Fear of falling, p.19
Fear of Falling, page 19
‘I don’t know. We’ll have to work something out with her.’
He looked sick of it all.
‘What else can we do?’ I said. ‘You go over there now, scream and shout or even try to talk to her about it, and she’ll just dig her heels in further. We should let it go,’ I said. Practice had taught me that Chloë wanted us to react, to be angry with her, to shout back and push her away when she acted out. To confirm that she was ‘bad’, to echo the loss and neglect she’d experienced as a baby.
She was constantly testing me but for Mac it was worse. The common ground they’d shared, a love of drawing, had gone as Chloë had lost interest. His gentle resilience had been eaten away by the increasing vitriol of her outbursts. Her emerging womanhood made it harder to know how to deal with her and he was left perplexed and frustrated.
He sighed, covered his eyes.
‘Mac?’
‘I need a drink. Be back in an hour.’
There was a pub in town where Mac had found a home, got to know some of the regulars, had a game of darts (arrows or ‘arrers’, they called them, in true Yorkshire tradition). He was able to escape for a while. Have a pint and a laugh, a bit of the craic in his terms. It was helping him cope. But I wasn’t sure how long it would be enough for him. I didn’t have an equivalent but I could keep going while I had Mac to support me. And I was determined to do everything possible to make this work, to prove to him that he didn’t need to give up on Chloë, that however hard it was we would get through it.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘What we were talking about before, getting away, why don’t you sort out a break for yourself soon? There’s no point putting it off.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I’ll do the same after you’re back.’
He gave a nod and moved to go. I could feel the antagonism, the weariness, in him but I didn’t want us to part like that.
‘Mac.’ I went up to him. I put my head against his chest and my arms around him. He hesitated, then hugged me back. We didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.
Chapter Thirty-four
Chloë and I had managed when Mac took the chance to fly home to Ireland for a few nights. But when it came to my turn to have a weekend in York with Bel she became agitated. I had raised the possibility in a vague way before the event but deliberately hadn’t told her it was happening until the night before.
‘I want to come,’ she said.
‘Chloë, you can’t. This is some time for me and Bel together. I’ll only be away two nights. I’ll be back here by Sunday lunch. We could do something nice then. Drive into Scarborough for a pizza or go to the cinema. You’ll be fine with Dad.’
She pulled out a cigarette.
‘Take that outside.’
She stared at me. Lit the cigarette.
‘Chloë, take it outside.’
‘Fuck off!’ she yelled, making me flinch. Then she went outside, slamming the door hard behind her.
I couldn’t go. How could I go and leave her?
Mac had overheard. ‘You OK?’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t—’
‘Sssh. You’re going. She wants us to be prisoners.’
‘Mac.’ I hated him talking like that because it suggested some volition, when in truth she could no more change her behaviour than a person with epilepsy or asthma could stop having attacks.
‘You tell her the script and you go. If you don’t, if we can’t even have two nights off, we’re not going to make it, Lydia.’
The script was the story we told Chloë to reassure her, how we loved her, would never leave her, that she was our daughter for ever. No matter how many times we’d repeated it, she couldn’t really trust it to be the truth.
Bel was now running an Airbnb company that specialised in letting accommodation to actors and artists. People who were on tour or in rep or sometimes filming and wanted somewhere to stay other than a hotel.
Through work she’d booked us a flat in the centre of York. She was already there when I arrived.
In an unusual show of affection I got the one-two-three kisses à la France. Then she showed me to my room where I left my case.
‘Coffee? Freshly made,’ she said.
‘Love one.’
‘And I booked us lunch – there’s this fantastic seafood place. Or has Whitby had you all fished out?’
‘Never have too many prawns,’ I said.
She looked well, her hair blue-black, cut in a new style, asymmetrical, a long sweep to one side. Similar to how it was when I first met her. I admired it.
‘New guy I’ve found, don’t think he realises how good he actually is. He looks about ten.’
‘I’ve given up,’ I said. ‘Too much grey.’ Most of the time I tied my hair back in a ponytail to keep it out of the way. It was dry and split at the ends, the texture of wire wool.
‘You can’t just give up,’ she said. ‘We’ll sort you out while you’re here.’
‘How?’
‘I have ways.’ She was busy tapping on her phone.
‘I can’t really . . .’
‘My treat.’
I knew I was dowdy beside her. Fat and washed-out, I probably looked twenty years older but I didn’t care. ‘Bel, it really doesn’t matter.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But it will give you a boost. Sue me if it doesn’t. We’ll go after lunch. It’ll be fun.’
I still wasn’t sure.
‘Come on.’ She reached over and shook my shoulder. ‘This is your weekend. Consider it a belated Christmas present. Say yes, Lydia. In fact that’s the rule: the next forty-eight hours you can only say yes.’
‘All right,’ I said. I couldn’t imagine myself with another hair-style.
Over lunch I told Bel all about Whitby. ‘Things are tough,’ I said, ‘but it was probably worse before we left Leeds. At least she’s not going missing all the time and getting into who knows what trouble.’
‘Just a little light arson and the raging meltdowns?’
‘Yeah, just that. She asked about her birth-mother, what she was like. I’ve told her everything we know. But it doesn’t amount to much.’
‘She can’t see her yet?’
‘Not until she’s eighteen. I’ve told her she can write. Send a letter with mine and ask questions. It’s up to the social workers if they pass that on and if she gets a reply. I don’t know if she can handle it, really. Who knows what fantasies she’s spinning? Social media makes it so easy for people to trace each other. They find each other on Facebook and just go ahead and reunite without any support or advice. I couldn’t bear that.’ I pressed my hands to my head. ‘We’ve got a therapist who sounds as though he knows what he’s doing. He can start seeing her in March. He’s in Newcastle, so it’s a four-hour round trip but that’s fine.’ I sat back. ‘And how’s Freya?’
‘Oh.’ Bel snorted. ‘Freya’s fucking perfect. Taking some exams early, lead role in the school play, volunteering at a charity shop. She’s a saint.’
‘Give her some credit, Bel,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you proud?’
‘Proud? It’s nothing to do with me,’ she said.
‘Go on,’ I chided her.
‘It isn’t. It’s in spite of me. She’s driving me crazy. Every day’s another argument,’ she said.
They’d always bickered. Bel couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut if Freya said something she took issue with.
‘It’s part of the whole becoming-independent thing, isn’t it? Hating your parents, arguing,’ I said.
‘She’s been like this all her life.’
‘Forgive me if I don’t feel sorry for you.’
‘It’s not a fucking competition,’ Bel said sharply. The atmosphere soured.
I took a drink. Then another. The wine was cold, fruity.
Bel relented. ‘Sorry, it’s just like everybody thinks the sun shines out of her arse but she’s driving me insane. And I know compared to what you’ve got on your plate . . .’
‘More wine?’ I lifted the bottle.
‘Always.’
Once we’d finished lunch we went to the salon Bel had found, wending our way through narrow cobbled lanes awash with tourists, a babble of American and Chinese and Australian accents in the air. The pretty stone houses with bow windows were selling silk and wool, perfume and jewellery, handmade crafts and souvenirs.
The salon was in a basement, the walls lined with bamboo cane, a water feature in one corner, a Buddhist statue in another, pools of light over each hairdresser’s chair. A door led through to spa facilities and Bel had booked herself in for a mani-pedi and acrylic nails while I had my hair done by a chubby girl with astonished-looking eyebrows called Kyla.
‘I’ve no idea what to do with it,’ I said. ‘A trim, I guess.’
‘Would you consider a colour?’
‘Yes. Nothing too artificial.’
‘We could start with a nice golden brown.’
‘Fine,’ I said.
‘How much do you want off the length?’
‘I don’t know.’
She picked up a tablet from the counter and swiped the screen until she found a page of four photographs, headed Wavy Hair, and handed it to me. ‘This maybe?’ She pointed to a beautiful model. ‘It’s a side part and the length’s just to the collarbone. It’ll take a lot of the weight off but keep your natural wave.’
‘Sounds great.’ Though I wouldn’t look like the photo in a million years.
‘And we’ll use a special treatment, an intense nourisher.’
She mixed and applied the colour and left me with a magazine. My thoughts kept returning to Mac and Chloë, though he had promised to ring me in an emergency. It was a novelty to have nothing more to do than sit and flick through the spring trends, articles about Pilates and super-foods.
When Kyla rinsed off and conditioned my hair at the sink she used firm circular motions. It was like having a head massage, the tension melting away.
Bel came back through while Kyla was cutting my hair. Her fingernails were deep purple, frosted with silver tips, like filigree silver. She said her toes were the same. She sat and chatted to Kyla about her training and some of the other treatments they had on offer.
I watched the hanks of hair fall, hoping I’d not made a mistake and that Kyla wouldn’t get carried away and cut it too short. She blow-dried it and worked some sort of final polish through it.
When she’d finished I couldn’t help but smile.
‘You look amazing,’ Bel said.
An exaggeration, but my hair shone, it framed my face in soft waves, and having it shorter seemed to make my eyes stand out more. When I ran a hand through it, it felt silky and bouncy.
The lunch had been delicious but by no means hearty and I was ready to eat again by early evening. Bel knew of an Indian on the edge of town, still in walking distance, and we went there for a curry, then to a pub that did craft beers. It was crowded but Bel managed to snaffle seats in the corner as soon as they became free.
‘How’s your love life?’ I asked.
She was usually quick to tell me when she was seeing someone.
‘Good.’ She raised an eyebrow, pursed her lips in a small smile. I signalled for her to elaborate.
‘Barnaby,’ she said.
‘Barnaby?’
‘I know.’ She gave a laugh. ‘Thirty-something.’
A younger man.
‘Lighting engineer. Here.’ She pulled out her phone, showed me a picture. He looked like a surfer, hair not unlike my new style, stubble, casual clothes. He also looked younger than thirty-something.
‘I don’t get to see him much. But when we do . . .’ She grinned.
‘He away a lot for work?’
‘Some. But he’s married.’
My heart sank. ‘Ah.’
‘Yeah. Three kids.’
‘Does his wife know?’
‘What do you think?’
I thought it was sad.
She stretched. ‘Still, doesn’t get boring, no fear of being smothered. Suits me just fine.’
Yes, I imagined it did. The transgression of being the mistress adding to the excitement, the time snatched and intense.
‘Don’t say anything at home. Freya doesn’t know. And I’d never hear the end of it.’
‘Of course.’ I thought of the wife. The love of her life lying and cheating. Imagined the anger and sorrow I’d feel if it was me. Was he a cheat anyway? If it hadn’t been for Bel, would there have been someone else? Or had she set out to corrupt him?
Chapter Thirty-five
I woke early on Saturday, force of habit, disorientated for a moment. I checked my phone, no messages, and let myself drift back to sleep, not waking again until almost ten o’clock. Bel slept on while I showered. The local bakery had croissants. I bought some, and a paper from the newsagent’s. I made fresh coffee and relished the leisure of it all. The indulgence.
Once Bel was ready we walked through the gardens. The day was mild and dry, cloudy.
Catkins were out and the blackthorn was sprayed with delicate white blossom, the ground scattered with clutches of snowdrops and crocuses.
I told Bel about Chloë’s riding and the hope that she’d find work in that field. ‘What does Freya want to do?’ I said.
‘I don’t know, she’s already talking about studying politics, philosophy and economics. But the fees! She’d come out owing fifty or sixty grand. And they charge interest on it, high interest. It’s such a scam.’
‘But she’ll do well,’ I said. ‘She’s so bright. She’ll make more money than any of us have.’
‘I can’t afford to sub her but there’s a trust fund.’
‘Since when?’
‘It was something my father set up for Freya when she was little. She can only touch it when she’s eighteen. But I’ve told her she’ll have to use that to help her manage. It’s crazy – she’s thirteen and she’s already narrowed down her degree course.’
‘It’s great she knows what she wants to do. A lot of them don’t.’
‘Do you miss your mum?’ she said.
I was wrong-footed by the abrupt change of subject. Felt a wave of sadness. ‘Every day. You know, when I was a kid I couldn’t really see her as anything other than my mum, part of the furniture. More irritating as I got older. It took having Chloë for me to really appreciate her. Not just for bringing us up but as an actual person who existed outside the family. She was born during the war, grew up with rationing still going on when women were forced back into the kitchen. She left school and went to secretarial college. But she had this really strong group of friends – they’d been at school together, then got married and worked and had kids, but they kept the friendships going. I guess it helped that they all stayed in Bradford.’
‘No one ran off to Whitby,’ she said.
‘Hah! What about you – your mum?’ I knew Bel’s mother had died of liver failure while Bel was in Santa Monica. And by then her father was in a care home. Bel had flown to France for her mother’s funeral but had never told me more than that.
‘I hated her,’ Bel said.
I drew in a breath.
‘I probably loved her too.’ She caught my eye. ‘They’re not mutually exclusive, are they?’ She looked away. I saw her jaw tighten. She drew back the wing of hair. Stopped walking. ‘And I fell apart when she died. I thought I’d be fine with it, not like we were particularly close, didn’t see much of each other. Nothing in common.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘But I was a wreck.’
‘I’d no idea.’
‘Ethan dragged me to see a doctor. They threw prescriptions at me. Uppers, downers, sleeping pills. It got me through eventually.’
‘Did you try talking to anyone?’
‘Oh, you know me, always prefer the chemical solution.’ She winked and I laughed. She’d successfully deflected the question. I think she was scared of therapy, of having to open up and confide in someone, exposing her vulnerabilities.
We walked on.
‘And how’s your dad?’ I said.
‘Same. I’ve not been over. No point. He wouldn’t know me from Adam.’
‘I heard from Colin, about trying to move back from Spain,’ I said.
‘He can’t find enough work. But then, they don’t know what will happen with the referendum. If we leave Europe Javier might not be allowed to stay here.’
‘That’ll never happen,’ I said. ‘We’d be crazy to leave. It’s just the Conservative Party wanting to shut UKIP up once and for all.’
By the end of the afternoon I’d still not heard from Mac or Chloë and was getting stressed about it. I texted him: Everything OK? xx
The reply came immediately: All fine. See you tomorrow x
Bel and I got drunk that night and staggered back to the flat in fits of giggles.
When I woke the next morning, head thumping, mouth dry, I couldn’t even remember what had been so funny. But it had been good to laugh, that much I knew. So good to have time to do whatever I felt like for a few hours. A taste of freedom.
Driving into the yard, the first thing I noticed was a mattress propped up against the wall of the old shed. I felt a clutch of anxiety. Flashcards of horror.
Mac came out of the house to meet me. I read his expression and knew in a second that I’d overreacted.
‘Nice do.’ He wiggled his fingers at his own hair.
‘Ta. What’s happened?’
‘She got pissed. Half a bottle of whiskey near enough. Sick as a dog.’
‘Oh, God. Where is she now?’
‘Inside.’ He nodded to the house. ‘Asleep on the sofa. I got her to shower, drink some water.’
‘Shit. At least it was whiskey, not bleach.’
‘Jaysus, Lydia. Could you not go darker?’
‘I just thought, when I saw it . . . Well, you can imagine.’
‘I’d have rung. You know that.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘You OK? Apart from . . .’
‘I’m hung-over.’ He made a noise, ironic.
‘You want something to eat?’ I said. ‘Fry-up?’
He shook his head.
‘Where are the sheets?’
