Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

 

THE KIDS ARE IN THEIR seats, buckled up inside my car on the Joneses’ driveway, when the man of the house pops his head around the door to bid the kids goodnight. I was hoping to make a quick getaway after getting so upset tonight, but Warrick has popped outside unexpectedly. I close the door on Emily’s side and stand with Warrick, knowing he has questions.

“I’ll see you, then.”

“Wait,” he says, unsurprisingly.

“What now?” I fold my arms. I don’t think I can take anymore tonight.

“How do you know you can trust Sam?”

I stare at him with the fury of a volcano about to erupt. “Hetty told you all everything, didn’t she?”

“Yep.”

I thought as much. The way Jules tried to comfort me tonight… as if she’d been illuminated on the whole suicide thing before my arrival.

“I don’t have to explain anything to anyone. I’m a grown woman.” My shoulders jump up as I speak.

“You’re right, but he must have spun you some story?”

I shake my head. “Fine, he said his parents told him his sister ran away. They probably didn’t tell him what had really happened because he was too young. He was home schooled so he was ignorant to the outside world and then a few years later, they sent him to boarding school and practically disowned him because they were living with the guilt of it all, obviously.”

Warrick scratches the back of his head, obviously not that convinced. “It smells fishy to me. Even if they didn’t tell him what had happened when he was young, you would have thought they would tell him once he came of age. Like eighteen, maybe even twenty-one, would be acceptable. So that if someone did happen to say to him one day, ‘Oh yeah, your sister was murdered, wasn’t she?’ – he would at least have a heads up.”

“Back off, Warrick,” I growl, displaying a side to me he has never seen before. “I thought you were concerned he wasn’t trustworthy, but actually you’re insinuating he might be a murderer, aren’t you? That a boy of seven could murder his own sister—”

Then it’s as I’m staring at Warrick that I realise something. He’s clutching at straws because he doesn’t want to embrace the truth about Gage. Even Warrick has to sometimes admit he can’t save everyone. He’s trying to find previous to incriminate Sam, because he just doesn’t want to accept that Gage took his own life. Warrick doesn’t want to have to contemplate the actual reality of that, so he’s projecting all these weird, fanciful theories onto the whole scenario.

“What happened between you and Gage? Something did, didn’t it? Something was said that you can’t let go of,” I challenge Warrick. “Hetty told me about you and he having a confrontation that one time.”

“I said I would kill him if he hurt you, if he didn’t mend his ways,” Warrick admits, glad to be rid of his dark secret. “And then he said to me, ‘I’ll kill myself before I hurt her, which will probably be soon, because I can’t stop myself self-destructing.’ That’s what he said to me. However, I thought it was one of those throwaway comments. I believed he would never hurt you, unless…”

“Unless, what?”

“Maybe, someone threatened him. Maybe someone had evidence of his indiscretions and he felt backed into a corner. I’m not saying Sam is a murderer, but I will ask you to be careful who you trust.”

“What about the anti-depressants, then?”

Warrick shrugs. “Somebody could have planted them in your house, or Sam could, to make you think Gage was depressed.”

“You’re insane, Warrick. You’re absolutely insane!”

“No, I’m not.”

I turn and point at him, angry as hell. “Listen to me. Joe had pictures of Gage with a woman in Copenhagen. Apparently, they were being passed from pillar to post throughout the local sports groups on the WhatsApp network. Joe told me it was common knowledge and had been for ages that Gage was a player. Joe hadn’t mentioned it because he hadn’t wanted to get involved or hurt my feelings. If it was so common knowledge, someone could have told me months ago if they had anything to gain. The plain and simple truth is, my husband intended to take an overdose of pills and succeeded in killing himself. He did that not because he was trying to protect me, but because he’d realised that I was moving on as well, and he couldn’t handle that. It was okay for him to go putting himself about, but the moment he realised his wife was probably going to leave him and take the kids she’d reared nearly all by herself, he freaked out and popped a load of pills. He was a bastard, Warrick. Nothing more. He didn’t consider my feelings at all. Not even for one moment. He took the easy way out. He was selfish and disgusting and if you try to tell me once more that a man who actually makes me happy for once isn’t to be trusted, me and you aren’t going to be friends again, all right?”

Warrick takes a step back. Nodding, he bows his head and turns around, shuffling back inside, having been given his marching orders.

Oh, people think Hetty is the tough one, but cross the line with me and you shall know about it.

I climb into my car, furious. Emily asks, “Mummy, was Mr Jones being mean?”

“He was just being stupid, baby girl. Are you and Rupey all right back there?”

“Want to go home,” she says.

“Okay, let’s go. It’s a quick drive, babies. Sit tight.”

 

***

 

THE NEXT DAY, Hetty tries to phone me. I don’t answer it. I’m annoyed. She calls again. I ignore it. Then I get a text.

Liza, answer the phone…

I can’t trust you, Hetty. Everything I tell you gets passed along. I can’t confide in you. You can’t keep things to yourself. You’re the worst secret keeper in the world.

Sorry. *shrugs*

It’s too late. I need time. I need to be allowed to breathe.

We’re your support network. If everyone knows the deal, we can help you better.

I am so sick and tired of this. Respect my wishes. I’ve respected yours enough times in the past.

Like when she didn’t get into the police, I didn’t stand vigil outside her front door – I allowed her time and space to get over it. And the times she didn’t want any company when we both lived above the chippy with my mum and dad, I left her alone, even though the whole point of her being around was so that I could have someone to talk to. But no, it’s always me who’s the understanding and patient one. Well, not anymore. These people don’t know when to stop interfering in my business. I’m tired of it.

You know where I am when you need me.

I toss my head back and scowl. “Yes, I know you’ll be desperate for more of my secrets, so you can go blabbing them to all and sundry.” I realise I’m speaking to myself – and that’s the first sign of madness – but I couldn’t give a shit.

I’m my own woman now and everyone needs to get used to that.

 

 

IT’S LATER THE same day that I’m preparing dinner for the kids, having picked up Emily from school and Rupert from nursery, which he’s now signed up to attend three afternoons a week. It’ll give me space to put all my affairs in order and give him some sociable time with other babies his age. Then, the doorbell rings and I roll my eyes.

I walk down the hallway to answer it, expecting Hetty to be on my doorstep with a sign reading: mea culpa. I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that anymore.

I open the door to discover a delivery man. I wasn’t expecting anything…

“Mrs Fitzpatrick?”

“Yes.”

“Sign here please,” he asks, before handing me a boxed item packaged inside a black postal bag, hiding whatever is contained inside.

I take it back with me into the kitchen and put it on the side.

“Mummy, can we watch TV soon?” Emily asks.

“Yes, darling. Of course.”

She’s climbed into Rupert’s playpen with him in the corner of the kitchen. She still enjoys playing babyish games now and again, although at times she’s all-too mature for her tiny years.

“Dinner is ready,” I announce, and Emily leaves the pen, trying but failing to help Rupert escape. I leap in to help and lift him into his highchair.

They eat alphabet pasta shapes, potato squares and chicken strips. Gage suggested giving them things like this and they seem to enjoy it. I’ve tried putting roast dinners in front of them, but we’re not quite there yet.

“What’s that, Mummy?” Emily points her spoon at the black package.

“Not sure, honey. It might be a present for me, I don’t know.”

“Ooh, open it Mummy! Open it!”

“Later, darling. Later. Eat up, then you can watch telly. After that it’s baths and bed for you two.”

Rupert hammers his spoon against his highchair table and I have to gently coax him to stop. Before I know it, food is everywhere and I find myself having to take charge and feed him myself.

After I’ve cleaned up the alphabetical apocalypse, I put them in front of the TV for a moment and go back into the kitchen to rattle the box. It’s at this same moment I get a text from Sam:

Got it then, yet? Do you like it? Talk about keeping me in suspense…

I can’t help smiling to myself.

Haven’t had chance to open it yet. Waiting for the kids to be in bed.

Good idea. I thought you might wear it this weekend. I want to take you out Saturday night, just us two. What do you think?

I’ll check with my mum and let you know.

Missing you.x

Missing you too.xxx

 

 

WHEN THE KIDS are finally in bed, and fast asleep, I put the kettle on and take a pair of scissors to the packaging of my gift from Sam.

There’s a pink box inside and Victoria’s Secret splashed across the front. I open it up carefully, pulling away tissue paper, to discover the most beautiful basque, matching knickers and suspender belt. A thrill runs through me. Wow. I have never been bought anything so beautiful before – and he knows my sizes. There’s white lace and nude satin and little tiny bows. It’s very sexy but cute, too. The knickers are tiny and not what I’d usually buy for myself. I’m a little bit shocked and astounded.

When there’s a knock on the door, I decide to ignore it. I’m too enamoured with my new lingerie. However, there’s that knock again and I’m not in the mood to be hounded in my own house, not when I have this beautiful stuff to admire.

I pop everything back in the box and walk down the hallway towards the front door. Peering through the spyhole, I see it’s Joe Jones. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Swinging open the door, I show him in. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Joseph?”

He walks with me down the hallway and I start making myself a cup of tea while surreptitiously bagging up my new stuff.

“I wouldn’t mind one too,” he says.

“Yeah, okay…” Make yourself at home, then?

“Hetty send you, did she?”

“She’s upset. She doesn’t know I’m here, though. I’ve come straight from the pitch.”

I assess him. Yes, he has his kit on. I barely notice anymore, because he’s always wearing some sort of football kit or other.

“I can’t be arsed, Joe. Just say what you’ve got to say and go.”

“I know exactly how you feel, you know,” he insists, “exactly how you feel.”

I practically throw him his cup of tea, sliding it across the kitchen counter towards him.

“Oh, you do. Of course, you do. You have two fatherless children too, don’t you?”

“Liza, drop the act. It doesn’t rub with me.”

“Oh, fuck off, Joe.” I cannot be bothered with him, or anyone else, not right now.

“Dad and Hetty are a lot more sensitive than I am. Jules is tougher than all of us put together and if she were here, she’d be telling you what you’ve done, as much as I’m here to tell you.”

“Pray, tell, what have I done?”

“You’ve made Hetty feel shit about herself. She’s just trying to be your friend.”

I put my cup of tea down and fold my arms, standing in front of him. “Get out. Now.”

“Why, because you can’t take what I have to say?”

“No, because I know what you’re going to say and it makes no difference.”

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges me, standing up to me, even though he’s eight inches taller already.

“You’re going to say that Hetty’s had a rough time of it. She had preeclampsia and it was scary, then she wasn’t herself after that.”

“There is that…” He looks upset just at my mention of it.

“A friend would realise that right now, I’m grieving. One moment I’m fine, the next I’m fucking crouched in a corner rocking. I’m trying to get through it… one day at a time. Now, I specifically asked her not to tell anyone about Gage’s suicide note—”

“You can’t blame her for that, I asked what was wrong, what was bothering her, and she told me. That’s what being in a relationship is all about. Right?”

I slap him round the face, the precocious little tart. “Get out of my house. I won’t ask you again.”

Joe stands his ground, folding his arms. “What do you think it was like for me when my mother died when I was a teenager? What do you think it was like when I used to have to sit in my room listening to her getting high with another of her fucked-up cronies? Do you think it was pleasant for me, eh? Do you think you’re the only one who hurts.”

“Right now, yes. She shouldn’t have told you.”

“Well, tough. I’m going to be her husband one day. I’m going nowhere. If you want her in your life, you’ll have to deal with me too, and I am not going to take any shit off you, Liza. Not when I know this isn’t you.”

I’m tired of this merry-go-round. I’m exhausted by it.

I motion for him to take a seat at the kitchen table. Then I sit down opposite him.

“This is not just about Gage, this is about me.” He’s about to interrupt, when I hold my hand up. “Can you imagine what it’s been like for me? I met him when I was seventeen and was pregnant by the time I was nineteen. I’ve not been allowed to grow up. Hetty, and my mother, even Jules, all they see is that same girl I’ve always been. If anything has to come out of Gage’s death, it has to be me, finally finding out who I am. Not being Hetty’s wingman or anyone else’s, or me being stuck in with my kids all the time, bitterly jealous while Hetty and her mates go out on another of their wild nights. So don’t tell me you understand completely, because you don’t, Joe. You’re not the same as me. You had to grow up very quickly, and I am sorry for that, but I find myself in the exact opposite predicament. People haven’t wanted me to grow up. They’ve wanted me kept in a nice box with a pretty ribbon tied around it, so they know exactly where they stand with me. Well, not anymore. It’s time I fend for myself and find out who I am, because I won’t be put in a box anymore, okay?”

Joe’s jaw is locked, in shock, as he reels from my words. “So, you just need some time?”

“Yes. It’s not that I’m not grateful for all you’ve both done for me, but I need to be strong on my own for a bit. I need to find out who I am. It’s the only way I’m going to get through this… by finding a purpose of my own, not one intertangled with all of yours. I won’t be carried anymore. Okay?”

He stands back from the table, putting his cup on the drainer. “She won’t like this, but I’ll talk her round. It’s understandable.”

“Thank you.”

“Thanks for the tea,” he says. “Your kids are very lucky to have you.”

I manage to keep it together, seeing the grief in his eyes, the memory of his own departed mother a haunting one.

“See you later, Joe.”