Me and Mr Jones (28 page)

She had woken up still dressed, her tights ripped, makeup smeared across her face and some deely boppers wedged on her head. Deely boppers? Where had
they
come from?

She shuddered now as she poured the tea. If Nicholas Larsson was trouble, Greg was worse. Much worse. Greg was loud, indiscreet, shameless. He wouldn’t have thought twice about putting his hand up her top – or any other woman’s, for that matter. She hoped she hadn’t snogged him. Please let her not have snogged him. Surely she’d have remembered
that
? She gritted her teeth, feeling queasy and already dreading Monday morning’s recriminations at the office.

My marriage is on the rocks
, she thought grimly, stirring in the milk.
I’m behaving badly. David hasn’t even bothered to say hello. What’s to become of us? And is there any way back?

‘Ta, love,’ said Eddie and she jumped, having forgotten he was still in the room with her. She hoped he couldn’t smell alcohol seeping from her pores. He went back outside with the mug, whistling, and she watched him go, wistfulness and angst clashing inside her. He was a proper husband, if ever there was one: dutiful and steadfast, spending his free time making his home better for him and his wife. That was how a marriage should be. Not the two of them spending weeks apart, barely speaking and misbehaving.

She saw Eddie walk down the garden and then David appeared, coming towards the house.

At that moment her phone buzzed with a text. Greg.
MADAM!
it read.
Never knew you had it in you! ;) G x.

Oh shit. Madam? Winking emoticons? This didn’t look good. This didn’t look good at all. The back door was opening and so, with a deep breath, a big fat fake smile and creeping nausea, she stuffed her phone into her pocket and waited to greet her husband.

They drove out to Charmouth and walked onto the beach together. The sea breeze tugged at her hangover, pulling it away, and she gulped in the salty air, feeling slightly more alive.

‘You’ll never guess who I saw on the way down here,’ she said as they tramped along. ‘Hugh – and some woman. Don’t tell me he’s got a bit on the side?’

‘Nah,’ said David. Did she imagine it or was there the slightest hesitation before he answered? Did he
know
something? ‘Not Hugh. You must have been mistaken.’

‘I’m sure it was him,’ she persisted, wondering uneasily if Alicia knew about her husband’s mysterious rendezvous. Should she mention it, or would that throw a spanner in the works?

David said nothing. The Joneses closing ranks once again. There had been a time when she and her husband had told each other everything, trusting one another not to break a confidence, even that of a brother or close friend. Now look at them, clutching their secrets protectively close.

She shook herself. She must be imagining it. Probably just hangover-induced paranoia, she thought, deciding against pressing him any further.

Her mobile buzzed again and she opened the text without thinking.
Thinking about you. N x.

She rammed her phone back into her pocket, and a hot flush reared up through her skin. She was sure her heartbeat was audible through her clothes.

David glanced over. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Fine,’ she said, wincing at her own lie.

They walked in silence for a while, then sat down on some dry rocks, watching the waves roll in and out, glittering in the weak April sun.

‘I’m not pregnant,’ she blurted out miserably before she could stop herself. The words seemed louder than the sea for a moment; the world shrank to the two of them, together but alone on the rock.

He said nothing for a moment, then reached out and took her hand. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

There seemed to be nothing more to say as they sat together, joined by their fingers, yet miles apart. A mob of seagulls jeered overhead and she felt utterly desolate.
What now?
she wondered.
Where can we go from here?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Typical. The one afternoon Lilian actually admitted defeat and took to her bed, the whole house of cards collapsed around her. Her head had been throbbing constantly since she’d got up that morning, the pain pinching her temples so hard and tight she could hardly see. Somehow she’d managed to call Alicia and beg her to buy in the groceries they needed (vaguely registering that Alicia seemed uncharacteristically irritable at the request), then closed the bedroom curtains and collapsed back into bed, plunging into a troubled sleep.

Some hours later she woke to the sound of shouting downstairs. Eddie’s voice, rising to a wail. ‘Where are you?’ he called. ‘Where is everyone?’

Instantly she sprang from the bed, adrenalin shocking her fully awake. Downstairs her husband was wild-eyed and holding out a bleeding hand, which dripped onto the kitchen floor. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she cried, rushing over to examine it. ‘What did you do? How did this happen?’

‘I was putting away the . . .’ He paused, his eyes clouding over. ‘The . . .’

‘You were putting away the . . . ?’ she prompted, trying to keep her patience, although panic was spiralling inside her. ‘Come on, let’s rinse this while you think.’

She led him to the sink and turned on the cold tap, letting the water wash the cut. It didn’t look too deep, thankfully; she didn’t think it needed stitches. Blood swirled into the stream of water, the vivid scarlet becoming pale pink and then clear as it disappeared down the plughole.

‘The grass-cutter,’ he said eventually. ‘I was putting it away.’

‘The lawnmower?’ she suggested, her mind sifting through all the sharp implements in the shed – once useful, now each a threat. ‘Oh, Eddie. I thought you were going to wait for David to help?’

‘Emma came,’ he remembered, as she turned the tap off and gingerly patted his hand dry with a folded square of kitchen roll.

‘Emma – oh goodness, I’d forgotten she was coming today.’ Another thing to flap about. Lilian wasn’t sure she was up to more visitors right now, particularly Emma, who always seemed to be turning up her nose. Her headache slammed back with a vengeance as she tried to remember what she’d planned to cook that night. And what had happened to her groceries anyway?

There, see? she reprimanded herself as she carefully bandaged her husband’s hand. This is what happens when you go to bed in the middle of the day, Lilian Jones. Don’t do it again, even if you’re on your deathbed. She dreaded to think what other accidents might have befallen her husband, blundering around in the garden shed on his own. Next time, she’d pay more attention. Next time, she’d blooming well do it herself.

The boys arrived shortly afterwards, one after another, like homing pigeons returning to roost. Hugh first, with the boot full of groceries. (Clearly it was beneath Alicia to fetch and carry for her now. Fancy sending her husband out to do the shopping – and on the weekend, too!) ‘Thanks, love,’ Lilian said as he brought in the last few bags. ‘Very kind of you. Can I make you a nice cold drink while you’re here? Something to eat?’

He seemed awkward, she noticed. ‘Better not,’ he said. ‘Alicia’s waiting for me with the kids.’

Probably with some other jobs for the poor man to do
, she thought sourly, waving him off. Honestly! Emma and Alicia didn’t know they were born sometimes. Didn’t appreciate just how lucky they were to have fine men like her sons looking after them.

Talk of the devil . . . here came David and Emma next, parking in the drive, both looking rather distant. Their body language was unfriendly as they got out of the car. No doubt Emma had been nagging him to go back to Bristol again. Couldn’t she see that David was needed here, in his family home?

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Had a nice afternoon?’ It was on the tip of her tongue to tell David what had happened to Eddie while they’d been out, but she decided not to at the last second. The lad had worked his socks off, after all; it wasn’t his fault Eddie had got himself tangled up in the shed. (She still hadn’t quite established how the accident had actually happened, she remembered, making a note to go down there later on and put all the sharpest things out of reach.)

‘Yes, thanks,’ David said. ‘We went to Charmouth.’ He stooped to kiss her cheek. ‘Are you feeling better?’

She pushed her lips up in a little smile. ‘Much better,’ she said, even though it was far from the truth. ‘Hello, Emma,’ she added. ‘How are you?’

Emma’s eyes looked bloodshot. Had she been crying? ‘Fine,’ she said, in a not-very-fine way.

Oh dear. Trouble afoot. ‘I’d better get on with dinner,’ she said, making a quick exit to the kitchen.

Later on, as she was dishing up the evening meal – a rather dreary affair of lamb chops and mash, she just didn’t have the energy to conjure up anything more spectacular – Charlie appeared, breathless and agitated, as he dropped into a seat at the table. ‘Mum, Dad, have you got a minute? I need to ask you something. A favour.’

Lilian did her best not to sigh but it was hard to prevent the resigned feeling of déjà vu. Here we go again, she thought. ‘Can it wait, dear? Only we’re just about to eat. Have you had anything, by the way? Would you like a chop? They’re not the best, unfortunately – I did give specific instructions to Alicia about what I wanted at the meat counter, but . . .’

He waved the chop aside (she couldn’t blame him, it was a little on the scraggy side) and leaned forward, elbows on the table, obviously dying to impart news of whatever he’d cooked up now.

‘Remember Izzy?’ he began without preamble. ‘She came here once – your anniversary lunch. Two little girls. Remember?’

Lilian’s head thumped. She remembered all right. It had been the last thing she’d wanted that day when, fraught with everything else she was trying to cope with, Charlie had appeared with three surprise guests. Rude, it was. Plain rude. ‘Yes,’ she said guardedly. What had this woman gone and conned him into?

‘Well, she’s in hospital. She’s the one I went to see earlier, and the other day.’

‘In hospital?’ Emma exclaimed. ‘Is she all right?’

Eddie put his fork down. ‘Trees,’ he said suddenly. ‘Her little girls. They’re named after trees, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, Dad, that’s right. Hazel and Willow,’ Charlie replied. ‘She’s been in a car crash,’ he said to Emma. ‘Broken her leg. Anyway, they’ve got nowhere else to go right now because – well, it’s a long story, but she’s going to be on crutches for a while and—’

‘Beautiful tree, a willow,’ Eddie said conversationally, sawing at his chop as if Charlie wasn’t speaking.

‘What? Yes, Dad. Yes, it is. Anyway. So they don’t have anywhere to stay, so . . .’

Lilian felt very, very weary. Wearier, perhaps, than she’d ever felt in her life. ‘No, Charlie,’ she said quietly, guessing where this was going. ‘Whatever you’re about to ask, the answer is no. We’ve got too much on.’

He gaped at her. ‘But – wait, I haven’t . . .’

‘Of course, a hazel tree is very nice too,’ Eddie went on. He was staring into space, lost in thought.

Lilian reached out and patted his arm. ‘All right, love,’ she said gently.

Charlie eyed his father. ‘Dad, are you even listening to me?’ He sounded annoyed. ‘What did you do to your hand anyway?’ he added after a moment.

‘Leave your dad alone,’ Lilian said. David and Emma were both looking at Eddie in concern now too, she noticed, and a hot defensive wave of feeling swelled in her. ‘He’s fine.’ The words came out with more vehemence than she intended.

Luckily Eddie seemed to come back to earth just then, the fog clearing suddenly, and he chuckled. ‘Of course I’m fine,’ he said, sounding himself again. He did this quite often; seesawing between normality and this other confused state, often with unnerving speed. ‘Just a scratch. You know what your mum’s like for fussing over me.’ He gave her an indulgent wink, as if they were in on a secret together.

She smiled back, despite the slow churn of despair that hadn’t let up for weeks now. He was worth fussing over, her Eddie, after all.

‘So anyway,’ Charlie went on doggedly, ‘I was wondering . . .’

David put up a hand. ‘Charlie, mate,’ he said. ‘Maybe not now, yeah?’

Charlie’s eyes glittered: a danger sign that he was feeling combative. He’d always been one for explosive tantrums as a boy, could never bear not getting his own way. ‘Look,’ he said, straightening up in his chair, ‘I wouldn’t ask unless it was a desperate situation. Mum, Dad – don’t you see? She’s got nowhere to live. Her ex-husband – her
violent
ex-husband – has just died in a car crash. The poor girls are traumatized, she’s injured, she physically can’t get up to her flat without a lot of pain and difficulty. All I’m suggesting is . . .’

‘Bloody hell!’ Emma cried. ‘How awful!’

‘We don’t have room,’ Lilian replied flatly. Good grief. It was like an episode of
Coronation Street
, listening to this tale of woe. Violence and death, trauma, injuries . . . she didn’t want that lot under her roof, if that was what Charlie was angling for. She had enough to worry about, with Eddie’s unpredictability. They were not a charity. ‘We’re booked up right over the Easter break. And the week after.’