Nina
Tuesday, 11 December
‘How are we?’ asks Zach, entering the cottage. Bram disappears into the lounge. I notice Zach looks at Dad’s boots lining the skirting board and the mountain of coats piled on the coat hooks.
I shrug. What can I say? I texted asking for help with my task and within the hour they came running, as always, despite it being their day off.
‘Here… put these on.’
I stare at the blue overalls Zach hands over and start to cry.
‘Come here.’ Zach’s arms wrap around my shoulders. My head rests in the middle of his chest and I’m buried in a tight bear hug.
When did the twins grow so much taller than me?
‘Thanks. I’ve got a feeling I’m in for a day of tears.’
‘Plenty of hugs available,’ says Zach.
I break from his hug and head towards the lounge.
‘What the hell?’ exclaims Bram.
‘OK, Bram, we suspected it was bad,’ mutters Zach.
‘Bad? Are you kidding me?’ cries Bram, turning to stare at me. ‘Nina, you’ve been living like this?’
‘Bram!’
‘No, Zach… she needs to wake up and smell the bloody coffee, man. Just look at this place. It’s a bloody hovel – your old man would go mental if he saw this… I’ve never seen anywhere look this uninhabitable, Nina.’
I lower my head and stare at the grit on the carpet. I provide a garbled explanation of wanting to hold onto the past, not wanting to get rid of his belongings, not wanting to face facts, not wanting to admit how I’m living alone.
‘OK, so we’ll sort it, today,’ soothes Zach, hushing his brother’s tones. ‘Go grab the plastic box from the back seat of the truck, I’ll grab a load of cloths and Nina…’
I look up to be greeted by his warm smile.
‘Go put the kettle on… we need tea.’
I’m glad of an excuse to leave the lounge; Bram’s wrath is prickling at my skin. I linger behind the kitchen door and listen to their hushed tones.
‘Cut it out. Nina needs our help, not a fecking lecture,’ hisses Zach.
‘Leave it out… just look at this place. If I knew she’d been living like this Dad and Jackie would have rehomed her at ours.’
I busy myself with the tea making.
‘Have you got any black bin liners?’ asks Zach entering the kitchen as I put three clean mugs on to the kitchen worktop.
‘Yeah, under the sink unit.’ I point to the correct cupboard.
I watch as he unravels the roll, pulls free several bags and dumps the roll beside the mugs.
‘We’ll need them later, but first I’ll get rid of the newspapers and stuff – there’s nothing you’ll want to keep, is there?’
I shake my head. Why would I wish to keep old yellowing newspapers dated from last year, and before?
‘Not even a completed crossword or two?’ he adds.
My God, he knows us so well.
A smile breaks my morose features.
‘That would be nice. He did love his morning crossword.’
‘Just one or two, then.’
I pour in the boiling water and mash the tea and acknowledge just how lucky I am.
*
By half four, the twins have cleared the hallway of every item apart from the staircase, the wall-mounted mirror and the row of coat hooks. The lounge receives a similar treatment courtesy of ten black bin liners, a yellow duster and a can of polish. Every surface, be it wood, glass or tufted-carpet shines like a new pin.
‘Nina?’ calls Bram, staring down at me as I scrub at the skirting boards. ‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine… just wondering how I’m going to overcome this embarrassment or repay you fellas.’
‘Easy. I’ll settle for a date on Friday night,’ says Bram, a glint sparkling in his grey eyes.
Zach turns about to glance between us as he fills a black bin liner with coats.
I remain schtum. He’s got a bloody cheek.
‘Come on, what do you say? We’ll get a taxi into town and enjoy a nice meal, yeah?’
I don’t answer. I’m torn. What’s stopping me from saying yes?
Bram gives a nod.
‘Well, that’s a turn-up for the books – you’re usually so vocal about my suggestions. Eight o’clock, it is.’
*
Holly
A knock resounds upon the front door at ten minutes to seven. I didn’t want to wait in the hallway so I am on the upstairs landing, dressed and fully prepared to dash from the house. Hannah leans against our bedroom door and smirks. I lean over the upper bannister, and watch my mother open our front door. A task she’s done a million times, but this will be a first.
‘Hello, is Holly in, please?’
My stomach flips at the sound of Alfie’s voice. I smile. He used his manners – Mum will love that.
I snatch my head and shoulders back from the bannister for fear of being seen from below.
‘Oh, hello… yes… Holly?’ I imagine Mum standing aside from the open door, turning and hollering up the staircase. Oh, to be a fly on the wall to witness her expression, her smiling yet puzzled face complete with her over-the-top hollering voice.
I wait before answering. I need to linger and pretend I’m not on the landing. Hannah rolls her eyes, fighting the urge to shout a candid remark.
‘Yeah?’ I aim for nonchalant but don’t quite pull it off.
‘You’ve got a… visitor at the door,’ calls Mum. I exchange a cheeky glance with Hannah, who continues to smirk. A visitor? Well done, Mum.
‘OK.’ I bounce down the stairs two at a time, to be greeted by two different smiles. My mother’s is wary yet pleasant. Alfie’s is bright and eager, illuminated by the drive’s security light. He looks like a model dressed in faded jeans and a checked shirt. ‘Hi, Alfie. Mum, this is Alfie – we’re off to youth club. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.’ I step straight out of the door to stand beside him on our block paving. I cringe as the net of optic fairy lights adorning our lounge window changes colour and flashes simultaneously.
‘See ya, both,’ says Mum as Hannah joins her on the doorstep.
‘Bye, Mum.’
‘Bye, Mrs Turner.’
I see Mum’s ‘nice boy detector’ flicker to life.
‘Bye, Alfie, nice to meet you.’
We hastily stride down the driveway escaping the security light; neither one of us speaks until we reach the road. I know that Mum and Hannah are still hugging the doorframe, refusing to close the front door.
‘Thank you,’ I say as we cross the street and head towards the corner.
‘Pleasure. Your mum seems nice, though a bit surprised when she opened the door.’
‘Mmmm, I hadn’t told her,’ I say, grimacing. ‘I’ll get pulled up for it when I arrive back, but hey.’
‘Yeah, don’t worry, I get it.’
‘Will your mum give you the third degree also?’
‘Oh, no, I mean I get the whole “not telling mums stuff” thing,’ says Alfie, zipping his jacket. ‘My mum isn’t living with us at the minute. She left back in January to do her own thing.’
I hear a break in his voice as he says the last part.
‘Sorry, that must be difficult. My grandad died just after New Year and my mum has missed having her parent – even at the age she is.’
Alfie gives a shrug.
‘Come on.’ Alfie grabs my hand in his and we begin to do a slow run past other homes’ tastefully adorning fairy lights and front gardens boasting real Christmas trees. We nip past the school’s green fencing and towards the wooden shack community centre positioned alongside the far playground. My hand fits into his; there are no gaps, no holes and no awkward sensations. It feels warm, safe and natural.
*
Angie
The apartment buzzer sounds bang on eight o’clock. Nick is on time.
I quickly survey the lounge – everything looks neat and tidy – before I depress the wall-mounted release button.
It will take him minutes to climb the three floors, so I calmly walk to the front door, and stand with my hand on the latch, and wait.
I dashed home from the office, showered, dressed and dried my hair all before quarter to seven. I tried to pace myself by reading a magazine but ended up cleaning the lounge, kitchen and bathroom as tonight will be the first time Nick has seen inside my new home.
It feels like our uni days all over again, when we circled each other for twenty minutes, leaning again various objects and walls in my single dorm. In those days, Nick would eventually seat himself on the end of my bed and I would claim the only other place available – the desk chair.
I suddenly feel sick. I can hear all six feet four of Nick pounding up the staircase, the man I know so well and yet, I still feel overcome with nerves.
‘Knock, knock.’
I pause, though my hand is already on the latch, and count backwards: ten, nine, eight, seven, six… bugger, can’t wait… open.
‘Hi.’ I aim for casual, but it sounds fake.
‘Angie, these are for you.’ Clean-shaven, cologne and a new suit. Nick lifts a bunch of cellophane-wrapped white lilies from his side like a staged magician. Lilies, my favourite. From a proper florist too, not garage or supermarket stock.
My stomach flips.
‘Thank you, come in.’ I step aside, breathing in the fragrance of the flowers. Nick goes to remove his shoes, as we used to do at his home.
‘No need, honestly.’ I hadn’t planned on us stopping for longer than a hello and let’s go!
I close the door.
‘Come through, while I put these into water,’ I say as I lead the way. I’m relieved that I cleaned the kitchen as well as the lounge; he wouldn’t have been impressed earlier.
‘Nice place… oh, you’ve already got your tree, I see.’
His surprised tone catches my ear. I need to explain, I just don’t want to.
‘Yes, I bought it on Sunday from the usual place…’
‘A Blue spruce.’
‘Yes, a Blue spruce.’ I know the significance won’t go unmissed. He knows how long I have waited to get my own way.
We stare at the blue-green giant in the corner.
‘And yet, no decorations?’ In two strides he’s crossed the room, to touch the outstretched branches.
I need to explain. He might read the wrong message otherwise.
‘I ran out of time on Sunday. It took all my effort to drag it up the stairs and then being at work all day yesterday and today… I’ve watered it each day as instructed by the care leaflet but no decorations, not yet.’
‘You should have called… I wouldn’t see you stuck, Angie.’
I lean against the door jamb, lilies in hand, and stare at my ex-husband gently stroking the blue-green spruce.
‘I know. It didn’t seem right to ask… so, I managed.’
His eyes look sad as they look back at me.
‘Anyway, let me put these into water and we’ll head out…’ I dash to the sink unit, and rummage beneath for a vase.
‘Beautiful,’ I say, carrying the vase to the breakfast bar and placing it centre stage.
Nick smiles. His sadness seems to have melted.
‘Your favourites… I believe,’ he says.
*
Holly
As we near the youth club shack, the doors are already wide open and a huddle of teenagers stand about outside chilling in small groups despite the cold weather. Paris and her cronies are there, chewing gum and texting.
I see one girl nudge Paris as we walk by. Their heads turn, the whispers start and their evil stares bore into the front, then the side and finally, the backs of our heads as we pass. Alfie doesn’t seem to care. I keep my eyes straight ahead. I’m holding Alfie Woodward’s hand; there isn’t much else I care about.
‘Holly!’ I turn on hearing Demi’s voice.
‘Hang on a sec,’ I say to Alfie, who immediately stops and waits at the entrance. ‘Demi?’
Demi cuts through the rabble and stands before us, her smirk as wide as mine, her eyes as twinkly, if not more excited, than I would allow mine to be.
‘Alfie Woodward… what a surprise. Together, are we?’ she asks coyly.
Alfie glances at me before answering, a wry smile dressing his features.
‘Well, yeah, I’d say so…’
I don’t hear the rest of his conversation with Demi. My stomach convulses, my legs go weak and all I can think about is how I am going to explain my teenage date to my mum tonight when she is staked on the doorstep awaiting my arrival home.
A yank at my hand pulls me back to reality as Alfie walks me inside. A large wooden hut, a scattering of old sofas, oversized blaring music speakers and gathering groups of teenagers equates to a youth club. He wanders towards the drinks counter, saying hello to everyone he passes along the way. Some I recognise from our year at school, others must come from a neighbouring school across town. Our hands are still joined and I delight at being attached in public to Alfie Woodward.
‘What drink do you want, Hols?’
Hols? He called me Hols. It sounds so natural, so us. I like it.
I lean forward and scan the selection.
‘Diet Coke, please.’
Alfie frowns.
‘Don’t you want a Zube tube?’
I shake my head.
‘Diet Coke is fine, thanks.’
‘You’re not one of those, are you?’
‘What?’
‘A calorie warrior who insists on diet everything… because they think they are just so fat!’
‘No, and wait till you see me in the vicinity of chocolate. Trust me, you’ll laugh that you asked such a question.’
He smiles.
‘Good. I don’t do that whole fat-talk business.’ He leans over the counter and attracts the guy’s attention. ‘Two cans of Diet Coke, please, and a large bag of strawberry laces, cheers.’ He grabs a fiver from his pocket. I instantly pull one from mine too. At which he shakes his head. ‘You can pay another time. I invited you so fair’s fair.’
‘OK, but only if you stand by that.’
‘I will. We’ll do something come the weekend, if you’re free, that is?’
I nod. Words fail me as explosions of joy cluster and burst deep within. Alfie Woodward, you have no idea how fabulous you’ve made a boring Tuesday night by holding my hand, buying me a Diet Coke and shortening my name.
*
Angie
‘Madam?’
The festive fragrance of cedarwood and cinnamon fills the air as I follow the maître d’ along the train’s dining carriage until he indicates our table, to the right of the wide aisle.
My eyes take in the art deco surroundings, the wood panelling, the table’s crystal chandelier, pristine white linen and burgundy velvet padded seats. The ultimate in high-class dining. This wasn’t my expectation when we arrived on the platform to be greeted by a fuggy smell of burning coal.
‘Nick?’ I gasp as I slide into my seat, before the maître d’ ruins my napkin sculpture with a hand flick to release it upon my lap.
‘Sir?’ I watch the waiter; he repeats the napkin flick like a matador, before draping the linen across Nick’s lap.
‘Menu for madam.’ The leather-bound menu is heavy in my palms; the pages edged with gold contain delicate script to entice my appetite. ‘Sir.’ With a bow and a nimble step, he is gone and we are alone, smiling inanely over the tops of our menus.
‘Nick, this is fabulous… I didn’t expect anything as lavish as this for our first date,’ I say, trying to act sophisticated and yet feeling very underdressed compared to the other dining guests.
‘A guy at work mentioned it a while back. I always planned to bring you here, but we… well… you know…’
I nod. I don’t need reminding; I left.
‘Well, it’s exquisite. It’s a vintage steam train, right?’
Nick nods.
‘A three-hour wine and dine journey – we can visit the cocktail lounge later, if you wish.’
‘It feels like the Orient Express.’ I giggle, trying to hide my delight.
‘Not quite as expensive, though.’ Nick laughs. I’m no expert on boys’ toys, but when the train had arrived at the platform, I had instantly recognised the old-fashioned design of the locomotive. ‘I wanted something special, for us.’
The train whistle sounds, cutting into the dark night, as the carriage gently sways to a rhythmical rumble upon aged tracks.
Our very first date was a night in the union bar at uni some twenty years ago. I’d hoped for somewhere far more glamorous then, but hey, he’d been short of cash and original ideas, so we’d crashed in the corner with numerous cans of Hooch and a plate of cheesy chips. And I’d had the time of my life. I had spent the evening chatting with the most interesting man I’d ever met. We’d laughed, talked serious and smooched non-stop while the jukebox played endless tunes. Afterwards, he’d walked me back to my room and had had the decency not to push his luck but to leave straight after a goodnight kiss.
That’s Nick. My Nick, the old Nick. The man I fell hopelessly head over heels in love with. The man I was so desperate to marry. The guy that I fell pregnant by as soon as the wedding ring was on my hand. And, the forty-three-year-old that I left, one cold miserable night back in January. What a fool I was.
‘Angie?’
I jump with a start. Nick looks concerned.
‘Sorry, I was just enjoying the moment.’ I return to my menu. The glorious array of food is mind-boggling: Brittany lobster, salt marsh lamb, braised venison and seasonal turkey. This must be costing him an arm and a leg and he’s done it all for us. Me and him. Our second first date. I can’t even focus on the menu selection, as my brain has turned to mush, much as it did when I was pregnant with Alfie.
*
‘So, how’s this year been?’ asks Nick, washing his fingertips having consumed his bowl of fresh mussels.
I dab at my mouth, ensuring all signs of melba toast are brushed away.
‘I’ve learnt a lot… a lot about myself. I have very little emotional intelligence where relationships are concerned and…’ I pause. I have no idea if he wishes me to air such feelings on a first date, but he asked so I need to be honest. ‘I have experienced modern dating – which is an eye-opener.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yeah, things have changed since we…’ I add, unsure if he wants to hear more. But he’s attentive, he’s leaning in, he’s focused and silent so maybe he wishes for me to continue. ‘It’s all online profiles, side swiping or ghosting nowadays.’
Nick’s brow furrows.
‘I know… confusing… There’s a whole host of dating lingo and…’ Should I be honest, or keep a little back? I go for it. ‘Lies. It’s a minefield, in fact, but I did have a couple of nice dates and met some interesting people.’
‘Men?’
I nod. I watch as the information registers. Yes, men, Nick. I’ve been dating men. Men of all ages. Some older, some slightly younger, with different backgrounds, situations and interests.
The silence grows.
I see his expression reboot and revive.
‘That’s good, Angie… and that’s helped you to realise…?’
I nod.
Phew! Being honest isn’t easy, is it?
‘It has. Don’t think there’s been hundreds of dates but there’s been a few… and yes, they’ve helped me to realise what I actually want in life and that, maybe, I’ve been at fault for previous mistakes.’
Nick nods. I think I’ve said enough for a first date. I could do with a conversation changer.
‘Did any lead to a romantic attachment?’
Oh, my God, he’s going there. Honesty is the best… could be the best policy. Eeeek!
I take a deep breath.
‘You could say I’ve experienced a romantic revival… that I wasn’t aware was lacking.’
Nick’s mouth is straight and mute, awaiting my answer.
‘Sorry, was that hurtful to hear?’ My voice fades as my cheeks burn. ‘I was simply being honest. And you?’ I throw him a line.
‘I’ve pretty much stayed the same as I was when we were… but no, I’ve not been romantically linked with any one.’
‘Since January?’ I ask in a curious tone, as the waiter removes our spent plates.
‘Since January.’
‘No dates?’
‘Nope.’
‘Nick?’
‘Angie?’
‘Seriously, no one?’ I sit back and stare. He’s aged well, he presents himself well and yet, he’d stayed at home each night. I honestly thought he’d venture towards pastures new once the divorce was finalised, and yet, he hadn’t.
Nick coughs interrupting my internal monologue.
‘Sorry, if that sounded hurtful. That was slightly more honest than I should have been, but you asked, Nick. I’ve definitely become more honest and open about my feelings and… needs.’
Nick nods. I know he’s unsure of what to say, because he’s Nick and I’m Angie. That’s how our old marriage worked for eighteen years.
Nick readjusts his seating and leans forward; his hand stretches for mine.
‘That’s good. Honesty is important in a marriage.’
Back then, I wasn’t honest or open. Back then, he wasn’t sure what to do, what to say, or how to behave. The end result was a meltdown and a walkout. Both conducted by me, of course.
*
‘Thank you for such a wonderful evening, Nick.’ I’m smitten, all over again. He’s been attentive, curious and engaging. I’ve been honest, open and welcoming. I finish my sentence hoping that he’ll lean in a little.
Then he leans close, placing a reassuring hand on my forearm, and gently kisses my forehead. I catch my breath hoping he does nothing more. That is perfect. The briefest of touches, yet the meaning is there.
I smile. He moves backwards, and smiles at my smile.
‘Goodnight.’ I want to burst with excitement. Oh, Nick, you have learnt so much in the last eleven months. I want to congratulate him; instead I remain silent. Could our divorce really help our relationship?
I unlock the lobby door and give a contented smile as Nick stands back from the doorstep, and I gently close the door behind me.