www.ariafiction.com
A tragic accident, an unbearable loss and a marriage in crisis – but who can she trust or is she all alone?
Veronica Pullman's comfortable suburban life comes to a shuddering halt when her young daughter, Grace, tragically dies in a car accident. Months later, unable to come to terms with her daughter's death, detached from her husband and alienated from her friends and family, a chance encounter on a rainy street pushes her into an unlikely new friendship.
Scarlet is everything Veronica could’ve been: feisty, adventurous, unpredictable. But as she approaches what would have been Grace’s 10th birthday, it becomes clear to Veronica that the friendship she thought was saving her life could be costing her everything.
Consumed by grief and left questioning her own sanity, is there anyone she can really trust or is someone out to torment her as part of their twisted game?
Welcome Page
About The Accident
Dedication
Veronica
Felicity
Veronica
Felicity
Tom
Veronica
Felicity
Veronica
Felicity
Veronica
Tom
Veronica
Tom
Veronica
Tom
Felicity
Veronica
Felicity
Veronica
Tom
Veronica
Grace
Veronica
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About Dawn Goodwin
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
For my girls, Paige and Erin
‘It’s me, Veronica. Open the door.’
The letter box rattled. I stood at the top of the stairs and pushed the curtain of lank hair out of my eyes.
‘It’s a beautiful day – open the curtains and see for yourself.’ Felicity’s voice was shrill.
I lowered myself onto the top stair and wrapped my arms around my legs. If I sit quietly, she will go away. She always does eventually.
The letter box rattled again, already with less force.
‘Has Tom gone to the hospital? Come on, open up.’ She paused. ‘We could go out? Do something together? I’m going into town with Zara tomorrow to get Tabitha’s new school uniform for next week. Come with us. A change of scenery will do you good.’
She really didn’t have a clue sometimes. Begrudgingly, she had a point though; I should get that organised too. The summer was over; I hadn’t even noticed.
I lowered my chin to my knees and breathed in the familiar smell of worn flannelette. When last did I wash these pyjamas? When last did I take them off? My mind tried to grasp onto yesterday, last weekend, last week.
‘Okay, fine. I have to go. The cleaner is coming. But this isn’t healthy, Veronica. It’s time to start picking yourself up.’
The letter box rattled one more time for punctuation, then lay silent.
I buried my face in my thighs and sat a moment longer before slowly making my way back to bed.
*
My phone vibrated on the bedside table, but I hid behind closed eyelids for a minute before reaching my arm out of the warm cocoon of the duvet and feeling around for it. I pulled it back under the covers, the artificial blue-white of the screen assaulting my eyes.
Home soon. I’ll sort dinner. T x
I sighed. It was a twenty-minute journey from the hospital, enough time for me to pull on some jeans and force a toothbrush around my mouth. I stretched, feeling joints creak and muscles groan. Then, with more effort than required, I pulled myself out from under the duvet and sloped to the bathroom.
With yesterday’s jeans hanging low on my thin waist, I made my way into the kitchen. Dust speckles danced in the sun’s rays streaming through the glass doors to the garden. It was a warm August evening, but I felt cold and shivery. I flicked the kettle on, then retreated to the lounge to open the curtains before Tom got home, maybe straighten a cushion or two on the couch, make everything look like it should. I tugged back the heavy curtains and stared into the street. It was empty except for a little girl on a scooter, who whizzed past, her ponytail flying behind her. A short distance after her, a woman trotted to keep up. I could see her mouth moving, making large shapes of outrage, probably shouting for the girl to slow down – that’s what any responsible parent would do.
I followed the girl with my eyes and saw Tom’s car pull around the corner just as the scooter reached the end of the pavement. I raised my hand in slow motion, but the child stopped safely on the kerb and waited as the car drove past. It pulled into the driveway, the gravel crunching familiarly, followed by a door thudding closed. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Felicity striding over from her house next door to intercept Tom. I noticed him glance across to our window and I retreated into the shadow of the curtain. Felicity was talking at him, her hands illustrating every word. He reached out and stroked her arm, saying words I couldn’t hear. He looked around again.
When he pulled her into an embrace, I turned away from the window.
Minutes later, the key scraped in the lock and the door opened with a draught of warm air. I was now sitting in the kitchen, a cup of tea in front of me, and I could picture him following his usual routine: briefcase under the side table; keys clattering into the bowl; jacket shrugged off and thrown over the banister. I’d watched him do this nearly every day for the last thirteen years, most of that time from the hallway where I would stand ready to greet him with affection, but things had changed.
He tugged on his tie as he came to find me.
‘Hey, you.’
‘Hi.’
He planted a brief kiss on my cheek, his hand hovering unsure over my head. ‘How are you? How was your day?’
I shrugged. ‘Okay, you? How was the hospital?’ I tried to sound less weary than I felt.
He shrugged and lowered his eyes. ‘No change.’
I watched him as he went through the post, pausing at the letter from the lawyer, but not opening it. Instead, he waved it at me.
‘I spoke to them today. They have a date for the court case. It’s soon – end of October.’
My silence spoke volumes.
He sighed. ‘Why don’t I make us some dinner? Then I have some work to catch up on, some phone calls to make.’
‘Sure, thanks.’
‘Go and relax in the lounge. I’ll bring it through for you on a tray.’
This had quickly become our new evening routine.
*
The next morning, after Tom left for work, I forced myself to get dressed. Felicity was right, Grace would need new school shoes. I moved on autopilot, not caring what I was wearing, but at the same time hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew.
I went to grab my car keys from the bowl, then thought twice about it. Grabbing my handbag, I reached for the door handle and pulled it open, squinting in the bright sunshine. It was a simple task to put one foot in front of the other and leave the house, but I felt like an invisible hand was holding me back. School shoes… school shoes… played on repeat in my head.
By the time I reached the shoe shop on the high street, my hands were gripping my handbag so tightly that the straps were cutting into my fingers. The shop was full of vibrant children and harassed mothers. I stared steadfastly in front of me, cut through the noise and approached an assistant who was wandering around with a clipboard.
‘I need to buy school shoes.’
‘Yes, of course. Please take a ticket from the dispenser and we will get to you when they call your number. We’ll measure your child’s feet first, then see what style suits best.’ She turned away, but I seized her arm a little too aggressively.
‘I don’t need her feet measured.’
The woman frowned at me, then smiled tightly. ‘In order to get the best fit possible, we advise measuring your child’s feet. Have them take a seat and I’ll get you a number.’
‘She’s not here.’ I was still gripping her arm.
‘We really need her here to fit the shoes correctly. It’s against our policy to sell you shoes without a proper fitting. Perhaps you can come back when she is with you?’
‘You don’t understand. I need to get the shoes today. I know her size – she’s a 13G. That’s what she was the last time anyway and her feet haven’t grown—’. My voice caught in my throat.
The sales assistant took a step away from me, then gently removed my hand from her arm. ‘Perhaps you should come back when it is quieter. It’s very noisy and overwhelming in here today, isn’t it?’ She spoke slowly, enunciating every word.
‘I have to get them today. I can’t…’ My voice was too loud in contrast. I looked around. Faces were staring, eyebrows raised. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled and backed away.
My eyes wouldn’t focus. I rushed for the exit and collided with a bony shoulder. My handbag fell from my stiff fingers.
‘Oh! Veronica!’
Felicity. Perfect.
‘Are you okay?’ Zara too. This just gets better.
I ducked to the ground, scrabbling to gather the detritus that had fallen from my bag.
Felicity knelt down to help me, her fingers stuffing used tissues and a stray pen into the pockets. ‘Hey, slow down! Let me do that.’
Zara shuffled awkwardly behind her.
I stumbled to my feet. ‘I… I… I have to go.’ I grabbed the bag from Felicity’s outstretched arm.
‘Wait!’ Zara called.
I ran, head down, the handbag clutched to my chest.
Seeing her like that was a bit of a shock. Her dark hair was lank and scraped back in a messy ponytail – not the charmingly messy kind; rather, the kind that looks like you slept in it. The circles under her eyes made her look haunted and her skin had the grey tone of someone who has been indoors too long.
Not so perfect now, are we?
‘She looks awful, doesn’t she?’ Zara said, a concerned frown wrinkling her forehead.
‘I know, right? Didn’t I say to you last week how worried I was that she was pretty much in hiding? And now look at her. Frankly, she should’ve stayed at home.’
‘Yes, but can you blame her after what she’s been through?’
Felicity immediately checked herself and quashed the warm glow of pleasure she had felt at seeing Veronica in such a wretched state. ‘Oh, no, of course not. I’m not being critical, just really worried.’
Felicity had watched her bolt from the shop like a spooked horse, all jittery and white knuckles. She could hear the shop assistant speculating wildly to her colleague in low tones. ‘I don’t know what was up with her, but there was something not quite right. What if she’s done something, like… I dunno… kidnapped a kid or something and that’s why she couldn’t bring her in?’
‘Maybe she’s just had enough of shopping. Don’t be so dramatic,’ her colleague replied, bored already.
‘We should be doing something to help,’ Zara was saying.
‘I’ve tried. There’s no getting through to her just now. Anyway, are we done here? That’s rather killed the mood now, so I’m going to rush off.’
‘Yes, yes, you go. I’ve got some more errands to run.’
Felicity turned to leave, immediately pulling her phone from her bag as she went. She scrolled to the recent calls list and dialled the number listed at the top.
His voicemail.
Injecting concern into her voice, she said, ‘Tom, it’s me. Call me, please – I’ve just seen Veronica in the shoe shop. She didn’t look good. We should talk.’
I stood in the lounge in the calm after the storm that is the school run, staring out of the window and contemplating the emptiness of the day before me, a cup of steaming tea in my hands. The sky was dank and grey, with a steady, soaking drizzle falling. Hello September.
Children had been safely escorted into class a week into the new term and the street was now quiet again, with just the occasional car splashing through the puddles.
In a blaze of colour, a woman wandered into my line of sight. Completely alone in the miserable street, she was wearing a bright red raincoat, with black wellies covered in multi-coloured butterflies, and I found myself thinking, Grace would love those wellies. I followed her with my eyes as she stepped off the pavement and into the road. She was smiling to herself and splashing in the puddles like a carefree toddler. Then she lifted her face to the sky and flung her arms out wide. With complete abandon, she began to spin in the rain with her face turned up to the steadily falling drops, like a scene from a feel-good TV commercial. I was captivated. My stomach ached with envy at how trouble-free she seemed. Then she stopped spinning, shook her wet hair so that droplets of water sprinkled in every direction, and looked directly at me with a wide smile. My grip on the hot tea nearly slipped. I looked behind me, although I knew I was alone. All I saw was my perfectly tidy, perfectly orderly lounge. When I turned back, she was gone.
*
Days passed before I saw her again. I can’t say what I was doing with my time in between; hours blurred into each other.
I don’t know why I had chosen today to do it, but I had braved the great outdoors again after the disastrous shoe shopping debacle a few weeks earlier and was standing in the supermarket with an empty trolley, contemplating the cereals aisle and trying to decide which brand would suit Grace’s fussy tastes. Should I give in, knowing she would prefer something chocolatey or could I convince her into porridge? Perhaps a chocolate-flavoured porridge?
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a flash of emerald green and turned to see the woman standing next to me, studying the back of a packet of muesli. For a second, I struggled to place her, but knew I had seen her before. Then it came to me: the woman in the wellies. I was taken aback at the coincidence.
She glanced over at me and smiled; I looked away.
‘I hate raisins. Any dried fruit really, but especially raisins. Why do they have to put raisins in everything?’ she said with a roll of her eyes.
I looked back at her and smiled with polite reservation.
‘I mean, I get that it’s good for you, but not in everything,’ she continued, warming to her topic. ‘It’s like coriander – why do they have to put it in everything these days? Are you a fan?’ Her piercing gaze made me uncomfortable.
I blinked at her, momentarily thrown by the question. ‘Of raisins or coriander?’ I asked in little more than a whisper.
‘Both, I guess. On the whole, I don’t think I’m a fussy eater, although my mother would probably say otherwise, but the things I don’t like seem to be in everything and very much in fashion at the moment. Fennel, for instance!’
‘I quite like fennel,’ I said. ‘Not a lover of raisins though.’
She leaned in and touched me feather-soft on the elbow. ‘Well, we’re going to get along famously then,’ she said with satisfaction, as though I had just pledged allegiance to Raisin Haters Anonymous.
That brief physical contact from such a confident, beautiful woman startled me and I flinched, my arm warm from her fingers.
‘I’ve just moved into the area and need to stock up on all sorts of things for my bare cupboards,’ she continued, apparently oblivious to my reaction.
I glanced into her basket and saw a bottle of wine, a slab of milk chocolate, a cucumber and a jar of Thai green curry paste.
‘You’ve got the basics covered,’ I offered, nodding at the basket. I could feel a blush creeping up my neck at my uncharacteristic attempt at humour.
She laughed. ‘Too right!’
‘Well, I…’ I paused and turned back to the shelf in front of me.
‘Yes, must get on…’ she said with an easy air of distraction. ‘Nice to meet you.’ She turned to walk away. ‘I’m Scarlet, by the way.’
I looked back at her to see a small smile tickling the corner of her lips.
‘Veronica,’ I replied.
She waved, then floated down the aisle towards the crisps section.
I watched her go, thrown by our brief encounter. I looked down into my trolley and found I couldn’t quite remember what it was I needed from the shop and why I was there at all. I thought back to my kitchen cupboards and all the food stacked on the shelves patiently waiting for Grace to decide whether to try it this week, and thought better of it.
I left the trolley where it was in the middle of the aisle, turned on my heel and walked out.
*
Two days later, I found myself taking fortifying breaths outside a coffee shop as I worked up enough energy to put on my happy face. I had been relieved to notice that the impromptu visits, pestering calls and texts feigning concern had dwindled away, but Tom was worried enough to persuade me to meet up with my old friends after Zara Newton had called him and suggested it. Apparently, according to Tom anyway, Felicity agreed with Zara and thought it would do me good, help me to move on, but I had the irrational feeling that she wanted to parade me like a freak.
Look what can happen if we don’t take care, ladies. Watch and learn.
I wished I had stood my ground and held them off a bit longer. As I concocted exit strategies in my head, a woman pulled open the door from inside the café, then struggled to push an oversized pushchair, complete with a red-faced, screaming toddler, through the gap. Her hair was dishevelled and her face was flushed – from exertion or frustration, I couldn’t tell. Sympathising with her anxiety, I stepped forward into the café and offered to hold the door open for her.
She smiled wearily and hurried through, and I found myself in the lion’s den.
It was mid-morning on a Thursday and the café was buzzing with artificial energy. I looked around, hoping none of the others had turned up. The air was thick with steam and the heady aroma of coffee beans. A group of mums sat at a large table just inside the doorway, their pushchairs and nappy bags blocking my way as they talked over each other while jiggling small babies with one hand and sipping frothy skinny lattes with the other. I could feel the gossip hanging heavy in the air as I stepped over the obstacles and headed to the counter to order. Their voices followed me, loudly bemoaning their lack of sleep, useless husbands and below-par lives.
I cast another surreptitious glance around the room, then noticed Zara in the far corner sitting with the others, her hand raised in greeting and lips pulled back to show impossibly white teeth. I raised a hand in return, managed a rictus smile, and turned back to the counter with a sigh.
While the woman ahead of me, dressed head to toe in Boden, placed her order with the young barista, I opened my bag and rummaged for my purse. My fingers brushed past an empty, snack-sized raisin box and my mind flicked briefly to the woman I now knew as Scarlet. I remembered the vivid green of her dress, bright against the harsh strip lighting of the supermarket and the predominantly beige hue of my own outfit that day. Then my fingers closed around a familiar but incongruous object in the bottom of my bag and my breath caught. I pulled my fist out and forced apart my ossified fingers to see Grace’s old dummy in my palm, the teat yellowed and stiffened. How the hell had it got in my bag? Grace hadn’t used it for over seven years.
‘Ma’am? Ma’am?’
A deep voice broke through my haze and I looked up to see the barista leaning over the counter impatiently.
‘Your drinks order?’
‘Oh, sorry, I…’ I stuttered through my clenched jaw. Taking a breath, I tried again. ‘Tea please, to drink in.’
‘Size?’
So many inane decisions to make. My brain was on a go-slow.
‘Um, regular.’
Keeping the dummy clamped in my fist, I pulled out my purse. My eye caught on a woman at a table to my left. She was looking at me and waving enthusiastically, her elbow threatening to knock over the mug of coffee in front of her. She was alone, but had an enormous chocolate muffin to keep her company. It was Scarlet. I smiled, this time genuinely, and waved back.
The barista placed a pot of tea on a tray in front of me and turned away to fill a miniature milk jug that was better suited to Grace’s tea parties for her dolls. Tempted by the sight of Scarlet’s muffin, I called after him and ordered the same in a moment of unexpected self-indulgence. Then I noticed Scarlet stand, gather her things and head for the door. My heart fell as I watched her go. Bizarrely, the idea of having tea with her was more appealing at that moment than seeing my old friends. I followed her with my eyes and, as she reached the door, she turned and smiled at me again before disappearing into the street traffic.
Tray in hand and moderately more in control of myself, I wound my way past the table where Scarlet had been sitting towards the group of four women in the far corner. Three expectant faces turned towards me as I manoeuvred into an empty chair; the fourth stubbornly kept her eyes averted, her thin lips pulled down in an astonishing likeness to the grumpy toddler at the next table.
‘Hi there,’ the three chorused in unison. I returned the greetings with less enthusiasm. After meeting in an antenatal class, I had considered these people my support network when my young baby was the centre of my universe. We had much in common then and had spent many hours chatting while our children played, fought and cried at our feet, but without the kids, I doubt any of us would have made natural friends. Except for Felicity of course.
‘You made it!’ Zara announced.
I put the tray down carefully and took the spare seat. Directly opposite me was Penny Rhodes. She seemed pleased to see me, but then she was the kind of woman that saw the glass as permanently half-full. To her right was Virginia Paynes, her mass of curly hair bouncing as she leaned over the table to give me a hug. I returned it awkwardly, keeping as much distance between us as good manners would allow, my shoulders stiff. She almost managed to hide her dissatisfaction at my response as she returned to her seat, but I noticed the look that passed between her and Zara, seated to her right, who contemplated me like she was examining an endangered species exhibit in a museum. Despite her initial enthusiasm at getting us all together, Zara seemed to exude an overwhelming sense of fatigue as she sat slumped in her chair, but this wasn’t surprising considering her vast number of children. I’d stopped counting at four, but there could be more by now. She watched me warily, as though afraid I would bite if she came too close, the incident in the shoe shop clearly still top of her mind.
Only once the others had greeted, gushed and settled did the smiling assassin that is Felicity Green acknowledge me with her characteristic brief, tight smile. My acidic next-door neighbour and the only one of the group whose friendship predated the children. In fact, I had known her longer than I had known my husband – only by a matter of weeks, but still.
Tall and upright in her chair, she radiated a quiet sense of authority over the other women. She had a reputation for being direct with her comments, no holds barred. It won her more enemies than friends, but that had never seemed to bother her. At times over the years, I had struggled with how unapologetic she was.
She was considering me across the table, her cheeks sucked in and her nostrils flaring as though I had dragged something fetid in on my shoe. Although to be fair, she always looked like that. Her resting bitch face was second to none.
Straight off, she said, ‘I didn’t think you’d come when Zara said she’d invited you. You’ve said no to me enough times lately. What’s that in your hand?’
I looked down. The dummy peeped obscenely through my knuckles.
‘Oh, er… nothing important.’ I shoved it to the bottom of my bag.
‘How’ve you been?’ Zara asked.
I busied myself with pouring my tea, not making eye contact, hoping she wouldn’t bring up my episode in the shoe shop.
‘Okay, I guess, keeping myself busy. What about you all?’
‘All good, thanks,’ Virginia answered. ‘It’s been absolutely ages since we saw you last. You look… good.’ I registered the pause.
‘You do too – have you lost weight?’ I countered.
Virginia beamed back at me. An early point to me for saying the right thing.
Felicity replied for her, saying, ‘Virginia was just telling us about the new diet she’s trying. The Hawkins diet?’
‘Oh?’ I asked. ‘What’s that then?’
‘You must’ve heard about it. Everyone’s trying it,’ Felicity’s eyes fell to the muffin on my plate.
I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how out of touch I was with everyday superficialities. Besides, they were always pledging allegiance to the latest fad diet when their waistbands felt a millimetre too tight, a holiday was approaching or if the others in the group had lost a few pounds and they needed to keep up. Yet another eating plan was not what I considered newsworthy, but for this crowd it could be life or death. I turned to Virginia, pointedly cutting Felicity from my gaze. ‘I’ve heard it’s good, but tell me how you’re finding it?’ The lie dripped off my tongue.
‘Well, you know me, never quite losing that baby weight—’
‘Yes, and our girls are nine years old now!’ Felicity interjected.
Virginia paled, but rushed on, her perfectly shaped eyebrows riding high on her forehead as she looked everywhere but at me. ‘So I heard about this diet, where you eat only fat-free yoghurt and fruit for two days a week, under 800 calories on the three alternate days and normally on the weekend, and I thought that it didn’t sound too bad. I tried it and I’ve lost four pounds in two weeks! I’m over the moon!’ She clapped her hands together with glee.
How lovely it must be to only have your waistline to worry about.
As she spoke, her hands waved and gesticulated enthusiastically, threatening to sweep everything off the little table. She babbled away, as though she had overdosed on caffeine. She wasn’t the kind of person who left you feeling revived in her presence; rather, there was a faint whiff of paranoid anxiety about her, reflected in the children’s glittery hairclips restraining her untameable hair and the mismatched socks contradicting the muted beiges and navy blues that all four women had donned. Small nods to individuality saved them from morphing into each other – Virginia with her socks, Zara with her very short pixie hair, Penny with her neatly tucked in blouse and no-nonsense creases, and Felicity’s perfected air of condescension. But then, I was just as bad. Knowing whom I was coming to see, I had resignedly pulled on my beige uniform, styled my hair and painted on a glossy smile. I guess you could say my nod to individuality was jagged nails and chewed, raw cuticles.
‘And here I am parading a chocolate muffin in front of you,’ I said, although my appetite had vanished.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m getting pretty good at controlling my urges,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I would never endure a place like this on a yoghurt day. I hide away.’
I knew a thing or two about that.
‘Well, feel free to share. I’m not actually that hungry after all.’
‘Oooh, lovely.’ I could practically see the saliva dripping from her incisors as she reached across, grabbed the cake fork and pierced a large chunk. Crumbs rained down on the table as she shovelled it in like it was her last meal before execution.
‘Yesterday was a yoghurt day, so I can forgive myself a smidge of cake today,’ she spluttered at us. Felicity looked away in disgust.
Virginia then regaled us on the finer details of what constituted 800 calories and how to survive on minimal food, while inhaling muffin between words. The conversation grew more animated about whether celery was indeed a negative calorie food and the minutes ticked on.
Felicity kept steering the conversation onto the children. I fiddled with my teacup, now disliking the bitter aftertaste coating my tongue, but needing to keep my hands busy while they twittered on about the mundanities of their lives. Virginia had managed to eat the entire muffin on autopilot, while Zara was telling us about her daughter’s latest gymnastics achievements at Felicity’s insistence. I was finding it hard to focus on the details. I forced myself to zone in on Zara’s face and watch her lips moving, but my eyes were drawn instead to a little girl at a table nearby, with a dummy in her mouth similar to the one I had found in my bag. She had ridiculously curly blonde hair that hung above her head like a cloud and was busying herself with tearing up a paper napkin while her mother chatted full force on her mobile phone. Miniature shreds of napkin fell like confetti around her and every time the door to the café opened, the breeze would lift the shreds, making them dance in her tiny hands. One fragment had landed in her curls and I found myself staring at it, enthralled.
‘Veronica?’ A hand on my arm dragged me back to the faces in front of me. Penny was leaning towards me. ‘Okay?’
I looked at her, realising I had zoned out, then replied with an exaggerated smile, ‘Sorry, daydreaming there for a minute.’
Zara looked worried and began a rambling apology, ‘I’m so sorry, banging on. I wasn’t…’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I placated. ‘Really.’ I waved her off, not wanting to give Felicity the satisfaction of witnessing another public breakdown. I sat up straighter in the hard chair.
Hurriedly changing the subject, Virginia asked Felicity, ‘So have you decided on your dress for the party yet?’
‘Oh? What’s the occasion?’ I asked.
Again, the hesitation, the shifting in the seat. ‘Um, it’s, er…’
Felicity was quick to help Virginia out. ‘It’s Penny’s fortieth birthday party in a couple of weeks – a black-tie dinner dance with all the trimmings? It should be such fun. I phoned you about it last week, left a voicemail.’ She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms under unnaturally large breasts that didn’t fool anyone.
Penny looked as though she was sitting on a hotbed of angry ants. ‘I did send you and Tom an invitation, but you never got back to me, so I assumed you couldn’t make it,’ she said, redness burning her cheeks.
‘Oh, yes of course. So rude of me, but we are busy that weekend – a work thing for Tom that we can’t get out of…’ I trailed off in the hope of not having to make up too many fake details. ‘But the party sounds lovely.’ I tried to keep my voice light, but felt no disgruntlement whatsoever. In fact, I was relieved that I didn’t have to spend hours discussing a dress for a party and how to find the perfect pair of shoes to match. These days I was lucky if my underwear matched. Freeing myself from the pressure to conform was strangely liberating.
Penny looked tortured and I could almost hear the cogs in her brain grinding as they worked overtime to find an escape route. She reverted to type. ‘We’ve discussed the logistics, haven’t we? I’ll be at the venue at 4 p.m. to start decorating the room. Then once you’ve had your hair done, Zara, you can come and take over while I get mine done, then Felicity can step in. Now, on the actual night…’ She pointed a perfectly manicured nail at each in turn as she outlined the plan of action. Felicity looked taken aback at being ordered about, but Penny rattled on oblivious, organising her minions with military precision. Once they had received their detailed instructions, Penny sat back in her chair, sated, and Felicity took the opportunity to change the subject again.
‘Virginia, what was the outcome of the tutor for Matthew?’
Virginia looked uncomfortable again and threw visual daggers at Felicity. She then offered me an explanation I didn’t need in a quiet voice. ‘We’ve decided to push Matthew for his 11+ exams in the hope of Kingston Grammar for secondary school. He seems excited by the idea, but getting a tutor at this stage is difficult.’
I listened to them analysing the pros and cons of the tutors she had interviewed as they dissected Matthew’s strengths and weaknesses (great at verbal reasoning, but lacking focus when it comes to maths, apparently) and could feel what little life force I had left draining out of me. The tiger moms were in full voice. They talked over each other distractedly, the words clambering for space as though they were too intent on getting airplay for their own stories to listen to what the others were saying. My grip on the conversation weakened again.
As they continued to babble, Zara leaned in and checked her phone, which was lying with everyone else’s amid the cake crumbs and milk drops on the table. I hadn’t even bothered to take mine out of my bag, but I noticed the four in front of me kept checking theirs while they talked, even though none had rung or vibrated. They couldn’t seem to pass five minutes without tapping the screen like a nervous tick. I wondered who they were hoping would call and what could be so important.
When I zoned back in, they had moved from tutors to the cost of extracurricular activities and I wanted to run screaming for the door. Remembering my manners instead, I said, during a pause for breath, ‘So what have you all got planned for the summer? Cornwall again?’
Silence greeted my question. Virginia shuffled uncomfortably in her chair, while Zara rummaged in her bag, suddenly in need of a tissue, and Penny busied herself with stirring her empty coffee cup. However, Felicity was more than happy to share the group’s plans.
‘We’ve all booked for our usual two weeks in Cornwall, yes. We didn’t think you would want to come this year, especially after the accident.’
I locked eyes with her. The others had the good grace to look at Felicity in mortification, who for once looked suitably uncomfortable, as if realising she had thrown a dart too close to the bull’s eye this time.
Every summer since our children were babies, the group had travelled to Cornwall for two weeks in August. It was like an epic, middle-class pilgrimage. Days were spent on the beach with the kids running wild surrounded by the picnic debris of empty hummus pots and breadstick crumbs; evenings were spent sharing food and laughing over gin and tonics while exhausted children fell asleep in front of an endless stream of Disney heroes and villains. Penny was particularly in her element and given free rein to let her organisational skills run wild with meal plans and activity rosters. Last year was the first year Tom and I hadn’t joined in, choosing instead to chase some sunshine as a family; this year was the first time we hadn’t been invited.
The awkwardness stretched on. Felicity tried to cover her callousness by discussing arrangements and chatting animatedly about the new friends who had apparently filled our spot on the holiday. I felt hollow and knew that coming today had been a mistake. What Felicity didn’t realise was that I actually didn’t care about any of it: the holidays, the parties, the diets. But I did mind being the subject of her amusement, indicated by her occasional sideways smirks that she thought I hadn’t noticed. It was taking all of my strength not to grab hold of my cake fork and stab her in the back of the hand. I bet that would crease her unlined, Botoxed brow. My fingers twitched and flexed as I pictured the metal prongs jabbing into the thin flesh, temptingly within reach. The depth of anger that washed over me was somewhat surprising.
I focused on the dark sludge left in my teacup. I could feel Zara’s eyes on me and knew she wanted me to look up, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to see the pity.
Her voice reached me nervously, like she was sending out tentacles to test the water. ‘How are things going with the trial? That must be coming up soon? October, I think Tom said? If it helps to clear your head, I’m looking to start running again – we could go together like we used to?’
‘Sure, because popping on a pair of trainers will make everything better, right?’ I snapped.
Zara recoiled. ‘No! I… er… it just might … give you some headspace….’ Her voice trailed off and she looked away.
I had to get out of there. The air was stifling. The noise of children started to hammer at my eardrums. The anger had dissipated as quickly as it had come, replaced by panic inching up my throat, tenuously attached to a scream by an invisible thread of anxiety. I looked towards the door, my mind trying to find a plausible excuse for my retreat. Outside the windows, people hastened about their business, striding with purpose, places to go and people to see. My eyes fell on one person in particular, who moved slower than the others at more of a saunter than a stride. Auburn hair, loud coat – it was Scarlet again. Or was I just hoping I had seen her? Either way, there was my excuse, not that I owed anyone an explanation. I had earned the right to just get up and leave.
I stood up abruptly, almost toppling my chair.
‘Ladies, this has been great,’ I said, my voice brittle. ‘But I must be off – I promised a friend I would go shopping with her this afternoon.’ I couldn’t help myself, still offering explanations and platitudes. ‘You all look great, haven’t changed a bit.’ I surprised myself at how much sarcasm I managed to inject into that last comment. ‘Let’s not leave it so long next time.’ I ducked down to grab my handbag, then paused, looked directly at each of them in turn and said, ‘Have fun in Cornwall.’
Felicity’s eyes narrowed. Zara got to her feet and started to say something, but I didn’t hang around to hear any more.
It took every ounce of strength I had to stop my legs from collapsing under me as I reached the door, pushed it open and took in some deep gulps of fresh air.
*
The house was quiet. I closed the door on the world and leant against it, letting my cocoon of safety fold around me. Eyes closed, I ran through my encounter with Zara, Virginia, Penny and Felicity, and wanted to feel tears prick my eyes, but there was nothing. Life goes on around you with its villains and superheroes.
I heard a muffled tinkling sound. My mobile was ringing from the depths of my Tardis of a handbag. I dug in and began to rummage, but my hand fell on the dummy again. I pulled it out and threw it across the hallway as hard as I could, as though it had stung me. My eyes followed it as it landed, spinning on the beige carpet and coming to rest under the table, the yellowing teat eyeing me from the shadows. I gulped air, could feel the panic rising again, once more surprising myself at the sudden surge of emotion. Through it all, the phone kept ringing. I slumped to the floor, my bag falling open as it dropped to my feet. My mobile fell out and landed screen up.
One missed call from Tom. Who else would it be?
*
The cold air on my face felt good. My lungs ached as my feet pounded the trail, my ears full of a loud bass beat, a song I didn’t recognise but needed to keep me focused. I had set off for a run as soon as I heard Tom leave for work. He had mentioned before heading out that he was meeting with the legal team later in the day and had wanted to discuss technicalities with me, but I shut him down, told him to take care of it. Then a tide of rebellion swept over me and I suddenly had the urge to run, no destination in mind, the idea planted by Zara a few days earlier. I wouldn’t make good company though, so had headed out alone, my running cap pulled low over my eyes.
An hour later and I was still in my stride, oblivious to everything except the burning in my chest as I ran at too fast a pace, waves of heat suffocating my head inside my cap, the exertion keeping all other thoughts at bay. Zara was right, I’d missed this.
The park was full of sturdy women in boots walking muddy, overexcited dogs and men on bicycles, ties and trousers tucked in as they weaved their way through the pedestrian traffic on their way to work.
I could feel my energy ebbing as I approached the ten-kilometre mark, so headed back to the park gate and the route through the streets that would take me home. As soon as I left the park, I realised that I had inadvertently timed my return home to coincide with the Monday morning school run and now found myself dodging pushchairs, young children on scooters and ranting mothers. I kept my head ducked, pulled my cap lower over my eyes and concentrated on the music in my ears as I accelerated.
Rounding a corner a few streets from home, I collided with a young girl who tore into me on a scooter. I looked down into an angelic but startled face as she fell and felt my heart contract.
I pulled my earphones out and crouched down to help her up off the pavement. She wasn’t hurt or crying and, after looking at me for a few seconds, burst into a wide smile, just as her mother rushed up to us.
‘You’re Grace’s mum!’
I froze. The girl was still grinning at me. Her mum looked at me and paled as recognition dawned on her too.
‘Tilly, are you okay? I’m so sorry,’ the woman babbled without looking at me again. ‘She was going far too fast. I do hope you’re not hurt. These scooters are treacherous things. Come along, Tilly, or you’ll be late.’ She shuffled the girl along just as the tiny voice began to say to me, ‘How is Grace? When will she…?’
‘Come, come, let the nice lady finish her run!’
As she was shepherded away, I heard Tilly say, ‘But that’s Grace’s mum! I wanted to ask her…’
I didn’t wait to hear any more. I stuck my earphones back in, turned the volume up as loud as it would go and headed back down the road, desperate to get home and close the door on everyone again.
Just as I pushed on around the next corner, I collided again, this time with an adult. I almost shouted out in frustration but raised my eyes to find Scarlet in front of me, rubbing her arm where I had elbowed her.
I removed my earphones again, this time saying in mortification, ‘I am so sorry. Are you okay?’ I didn’t expect her to recognise me in return, but she did.
‘Veronica, right?’ She smiled.
‘Yes, hi.’
‘Well, this looks very energetic and exhausting,’ she said, indicating my running gear. ‘Better than me anyway.’ She held up a bag from the bakery up the road and I caught a whiff of freshly baked croissants.
‘Your idea smells better than mine,’ I replied. I was surprised at how pleased I was to see her again.
‘Do you live near here?’ she asked.
‘Yes, just two streets over on Hawthorne Road. You?’
‘Yes, a little up this way.’
I felt very aware of my sweaty face and red cheeks. ‘Well, it was great to bump into you. Enjoy your breakfast.’
‘Thanks,’ she replied and turned to walk past me, then paused. ‘You know, I’ve just moved into the area and don’t know many people around here just yet. Perhaps we could meet for a coffee or something one day?’
‘Um,’ I was momentarily stunned and slightly panicked. ‘I, er…’
‘Besides, we keep bumping into each other – literally as the case may be!’ She chuckled. ‘Anyway, I’m sure I’ll see you again.’ She began to walk away.
‘I, er… Coffee would be great,’ I heard myself say, much to my surprise, especially after the other day.
She stopped and turned back. ‘Great, are you free tomorrow?’
I had countless empty days ahead of me. ‘Tomorrow would work.’
‘How about that coffee shop we were both in the other day? That was you, wasn’t it? Say 10 a.m.? The perfect time for tea and cake in my opinion.’ Her smile was so natural that I felt some of my anxiety subside.
‘Sure.’
‘Tell you what, what’s your mobile number? I could call you quickly so that you have my number in case something comes up?’
‘Um, okay.’ Part of me wondered at the ease at which I was prepared to hand over my number to a stranger, but I did it anyway. The phone attached to the running holder on my arm vibrated as her call connected.
‘Great, done! Hope to see you tomorrow then.’ With a small wave, she wandered off, trailing the aroma of croissants.
I stood watching her for a moment, then smiled to myself and ran at a less frenetic pace back home.
*
For the second time in a week, I found myself walking up to the door of the coffee shop, but this time I was looking forward to it. It was as busy as it had been the week before and the women inside looked as if they’d never left. Doubtless, the conversations would be the same too.
I scanned the room, part of me not expecting Scarlet to be there, but she was sitting in the far corner, facing the room and waving at me. I waved back, then went to place my order with no hesitation this time: a cup of tea and a slice of red velvet cake that I fully intended to eat myself.
When my order was paid for, I grabbed my tray and weaved through the chatter. As I approached her table, Scarlet beamed up at me.
‘I felt sure you wouldn’t come in case I’d scared you off the other day! I can be a bit full on sometimes. So pleased you did though,’ she said, spraying crumbs across the table as she waved a chunk of muffin at me. ‘Sit, sit!’
I did as I was told, my back to the room. As I poured my tea, I sneaked casual glances at my new acquaintance. She had a youthful liveliness to her face that was in stark contrast to my sallow, grey complexion. Although I guessed we were of a similar age, in our early forties, compared to me, her eyes sparkled under a subtle layer of expertly applied but girlish make-up, and there was not a grey hair in sight amongst her beautifully silky auburn hair. Her full lips seemed to be set in a permanent smile and her fingernails were manicured and impeccably painted. Unlike my friends the other day, she was colourful, from her vivid green dress that brought out her eyes to her sunshine yellow nails and candy pink lip-gloss. She was chattering away, but I had been so intent on studying her that I hadn’t heard a word.
‘I’m sorry, pardon?’ I replied.
‘I was just saying how much I love this area. So many lovely little treasure troves. Have you lived here long?’
I thought back to Tom and I buying our house when Grace was a baby and how excited we were to move to the suburbs after years in a tiny London flat.
‘We’re nearing nine years now.’ I looked down into my cup, surprised at how much time had actually passed. So much can happen. The shadows can form and the dust can settle quickly in a decade.
Scarlet reached over and put her hand on mine. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
I’ve never been a tactile person and normally such physical demonstrations would make me feel prickly, but this was strangely comforting, helped by the faint scent of her perfume, which was familiar, but I couldn’t pinpoint why.
‘I’m fine – low blood sugar maybe. Some cake will help.’ I took hold of my fork, pierced a generous chunk and filled my mouth before she could comment further. The cake was soft, warm and utterly delicious. A second and third forkful followed very quickly after the first. It felt like ages since I had had anything close to an appetite for food.
‘Where did you say you live?’ she asked.
‘We’re on Hawthorne.’
‘Oh, it’s a lovely road. Some beautiful gardens,’ she replied. I pictured Felicity’s immaculate roses in her front garden next door and agreed with her. I used to have one of those beautiful gardens, but now it was unkempt, overgrown, with roses that needed dead-heading and bushes in need of a bit of TLC. While Felicity’s flowers bloomed and flourished, mine were patchy and diseased.
‘So, husband? Children? Job?’
‘One husband, one child – Grace, who’s nearly ten,’ I answered without hesitation. ‘No job right now.’
‘You mean you have the hardest job of all as a mother! I haven’t had the courage to follow that path myself.’
‘Do you work?’
‘I do whatever takes my fancy when I wake up. I’ve been known to write, paint, work in an art gallery, serve chips – you name it, I will likely have done it,’ she replied. ‘Of course, I’m lucky in that I don’t have to work – an inheritance…’ She left the sentence hanging, but I didn’t want to pry. ‘What about your other half? Tell me about him,’ she continued.
I didn’t want to be the focus of the conversation, but found myself telling her all about Tom, with his handsome smile, neat suits and sensible hair. ‘Tom and I have been married almost thirteen years now. We met at university about twenty years ago. He came here from Australia to study and never went back. He’s a doctor.’
‘How romantic – the British girl who stole his heart!’
I laughed a little bristly. ‘I don’t know about that. There’s definitely history, I guess. All of his family are still in Australia, which is hard for him sometimes, but we’ve never thought of living anywhere else.’
‘Well, I’m sure he’s perfectly lovely.’
That was it in a nutshell: perfectly lovely, always polite, never saying what should be said, always doing what was best for everyone.
Scarlet was now chattering away, trying to name Australian actors. I struggled to refocus.
‘Of course, there’s nothing too strange about a fascination with Russell Crowe, but everyone has a sneaky weird crush, don’t they? Mine’s particularly British – Tony Blair.’ I had no idea what she was on about, but she didn’t seem to have noticed that I wasn’t quite following her. She thundered on, going through a list of who I assumed were young male celebrities and whether they were worthy of her attention, as if it was quite feasible that one of them would knock on her door. I listened to her ramble, feeling myself relax as she steered the conversation, happy to nod and smile in the right places. Before I knew it, half an hour had passed over trivial chit-chat, a few laughs, a large chunk of cake and little else of consequence.