Losing Me (33 page)

Barbara thanked her.

“I also wanted to let you know that I’m resigning.”

“But why?”

“Oh, come on, Barbara. There’s no need to be disingenuous. We all know that Jubilee and I weren’t a match made in heaven. I was completely out of my depth. Everybody knew it. Only they were too polite to say.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll probably leave teaching though. To be honest, that’s about as far as my plans have got.”

She looked over at Troy, who was still watching TV on the sofa.

“How’s he doing? If you ask me, he should be back at school by now. I think the routine would do him good.”

“His counselor doesn’t think he’s ready. But Carole says he’s doing a lot better.”

“That’s good. . . . Look, I want you to know that the staff and I did everything we could for Troy.”

“I know you did,” Barbara said. At the same time, she couldn’t help wondering if that was the whole truth. Had the staff been instructed to look out for signs that Troy might be in distress?

“When that monster goes on trial and the story hits the local paper, I’m not having some ignorant hack accuse me of failing in my duty of care. I won’t stand for it. The school is totally blameless. Nobody could have known that this Wayne character would come back and do what he did.”

Barbara noticed Sandra’s eyes were filling up. “Of course they didn’t. None of us did.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I should say good-bye to Troy.” She produced a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and blew her nose.

“Of course . . . And, Sandra, good luck.”

“You, too.”

She turned away and headed towards the sofa.

“Isn’t that Sandra? Troy’s head teacher?” Mike had appeared. He was helping himself to a glass of wine.

Barbara nodded. “There goes another one who blames herself for what happened. Only Sandra’s not the sort to admit it.”

“Maybe she’s got the right idea. At least that way she gets fewer sleepless nights. And the truth is, nobody could have done anything. The whole thing is such a rotten, bloody mess. But you can’t keep dwelling on it. We have to think about those kids.”

“Speaking of which, you and Troy seem to have become really good mates.”

“He’s a great lad. With a bit of love and attention, he’ll really come into his own. And Lacie’s such cutie.”

“You could always adopt them.”

A smile drifted across Mike’s face. “I love the casual way you managed to slip that in. Carole put you up to it, didn’t she?”

“No. She hasn’t said a word. Promise.”

“Ever since Tiffany died, Carole hasn’t stopped talking about us adopting them. As far as she’s concerned, it’s a no-brainer. But I’m not sure that at our age, social services are going to agree with her.”

“You sound like you’re hoping they won’t agree.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’ve fallen in love with them as much as Carole has, but if we adopt them . . .”

“There goes any hope of a quiet life.”

“Carole says we’ll find ways of building in ‘us time,’ but I’m buggered if I know how.”

“Well, you’ve always got me—and Maureen, too, if I know her. We’d be more than happy to help out occasionally. In case you were worried, neither of us has the remotest intention of disappearing from those kids’ lives.”

“That’s kind. And don’t think I’m not grateful. But even with a bit of help, it doesn’t alter the fact that raising two kids at our time of life isn’t going to be easy.”

“So will you apply to adopt them?”

“Carole’s already got the forms. Meanwhile, I’m trying to convince myself that peace and quiet is vastly overrated.”

“Poor old Mike. All that moaning and in the end you’re such a pushover.”

“That’s what I keep telling Carole.”

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates it.”

Just then Barbara caught sight of Troy wandering around looking lost. “Hey, you . . . finished watching TV?”

“Boring.”

“Well, I’ve got something for you that might cheer you up.”

“What is it?”

“It’s in the garden. Why don’t we go and take a look?”

Barbara and Mike followed as Troy went tearing into the kitchen and out the back door.

Troy’s mouth and eyes couldn’t have got any wider. “Wow! Is that for me?”

“Of course it’s for you.”

Leaning against the back wall of the house was a shiny red bike.

“Looks brand-new,” Mike whispered.

She said that it was, pretty much. The eBay seller had bought it for his son’s birthday, but the kid was a bit of a geek and asked if he could have a more powerful computer instead.

Troy darted over and hugged Barbara around the waist. “This is the best present I’ve had in my whole life.”

He looked at Mike. “I want to ride it. Can we go to the park? Please can we? Please?”

“Of course we can.”

Troy frowned. “Mike, I know my mum died and everything . . . and I should be sad . . . and I am sad. I’m really, really sad. But is it OK for me to be just a tiny bit happy as well?”

Mike put his arm around Troy’s shoulders. “Of course it is. That’s precisely what your mum would want.”

“Right. Let’s go, then. I’ll race you to the park.”

Barbara nudged Mike. “Peace and quiet really are overrated.”

“Maybe, but make no mistake. I plan to be back in time for the football.”

Chapter 15

F
rank arrived home with a tan and an inch or two extra around his waist—on account of his epic consumption of enchiladas and refried beans. After he’d unpacked he promised that they would sit down and have “that talk.”

“But do you mind if we leave it for a few days? Right now I haven’t got the energy. I’m completely done in.”

Barbara let him be. If, now that he was home, he was running scared and trying to put off discussing their marriage, she wasn’t too bothered. She still doubted that it would achieve much. Plus she also had other things on her mind.

She fretted about Troy. Whereas Lacie had no comprehension of her own tragedy and had settled down very quickly with Carole and Mike, her brother was still prone to tantrums and moments of despair when he screamed for his mum. Carole was pragmatic. They were taking each day as it came. She was also busy working on Mike, trying to persuade him to let her fill out the adoption application forms. She would call Barbara every couple of days. “It’s like chopping down a tree. I can hear the creaking. Another week and I know he’ll give way.”

In quiet moments Barbara found herself wondering if she should push Frank into having the state-of-their-union talk. She had made up her mind that when they got around to it, she wouldn’t tell him about Jack. It could serve no purpose. Jack was on her mind, too. She wasn’t grieving exactly, but she couldn’t help wondering what might have been, had the circumstances been different.

Along with worrying about Troy and reflecting on her marriage and her relationship with Jack, she was wondering how one set about raising a million quid. When she mentioned her plan to Frank, he was taken aback but clearly impressed.

“It’s an absolutely amazing idea. So, do you think you can pull it off?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you could help me brainstorm fund-raising ideas.”

She was aware that at some stage she would need to tell him about Jack’s financial offer. But for now she said nothing.

“Sure. But it’ll have to wait until after I’ve finished this edit.”

Frank spent most of his time in his study watching the rushes from Mexico. Occasionally he would call her upstairs to take a look at something particularly poignant—a skeletal psychiatric patient tied to a chair, inmates banging their heads repeatedly against walls. But mostly he plowed through the material on his own, making pages of notes as he went.

•   •   •

Adam and Emma were getting married on Saturday. Two days before, Jean called.

“You’ll never guess what.”

“What?”

“OK, brace yourself. . . . Pam and Si are going to be at the wedding.”

“What? You’re kidding. How?”

It turned out that Si was related to Felicity’s late husband.

“I’m sorry not to give you more warning, but I’ve never looked at Felicity’s guest list and I literally just found out. Will you be really miserable?”

“Don’t be daft. Of course not.”

Barbara was telling a white lie. She could just about tolerate Pam and Si, but Frank really struggled—with Si in particular.

From the moment he got up on Saturday, Frank didn’t stop moaning. He moaned about having to spend the day with his sister and brother-in-law. He moaned about having to schlep the sixty miles to Berkshire for the wedding. Plus he didn’t see the point in weddings anyway. It wasn’t marriage he objected to—just lavish wedding receptions. Why did people waste all that money? Weddings were a bloody inconvenience. The truth that dare not speak its name was that nobody liked them. “You have to buy a present. Women always need a new outfit. They’re just a damned inconvenience.”

“You’re just pissed off that Pam and Si are going to be there.”

He insisted it wasn’t just that. “Wedding receptions are boring and pointless. Remind me again why Jess and Matt bothered with one.”

“To annoy you,” Barbara said.

Inside, the tiny country church was decked in sweet-scented lilac. Emma wore an off-the-shoulder gown and a tiara that had belonged to her grandmother. (“All I inherited from my grandmother,” Jean had said when they last spoke, “was her Second World War gas mask.) Adam, Oliver and their father had finally acceded to Felicity’s directive and were looking uncomfortable in their morning coats and top hats. Jean looked elegant in gray silk. She’d also been to see Camp David, who had tamed her flyaway hair and cut it into a geometrical bob that took years off her. Felicity peered out from under a hat with a flying-saucer brim and walked round as if she had a perpetual stink under her nose.

The reception was held at a country-house hotel a few hundred yards from the church.

“We haven’t said hello to your sister and Si yet,” Barbara said to Frank as they each accepted a mini quiche from a passing waitress. “We ought to go and find them.”

“Frank! Bar!” Pam had appeared from nowhere. “We’ve caught up with Jess and Ben, but we’ve been looking for you everywhere. Where have you been hiding?”

Frank kissed his sister and told her how well she looked.

“That’s Spain for you. We eat a strict Mediterranean diet. Lots of fruit and veg. No saturated fat. And judging from the look of you . . .” She patted her brother’s stomach. “You could benefit from taking a leaf out of our book. Barbara, what are you feeding him?”

“Hi, Pam,” Barbara said, ignoring her sister-in-law’s question-slash-insult. “Good to see you. Where’s Si?”

Si appeared on cue, holding with two champagne flutes. He handed one to Pam.

“It’s only cheap prosecco,” he said.

Barbara told him to keep the information to himself. “If the bride’s mother finds out, she’ll have a fit.”

“Ah, clearly a woman of culture and discernment,” Si said. He turned to Frank. “So, Frank, what car are you driving these days?”

“A black one.”

Si roared and turned to Barbara. “I always forget what a great sense of humor your husband has.”

“Now, Barbara,” Pam said. “When are you and my brother going to come and visit us in Spain? We’ve got loads of room.”

“Yep. We’ve got two spare bedrooms,” Si said. “Both en suite of course. Best thing we ever did, moving to Spain. Life’s one big holiday. During the day we laze by the pool.”

“
Infinity
pool,” Pam corrected him.

“Sorry. Infinity pool. And in the evening we barbecue some fish, down a bottle of sangria. . . . It’s the life, I’m telling you.”

“And the peaches,” Pam said. “You want to see the size of the peaches. They’re nothing like we get at home. Twice the size.”

“More like three times,” said Si.

“And it’s the same with the oranges.”

“Huge. Like footballs.”

“And the flavor. You wouldn’t believe the flavor.”

“So what do you like about Spain apart from the fruit?” Frank inquired.

“No bloody immigrants,” Si bellowed.

“Apart from you and all the other English expats,” Barbara said.

“We don’t count,” Si said. “We pay our way. We’re not spongers.”

“And the crime is nothing like over here, is it, Si? Of course, years ago the Spanish used to execute people by garroting them. I think that had an effect on the crime rate.”

“To be honest,” Si continued, “I can’t think of a single reason why you’d want to live over here in the cold and the damp.”

“Oh, I can think of a few,” Frank said.

Barbara asked how long they were staying. “Only the one night. We’ve got an early flight in the morning.”

Si dug Frank in the ribs. “You can’t keep us away from the place.”

Thank God, Barbara thought. That meant they didn’t have to invite them to stay.

Pam and Si were unrelenting. Over dinner Barbara and Frank, along with all the other guests at their table, were treated to a history of the Costa del Sol—average climate, rainfall, a description of Marbella’s Golden Mile, which, would you believe, was actually four miles. The only time they let up was during the speeches.

By eleven Barbara and Frank were making noises about leaving. Si tried to persuade them to stay. “But I haven’t had a chance to dance with your lovely wife yet,” he said to Frank.

Barbara cited throbbing bunions. After promises to come to Marbella to sample the big peaches, they made their escape.

“I can never get over how different you and your sister are,” Barbara said.

She knew the reason. Frank had been the golden boy. His parents had had no ambition for Pam. She’d learned short-hand typing. Frank had gone to university.

“It’s actually very sad,” Frank said. “Our mother was a bit like yours in that she had no hopes or dreams for Pam. But whereas you stood up to Rose and got to university, Pam just accepted her lot.” He paused. “Like I always tell you, you’re a strong woman, Barbara. Always have been.”

•   •   •

On Sunday the whole family—plus Katie—came for lunch. Katie brought Barbara flowers, offered to lend a hand in the kitchen, and after lunch she took Cleo and Atticus into the garden to hunt for four-leaf clovers.

“And before you ask,” Ben said, clearly anticipating a barrage of questions from his sister. “Yes, she votes Labour and, yes, she believes in greater accountability and regulation of the financial markets. Oh, and she makes annual donations to charity. That do you?”

Jess held up her palms. “What? Don’t look at me. I never said a word. You know how I feel these days about people making money. As far as I’m concerned, the two of you can go off and make as much as you like. Believe me, Matt and I aren’t complaining.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Matt said.

Frank raised his glass. “Me, too. Good luck to the both of you.”

Rose had missed this part of the conversation. She was too busy staring out the window, watching Katie playing with the children.

“Take it from me,” she said to Ben. “You need to grab that one fast. Girls like her don’t stay on the shelf too long.”

“Thank you, Nana. I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Well, make sure you do.”

For once Barbara was inclined to agree with her mother.

By five everybody was gone—including Ben. These days, he was pretty much living at Katie’s.

Frank said he would help Barbara load the dishwasher. She scraped plates, rinsed them under the tap and handed them to him.

“When I was in Mexico,” he said, “I went to a Frida Kahlo exhibition.”

“I love her paintings. Did you know she spent much of her life in terrible pain from a back injury?”

“I did. Her self-portraits radiate such amazing strength and resilience.” He paused. “She reminds me of you.”

“Ah . . . That’ll be the mustache and the monobrow.”

“Behave. I mean she was a powerful, strong woman, like you.”

Barbara placed a dishwasher tablet in the compartment, touched the hot wash symbol and closed the door. “OK, that’s enough. I don’t want to hear it anymore.”

“Hear what?”

“I am fed up to the back teeth with everybody—and you in particular—telling me how strong I am.”

“But you are.”

“Yes, and all our married life you’ve used it as an excuse to neglect me.”

“This again. Why can’t you get it into your head? I had to go to Mexico. I know you weren’t well, but I had no choice.”

“You know what? There is always a choice. You
chose
to go. It wouldn’t have been easy, but you could have rearranged things and gone a couple of months later. You abandoned me when I was at my most vulnerable. I have never asked anything of you, and the only time I did, you refused me.”

“But I knew you’d be OK. You had people around. And look at you. You’re full of plans to rebuild the community center. Somebody who’s suffering doesn’t do stuff like that.”

She felt as if she were hitting her head against a brick wall. What did she have to say to convince him that she wasn’t always strong and that it was cruel to use her strength as a stick to beat her?

“Believe that if you want to, but I’m telling you from the bottom of my heart that I’m still suffering over the way you behaved, and the fact that you can’t see that is making it worse.”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how many more times I have to say it: I love you. I love the kids. I do my best. I’ve always done my best. This is who I am, and I’m sorry if you can’t accept that.”

Frank and Rose both seemed to think that claiming they’d done their best excused their behavior.

“And what about who I am?” Barbara said. “I have made compromises for you all my life. Have you ever made one for me?”

Instead of waiting for a reply, she asked him to sit down. “There’s something you should know.”

“What?”

They sat at opposite sides of the table.

Until now Barbara had had no intention of telling him about Jack. But she felt she had no option. He needed to know why she’d almost had an affair.

“While you were away,” Barbara said, “I met somebody.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I came very close to having an affair. In the end I pulled back—in fact, we both did. Nothing happened, and it’s over.”

Frank sat staring at her. “You’ve been seeing another man? I don’t believe you.”

“Fine. Suit yourself.”

“What sort of a man? Where? When?”

“He’s the grandfather of this boy I’ve been tutoring.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you do something like that?” Even with his tan, she could see the color draining from his face. He looked like he’d been poleaxed.

“He listened to me. He took an interest. He cared.”

“I listen to you. I care.”

“I have to fight to get you to listen to me and you know it. God, Frank, you even ask me to speak faster.”

“I don’t mean that. It’s a joke.”

“Well, I’ve never found it very funny.” She swept some crumbs onto the floor. “I’m lonely. I’ve been lonely for years. Even when you’re here, you’re absent.”

“But you didn’t sleep with him?”

“No. I decided that no matter how angry I was, you didn’t deserve that.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“I don’t care what you believe. And, anyway, whether or not we slept together isn’t important. I got close to him. We connected. That’s the point.”

“I don’t know what to say. Have I been such a shitty husband?”