Now and Then Friends (29 page)

“So how much OxyContin did you give her?” she finally asked.

“Just a couple of extra pills a day. Sometimes not even that. Only when she really seemed to need them . . .”

“She might have been addicted, Meghan—”

“I looked that up on the Internet. That whole addiction-to-prescription-pills thing is mostly a myth. It's not addiction if you actually need them to manage your pain.”

“If that's the case, you go to your doctor and ask for more. Why didn't you tell the GP about this?”

“It was easier just to do it,” Meghan mumbled. “And make excuses for why she needed more. You'd be surprised at how easy it is.”

“I
am
. I am surprised by all of this.” She subsided into silence; it felt impossible to order her thoughts. “So why do you think you're to blame for Mum's stroke?”

“What if . . . ? What if it was caused by too much OxyContin?” Meghan's voice was barely a whisper. “The last few weeks she'd been asking for more and more. I tried to fob her off, but . . .”

“So you do think she overdosed.”

“I don't know,” Meghan cried. “But that's what I'm afraid of. And I'm afraid of taking care of her now, of how much work it will be. You'll just go on cleaning houses. I'm the one who will pick up the slack.”

“You've never picked up the slack,” Rachel retorted before she could stop herself.

“See what I mean? You've never believed I do anything around here.”

Rachel took a deep, steadying breath. “First things first. I don't think the OxyContin caused her stroke.”

Wary relief flashed across Meghan's face. “You don't?”

“Mr. Greaves never mentioned it, and they've done loads of blood tests. Besides, she was a ticking time bomb, with her smoking and weight. But we can check. Have you looked on the Internet?”

“I didn't want to.”

Sighing, Rachel heaved herself up and went into the sitting room. Nathan was curled up on the sofa, asleep. A CBeebies presenter was showing luridly colored birthday cards to the TV screen. Rachel turned the TV off and then booted up the computer in the corner of the room.

Meghan stood beside her, biting her already ragged nails and shifting from foot to foot.

Rachel clicked on the Internet browser and typed
OxyContin overdose causing stroke
.

“Isn't that a little biased?” Meghan muttered.

“Do you want to know or not?”

“An Internet search doesn't mean anything, anyway.”

Rachel didn't answer as she clicked and waited for the results to come up. Hartley-by-the-Sea's Internet was, according to the
Westmorland Gazette
, the slowest in the county.

Finally the results came up, and she clicked on the first one, a question on one of the many self-help medical sites, and read the answer. “OxyContin is not associated with stroke, although it has a variety of side effects, including anxiety, sedation, insomnia, mood changes, et cetera. OxyContin in overdose gives pinpoint pupils, respiratory depression, and hypotension.”

They were both silent for a second, and then Meghan let out her breath in a rush. “So it wasn't the OxyContin.”

“So now you believe the Internet?”

Meghan managed a wry smile. “It's never wrong,” she said, and Rachel let out a tired laugh. She glanced up at Meghan, ashamed to see how relieved her sister looked, how little she'd known about what Meghan was going through.

“You can knock that off your worry list, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

They were both silent, staring at the computer screen. “I'm sorry, Meghan,” Rachel said quietly. “I should have realized what you were going through. How hard it was for you.”

Meghan lifted one bony shoulder in a shrug. “I could have said. And I know you work hard.”

“Life's been pretty crap for both of us.” Rachel sighed. “Maybe it will get better.”

Meghan glanced towards their mother's bedroom door. “Maybe,” she agreed without much conviction.

“I mean it,” Rachel said, and she realized she was speaking the truth. “We've cleared the air and we can work together now. Things can get better. For all of us.” And for once she thought she believed it.

Henry Price's bathroom should have been cordoned off, like Chernobyl. Claire surveyed the bristly hairs in the sink, the clogged drain of the shower, and the unflushed toilet, and decided this room definitely deserved a Zone of Exclusion. And she was required to clean it.

It was her first day taking on Rachel's cleaning jobs, and she'd actually been looking forward to it. It felt good to be helping someone, to be needed. She felt strong. Capable for once in her life.

Who knew? Maybe she could go into business with Rachel. Campbell and West Cleaners. She actually liked tidying things up, although Henry Price's bathroom was definitely testing her limits.

Forty-five minutes later she stripped off her rubber gloves in the kitchen and washed her hands, because it really had been that bad. Her mobile rang and she fished it out of her jeans.

“Hey, Rachel.”

“How's it going?”

“I've survived Henry Price's bathroom. I think. The effects might manifest themselves later.”

Rachel laughed, and Claire smiled. “I did warn you.”

“Nothing could have prepared me for that. How are things at home?”

“Okay.” Rachel didn't offer any more information, and Claire chose
not to press. “If you're still game for this, you have Emily Hart this afternoon. I switched her from Thursday to Tuesday. Beware the twins.”

“Riley and Rogan, right?”

“Yes. Good memory.” Rachel paused. “Thank you, Claire.”

“It's no problem. You don't have to keep thanking me.”

“I know. I'm not used to accepting help.”

“And I'm not used to giving it. This is good for both of us.”

“If you say so,” Rachel answered, and Claire could hear the smile in her voice.

As she hung up the phone, it occurred to her that she and Rachel were becoming proper friends, in a way they hadn't ever been when they were younger, when Claire had depended on Rachel and Rachel had done everything. Now they were starting to have a friendship of give and take, of mutual trust. It felt good.

The rest of Henry Price's house was on par with the bathroom. Claire worked steadily until her three hours were up, and she let herself out with the spare key he kept under a moldy-looking flowerpot on the front stoop. On to the Harts'.

She drove up the high street in Rachel's car, glancing briefly at the post office shop and wondering how Dan was. Yesterday he'd been as terse and monosyllabic as ever, and Claire had no idea how to get things back the way they'd been so briefly. Maybe they hadn't really been friends. Maybe Dan hadn't been warming up to her. She told herself she shouldn't care, that Dan Trenton was a miserable old sod who was going to live and die alone and unloved, but it didn't stop the twisting ache in her center at the thought of what she believed they'd almost had. She must have been delusional.

The Harts' house was as different from Henry Price's bachelor home as Claire could have imagined. The noise and mess hit her the moment she stepped across the threshold; she'd knocked twice but no one had answered, and so she'd opened the door herself. The TV was
blaring, toddlers were screaming, and the front hall was littered with toys as well as two pairs of crumpled footie pajamas and two clearly dirty nappies.

“Hello?” Claire called cautiously, and followed the sound of the toddlers to the kitchen. Riley and Rogan were strapped into booster chairs with plates of what must have been lunch in front of them. Ketchup was smeared all over their faces and clothes and in their hair. Claire drew back at the sight.

“You must be Claire.” A wan, harassed-looking woman smiled tiredly from where she was kneeling on the floor, cleaning up bits of hot dog and grapes that had been sliced in half. “Sorry. The twins have gone on a food strike. They won't eat anything.”

“Just put it in their hair?” Claire surmised with a smile, and then bent to help retrieve the bits of food. “I guess Rachel told you I was coming.”

“Yes. I didn't realize her mother was poorly. She never said anything.”

“It's been going on for a while.”

“Poor thing. She's always been so good about listening to me moan about everything.” Emily straightened and touched her middle self-consciously. “I'm pregnant. I just found out.”

“Oh. Congratulations.”

“Rachel listened to me go on about it last week. We weren't trying, you see.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Of course, children are always a blessing, but I'm afraid I gave Rachel an earful last week.” Emily smiled apologetically, and Claire tried for an understanding nod back. She'd never even thought about having children. Hugh had always said he didn't want any, and Claire had gone along with it because she couldn't imagine actually being responsible for another person. Yet another way she'd bent to someone else's will, and
yet now she wondered if she actually would like children one day. Glancing at Riley and Rogan, she thought she might, far into the future.

“Shall I crack on, then?” she asked when Emily didn't say anything else. The twins had started banging their spoons on the table and Emily was still standing with one hand on her stomach, staring off into space.

“Oh, already?” she said, sounding surprised. “Rachel always makes a cup of tea. . . .”

“Oh, of course.” Quickly Claire moved to the shiny chrome kettle perched by the sink. “I'm happy to make you a cup of tea.” She filled the kettle and, feeling acutely self-conscious, searched for a mug and tea bag while Emily watched. It seemed to take an age for the kettle to boil and then for the tea to steep, and then it took Claire a moment to find the fridge because it had a wood-paneled front like the cupboards. She fished the tea bag out with a spoon and looked around for the bin, but it seemed as hidden as the fridge. She lobbed it in the sink and then finally, thankfully, handed Emily her tea. Mission accomplished.

“Oh . . .” There was no disguising the disappointment in Emily's voice. What had she done wrong? Maybe Emily didn't take milk, or the tea was too weak, or . . . something. Claire wasn't Rachel, at any rate. “Thank you,” Emily finally said, and with a little apologetic sort of smile, she put the mug down to wipe Riley's and Rogan's faces and then unbuckle them from their seats. “We'll be in the playroom,” she said, sounding forlorn, and Claire breathed a sigh of relief when they all left and she could get on with things.

By the end of the day she was tired, dirty, and yet quietly elated by her success. She'd cleaned three houses and she'd done a decent job, although Emily Hart had looked a little let down. Her house was clean at least, even if it lasted for only five minutes. Riley and Rogan had dumped what looked like a vat of Play-Doh onto the freshly mopped, still slightly damp kitchen floor as Claire had been putting on her coat.

Now she parked in front of Rachel's house, hauled out the cleaning supplies, and knocked on the front door.

Meghan answered, looking slightly better than she had the last time Claire had seen her. Nathan was balanced on her hip, and her hair looked washed, her face clear. “You survived.”

“Just.” Claire grinned, still high on her sense of accomplishment. “Actually, it was fine.”

Rachel came to the door, gently nudging Meghan out of the way. “Thanks again,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

“I enjoyed it, actually, Henry Price's bathroom aside.”

“You managed the Harts all right?”

“Yes, but Emily seemed a bit . . . I don't know, disappointed.”

“She just wanted a chat, probably,” Rachel answered. “Sometimes I think it's the highlight of her week.”

“A chat?”

“Most days I make us a cup of tea and we have a natter for twenty minutes or so before I start cleaning. I think she appreciates the adult conversation, such as it is.”

“Oh.” Claire thought of the cup of tea she'd made for Emily, pushing it into her hands, clearly itching to get on with her job. “I think I botched that. Sorry.”

“You'll know for next time.” Rachel hesitated. “Although there doesn't have to be a next time. Meghan and Lily are going to help with Mum, so I can really—”

“I like doing it,” Claire cut across her. “Really.”

Rachel hesitated, torn, Claire suspected, between pride and need. “Okay,” she said at last. “For now it helps. I'll pay you, of course—”

“You don't have to pay me—”

“You deserve it. And it helps, to keep the clients. So thank you.”

Claire smiled wryly. “You don't have to keep saying thank you, Rachel. You've certainly done enough for me over the years.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Over the years?”

“I mean before. Back when we were little. You stood before me and the world, or at least the rest of the Year Two.”

“I'm not sure that was a good thing,” Rachel answered, but she was smiling. “Look, do you want to come in for a cup of tea?”

The invitation sounded awkward but heartfelt. Claire grinned. “Sure,” she said, and stepped inside.

An hour later she headed down the high street, having had a somewhat surprisingly enjoyable time with Rachel, drinking tea and navigating the chaos of the Campbell household. Nathan had run in and out, sometimes with no pants on, and Lily had thrown herself on her sofa and moaned about her biology exam in two weeks' time while Rachel had, with seeming effort, restrained from nagging her sister about studying. It had been nice, in a strange and surprising way.

Now the sky was gray and the air fresh and damp with the promise of rain. It was chilly enough to warrant a coat, even though the flowers were out in the window boxes and the cherry trees down by the church had blossoms like giant pink puffballs. No matter how cold or wet it was, spring came anyway, a determined, relentless reawakening.

Claire's steps slowed as she came to the post office; it was just before seven, and Dan would be starting to close up. She could see the light was on, and if she stood on her tiptoes she could see the top of his head, standing as he was behind the till. She wanted to go inside, but what would she say?

She started to walk past and then stopped. She was trying to change her life. Trying to take control of it, hard as that had been, and accepting Dan's slouch back to the status quo was not being in control or being brave.

Resolutely she turned around and opened the door of the shop. The warmth and comfort of the place hit her first: the neat shelves, the old-fashioned sweet jars that had proved to be a big hit with the schoolchildren, even the smell of the leftover meat pies drying out under the heat lamps—all of it filled her with an ache of familiarity. She loved it here.

“What are you doing here?” Dan asked. He didn't sound unfriendly, but his voice was far from welcoming.

“Can't I come say hello?” He looked nonplussed. And he didn't say hello back. “Dan . . .” This was far more awkward than she'd hoped it would be. She didn't even know what she was going to say, what she wanted. “I thought we were friends,” she finally blurted, and Dan stared at her.

“Friends?”

“Yes. Friends. But lately you've been so . . .” She searched for a word. “Surly.” Dan didn't answer, and she continued, each word an agony. “Is it something I've done? To make you change—”

“You didn't do anything, Claire.” Dan sighed and came out from behind the till. Claire thought he was coming towards her—to push her out of the shop, maybe—but he went outside and pulled the iron shutters down over the windows, leaving her feeling entombed in the shadowy interior. He came back in and started flicking off lights, and Claire realized he wasn't going to say anything else.

“So what's going on?” she asked.

“Why does something have to be going on?”

“Because you acted one way and now you're acting another. And usually that means something has changed.”

He stood by the door, one hand on the main light switch, about to plunge them into darkness. Claire dared to take a step towards him, even to put a hand on his arm.

“I like you, Dan. I thought you liked me.” Inwardly she cringed at how needy she sounded, but another part of her was registering the solid warmth of Dan's arm under her hand, the heat of his body. He was so strong he could crush her in one massive fist, and yet she didn't feel threatened or even intimidated. She felt . . . safe. And tingly.

She glanced up at him, realizing with a jolt how close his face was. He was looking down at her, frowning slightly, his eyes narrowed.

“Dan . . .” she began, and she imagined standing on her tiptoes, brushing her lips across his. She imagined him taking her in those massive arms, cradling her. Kissing her back. She almost did it. She came so close, her feet tensing as she went on her tiptoes, took a breath—

Then Dan flicked off the lights and moved away. Claire rocked on her feet, throwing out a hand to brace herself against the wall. With the shutters down and the lights off, she couldn't see a thing.