Me and Mr Jones (8 page)

‘Grandma and Grandpa!’

Everyone clinked glasses and Lilian smiled thinly. Then David’s phone beeped. ‘Ah,’ he said, reading the message. ‘It’s Charlie – he’s on his way.’

The meal began and a feeling of jollity slowly spread across the table, with any previous tension ebbing away. Lilian was pink in the cheeks from the wine and the attention, and the food was unanimously declared a triumph. Lucas started telling Eddie some of the less-rude jokes he’d learned at school, and Raffy launched into a gruesome description of the dead fox they’d seen on the way over, in full technicoloured detail.

‘Not now, darling,’ Alicia tried saying, noticing Lilian’s mouth pursing with disapproval. ‘Raff! Enough gore, thank you.’

Thankfully David had a better tactic. ‘Did your dad ever tell you about the fox cub he smuggled up to his bedroom when he was about your age?’ he interrupted, grinning at Hugh.

‘No WAY!’ Raffy breathed, open-mouthed. ‘Dead or alive?’

‘Goodness, yes. It was most certainly alive,’ Lilian said, shuddering at the memory. ‘What a mess it made of the carpet, the wretched thing!’

David caught Alicia’s eye and winked as the children immediately began bombarding Hugh and their grandparents for details. ‘Do you mean it actually, like, POOED on the carpet, Grandma?’

‘What else did it do?’

‘Was Dad in really massive trouble?’

Alicia smiled at David. ‘Thanks,’ she mouthed gratefully. She liked David a lot more than she did Charlie, always had done. He had come to visit when Lucas was a week old and she was in the absolute fog of new-motherhood, shattered with sleep-deprivation and wondering if she’d ever feel normal again. She remembered becoming increasingly flustered when Lucas wouldn’t stop crying, despite her trying to feed him discreetly, and was embarrassed at having her big cow-boobs out with Hugh’s brother there in the room, valiantly attempting to keep up a conversation.

After a while David had gone to make everyone coffees and it wasn’t until later on that Alicia realized that, as well as making the drinks, he’d done all the washing up that had been toweringly stacked by the sink and had even scrubbed the bottom of the washing-up bowl clean too. Tears had sprung to her eyes when she’d made the discovery. It was only a small kindness, a tiny helpful gesture, but at the time she’d been so pathetically grateful that she’d never forgotten it. If David and Emma ever had children, she’d be round there like a flash with her Marigolds and Ecover, just wait.

Halfway through the rhubarb and ginger crumble the doorbell rang. ‘Ah, here he is,’ Lilian said, rising from her seat in relief.

She went to let in Goldenboy – who was patently (and unfairly) the favourite son; something that had always irked Hugh – and the table fell silent as voices came from the hallway. Several voices, some of which were unfamiliar. ‘Oh,’ they heard Lilian say, her tone suddenly full of reproach. ‘You could have
told
us you were bringing some other people. Honestly, Charlie!’

Her interest piqued, Alicia exchanged a glance with Hugh, and saw David and Emma giving each other similar looks.
Do you know what’s going on? Not a clue. Do you?

Lilian’s voice became shriller than ever. ‘Well, I suppose we can make room. We
were
just in the middle of dessert, though, Charlie. Really!’

‘Oh, Mum, it’s not a drama,’ they heard him laugh. ‘We’ll stand in the garden if we’re inconvenient.’

It must be nice being Charlie, Alicia had often thought. Born with a natural confidence and charm, he was one of those people liked by all, a Peter Pan figure who had never really had to grow up and fend for himself – yet. Why would he, when his devoted parents always bailed him out?

‘What’s happening, Mum?’ asked Matilda, suddenly aware of the change in atmosphere.

‘I’m not sure,’ Alicia replied. ‘Uncle Charlie’s talking to Grandma about something.’

‘But I thought I heard someone else,’ Matilda said, leaning over Rafferty in her attempt to see round the open door.

Raffy pushed her. Matilda squealed. ‘Stop it, you two,’ Alicia hissed.

‘Hello, everyone,’ Charlie said just then. As ever, he burst into the room as if walking onto a stage. His skin was tanned, even though it was only just March, his eyes sparkled a light bright blue, he was unshaven (he was
always
unshaven) and there was a button missing from his shirt. Same old Charlie. ‘Guys, this is Izzy. And these two young ladies are Willow and Hazel, Izzy’s daughters.’

There were more exchanged glances.
Did you know he was seeing someone new? Not a clue. Did you?

The only person whose expression showed joy was Matilda. ‘Miss
Izzy
!’ she cried in delight. ‘What are
you
doing here?’

The penny dropped as Alicia too recognized the woman.
Oh, right
, she thought.
I see
. So
that
was why Charlie had been so willing to take Matilda to ballet lessons recently. She should have known there was more to it than plain old generosity.

‘Hello!’ she said, blushing slightly. She was almost certain that the pretty, elegant ballet teacher wouldn’t recognize her; people never did. ‘I’m Matilda’s mum. From ballet. Alicia.’

‘Hi, Alicia,’ Izzy said. She had olive skin, a thick mane of glossy dark hair and cat-like green eyes, and seemed relieved that there were two familiar faces in the crowd at least. ‘Nice to see you, Matilda.’ She gazed around the room, her smile faltering. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize we’d be interrupting your lunch.’

Lilian gave one of her almighty sniffs. ‘It’s an anniversary lunch, actually,’ she said, stiffening. ‘A special occasion. Family only. Oh, Charlie, this is very rude of you, you know.’

Izzy – Alicia had to stop thinking of her as ‘Miss Izzy’, as the ballet girls called her – looked mortified. ‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘We’re obviously intruding. Come on, girls, let’s go.’

‘No!’ Charlie said. ‘Honestly, there’s no need. Right, Dad?’

Alicia felt for Eddie as he struggled for the correct reply. His face florid from the lunchtime wine, his eyes flicked from Lilian to Charlie to Izzy, before finally he said, ‘Not to worry’ and clapped his son on the back. ‘We were just finishing.’

Izzy hovered, clearly wanting to make a break for it, but Charlie seemed immune to his mother’s frostiness. ‘Cool,’ he beamed. ‘All right, down there, kids?’ he went on, waving at his niece and nephews. ‘Izzy, this is David, Hugh and Emma. You know Alicia and Matilda, and those rascals are Lucas and Rafferty. And, of course, this is my mum and dad, Lils and Eddie, who have been married . . . er . . . forty-three . . . ?’

‘Forty-five,’ Lilian said through gritted teeth, looking as if she might explode. Charlie appeared to have been relegated to least-favourite son in a matter of minutes.

‘Forty-five, even better!’ Charlie corrected himself. ‘Forty-five wonderful and happy years.’

‘Congratulations,’ Izzy said, still clutching her girls’ hands. ‘That’s . . . lovely.’

Poor woman. Poor, poor, embarrassed woman. Talk about a farce.

‘So, girls – ’ Charlie squatted on his haunches – ‘would you like some orange squash and a biscuit?’

Lilian stiffened. ‘I did
save
you some lunch, Charlie, but I’m afraid there’s not enough for
everyone
—’

‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Charlie said, waving a hand. ‘We had chips in Charmouth. Come on, girls, this way. Orange-squash hunt: go!’

Silence fell as they left the room. ‘Well,’ said Lilian tartly, the cords in her neck straining with ill-disguised fury. ‘So. A single mother, eh?’ She snatched up her spoon and attacked her crumble with unnecessary vigour. ‘Not so sure how long
this
one will last. A fortnight? A whole month?’

Alicia cringed. Lilian’s fury was completely misdirected, for Charlie was clearly the one in the wrong. How could he mess up so spectacularly? There wasn’t just the special lunch to consider; there was this agonizing announcement that Eddie wanted to make too, now presumably put on hold.

‘She’s very nice,’ she said in Izzy’s defence. ‘Although I must admit I had absolutely no idea anything was happening between them.’ Honestly! Charlie could be so crass. They asked him for one single favour – after all the times she and Hugh had helped him – and he had to turn it into an opportunity to go on the pull.

‘Uncle Charlie has been
so
embarrassing,’ Matilda put in conspiratorially. ‘He’s always trying to ask her on a
date
and things, right in the middle of lessons!’ She stirred her crumble and custard into a revolting-looking brown slop. ‘Mind you, she is pretty,’ she added.

‘Hmmm,’ said Lilian darkly.

‘Are you okay, Dad?’ David asked.

‘Do you want us to have a word with him?’ Hugh put in. Alicia knew how frustrated he’d been with Charlie’s past misdemeanours; now he looked as if he’d like to punch him.

Eddie seemed far away. ‘Eh? A word?’ he asked.

‘With Charlie,’ Hugh prompted, still bristling.

Eddie blinked again. He really did seem preoccupied. ‘Charlie’s all right,’ he mumbled after a while. ‘Where is he, then?’

Hugh and David exchanged confused glances, and nobody replied for a moment. Then Emma jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll make coffee,’ she suggested, and escaped with visible relief.

Alicia snatched up the crumble dish and went after her. The sooner this lunch limped to an end, the better.

Chapter Seven

Izzy hated surprises. One of her worst days ever had been her eighteenth birthday, when a friend had organized a surprise party for her. Not only that, but the plan had been for everyone to pretend they’d forgotten it was her birthday in the first place. She had spent the whole day feeling utterly despondent, thinking nobody cared about her, that all those friendships she’d warily built up through sixth-form college were actually just meaningless fluff. Eighteen years old and she felt as if her armour had been knocked askew to reveal a tender vulnerable patch of skin. It had hurt. She’d been looking forward to her eighteenth for so long as well. At last, her childhood would be officially over. At last, she’d be an adult in the eyes of the law, free from the interference of social workers, no longer a case in anybody’s filing system.

It seemed that adulthood hurt just as much as childhood, though.

‘Surprise!’ they cheered that evening as she walked into the flat she shared with a couple of other girls back then, a greasy hovel above a Chinese takeaway on the Albert Road.

She had burst into tears, feeling tricked and betrayed. And although they all laughed and hugged her, then took her to the Nag’s Head in order to ply her with snakebite, nothing could shake off that tumultuous whirl of emotion she’d experienced during the day, nothing. She could still feel the pain of it now, ten years later.

It was being caught off-guard, that was what she hated. Being unprepared, unaware. Nowadays she’d rather know exactly what she was letting herself in for. She preferred to stay in control.

The thing was, being down in Dorset with the sea air and the dance classes and the friendly faces in the tea shop . . . it had been kind of unreal. Too nice for the likes of her. Too good almost to be true. She had started to relax, to let her shoulders slowly sink south instead of having them hunched up rigidly around her ears. That had been her first mistake.

They were down on the beach at Charmouth, the four of them, the girls squealing and laughing with excitement as Charlie chased after them pretending to be a dinosaur. She noticed the expressions of an elderly couple softening as they watched the spectacle, as if they were reminded of days gone by, perhaps charging around beaches with their own children. Seeing her daughters so carefree and joyful, their long hair streaming behind them both as they ran and dodged, filled her with a happiness so searing and raw that it almost felt like pain.

She and Charlie had met up twice more now, once for lunch in Lyme, just the two of them, where they had sat on the sea wall with tuna rolls and takeaway coffees from the bakery and chatted about this and that. Then they met for a drink after her Wednesday class and he’d told her funny stories about his childhood and his family. It all sounded so much fun, so idyllic. ‘You’ll love them,’ he assured her, and she’d felt the pull of longing. She’d always envied friends with big families; she’d have given anything to be part of one herself.

And then today, Sunday, they had come here, to the beach, and it had been really fun. Charlie was such easy company; he was energetic, funny and breezily cheerful. There was no side to him whatsoever, and his laid-back nature couldn’t be further from Gary’s brooding intensity. Despite her determination to keep Charlie Jones at arm’s length, she was already starting to feel that he might actually be the sort of man she could allow into her life, given time.

But then her phone buzzed with a new message and any warm, fuzzy feelings were swept away in an instant.

You can’t get away from me that easy, Iz.

Shitting hell. It was Gary. He was the only one who ever called her Iz – a shortening she’d always disliked. How had he got hold of her new number? Only two people from Manchester knew it – Louise and Monique, good friends sworn to secrecy. Three people now, though, apparently. But what else did he know? Did he know where they were?