I hang the last of my clothes in the wardrobe, leaving space on one side for Andrea to use. ‘It’s a nice room,’ I say, as I quickly put on a fresh T-shirt. ‘A bit on the basic side, but functional.’
‘Better than I was expecting,’ says Andrea. ‘How is everything with Alfie?’ She fiddles with her makeup bag in an attempt to seem casual but I suspect my earlier words with Joanne have prompted the enquiry.
‘About the same. Actually, that’s a lie. I don’t know how it’s going. He never talks about Darren.’ I stop myself from continuing. I feel disloyal talking about Alfie even though Andrea is one of my best friends.
‘Do you ever ask him?’
‘Not any more. It’s a prickly subject,’ I admit. I walk over and sit down on my bed, letting out a sigh as I wrestle with my need to talk to someone about Alfie and my desire to project a much rosier picture of my home life. The need wins out. ‘He seems more distant than ever lately. And he still has his moments, you know, when his temper gets the better of him.’
‘Have there been any other … incidents?’ asks Andrea. Her tone is gentle.
I shake my head. ‘No. Not recently.’ I realise I’m rubbing my arm subconsciously. Since Darren’s death, Alfie has found it difficult to express his emotions and has taken to lashing out in his temper. Once or twice, I’ve found myself in the way.
‘What’s that mark on your back, then?’ asks Andrea.
‘On my back?’
‘Yeah, I noticed it just now when you changed your T-shirt. You’ve got a red mark, right between your shoulder blades.’
‘Oh, that. I did that this morning. Banged into the door by accident.’ It’s the truth. Maybe not the whole truth, but it is what happened. I feel embarrassed and ashamed to talk about Alfie’s behaviour sometimes.
‘Can’t you speak to his counsellor?’ asks Andrea. She squeezes my hand in a gesture of support.
‘God, no. I suggested that once but Alfie was adamant I wasn’t to get involved. Besides, I’m not sure what the counsellor would say. They’re not supposed to divulge anything from the counselling sessions. Patient confidentiality.’
‘You could speak to him, though. The counsellor, I mean. You could tell him how Alfie has been at home. He might not be aware of that. Alfie might not tell him the truth.’
‘But then I feel I’m going behind Alfie’s back, and if he finds out …’ I leave the sentence unfinished as I gulp down an unexpected lump in my throat.
‘Have you thought about getting advice on how to deal with it all yourself? I don’t mean going to your counsellor, I mean strategies. A bit like they do parenting help for when you have a new baby. There must be some sort of support group for parents of bereaved children.’
‘It’s not my thing,’ I admit. ‘I did mention it once to my GP and she said to follow Alfie’s lead for now.’
‘Which is?’
‘Not to talk about Darren’s death unless Alfie wants to, and try to defuse the situation when he gets angry.’
‘But doesn’t that mean avoiding it so it becomes a taboo topic?’
‘It’s not just that,’ I say, surprising myself at how all my worries are tumbling out. I’m usually very controlled when it comes to Alfie and Darren. ‘Alfie spends so much time over at Joanne’s house, it’s starting to get to me. Like, really annoy me. I don’t know why he doesn’t want to spend time with me. It’s like he’s a visitor at home these days.’
‘Maybe it’s something to do with what happened with Darren.’ Andrea moves over to my bed and sits beside me.
‘Tell me about it! I can’t walk through the hallway without the image of Darren … you know … hanging there. It makes me feel sick. God knows what it’s doing to Alfie.’
‘No luck with the house sale then?’
‘No. I had someone view it the day before yesterday and they seemed keen. They were at the point of putting in an offer, but when they found out what happened, they changed their minds. It’s the third time that’s happened. No one wants to live in a house where the previous owner killed themselves.’
‘What about reducing the price?’
‘I think I’m going to have to, but that will mean I can’t afford somewhere quite so nice to move to. Look, please don’t say anything to the others. I don’t like talking about it, especially to Joanne.’
‘I won’t. But have you thought about asking Joanne to encourage Alfie and Ruby to spend time at your house for a change?’
‘That’s the thing. Ruby doesn’t want to come over because of Darren killing himself and Joanne is quite happy for Alfie to be there.’ I can feel the little blaze of irritation flare inside me. ‘I did actually speak to Joanne once about it and she told me that Alfie needed a safe place.’
‘A safe place? What the hell does that mean?’
‘According to Joanne, he needs somewhere he can go where he can relax and subconsciously know that nothing bad is going to happen. She said I should be grateful that he was there and not roaming the streets, getting into trouble.’
Andrea gives an indignant huff on my behalf. ‘She’s got a bloody cheek at times.’
The sound of Joanne calling from the bottom of the stairs punctuates the conversation. ‘Lunch is nearly ready!’ comes her sing-song voice.
‘Maybe things will be better after the weekend,’ says Andrea. ‘Like you said, this might be Joanne’s way of saying sorry.’
‘Yeah, I might be totally wrong about that,’ I say with a wry smile.
We spend a few minutes unpacking our things. ‘I’m all done,’ declares Andrea, pushing her rucksack under the bed. ‘You ready for lunch?’
‘You go ahead. I’ll be down soon,’ I say. ‘I want to freshen up first.’
After Andrea has gone downstairs, I sit on the bed and let out a long slow breath, as a sense of claustrophobia settles lightly around me. It’s not the house. It’s not the company. It’s the atmosphere. Joanne definitely seems spiky. Was I naïve to think this was a weekend of reconciliation? If I had my phone, I’d call Seb. To hear his reassuring voice and comforting words, in the way he can be both pragmatic and sympathetic at the same time, is what I really want right now.
I’m annoyed with myself for giving my phone over in the first place. It was a stupid idea and one I had gone along with too readily, hoping to appease Joanne. I decide to tackle her about it after lunch. It’s unreasonable of her to expect everyone to be out of contact.
Before I head down for lunch though, I take the little box of tablets from my rucksack and pop a white pill from the foil wrapper. I swallow it down, not needing any water. I feel better even before it has absorbed into my bloodstream. Just knowing I’ve taken it helps.
In the kitchen, I find Zoe stirring a big pot of soup and the sweet earthy smell of carrots and coriander wafts in the air.
‘I’ll set the table,’ I say, opening several cupboard doors before I find the bowls.
‘I was about to do that,’ says Andrea, entering the kitchen. ‘Joanne’s lighting a fire. Apparently, we’re in for some colder weather. Joy.’ She pulls a glum face.
‘Typical,’ I say, handing the bowls to Andrea and rummaging around in the cutlery drawer for spoons.
‘You OK?’ asks Andrea quietly, as Zoe nips through the dining room with a box of matches for Joanne.
‘Yeah. I could do with my phone though. I wouldn’t mind checking in with Alfie.’
‘Only Alfie?’ Andrea raises one eyebrow.
‘Maybe Seb as well,’ I confess.
Andrea gives a laugh as she goes into the kitchen. ‘Maybe?’ she questions. ‘Oh, I think, definitely.’
I look out of the dining-room window and gaze across the driveway to the riverbank beyond. The yellow gorse bushes sway hypnotically from side to side as they are caught and then released by the breeze. It’s a beautiful spot and I imagine on a summer’s day when the sun is shining it would be a heavenly place to come and escape from the world. However, by contrast, the grumpy skies and agitated weather are only adding to the undercurrent of disquiet.
Andrea comes in with some glasses, which she places at each setting. ‘Don’t be worrying about Alfie. He’ll be fine with Bradley and Colin.’
‘I know. Ignore me. I’m fine,’ I say, turning from the window and smiling.
‘That’s the fire lit,’ says Joanne, coming into the room. ‘Right, I’ll bring the soup in. Sit down, everyone.’
‘It smells delicious,’ says Zoe, sitting at the table. ‘I managed to resist the urge to have a little taster earlier when no one was looking.’
‘I know what you mean,’ says Andrea. ‘My stomach has been rumbling like mad.’
‘Well, the wait is over.’ Joanne brings in the pot and places it on the table, before carefully ladling soup into each of our bowls. ‘I’m so glad you all came,’ she says as we tuck in. ‘I was worried that one of you would drop out if I told you beforehand what I had planned.’
I resist looking up at Andrea, it would be a telltale sign of our guilt.
‘Wouldn’t miss this for the world,’ says Zoe. ‘Would we?’
We offer our reassurances that we are as pleased to be here. I take a spoonful of soup to hide my true feelings.
The conversation moves on to the children and I feel my-self tense in anticipation of Alfie and Ruby being mentioned. Since Darren’s death, the two of them have grown incredibly close. Too close for my liking. As if I haven’t been tormented enough by that girl. I say girl, she is nearly twenty, but I’ve known her since she was six years old and it’s hard for me to see her as a grown woman.
As if anticipating my desire to change the topic of conversation, Joanne addresses me. ‘Ruby wasn’t happy about going to my mum’s. She would much rather have stayed at home with Alfie, but she said you had already arranged for him to go to Andrea’s.’
My throat feels incredibly tight and the words catch in my mouth. Even though I was expecting this, my physical reaction far outweighs my mental reaction. My body has gone into overdrive.
It’s then I feel the burning sensation on my lips and my throat tightens some more. I recognise the symptoms. This isn’t a reaction to the conversation, this is a reaction to something I’ve eaten. I’m going into anaphylactic shock. A symptom of my nut allergy.
I drop the spoon on the table and simultaneously push the chair back as I get to my feet. My EpiPen is upstairs in my bag. I had completely forgotten to bring it down with me, something I do as a matter of course when I eat where someone other than myself has prepared the food.
‘You OK, Carys?’ asks Joanne.
‘Shit,’ comes Andrea’s voice and I assume she’s realised what is happening.
The rest of the conversation is lost as I race upstairs as fast as I can. My legs feel wobbly and my breathing is becoming harder as my airways tighten in response to my allergy. From my handbag, I grab my EpiPen and flip off the blue cap, before plunging the pen into my thigh. As I wheeze I count to ten before removing the pen from my leg. I flop down on to the bed and, closing my eyes, I make a conscious effort to keep calm, to focus on my breathing as almost immediately the epinephrine takes effect. I massage my thigh at the same time to encourage the muscle to absorb the medication.
‘Carys, are you OK?’ It’s Andrea’s voice and I feel the mattress dip beside me as she sits down. She pushes a strand of hair from my face and holds my hand.
I squeeze her hand in response to reassure her as I gradually feel the reaction subside. The numbing sensation in my lips fades first; it’s not dissimilar to the feeling of numbness wearing off after a trip to the dentist. My breathing becomes easier as my airways dilate and I take longer, fuller breaths.
‘Do you want some water?’ This time it’s Joanne’s voice. She’s at the other side of the bed.
I open my eyes and Zoe is standing at the foot of the bed looking concerned, with Joanne and Andrea either side of me. I sit myself up and look at Joanne.
‘There must have been some sort of nut in that soup,’ I say, taking the water from her. My hand is a little shaky as I lift the glass to my lips.
‘There wasn’t. I promise,’ she says. ‘I’m not that stupid. We all know about your allergy.’
‘Did you check the ingredients?’ asks Andrea.
‘Of course I bloody did,’ snaps Joanne. ‘You can look at the box if you don’t believe me. No nuts. Not even a trace of nuts.’
‘It’s a bit late for that now,’ says Andrea. ‘Damage has been done.’
‘There’s no damage now,’ I say, not wanting this to turn into an argument. ‘I’ll be OK. I just need to rest here for a little while.’
‘But there must have been something in that soup,’ insists Andrea. ‘It’s hardly likely to have been cross-contaminated. Maybe you added something?’ She looks at Joanne, who scowls back at her.
‘I’m telling you, I never put anything in that soup. Why would I?’ Joanne stands with her hands on her hips, glaring across the bed at Andrea. ‘If there was something else added, who’s to say I did it?’
‘This is ridiculous,’ says Zoe. ‘Are you saying one of us put something in the soup?’
‘Someone did and it wasn’t me,’ says Joanne. ‘I left you in the kitchen on your own, stirring the soup.’
‘Seriously?’ says Zoe, shaking her head.
Joanne ignores her. ‘What about you, Andrea? Were you in the kitchen on your own?’
Andrea looks slightly taken aback. She looks at me before speaking. ‘Well, I was, but I only went in to get the glasses. Look, this is a stupid conversation.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Obviously, no one did anything on purpose. It was probably some sort of cross-contamination at source.’ I realise that my anaphylactic shock has probably shaken everyone up. ‘Let’s all forget about it. I’ll come down. I could do with a cup of tea.’
‘Good idea,’ says Zoe. ‘This has got us all a bit flustered.’
‘Too right,’ says Joanne. ‘Goodness, you gave us all a fright there. Come on, I’ll make the tea. We can have a slice of cake I made. And I promise, no nuts whatsoever.’
Andrea insists that I sit in the living room with a cup of tea while they clear away the lunch dishes. I feel a lot better now and am grateful that my allergy is on the milder end of the spectrum. Although it has shaken me up, the reaction wasn’t severe enough to warrant any further medical intervention. Which is just as well, considering where we are. I have no idea how far away we are from a hospital.
Andrea, Joanne and Zoe are all very aware of my allergy and, despite my assurances to them that it could easily have been contaminated at source, I know it’s unlikely, especially these days with health and safety so stringent. This leads me to poke around in the dark corners of my mind where other thoughts are crouching: what exactly was put in the soup and how did it get there … which leads me to question who and why.
I feel restless at the thought and try to distract myself by inspecting the bookcase, idly skimming the spines of the books. There’s a wide range of fiction, although most of the novels look several years old and well-thumbed, as if they have been rescued from a charity shop. There are some larger coffee-table books on the lower shelves. Most of them appear to feature the Scottish landscape and traditions. There’s one about Victorian London, which seems out of place but, again, probably a rescue book. At the end of the shelf is a small stack of DVDs.
A Disney film, Lion King; an old John Wayne western, and a thriller called Rogue Trader. None of them appeal to me. It’s then I realise that I haven’t seen a television in the croft, never mind a DVD player.
‘Aha! Caught you,’ says Joanne, coming into the room.
I jump unnecessarily and spin round. Joanne is carrying a mug of tea. ‘You’re supposed to be resting,’ she says, placing the mug on the coffee table.
‘I was having a look at the books.’
‘Found anything interesting?’
‘Not really. Although there are three DVDs here and yet no TV. Seems odd.’ I hold the boxes up.
Joanne gives them a cursory glance. ‘Maybe there used to be a TV here or perhaps the last visitors left them.’
I return the cases and sit down next to Joanne. ‘This is a lovely croft,’ I say. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for this weekend.’
‘I’d been toying with the idea for a while,’ says Joanne. ‘It was actually Zoe who made up my mind to go ahead with it.’
‘Really?’ I give Joanne a quizzical look. ‘I didn’t think any of us knew anything about it.’
‘Oh, she didn’t know. It was something that was brought up in conversation one day and it spurred me into action.’
‘It’s very generous of you.’
‘The pleasure is all mine. You know I love organising parties. Who better to organise my own than myself? That’s what I told Tris. This way, I get to totally please myself.’
‘You have a point.’
‘Not to mention your birthday too.’ She stands up and calls from the doorway. ‘Come on, you two. We’ve got a game to play!’