Between You and Me (11 page)

‘Mags, get your shoes back on,’ I call through to Maggie, who starts to grumble at the thought of going back out again.

As we walk down the front path, Laura pokes her head out from next door.

‘All right, Sal? I thought I just saw you get back – are you off out again?’ She smiles and flicks her red hair away from her face. As usual baby Fred is winding his way around her legs.

‘Hi, Laura. We’re just popping up to town – Charlie’s boss is coming for dinner tonight and I … kind of forgot. I have to go and pick up the dinner.’ I smile at her, sheepishly.

‘So … are you not taking the car?’ Eagle-eyed, Laura has noticed that Maggie and I have reached the gate and are leaving without wheels. Smile fading, I pause for a minute, unsure of what to tell her. I don’t want to have to explain why I’m going all the way into town, but not bothering to take the car. Thinking fast I say, ‘It needs a service. Charlie doesn’t want to use it until it’s sorted, in case it’s dangerous, you know? So we’re going on a bus adventure.’

‘Right.’ Laura nods slowly, her eyes fixed on mine. ‘Well, don’t drag Mags up to town; she can stay here and play with Lucy if you want.’ On hearing this Maggie starts dancing around me, clasping her hands under her chin and whispering ‘
pleeeease
’. It would make things easier for me, doing the shop without Maggie whinging that she’s hot and tired and wants to go home.

‘OK. If you’re sure? It really would help me out a lot.’ I smile at Laura and bend down to kiss Maggie goodbye. ‘Be good. I won’t be long.’

‘Take your time. And don’t worry – I won’t mention it to Charlie.’ Laura gives me a small smile in return and, taking Maggie’s hand, heads back indoors. I look after her retreating back, unsure of exactly what it is that I’m feeling.

An hour and a half later I make my way back up the garden path with four bags of shopping and fingers that are turning blue where the supermarket bags have cut off my circulation. Packing the shopping away I turn my attention to the rest of the house. I know that I am already in the dog house for not knowing or remembering about the dinner party (even I am not sure which it is now – you were so convinced on the phone that I DID know about it, now I am even doubting myself), so it’s vitally important that the house is up to scratch by the time everyone gets here. I spend another hour and a half scrubbing, tidying, emptying bins and polishing surfaces. I even get up in the loft and drag down the solid silver cutlery set we were given as a wedding present by my parents, and give it a good polish. Laying the table with a fresh white tablecloth and the freshly polished knives and forks, I am just stepping back to survey my handiwork when Laura’s face appears at the kitchen window. Smiling at her, I go to the back door to let her in.

‘Tah-dahhh! What do you think?’ I sweep my arms wide, displaying the laid table. ‘Does it look OK? I’m rubbish at this sort of stuff.’

‘Impressive. There’s something missing, though. Hang on.’ She disappears back down the path and returns two minutes later holding a bunch of pink and white alstroemeria, mixed with tiny pale pink rose buds. Judging by the water dripping from the ends, she’s pinched them from her own vase.

‘Perfect,’ she sighs, popping them into a vase and placing them in the middle as a centrepiece. I have to admit it does finish the table off perfectly.

‘Brilliant. You’re a genius – but tell me, who’s been buying you flowers?’ I tease, and she blushes.

‘Don’t be daft, Sal. I bought them for myself. Nobody’s bought me flowers since Jed left, and even before then it didn’t happen that often!’ She gives a sad chuckle. ‘Anyway, of course it looks perfect. Sometimes you just need a woman’s touch.’

‘Well, it looks brilliant. Charlie will be so impressed – speaking of which, thanks for looking after Maggie today. I really appreciate it, and I would also appreciate it if we don’t tell Charlie. It’s just less hassle, you know?’ I’m embarrassed to even say it, but I have to. I don’t want a row caused by one off-the-cuff remark. A look crosses Laura’s face, one that I’m not sure how to interpret.

‘Of course, Sal. No problem. Enjoy the dinner party, OK?’ Laura reaches up to kiss my cheek, and sweeps out of the back door. I stand there for a moment, before calling Maggie in and heading upstairs to get ready.

You arrive home later than expected, which is good in a way, as it means I am ready in plenty of time. I bathe Maggie and get her into her pyjamas before jumping in the shower and getting changed. You seem to have calmed down by the time the working day is done, so I go with it and don’t mention the fact that I wasn’t told about the dinner party again. The Hunters arrive on time and you are invited to call Mr Hunter Stan, a good sign if ever I saw one. I pour pre-dinner drinks and eventually we make our way to the table.

‘Starters are served!’ I push my way backwards through the kitchen door to the table, carrying the hot plates containing my starter of angels on horseback. All three faces at the table drop, and I stand there, unsure as to what exactly I have done wrong.

‘Sal? Did you not remember what I told you about Mr Hunter’s, sorry Stan’s, allergy?’ Your face is like thunder. I feel a look of confusion cross my face. You definitely didn’t tell me anything about a seafood allergy. Definitely. Mr Hunter is trying to say something, but I burble out something about how I didn’t realise. I feel an ugly flush creep up from my neckline and my face feels hot with embarrassment. You grab my elbow and steer me roughly towards the kitchen, making noises to the Hunters over your shoulder about how I will fix something else for Mr Hunter to eat. Once in the kitchen, you grab the plates out of my hand and hit me hard on the arm.

‘Jesus Christ, Sal, are you doing this on purpose? Just when I think you’re taking stuff on board and actually listening to what I say you pull a stunt like this.’ You whisper urgently at me, keeping quiet so that the Hunters don’t overhear you. I can’t look at you – I know you never told me about any allergies but it’s pointless to try and tell you that. This is going to be my fault; it always is. I rub at the spot on my arm where you hit me. Reaching towards you, I try to reassure you I can fix it, make him something else, but you yank yourself away and point your finger in my face.

‘Don’t think that I’m letting this one go; I’ll deal with you later. I suggest you sort something out for Stan to eat, and stop being such a fucking loser.’ With that, you storm out of the kitchen and leave me open-mouthed, gaping after you.
How did things between us get this bad?
There was a time when you would never have spoken to me that way, never have been so angry and hateful towards me, but now it seems everything is my fault. There was a time, before, when, if you had spoken to me like that I would have retaliated, told you that you were out of order. I know you never told me about the seafood allergy, but it’s not worth even trying to stick up for myself any more; it’s almost like I’m too exhausted to fight back. In your eyes you told me, and I went against what you had said deliberately, to try and sabotage your evening. Sighing, I splash my hot cheeks with cold water and try to figure out what exactly I can rustle up for Stan to eat that won’t kill him, hoping against hope that they don’t think I’m a complete moron.

For me, the rest of the evening doesn’t get any better. I try and make conversation with the Hunters but you seem determined to put me down at every turn. When discussing careers, before I get a chance to tell them how I was a teacher before we had Maggie, how I’m just taking a small career break as we both agreed it was more important for someone to be home to take care of the baby than to have a dual-income household, you tell them that I
don’t work
.

‘No, Sal doesn’t work. Stays at home all day, lounging around watching soaps like some sort of kept woman, while I go out and earn a crust.’ You and Mr Hunter chuckle together, but I see Mrs Hunter glance sadly towards me, before turning back to her roasted duck.

Talk turns to families and once again you don’t let me speak for myself, deciding to tell the Hunters how my family are ‘overbearing and slightly interfering. We find we can manage perfectly well on our own, so we don’t see a lot of them.’ I want to say that actually I do, but I have to sneak over there when you’re not around in order to be able to see them without your snipes and cruel comments. I bite my tongue repeatedly throughout the meal, when my housekeeping skills are criticised by you, my dress sense, my chronic shyness and inability to hold a conversation with people I don’t know. You’ve had too much to drink and seem to be under the impression that you are witty and amusing, instead of just cruel. I am relieved when, after you seem to run out of steam, you turn to Mr Hunter and start talking shop, leaving me with Mrs Hunter,
Stella
, a woman with whom I have nothing in common. I manage to make it through the evening, my only struggle coming at the end when Stella, slightly pissed, grabs my hand as she leaves and tells me, ‘Don’t ever let them get you down; you’re doing the hardest of all jobs and I admire you greatly.’ This is almost enough to bring me to tears.

You, however, will not bring me to tears. This evening has shown me that I am worth much more than you give me credit for and I resolve to no longer let you treat me this way, especially when you tell me, after the Hunters have staggered their way to their waiting cab, that I’m so stupid no one else will ever want me, and that, one day, this might even include you. Not even the all-too-rare perfect moments, those times when everything seems like it’s going to work out OK in the end, are enough for me any more.

Chapter Twenty

CHARLIE

I wake up early the next morning, still not too sure how the dinner party went. It seemed like after Sal’s idiotic mix-up with the starters everything seemed to go fairly well, so I am hopeful that Mr Hunter isn’t going to hold it against me when it becomes time to make his decision regarding who will be made partner when Mr Crisp retires.

I rub a hand across my face, yawning, and decide to get up. Sal is still snoring softly away next to me, but I can hear the chatter of early morning cartoons, which means that Maggie couldn’t sleep in this morning either. I can’t lie and listen to Sal’s irritating little puffs of breath in and out without feeling my temper rise, not this morning when I still feel so disappointed in Sal’s efforts for the dinner party, so I get up and make my way downstairs. The kitchen and dining room is spotless – the array of empty glasses, wine bottles and the bottle of single malt Stan and I sampled with our after-dinner coffee has all been cleared away. Likewise, the linen tablecloth has been removed and the silver cutlery set is washed, dried and back in its box. Only the small vase of flowers still stands on the table, heads now wilted and crinkled. Sal must have made an effort to make sure everything was tidy before coming up to bed last night, after I stormed out of the kitchen in a fog of disappointment. The disappointment still lingers, despite Sal’s best efforts, and I think back to the time I first realised Sal was going to need to be kept in check if we were going to stay together.
The first time I realised Sal wasn’t aware of the rules.

It is not long after Sal has graduated from university, after completing a PGCE. Sal wants to become a primary school teacher and has a placement lined up at a primary in South-East London, not the most salubrious of areas, but it is OK – there are a lot worse places out there. The placement is due to start at the beginning of September, and I know Sal is excited about it, despite the fact that I am not really keen at all. There is a mix of male and female teachers at the school, something I am not especially happy about, and the idea of not being able to contact Sal during lesson time is also something that puts me off. However, we are in the process of buying our first flat together and we need to have two incomes coming in. I have just been offered a position at Hunter, Crisp and Wilson, also due to start in the first week of September, so it seems as though everything is coming together at last, exactly as I want it.

We decide to celebrate the fact that everything is going well with a cheap, last-minute holiday. Sal browses online and eventually finds a week in Egypt – Sharm El Sheikh, to be exact. It looks like a little piece of paradise, and the dates coincide with Sal’s family’s annual Bank Holiday Summer get-together, another excellent reason for us to go on holiday and avoid having to make excuses as to why we can’t attend. (I am fast running out of excuses, to be perfectly honest, what with the faked sprained ankle and numerous ‘stomach bugs’, but at least we have managed to avoid seeing Sal’s parents the last three times they had invited us over.)

I pack for us both, Sal sorts out the taxi to Gatwick (although I did have to step in and do some negotiation regarding the fare – Sal is completely useless at bargaining), and some hours later we get off the plane to scorching sunshine and smiley little men with brown teeth all desperate to carry our bags for us.

‘Isn’t this gorgeous?’ Sal pulls me in close for a hug, as we wait for our coach transfer to our hotel. ‘I’m shattered, but just think, we’ve got a whole week to recharge our batteries, just you and me.’ Dark, purple circles underscore Sal’s eyes, a sure sign of the fatigue that comes with finishing three years at uni followed by a year-long PGCE. I squeeze back. Yes, it was just what the doctor ordered, just Sal and me, on our own, with no one around to interfere. It should have been the perfect week.

The week does start out perfectly – we are staying in an all-inclusive hotel, which could have meant shitty food and poor service, but in fact it is the opposite. The staff are friendly, the hotel is clean and the food is good. Being right on the beach means that there is no struggle to get down there in time to get a sunlounger and Sal and I spend our evenings out late, and our mornings in bed.

On the third morning I wake up alone. Calling out to Sal and getting no response, I slip out through the sheer curtains to our hotel balcony and peer out over the beach. The sky is a beautiful, clear, deep blue, the sun a scorching, white-hot ball above us and I can already see the heat shimmering above the sand. Standing not too far from the shoreline I see a mop of dark curls and realise it is Sal, distinctive red swimming towel slung over one shoulder. Sal is talking to a woman, about thirty years old, with long, dirty blonde hair that is tangled and lifting in the sea breeze, gesturing towards the pier that branches out from the sand several metres out into the sea. I rush back into our room and grab an overlong T-shirt and a pair of beach shorts. Hooking a beach towel with my fingertips as I race towards the door, I snatch up the hotel key by the fob and run down the stairs into the lobby. As I approach the seafront I see the woman turn and start walking back down the beach, Sal calling something out after her that I can’t catch as the wind takes the words and blows them away from me towards the woman.