Fear of falling, p.22
Fear of Falling, page 22
‘We don’t know that. With the right help—’
‘Don’t be so naive,’ he yelled.
‘I’m not. I won’t give up hope. I won’t give up on her.’
‘At any cost?’
‘Four years and she’ll be an adult—’
‘Four years? Christ, I don’t know if I can cope with another four weeks, let alone four years.’
‘She’s our daughter.’ I thought of that first meeting, her hair all fluffy, her determination. ‘Remember? She was so fierce and tiny, and I wanted to protect her. I wanted to save her. But most of all I loved her. And she needs us.’
‘That’s not love, that’s pity.’
‘No! Don’t say that. I love her. In spite of everything. I’m her mother.’
‘You’ve done your best. You’ve nothing left to prove. But all you’ve got is unrequited love. A roller-coaster nightmare. Pretending any of this is halfway normal—’
I glared at him. ‘I don’t give a fuck about normal. And I’m not pretending. I can’t turn my love on and off like a tap. Yes, I hate what she’s doing, how she makes me feel. And I’m angry with her but I’m the adult here. I’m not the traumatised child.’
‘She’s brought it all with her, we know that. It’s on all those websites you’re so fond of, isn’t it? That dysfunction, she’s recreating it with us. Forcing us to dance to her tune.’
‘I couldn’t stop loving her, looking after her. It’s unconditional. I couldn’t stop any more than I could stop loving you.’
‘Sometimes you have to let people go – if you really love them.’ He stared at me.
Was he talking about Chloë or himself?
‘What if she’d be better in care? What if that’s what she wants?’ he said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s never said that.’
‘You won’t even think about it? Not for five minutes?’
‘I couldn’t bear it, Mac.’ I swallowed, determined not to cry.
‘It shouldn’t be about you, though,’ he said.
‘She’s acting out. That doesn’t mean I react by taking away the only things I can give her.’
He drew his hand over his face.
‘We’re just going round in circles,’ I said. ‘Maybe we need to talk to someone, you and me together.’
‘I think it’s too late for that,’ he said.
Oh, Christ.
‘She might manage with help from Gregory and the CBT, and if we hang in there . . .’ I knew I was pleading, begging. ‘She’s so unhappy.’
He levelled his gaze at me, steady, despairing. ‘Aren’t we all? I won’t be a martyr any more,’ he said.
‘She can’t help it,’ I said.
‘Then what fucking hope is there?’ Silence hung between us, thick and heavy.
He gave a shake of his head, paced away from me. ‘I’m done, Lydia. When we leave here, I’ll find a place on my own.’
‘No! Please.’
‘I can’t be with her. I cannot.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘Ah, what a fucking mess. So what now? We report her missing?’
‘Give it till dark,’ I said.
He walked away.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To look for her.’ He slammed the door, making me jump. Dust motes rose, spiralled in the beams of sun coming through the windows.
The honey gleamed, dripping down shelves of books, pooling on the floor around the fragments of silver glass, its sweet smell cloying in the room.
He was back within the hour, and stayed just long enough to drop Chloë off and tell me not to make him any tea.
The argument, the ultimatum, an ocean between us.
I spoke to Chloë before we ate. Her eyes were bloodshot but dry. I assumed it was from the cannabis. Her face stony.
‘Chloë, I’m sorry I shouted. I was frightened and cross and upset. I love you but I’m worried. All I want, all I ever want, is for you to be happy.’
She angled her head away, bobbing slightly, one of her feet twitching, the picture of long-suffering at the tedium.
I was sick of it. That much was true. Mac was the love of my life and the thought of losing him ripped me in two. But if I chose to keep him and sacrificed Chloë I would never forgive myself. As long as I drew breath and my heart pushed blood around my body I would do all I could to care for my girl.
Chapter Forty-one
With the holidays over, Chloë started back at the stables. I’d feared she’d refuse to go, using that as a new area to battle over, but I was wrong.
I was driving back from there, following a tractor through the fog, relieved to be free of her for a few hours, when my phone rang. I let it go to voicemail and checked it when I got into the house. Bel.
‘Hello?’ I said, when she answered my return call.
‘Hi. You still asleep?’ she said.
‘Very funny. Been up for hours. So?’
‘We’re coming to visit.’
‘Well, I’m not sure that’s—’
‘No objections,’ she said. ‘Dying to see the place and Freya will love all the second-hand shops. It’s months since I’ve seen you.’
‘Chloë’s not great,’ I said.
‘What’s new?’ Bel said. ‘And you could do with some company, couldn’t you, with everything else?’ Bel knew about Mac’s decision to leave but we hadn’t had a chance to talk about it much.
‘It’s just that—’
‘I won’t take no for an answer,’ Bel said.
‘When are you thinking of coming?’
‘Today. Be there about five.’
‘Mac’s away tomorrow, stag night. His brother’s getting married again. And we’ve only got an airbed so—’
‘Fine. We’ll bring duvets and pillows. Booze. Send a text if you need anything else fetching. See you later.’
I felt like I’d been ambushed. I considered calling her back and insisting she postpone. But perhaps she was right and the visit would do me good. It would be lovely to see her again, to have the chance to talk frankly about everything once the kids were in bed.
Mac came out of the bathroom.
‘Bel and Freya are coming for the weekend. Just been informed.’
‘I’m at Luke’s stag.’
‘I know. At least you’ll get to see them tonight. Where’s the airbed?’ If they didn’t want to share a room, I thought, Freya could always sleep on the sofa.
‘In the shed.’
‘Great.’
‘Right, I’m off.’
Since his decision to leave me I’d felt such sadness. Between us there was a sense of something drawing to a close. At the same time I couldn’t actually imagine it happening. It was unreal. I hadn’t tried to change his mind. We’d barely talked more about it. But how would it work? Would he and I still have a relationship of any sort? Would this end in divorce? Would he still see Chloë? What would we say to her? The questions burrowed in my mind as I made things ready for our visitors.
The bedroom next to ours had become a place where we dumped stuff, shoes and boots, shopping bags and suitcases, cushions from the garden chairs. Now I moved all that into the spare room on the other side at the back, which was home to tools and packing cases and drying racks.
I brought the airbed in from the shed, brushing off cobwebs, then unrolled it and unplugged the valve to let it self-inflate. A stool would serve as a bedside table, or alternatively as somewhere to put clothes. There were no blinds over the window but Bel and Freya would just have to put up with the morning light. It looked very stark, but at such short notice I didn’t have a chance to make it more homely.
I bought extra fruit juice, beer and wine, bread and cheese, fresh vegetables, ice cream and yoghurt on my way to collect Chloë. The fog persisted, swathing the coast and pegging the temperature at eleven degrees, colder than the rest of the country. Down in the south-east they’d had a heatwave. Here it was cold enough to light the log burner.
Chloë’s mood hadn’t improved with the ride. The set of her shoulders, the angle of her head as she approached the car spoke volumes. When she climbed in, her animosity vibrated like the hum of an electric fence. Stay away.
She was clicking her lighter, over and over again, staring ahead as I drove us home.
When she’d had a cigarette and some tomato soup I told her about our guests.
She darted a look of dismay at me.
‘If you want you could—’
‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ she yelled, shoving herself away from the table. I had been going to say she could help bake biscuits. A jolt of resentment shook me. Fuck! I took a steadying breath, then another. I got out the scales and the ingredients I needed.
Mac was packing for his stag do, when I heard Bel’s car approach and went out to meet them.
‘You find it OK?’ I said to Bel, as she got out.
‘Missed the turning,’ she said.
‘Twice,’ Freya said. She was taller than I was now. She had a trilby on, a wool coat and ankle boots. All grown-up.
‘I could have done without the Hound of the Baskervilles special effects,’ Bel said, waving her arm at the fog.
‘Wrong moors,’ I said. ‘Come in. Give me something to carry.’
Inside they shed bags and coats and I admired Freya’s style. She wore a stripy Breton jumper, ripped navy leggings and a gold brocade waistcoat with a gold and blue scarf.
‘Hipster,’ Bel said.
‘I like it,’ I said.
‘All second-hand, apart from my hat,’ Freya said. ‘Recycling.’
‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘I’ll make drinks. Your room’s that one at the front.’
‘This is amazing.’ Bel spun round. ‘I love the beams. Loo?’
I pointed.
We settled round the kitchen table. Mac made coffee and answered all Bel’s questions about the conversion.
I set some biscuits aside for Chloë, and Freya and I made short work of the rest.
Freya was quizzing Mac about whether we’d used sustainable materials for the refurbishment while Bel rolled her eyes at me. Chloë appeared to say hello without prompting, then went out to smoke.
‘Do you want juice?’ I asked her, when she came in. ‘There’s cookies.’
She nodded. Sitting next to Freya, she looked like a child. She’d only just started her periods and had no bust to speak of.
‘I thought we could go out to eat,’ Bel announced. ‘My treat. One of your famous fish-and-chip restaurants.’
Chloë blinked, pressed her knuckles against the table. Tiny gestures. I doubted Bel could sense the shift in the atmosphere.
‘We’re as good getting take-out,’ I said. Chloë would be struggling with having visitors but taking her out to eat, to be in an unpredictable situation, an unfamiliar public environment, would add to her anxiety.
‘I’m veggie,’ Freya said.
‘That’s OK,’ I said.
‘No, they use beef fat.’ She curled her lip.
‘Not all of them. But I’ll check.’ I’d soon found the website for Robertsons. ‘Here we go. They use vegetable oil and you can have a mushy pea fritter or spring rolls and chips. Have a look. And when it says medium portion it actually means enormous. What do you want, Chloë?’
‘Just chips.’
Mac phoned the order in and set off soon after to fetch it.
Chloë stood. I expected her to shrink off back to her room, but Freya brought up some website on her phone, animals in ridiculous situations, and Chloë leaned in, laughing, a short single ‘hah’ at each new clip.
‘Haven’t you seen it before?’ Freya said.
‘No.’
‘It’s a whole channel. This one here, with monkeys, I love it. It’s sooo random.’
‘I’ll get my tablet,’ Chloë said.
I was lightheaded. That engagement, to hear her laugh, it was so precious. The girls had never clicked before but now it was like they were just two teenage mates chilling out.
I was so glad they’d come.
Mac arrived back with the meal and we shared it out.
‘Oh!’ Bel jumped up, went to their room and returned with a magnum bottle of spirits. ‘Vodka. New distillery in Leeds.’
‘Not sure it goes with fish and chips,’ I said.
‘You are so pedestrian. What do you think all those Russian sailors lived on? It’s a match made in Heaven.’
‘I’ll wait.’ I smiled. ‘I still remember my hangover from York.’
Mac joined her in a glass and proclaimed it was all right if you’d no whiskey in the house and had to make do.
‘Ingrate,’ Bel said.
Chloë looked puzzled. ‘It means an ungrateful person,’ I said.
After we’d eaten, the girls went to Chloë’s room, and the three of us sat round the wood burner in the living room and chatted over drinks. Mac was more relaxed than I’d seen him for ages, entertaining Bel with a story about a hellish journey back from Ireland. Was this how he was down the pub? And which was more real? The happy man with a tale to tell or the frustrated one, exhausted and ill-tempered, whose life was so far from what he wanted it to be? The man who was leaving his family.
Mac wanted to get to bed early – the stag party was due at a whiskey tasting at ten in the morning in Edinburgh – and Freya had said she’d rather sleep on the couch so we all turned in when he did. I’d not had a chance to talk to Bel on my own but tomorrow night we would.
I opened our bedroom windows before getting into bed. It was still hazy out there, a damp wool smell in the air.
I kissed Mac goodnight and asked him to wake me before he left.
I imagined life without him, his side of the bed empty. In the quiet I heard the call of an owl out hunting, tracking its prey, alert to every snick and rustle in the undergrowth.
When I came through for breakfast Freya and Bel were midargument.
‘You said we could go shopping.’ Freya put down her spoon and leaned forward.
‘I said you could go,’ Bel snapped. ‘Why would I want to traipse around a load of junk shops?’
‘I can’t go on my own.’
Should I offer to take her? I allowed myself a brief fantasy, Freya and I rummaging through clothes, me offering encouragement, waiting for her to try pieces on. Stopping for hot chocolate and flapjacks. All the things I never did with Chloë.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Take Chloë,’ Bel said.
‘Mom! No!’
‘I don’t think it’s Chloë’s scene,’ I said. ‘She hates shopping.’
‘And everything else,’ Freya said.
My cheeks burned. ‘Freya?’ I’d thought they were getting on so well.
‘Sorry. But she’s . . . well, she’s weird . . . Sorry.’
‘And you’re a nasty little bully,’ Bel said.
‘Wonder where I got that from,’ Freya said, her voice wobbling. I felt deeply uncomfortable.
Bel banged the table. ‘Get ready, then,’ she said. ‘We’ll go now if it’ll shut you up.’
Freya slid her chair back noisily and went off to the bedroom.
‘Hormones!’ Bel said.
‘Yours or hers?’
‘Hah! Do you want to come with?’
‘What – and referee? No, thanks. You go. It is a lovely place,’ I said. ‘We could all go somewhere this afternoon. It’s not beach weather but we could do some sightseeing.’ Outside, the grey sea fret still smothered the landscape.
‘OK.’
While they were out I put the radio on and cooked some vegetarian dishes for our evening meal: spicy chickpeas and spinach, curried dhal and onion bhajis. The smells of cumin and garlic, fenugreek and fresh coriander filled the kitchen in spite of the work of the extractor hood.
Chloë hadn’t surfaced by midday and I knocked and told her it was time to get up.
‘What for?’ she said.
I opened the door. Clothes littered the carpet. There was an overripe fruity smell, which I struggled to place until I saw a wine bottle on its side by her chair, and glasses on the drawers.
‘Who said you could drink wine?’
Stupid question. She raised herself up on her elbows, face sullen.
‘Please don’t take wine or beer or anything else without asking. That’s stealing. You know that.’
She wasn’t looking at me. Her hair was tangled, almost knotted at one side.
‘And I want you to clear all this up.’
I didn’t wait for a response knowing there might not be one.
Going back through to the living room my heart jumped at a loud smashing sound. The sound a glass bottle would make if you threw it against a stone wall.
Leave it, I thought. But then I imagined her standing, rocking on the shards of green, feet bleeding. Little mermaid.
I wanted to throttle her.
Chapter Forty-two
‘Smells good,’ Bel said, coming in with Freya.
‘Success?’ I asked.
‘I got two blouses and an amazing suede jacket,’ Freya said.
‘I thought you were vegetarian,’ Chloë said.
‘I’m not gonna eat it. Duh!’ Freya said.
On alert, I was ready to get Chloë out of the room, if needed, but she just gave a laugh, cold and curt.
‘Ghostbusters is on,’ Freya said, ‘the new one. We saw a poster.’
‘God, I loved that film,’ I said. ‘The first one.’
‘This is all women,’ Freya said.
‘Shock horror,’ Bel said.
‘Have you seen all the crap on social media?’ Freya said. ‘It’s like they’re going mental. All these men, they’re like, it’s an abomination, women can’t be funny, you ruined my childhood, dudes. Knuckleheads! I’m going to try these on again.’ She held up a canvas shopping bag.
Chloë went out to smoke.
‘Chloë was drinking last night,’ I said to Bel. ‘Wine. I don’t know if Freya was too.’
‘Oh, probably.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Have you forgotten what we were like?’ Bel said.
‘Not at fourteen.’
‘Speak for yourself. Besides, anything that tarnishes the halo is fine by me, I tell you.’
I shook my head. ‘Bel, we have to be careful with Chloë. It’s—’
