All That Mullarkey (21 page)

Pulling back the fireguard she opened the stove, added two logs, and sat cross-legged on the floor, so that the kind offers of credit cards or laser eye surgery could be chucked straight into the flames. She glanced at the electricity bill, read a notice from her bank about how her savings account – a slender thing these days – was changing, and then turned over and over an envelope addressed in Gav’s writing.

‘Now what does he want?’ She shut the stove and hooked the fireguard into place. Carrying the envelope with her she made, as a treat, a cafetière of coffee, Costa Rican. She had no concerns about strong coffee making her wakeful; she generally had to force herself to stay awake until eleven, then fell into bed and slept like a Shona for six and a half hours before she needed to drag herself up to do it all again.

Saturday and Sunday mornings were just bliss; then she didn’t rouse until seven when Shona’s cheerful squeals of ‘Mummee!’ and ‘HA!’ would scrape open her eyes.

Mooching back to the sitting room with her coffee cup, she nestled into the armchair, selected a TV drama for company and slit the envelope. Poor Gav. After Pauline, and the sad end of their marriage, Gav had given in his resignation at Clyde, Rhode & Owen – hurled it in, he said – and gone to live just north of Doncaster, near his dad.

‘I need to get away,’ he’d explained, earnestly, as if she’d been begging him to stay; whereas, in fact, she hadn’t even wanted to look at him and the sad looseness of his body language. ‘Dad could do with company. I don’t think I can hack it at CR&O, I’ve been cleared of woman beating but they all know I’m an unfaithful bastard.’

‘I shouldn’t think you’re alone,’ she’d reassured him, unthinkingly.

He’d glared. ‘Hardly, eh, Swelly Belly?’ And then, sarcastically, ‘Is Justin likely to be around for the birth?’ He knew that Cleo and Justin were absolutely not in contact, but seemed to enjoy reminding her of the fact.

‘No,’ she answered calmly, patting her stomach. ‘It’s just me and the baby.’

Cleo and Shona. Shona and Cleo. A package. At the birth, at that final heave with the midwife coaxing, ‘You’re doing beautifully, well done,’ and Liza marvelling, ‘Oh. My.
God
!’ Cleo had yelled out, just once, on a peak of pain, ‘
Justin
!’

The echoes of his name had died in the bright, hot delivery room and everyone had tactfully pretended to be deaf.

Then Cleo and Liza were laughing and crying together at the feebly waving bundle that blinked as she was placed in her mother’s arms.

‘You’re a mum!’ Liza had accused, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. ‘Cleo, she’s so …
amazing
. Isn’t she amazing? Isn’t the whole thing amazing?’ Then Liza dashed out because she’d been dying to pee for hours – and probably wanted a crafty fag as well, because she only pretended to have given up.

The midwives went quietly about, clearing up the yucky stuff.

The baby blinked, dark hair plastered above a puzzled forehead. Fists of unimagined delicacy trembled and clutched at nothings.

And Cleo suddenly realised where the saying had come from: ‘left holding the baby’.

Her back was tucked up with a dragging ache. She was so thirsty after the endless sucking on the gas-and-air that she thought her throat would zip up and dry out. She held on to her daughter tightly, scared her arms would go nerveless and let the baby plummet to the floor. A nerve at the base of her neck ticked. And she longed, for a frantic, frightened moment, for a man beside her to relieve her tired arms.

But there was no man.

No man beside her, no man on his way, no man waiting outside for news. Cleo’s arms found strength.

When Shona was five days old, Cleo rang Rockley Image and asked for Justin, receiving the slightly evasive response, ‘I’ll put you through to the studio.’

The voice at the studio sounded surprised. ‘Sorry,’ it said, ‘Justin doesn’t work here, now.’

The magnitude of the task of formulating a reply defeated Cleo and she replaced the phone silently.

So it had definitely been just Cleo and Shona.

Pushing those thoughts aside, quickly she ripped open the letter, trying not to wonder whether Gav was pleased that once upon a time Cleo had had two men but now she had none.

Dear Cleo
,

She skimmed the ‘hope you’re OK’ and Gav and George were.

I’m going to be back in your neighbourhood for a couple of days. Could we get together for a chat? I’ve something particular I’d like to discuss. I don’t know where I’ll stay, Keith is doing the love-nest thing with his latest woman – God knows how he gets them
(which made two of them)
but I don’t want to be a hairy gooseberry.

Believe it or not, I’m being headhunted by a firm I used to deal with when I worked at CR&O and I’ve got a couple of days of interviews. They haven’t offered to pay my hotel bill so I suppose I’ll have to find somewhere reasonable. Unless I could crash on your couch? I’d be no trouble, honest!

Cleo glanced over at the sofa, a two-seater with runged wooden arms. Gav would be dead comfy on that! She pulled the phone towards her, yawning.

She opened with, ‘My couch is only a two-seater. You’d hang over at each end.’

Gav laughed, sounding drowsy as if he’d been snoozing in front of the telly, which he probably had. ‘OK. Well … OK, no sweat. I’ll find a hotel.’ He sounded flat and disappointed.

She let him sigh over this setback before saying thoughtfully, ‘I have got an air bed, of course. And a sleeping bag. If you don’t mind dossing on the sitting-room floor?’

‘Brilliant!’ It pleased him, she could tell by the sudden lightness in his voice. She hoped she was doing the right thing. But it might be nice to have another adult to talk to, someone she didn’t have to go through the fag of getting to know.

Sometimes, although she had her work and Liza – however much anyone had Liza – Cleo was very alone. The only contact she had with her parents was in the form of disapproving, monthly, duty phone calls.

In fact she’d suffered one only the evening before. Her mother had trotted out one of her favourite digs, ‘Gavin must’ve been mortified about that baby. No one could blame him for leaving.’

Cleo snorted. ‘I won’t bother repeating the chronology of what led up to me leaving Gav, Mum. You’ve heard it all before and you obviously choose not to listen.’

There were never any of the traditional grannie questions about Shona’s teeth or vocabulary, there was never a home-knit cardigan sent or a voucher for a new toy. Cleo’s parents had only once undertaken the hour-long journey to see their grandchild, when she was a fortnight old; a censorious duty – so far as Cleo, half dead with shocked fatigue, had been able to tell.

And Cleo hadn’t embarked on the reciprocal journey at all.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Justin stretched the small amount that was possible in the ridiculously small space allowed by economy air travel, and longed to be home in his flat.

The past eighteen months had been great, an experience he’d never forget or regret and just what he’d needed, but now he was ready for home. He was sick of snow and bitter, biting cold that had made wearing great fat coats and fleecy hats and gloves a necessity during the iron winter.

Heathrow was below; home was only a couple of hours from there, no doubt in the grip of typically British drizzle – but home.

Funny: cramped in his aircraft seat he’d dreamt of Cleo, presumably because he had had his mind fixed on home. He’d dreamt of her living alone in the little house in Middledip.

Unlikely! He grinned, glad he could remember her now without rancour. Cleo was quite a girl; if she’d given her husband the heave-ho she would’ve found other entertainment. What a prat he’d been over her, storming out in a huff, yelling all that crap about her getting to him and him minding. Inwardly, he groaned. Must’ve had a rush of blood. Must’ve mistaken lust for ‘lurve’ or something. Blimey.

But, considering he’d been curled uncomfortably onto his meal tray with his back bent and his toes bent and his arms bent, what a dream it’d been. A dream of dissolving clothes and hot hands. He’d woken up abashed, his erection making him feel still more crowded. Not that anybody would’ve noticed, all barricaded in by their own seat backs and chair arms.

Better when he was back in his own bed, his own flat. Maybe, in a few days, he’d even look Cleo up and make peace. Be the nice guy, now she was no longer important and out of his system. She was a loose end and he kind of liked loose ends tied out of the way.

Finally, after the long descent and the endless burdens of disembarkation and homeward travel, Justin barged through the door of his flat, keys swinging from his teeth because his hands were full of cases.

He was stunned to find a man and a woman there, eating a Saturday lunchtime takeaway on trays in front of the television. A dopey couple: the girl peering from between peroxide hair curtains, the lad sticking his chin out.

They all gazed at one another for several silent moments.

Then Justin dropped his cases and keys and groaned. They must be his tenants, the ones that the agent assured him would be out ten days ago. ‘There must’ve been some slip-up,’ he began, tolerantly enough. ‘The agent said your tenancy ended last week.’

‘We-ell …’ The couple exchanged glances. The girl smirked. ‘But we never had nowhere lined up. He never gave us time.’

Justin tried to shake his head clear of jet lag. ‘And the agent let you stay?’

The girl shrugged. ‘We had a spare key cut. We come back.’ She shrugged again, grinning now, triumphant.

The man stood up to demonstrate his size. ‘Yeah, we come back, ’cos the agent won’t give us back our key money so we paid another month here, really, ent we? We only need a few weeks to find somewhere else. Best if you find a couch to kip on for a bit, eh?’ He grinned, obviously well impressed with their cleverness. Justin’s heart sank. Bastards! Nasty, spiteful, parasitical bastards. They were expecting him to either get upset and bluster, so they could shout him down, or threaten legal action, which they knew would take forever.

Instead, he picked up his cases. ‘Fuck you, I’ve got to crash.’ Strolling to his bedroom, he found it heaped with faded, grubby bed linen and discarded clothes. When he’d kicked the door shut behind him and wedged it shut with a folded newspaper, he snatched out his phone. ‘Drew? Yeah, I’ve just got in. Listen, you’ve still got a spare key to my place, haven’t you? I need a
huge
favour …’

While he waited, he unpopped the cheap and grubby duvet cover and stuffed into it the contents of the wardrobe, along with every other item strewn about the room. Someone tried the bedroom door handle and banged on the door. He ignored them, opened the window and heaved the bundle out, after checking there was nobody below. Various holdalls and carrier bags followed.

As he waited, he searched out correspondence from his agent and reminded himself of the names of his tenants – now squatters – Jason and Stephanie Blumfield. Far from model tenants, they’d been erratic with their rent and had had to sacrifice their deposit when the agent had inspected the flat and found it necessary to call in cleaning professionals.

A tense thirty minutes later, alerted by raised voices, he kicked the wedge out from under the door and burst back into the sitting room. Jason Blumfield rounded on him indignantly. ‘These bastards are changing the lock!’ Gez was already on his knees at the front door, toolbox open beside him. Drew and Martin stood in the sitting room between Jason and Gez, arms folded.

‘And I’ve just called the police,’ Justin lied casually. ‘I’ve also chucked your clothes out of the window, you’ve got five minutes to gather anything else that’s yours and
piss off
!’

‘Our
clothes
?
Outside
? Oh right, that’s really nice, you bastard.’ Stephanie Blumfield shuffled into her shoes and out of the front door at an anxious trot.

A very tense silence followed while Justin, Drew and Martin stared at Jason. Then Jason began snatching up coats, stray shoes, videos, his fags and lighter, and followed his wife, snarling at Justin, ‘I’ll getchoo! Bastard! Fucking
getchoo
! You fucking wait. I won’t half fucking getchoo!’ On the way out, he booted the door out of Gez’s hands as a final act of defiance.

Justin heaved a great sigh of relief. ‘Cheers, boys. Wait till I get my hands on that bloody agent. Look at this shit hole! Fag burns, takeaway cartons – it looks like a squat in here.’

Drew grinned. ‘I thought it looked quite homey.’

They set about the business of making the flat habitable again. When Justin finally threw clean bedclothes on the bed and crashed down onto them it was hours, hours and
hours
later. Further clearing up, the agent, Cleo and the whole rest of the world would have to wait until he’d had some
sleep
.

Gav stared up Ladies Lane, jingled his change, turned, measured ten paces up the drive, paused, turned again on one heel and one toe, and paced ten back. Stared up the empty lane again.

What should he do? He’d arrived ten minutes after Cleo had said she’d be home, had waited twenty minutes and still she hadn’t arrived. He could call her mobile but if she was driving she wouldn’t answer. Presumably, she would have called if she’d broken down. He took ten paces up the drive again, adjusting his glasses, the glasses he’d recently had to begin wearing, to his chagrin. Turning, he paced back down.