expensive body lotion she’d received from Secret Santa at work. Gazing into the small mirror above the sink, she carefully applied her make-up then spritzed herself with perfume. Looking good. Smelling divine.

Back in the bedroom, she opened the wardrobe door, angling her body so she could ignore her reflection in the full-length mirror. One glance was all it usually took, but not today. She was feeling positive today. She was taking control.

Running her hand along the hangers from right to left, Alison’s jaw tightened as she rejected each item. Baggy. Frumpy. Black. Too tight. More black. Out of fashion. Dave hated it. Grey, dark grey, navy, black. She screwed up her eyes, stamped her feet, and released a frustrated squeal.

When she opened her eyes, she was facing the mirror. The unforgiving mirror. She slammed the door shut and strode across the landing to the bathroom, shaking her head. What was she thinking? If Dave even noticed – a big if – he’d probably wrinkle his nose and say, ‘What’s that stench?’ or curl his lip and say, ‘What’s that muck on your face?’ Or both.

She wiped her face clean, scrubbed at her wrists and neck to remove all traces of perfume, then returned to the bedroom where she pulled on a comfortable greying bra, a pair of giant belly-warmer knickers, some leggings, and a baggy grey T-shirt. She’d made his favourite meal and brought out the Denby. That was more than enough.

Dave arrived home shortly after six. ‘Something smells good. Is that what I think it is?’ he called from the hallway, a rare note of pleasure in his voice.

‘It might be,’ Alison called as she spooned hot fat over the roast potatoes, which were crisping to perfection. ‘How was your day?’

‘Shite.’

One of these days he’d surprise her and say ‘good’. Or perhaps he’d ask her how her day had been. Yeah, right.

When Dave re-appeared fifteen minutes later, he sat down at the kitchen table without even looking at her.

‘What’s this?’ His voice was terse as he picked up the brochure she’d laid on his placemat.

Draining the water from the pan of carrots, her heart raced. It could go one of two ways. Please let it go well. ‘Holiday brochure.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you said we should book a holiday.’

‘I didn’t.’

Alison put the carrots down and picked up the pan of peas. ‘Maybe not book one, then, but you said you’d rather go abroad instead of doing the kitchen and it got me thinking that—’

‘Jesus, Ali, make your mind up,’ he snarled. ‘You keep nagging me to fit the kitchen, you’ve got a million other jobs you want me to do too, and now you want to go off gallivanting to Greece. You can’t have it all. And how do you think we’re going to pay for a holiday? With fairy dust?’

‘We’ve got plenty of savings.’

‘Which was your idea in case of emergency. “Not for extravagant holidays,” you said.’

‘I know, but Corfu was six years ago. I think we need a break.’

Silence.

Alison dished up the food. Should she push it again? No. Clearly, he’d had more of a ‘shite’ day than usual. Maybe tomorrow. Forcing herself to smile, she placed his loaded plate in front of him. ‘And for dinner tonight, the chef is delighted to present all your favourites.’

Placing her plate down opposite him, Alison pulled her chair out but stopped when she clocked his expression: eyebrows knitted, lip curled in apparent disgust.

‘What’s wrong now?’ she demanded, her patience worn thin.

Dave pointed at his plate. ‘This. I thought you said it was all my favourites.’

Had she forgotten to dish up something? Alison scanned the plate. Nope. She looked up at Dave, shrugging.

‘Horseradish,’ he prompted.

‘Sorry. Of course. I’ll get it.’

But as she opened the cupboard door, Alison had a sinking feeling she’d forgotten to add it to her shopping list. She shuffled a few jars and bottles around, stomach churning. Crap. Slowly closing the door, she turned to face Dave. ‘We’ve run out. Sorry. All your other favourites are there.’

‘Which will taste like absolute shite without horseradish.’ He pushed back his chair, making an ear-splitting screech across the floor. ‘Nice one, Ali. I’ll have to order pizza instead.’

After she’d slaved away all afternoon? No way. ‘You’re not going to die from horseradish deficiency,’ she snapped. ‘Get it eaten and stop being so bloody childish.’

His eyes widened. ‘Childish? I’ll show you childish.’

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Dave knocked his plate with his hand as he rose to his feet. It spun across the table, crashing into hers, jettisoning both plates towards the floor. Gravy flew in every direction, covering the floor, the units, and Alison. Peas and carrots dispersed, and dollops of mash and roasties splatted onto the concrete floor like islands in a sea of gravy.

Her precious plates shattered, fragments scattering across the floor.

With an anguished cry, Alison sank to her knees, reaching for the nearest shards.

‘My plates,’ she sobbed, looking up at Dave helplessly. ‘My beautiful plates. What…? Why…?’

Dave stared at her, his eyes cold and uncaring. He picked up the travel brochure and tossed it towards the recycling crate by the back door. ‘Greek Islands? You in shorts or even worse, a bikini? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’

When he slammed the front door, the whole house seemed to shake. Alison slumped back against the fridge-freezer, heart thumping, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. What the hell had just happened? He was grumpy and he had a short temper, but he’d never been violent. Never.

She stared at the pieces in her hand. Had Dave pushed the plates off the table deliberately? No. He wouldn’t do that. He knew how much they meant to her. It had been an accident.

Hadn’t it?