Me and Mr Jones (22 page)

Her throat felt as if it was constricting as they stood there face-to-face at last. ‘Look,’ she said bravely. For some reason the old wisdom about not showing a wild dog that you were afraid came into her head, and she pulled her shoulders higher. ‘This is out of order. You can’t just turn up here and start creating – this is where I
work
, Gary. You’ve made a show of me in front of everyone now. What do you think my boss is going to say?’

His eyes were deranged, and he didn’t seem able to hear her. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he said. ‘Get in the car, now.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m on a shift until two – I can’t just walk out and—’

He grabbed her wrist so tightly she thought he was going to shatter her bones. ‘I
said
you’re coming with me,’ he repeated as she let out a cry of pain. ‘Now get in the car, before you make me angry.’

People were staring at him – red-faced and shouting, pulling on Izzy’s arm. He glared back belligerently and not a single person held his gaze.

Izzy was overwhelmed by panic. What should she do? Gary had never been so publicly aggressive to her before; in the past it had always happened behind closed doors. But now he didn’t seem to care who saw them. His possessive rage seemed to have smashed down all social boundaries; there was a madness about him. And now he’d caught up with her, he’d hunted her down.
Help me
, she thought, gazing around desperately for a potential rescuer.
Somebody help me.

‘Now,’ he repeated, with devastating softness, pulling her towards his car and opening the passenger door. She could see it all unfolding like a horror film, flashing before her eyes – Gary forcing her to get the girls from the school, the long drive back up north like captured prisoners, all manner of violent punishments that might ensue . . .

‘No,’ she replied, struggling to free herself. She couldn’t bear that terrible future, which lay ahead like a threat. She didn’t want to go back. ‘No, Gary. This is not how—’

He wrenched her arm behind her and she screamed as pain roared along it. ‘Get in that car
now
,’ he hissed, shoving her inside. ‘We’re going home.’

‘Margaret, call the police!’ she shouted, seeing her boss hovering uncertainly outside the café, the empty tray still in her hands. ‘Please! Help me!’

She fought him as hard as she could, but he was too strong, too determined. Before she knew what was happening, he had bundled her into the passenger seat and slammed the door. She fumbled to let herself out, hands shaking on the lock, her heart almost pounding through her ribcage, but Gary was already in the driver’s seat, revving the engine so hard it shrieked and speeding up the road.

‘Gary, please,’ she sobbed.

‘Shut up!’ he yelled, swinging his left arm out to hit her. He caught her full on the nose with a horrible crunching sound of cartilage, and she cried out with pain and the shock of blood on her face, warm and wet.

The road swam in front of her eyes; she hardly dared watch. His driving had always been macho and selfish, never letting anyone pull out in front of him, but today he seemed more reckless than ever. He rammed his foot on the accelerator, and Izzy bounced against the door as they swerved around corners at top speed.

They were heading for the school, she realized within moments, and she shut her eyes, summoning every bit of courage that she could find inside her.
Please let me wake up now. Please let this be over.

Then, as he screeched maniacally into a dangerous right turn, she screamed and shielded her head. A police car was coming towards them; the road was too narrow. ‘Gary, STOP!’

Gary didn’t hesitate for a second. He drove straight into the other car, ramming the bonnet. There was the most deafening thud, a terrible metallic grinding and then everything went black.

It’s over
, was Izzy’s last bewildered thought.
It’s over.

Chapter Eighteen

Alicia was surely in a dream. A wonderful, exciting dream where she had actually packed a bag in order to head off to Paris that very evening, all on her own, with a whole weekend of indulgence ahead. There was no way she was going to pinch herself; this was one dream she was in absolutely no hurry to wake up from. All week she’d felt fizzy and fluttery, and now it was Friday lunchtime and there were only two classes left before an amazing freedom opened up before her. Hooray!

Every time she thought of her smart weekend bag (new!), filled with a carefully planned collection of outfits covering all eventualities and weather situations (a rather daring scarlet evening dress, for example, nestled alongside her pac-a-mac), a frisson – an actual frisson – of excitement shot through her. Now
this
was living!

She was due to arrive in Paris that night at nine o’clock. Less than ten hours and she’d be there – she’d really be there, on French soil,
in true life
, as the children said. Her plan was to grab a taxi from the Gare du Nord to the hotel, change for dinner and then waft out in a cloud of perfume to see where she fancied eating. Perhaps somewhere serving good old-fashioned
steak frites
for the first night, the steak thick and bloody, the food washed down with a large glass of red wine. And then . . . well, who knew?

She might venture to a bar and watch the world go by, sipping champagne and inventing stories about the passers-by to amuse herself. Perhaps she’d fall into conversation with some Parisians, who’d been wondering just who
was
that mysterious woman in the scarlet dress with the big smile?
Come with us
, she imagined the Parisians saying in beautifully accented English.
We will show you Paris by night. Allons-y!

Dreamily, she pictured herself whizzing around the darkened city on the back of a moped, like something from a film. Somehow she was much younger and more carefree in this fantasy, was laughing gaily and wasn’t wearing a safety helmet – none of which was likely to happen, but never mind. Daydreams were private.

Of course, there was also the possibility that she’d decide to return to the hotel after dinner and run herself a bubble bath instead, but even that would be a treat. Lying back in the fluffy white bubbles, sipping wine, with all of Paris on the doorstep outside . . . bliss. It would certainly be a humongous step up from trying to bath at home, when she was always accompanied by the nagging guilt that she should be marking or ironing, and constantly being interrupted by one or more children banging on the door saying they needed her for something or other.

The point was, when in Paris, it was up to her to call the shots – her weekend, to spend however she chose. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt that way.

‘Alicia?’ Beth Middleton, the school secretary, popped her head around the staffroom door, jerking her out of her reverie. ‘There’s a call for you. She said it was urgent.’

Alicia blinked her daydreams away and followed Beth to the small crowded office space, where a receiver lay on the desk, amidst a kitten mug, fluffy framed photos of various pop stars and a bag of Haribo Tangfastics. ‘Hello?’ she said into the phone. ‘Alicia Jones here.’

She heard a sob. ‘Oh, thank God. It’s me, I’m in hospital, one of the nurses helped me track you down.’

One of the nurses? Hospital? Alicia lowered herself into Beth’s chair, feeling confused. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s me, it’s Izzy.’ Another sob, and then the sound of a nose being blown. ‘Oh, Alicia, I’ve been in an accident and I really need a favour. Can you – would you—’

‘Goodness, Izzy, whatever’s happened?’ Alicia asked, shocked and alarmed as her friend broke down in a storm of weeping.

‘It was a car crash. Gary came back. He—’ Again the words were engulfed in a sob. ‘Listen, I need someone to pick up the girls for me. I’ve got no one else. Please can they stay at yours tonight?’

Alicia was trying to take all of this in, her head reeling. An accident . . . hospital . . . little girls with nowhere else to go . . . Could they stay with her tonight?

She hesitated, dismay sweeping through her. But tonight was supposed to be Paris: red wine and a scarlet dress, a moped, good wine, the city in all its night-time beauty.

Her lip quivered as the dream slipped past like a train that wouldn’t stop, a mirage that was never actually real. ‘Of course,’ she said at last, stumbling over the words. ‘Of course I’ll pick up the girls, and it’s fine for them to stay, for as long as you need, we’ve got plenty of room.’ She swallowed, the enormity of what she’d just said sinking in by degrees. Goodbye, Paris.
Au revoir
. ‘But what happened to you?’ she managed to say, dragging herself back to Beth’s office. ‘Are you badly hurt? Should I bring them to visit you later on?’

Goodbye, Paris
, she thought again dully, as Izzy began pouring out the whole dreadful story, still racked with sobs.
You would have been wonderful, I know. But it looks like I won’t be seeing you tonight now after all.

The girls were quiet and wary when she collected them, Willow in particular. She looked sidelong at Alicia, sizing her up with serious grey eyes, and barely spoke the whole way home. ‘Mummy’s not very well,’ Alicia prattled cheerily, strapping them into the car. ‘So you’re having a sleepover with Matilda tonight – won’t that be fun?’

‘Where
is
Mummy?’ Hazel wanted to know.

Alicia hesitated. ‘She’s . . . having a rest,’ she said carefully. ‘She said she’d phone you a bit later for a chat, okay?’

‘What about Daddy?’ Hazel asked. ‘He came to see us yesterday. He said we could have pizza.’

Alicia saw in the rear-view mirror that Willow had elbowed her sharply. ‘Shut up,’ she hissed.

‘I . . . don’t know where Daddy is,’ Alicia said, trying her best to concentrate on the traffic. She shuddered, remembering the scant details Izzy had given her. The fear, the crash . . . the aftermath. Because Daddy, the bad penny, was dead, killed on impact apparently. Not that she was going to say as much to the girls on the Axminster Road.

Back at the house, she busied herself getting out camp beds and spare pillows. She decided to splash out on a takeaway for dinner, because she simply could not face cooking after everything else.
Kiss goodbye to that
steak frites, she thought ruefully, hunting through the menus. Matilda and the boys had been brought home by a neighbour, and she relaxed her usual rules about them watching the television and let them have brownies and squash in the living room, trying not to think about how many chocolatey crumbs would end up embedded in the sofa. Never mind. Such things didn’t seem so important now.

Hugh came home early, looking alarmed to find the house full of children. In all the chaos she’d completely forgotten to tell him she wasn’t even going away any more.

‘What time are you off then?’ he asked, striding into the kitchen and loosening his tie.

She didn’t reply immediately, feeling small and stupid and sad. ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘I’ve had to cancel.’

If there was one thing worse than the crushing disappointment she felt at not going to Paris, it was the expression on Hugh’s face as she said those words. He actually dared to smirk. Just a tiny smirk, only the very corners of his mouth, but she knew it was there. She could tell what he was thinking: that she’d bottled out at the last minute, that she couldn’t do it alone.

‘Izzy – my friend – has been injured in a car crash,’ she said, coldly furious. ‘Those are her girls playing on the Wii with Matilda. I said I’d look after them. Their father just died, not that they know any of this yet.’

That wiped the smirk off his face. ‘God,’ he said, stricken. ‘Bloody hell.’ There was silence for a moment, then he cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’m sorry that you didn’t get to go,’ he added more apologetically.

‘Yeah,’ she muttered. There didn’t seem much else left to say. She waited for him to tell her: No, she should still go, he could cope perfectly well with two extra children in the house, she mustn’t miss her trip.

He didn’t. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘What’s for dinner then?’

‘You choose,’ she snapped, slapping the menus on the worktop. ‘I’m going to unpack.’

She ran upstairs, tears spilling down her face. What a fool she’d been ever to think she could get away and have an adventure. Like life was ever that simple!

That evening Izzy phoned to say goodnight to the girls, keeping her voice cheerful and bright and, as far as Alicia could tell, not letting on about any of the trauma she’d gone through. ‘Are you up to a visitor later?’ Alicia asked, after Hazel and Willow went off to get ready for bed, both looking perkier.

‘Please,’ Izzy said. She sounded wrung-out, as if she’d used up her last shred of energy faking normalcy to her daughters.

‘I’ll find out when visiting hours are and come over when I can,’ Alicia promised. ‘Have a think if there’s anything you want me to bring, and text me a list. Hang in there.’

No list arrived, but Alicia hunted out a few things that she knew she’d have wanted in Izzy’s place: a clean nightie, a spare toothbrush and toothpaste, a magazine, some fluffy bedsocks and the get-well cards that the girls had made. Rifling through her drawers, she found two brand-new, unworn pairs of knickers and stuffed them in the bag too. They were probably miles too big for Izzy’s tiny bum, but it was better than nothing. She also put in some shower gel and shampoo, a couple of apples and a slab of chocolate cake.