Melissa takes the last bag of bottles out to the recycling bins in the alley at the side of the house. She has been working on the aftermath of the party all day. Furious, almost frenzied, cleaning that has made her old lower back injury throb and her arms ache. But the activity has done nothing to quash the thoughts that still swirl in her mind like dirty, buzzing flies.
Tilly, thank God, wanted to sleepover at a friend’s house tonight. Melissa had jumped to the task of driving her to Chloe’s in a way that made Tilly look at her askance.
As she was climbing into the car, she’d wondered about leaving Jamie alone in the house and hastily hid her laptop and jewellery in the safe upstairs. When she got back, he was still sleeping in the second guest bedroom. He has been there all day. No doubt luxuriating in her good sheets, like a pig in mud. Maybe he realizes that she’s getting rid of him the minute he pops his head out of that door.
She lifts a weary hand now to wipe away a strand of hair that has fallen from the band of her ponytail. Coming into the kitchen she tries to take pleasure in the way surfaces gleam, taps and sink sparkle. Nothing is cluttering the surfaces, which hold only a large pewter bowl, crowded with bright green limes, and the heavy stone pestle and mortar set that she had found in a village in Tuscany last year. It was so heavy they’d had to pay a fortune to get it shipped home. It is bluish-grey and speckled with little chips of gold and silver; a thing of such beauty that she has never actually used it to crush spices.
The rain has passed and the sun streams buttery light over the floor. Usually this room can calm her like no other place. This is her home. Everything in it is beautiful or useful. A great deal of money, time, and care have gone into making it like this.
It’s her sanctuary.
No one can take it away. But the gravitational pull of the past seems to suck at her.
The kitchen feels as insubstantial as if it were projected on one of those green screens they use for special effects in the movie business. Like it would be a second’s work to make it vanish.
She looks down at her hands and presses them to the table in an attempt to stop the trembling. Acid sloshes in her stomach. She has only had a piece of toast and honey all day but can’t face eating anything else. Sliding onto one of the kitchen chairs, Melissa puts her head in her hands, resting her elbows on the table.
Oh God, what have I done? she thinks. If someone had handed her a script for what not to do last night, she couldn’t have handled it worse.
The first mistake was letting Jamie cross the threshold. She should have quietly pulled the door behind her and told him that she didn’t want him here; that he wasn’t welcome. He would have complained, of course, put up an argument. But she could handle Jamie. Or, she could, once.
If Tilly hadn’t arrived at that precise moment, bursting with good intentions like the nice, well-brought-up girl she is; all wide-eyed with curiosity about this blast from her mother’s past, it would have been so much easier to get rid of him.
Blast was right. Jamie’s presence felt incendiary.
When she had emerged from cleaning up Hester’s sick, and got the bleary-eyed, apologetic woman into the main guest bedroom, Jamie was still in the sitting room as instructed, but he was now holding a beer and chatting to Tom and Lucy from down the road, who were among the last straggling guests.
Her one piece of luck had been that Saskia had taken a very drunk Nathan home early and had somehow missed Jamie entirely.
Tilly wasn’t there; perhaps, thought Melissa, she had trotted off to get him a fresh drink, an extra cushion, or a three course bloody meal.
He was telling a story; something about an old lady with a well-spoken voice berating a group of teenagers with a barrage of foul language on the bus. Melissa winced at the words, ‘And don’t you forget that, you little cunts!’
Tom in particular was laughing so hard he’d gone quite purple in the face.
‘The gob on her!’ said Jamie, basking in the attention.
This was new too. This raconteur who was comfortable taking centre stage in a house like this one.
Melissa had been swept up in conversations with other guests who were leaving then, but a little later, she’d come back to find Tilly ensconced on the sofa, long legs curled to the side, feet bare.
She’d let her hair down from the habitual bird’s-nesty bun and even brushed it, so it lay in soft waves around her face. Melissa peered at her daughter. Was that mascara? She barely ever wore make-up. Melissa felt a sick lurch.
But she was more concerned about what they may have been discussing. Flickers of real fear licked at her.
Her daughter knew her mother had had a difficult childhood with a short period (so she thought) with foster parents. But she hadn’t given her many details, just said that her mother had been ill and died young. Tilly had a phase, when she was seven or eight, of being quite obsessed with the subject. ‘Did your mummy have freckles on her nose like me?’ she’d ask. Or, ‘Were you really, really sad when your mummy died?’
Melissa thinks Mark eventually took Tilly to one side and explained that Mummy didn’t like to talk about her past. He had long since stopped asking and so had she.
Tilly’s voice now, still so high and young, despite her belief in her own sophistication, was filling the room. She was telling Jamie about her Duke of Edinburgh Gold, which had involved a night rough camping in the Lakes. And exaggerating wildly. She made it sound as though a bunch of wealthy teenagers, North Faced to the eyeballs, were polar explorers.
Jamie was all smiles and open body language, listening to Tilly speak, and Melissa had the strongest urge to grab this dirty magpie by the shoulders and forcibly eject him. He was sprawled with his legs apart, arms stretched proprietarily along the back of the sofa. Owning the space. Showing that he too might belong here, given the right circumstances, just like she did.
No.
But she knew she’d have to play this just right, remembering a hard seam of stubbornness in Jamie.
‘Mum, I’ve been trying to find out what you were like from Jamie but he’s a man of mystery,’ said Tilly, smiling up at her as she entered the room. ‘Keeps telling me to ask you about when you two were brother and sister.’
She’d met his eyes. He gazed coolly back at her, a slight smile playing on his lips.
‘We just lived with the same foster parents for a while, as I said.’ Melissa kept her voice light. ‘We’re not related in any way.’
Jamie flashed her a sly grin and leaned over to pick up the voluminous glass of red wine he’d acquired since she had last seen him.
Melissa bought those wine glasses for Mark on his last birthday; they were almost eighty pounds each. Mark always said they made red wine taste even better because they were so pleasing to hold. Melissa had to fight an impulse to lean over and remove the glass from Jamie’s hand.
He took a deep sip, as though he was swigging lager, and placed the glass back on the coffee table with a satisfied little sigh before speaking again.
‘It’s much more interesting to hear about your lives, than all that crappy old stuff from the past,’ he said. ‘It was a hundred years ago! It probably seems that long to someone as young as you, anyway. Who wants to go back to the past, eh, Mel? We were different people then, weren’t we?’
Tilly giggled lightly. Melissa met his eyes again and they were cold. She had to keep reminding herself it was the old Jamie she knew. This muscular man sprawled over her furniture was essentially a stranger. But if he called her Mel one more time she was going to punch him.
Out. She needed him out of her house. Out of her life.
‘Tills,’ she said in a calm, clear tone. ‘I’d like a private chat with Jamie, so can you please go do something else?’
Tilly’s mouth rounded in outrage.
‘But my bedroom smells of puke!’ she’d squawked; Jamie over-laughed in response.
Smiling, somehow, Melissa had said patiently, ‘It’s been completely cleaned and aired in there. And anyway, you can go to the den and watch telly or something. It’s been a long day and Jamie is going to need to go home soon, I’m sure.’
‘But you can’t make him go now! It’s still pouring!’
They all went quiet as if on cue. Rain was hitting the sitting room windows like handfuls of flung gravel.
‘We’ve got another guest bedroom,’ said Tilly. ‘Unless,’ she dipped another sly look at Jamie, ‘you want to bunk up with Hester …’
Jamie started to laugh. It was surprisingly high-pitched. ‘I think she sounds a bit too much of a party girl for me!’ he said. ‘Not sure I’m man enough to handle her!’
Melissa felt something boil over inside.
‘I mean it, Tilly. Off you go.’
Grumbling and rolling her eyes, Tilly finally uncoiled herself from the sofa.
‘All right, I’m going!’ she said. ‘But you have to let him stay over, Mum. It’s a really horrible night.’
‘Close the door behind you, please.’
Sighing but moving a little faster now, Tilly got up and pulled the heavy oak door until it clicked behind her.
Melissa regarded Jamie steadily.
The laughter had gone, snapped off with light-switch speed. He stared back at her, blank-faced and expectant.
Melissa sat down on the chair opposite the sofa. She leaned forward, her arms dangling from her knees like a boxer during rounds.
‘What the fuck are you doing here, Jamie?’ She kept her voice quiet and managed a tight smile. Had to keep this light. Stay in control.
He reached for the wine glass and took another long swig, with a satisfied ‘ah’, as though a bottle of £20 Merlot were designed to quench thirst. It was all for effect. She knew this. She just had to play along and then get him the hell out of her house.
‘I need to kip here for tonight, Mel,’ he’d said. ‘Maybe two. And then I’ll get right out of your hair, I promise.’
Melissa forced herself to breathe slowly through her nose.
‘So … how did you find me after all these years?’
Jamie laughed and made a questioning sort of face, as though she had said something ridiculous.
‘You’re a bit of a celebrity, aren’t you, these days?’ he said. ‘You and the handsome doctor? Once I realized it was you, it wasn’t very difficult. I just used my initiative.’
He grinned and gave a little sigh, entirely comfortable in his skin.
Melissa swallowed the urge to scream that felt like a hard, bitter lump in her throat. She nodded slowly, gathering herself, literally putting her arms around her body and tucking her legs up alongside her.
‘So,’ she said carefully, ‘my husband is the jealous type. What do you think he’s going to say when he comes back in a while and sees a strange man sprawled all over his sofa, drinking his wine?’
Jamie laughed, easily, just as though they really were old friends, catching up.
‘I saw him going off with his little wheelie case earlier, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘I’m not an idiot. You always did underestimate me.’ His eyes flashed hard then and she felt another real twist of unease.
Jamie rubbed his face as though this conversation was beginning to bore him now.
‘Like I say, I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want a bed for a night or two.’
He sounded weary; all his fight seemed to drain away then.
Melissa felt it too, like a change in air pressure. Her shoulders seemed to drop and she suddenly felt exhausted. Was it really such a big deal? She could get rid of him first thing tomorrow, couldn’t she?
She’d let him drink her wine and stay the night. This would be over soon.
‘Okay,’ she said, allowing herself to smile warily. ‘Let me get a glass of wine and you can fill me in on what you’ve been up to for the past twenty years.’
They’d talked until late. Or at least, he had and she had been the perfect listener. He told her about how he’d made a series of ‘fuck-ups’ that had landed him in prison, the most recent stint ending only a couple of weeks previously. But he was ‘turning over a new leaf’ now. ‘It’s all going to change, Mel,’ he’d said. ‘I’m tired of it. I’ve had enough of behaving like a kid.’
As Melissa listened, she began to relax. It was obvious that he knew nothing about what had happened later; the pivot on which the rest of her life had turned. The relief was like slipping into a perfectly warm bath; she snuggled further into the sofa, drank more wine and found herself laughing at all his jokes.
It had been fun. But it had still been a mistake, because it had led to a much bigger one.
Melissa runs her finger along her jaw, squeezing her eyes closed. She’d had to apply her foundation carefully to hide the slight stubble rash that had erupted on her chin. The evidence of last night was there too in the residual ache between her legs.
There was no point in pretending to herself that it had been a surprise. The squeak on the landing. The bedroom door opening; the slice of moonlight on the floor crossed by a dark shape.
By her third glass of Merlot it had started to feel inevitable. She told herself it was a little ‘fuck you’ to Mark that he would never need to know about.
She hadn’t been sleeping when he’d climbed into her bed.
They didn’t speak.
His body was so different to Mark’s and not just because he was younger. Mark was soft and familiar. Jamie was ripples of velvet skin over taut muscle. Everything silken smooth and hard at the same time. While Mark smelled of aftershave and soap, Jamie had a hint of clean sweat about him that made Melissa bite and scratch, hating him at the same time as wanting him to burrow into every part of her.
It was good to feel that desirable again.
When it was over they lay for a while in the dark, listening to the sounds of the sleeping house and their own gasped breaths, bodies bathed in soapy sweat. And then Jamie had rolled over, ready for her again. This was a novelty too. She and Mark hadn’t been like this since the earliest days. No one was, surely, when there were kids, late-night conversations about putting the bins out, or the box set they’d just watched?
She’d kicked him out at five a.m. and it was the only time they’d spoken since he came into the room. All the words had been used up earlier in the evening.
She didn’t want specifics of why he was here. She couldn’t have cared less. Her main priority was waiting until Tilly was out of the house today before she could get him to leave. The half-light in the bedroom last night had made everything seem sexy and illicit. Now it all just felt squalid and cheap and she wanted to wash all evidence of him away.
Melissa runs the filtered water tap and pours herself a long glass before taking a desultory sip.
She wonders how Hester is feeling. She hopes Hester won’t try to be friends again. The thought of her cringing all over the place and apologizing makes Melissa feel even more weary.
In the end, Tilly had been remarkably sensible about the whole thing. She hadn’t gone so far as to help mop it all up, but she had been the one who insisted Hester be covered by a duvet and she laid out water and painkillers for her. When Nathan had confessed to what he’d done, Tilly had let rip at him in a way that had surprised and impressed her mother. She said that Hester could have been on medication for all he knew, and that alcohol could have killed her. This thought hadn’t really occurred to Melissa, who had then fretted her neighbour was dying all over her spare room.
She’d forced herself to check on her at one point, just in case she choked on her own vomit, but the older woman appeared to be sleeping quite peacefully, gentle snores puffing from her lips.
It was funny, but sometimes Tilly could be very mature for her age. Other times, well …
Melissa pictures herself at fifteen. Mature, yes, but in all the ways she shouldn’t have been.
***
When she’d first met Jamie, back when she was Mel for short and Melanie for long, he’d been living with their foster parents, Greg and Kathie, for six months.
She remembered that first evening in Technicolour clarity. They were sitting round a table to have their tea, which had seemed way over the top. She’d sat back in her chair and rhythmically lifted dollops of the mashed potato (which tasted weird and not at all like Smash) before letting it slop back onto her plate.
Jamie had watched her with wide brown eyes, his mouth hanging open a bit to reveal a mess of masticated chop and liquid potato. Eventually, Kathie had lightly reprimanded him in her soft Glaswegian accent.
‘You just concentrate on your own dinner, Jamie,’ she’d said. And then, ‘Are you no’ enjoying that, hen?’
Melissa had shrugged, exaggeratedly. She wanted them to kick off at her. Angry lava was bubbling up inside her and she was aching for a way to let it out. ‘Come on,’ she’d thought, ‘just give me a reason.’
There was no point in getting comfortable, like that weird boy. Didn’t he understand anything? She wouldn’t be allowed to stay for long and neither would he, in the long run.
‘Maybe she isn’t used to good cooking,’ said Jamie smugly.
It was almost a relief.
Smiling broadly, she’d given him the finger, then lifted a forkful of potato. She’d then flipped it neatly across the table, splattering hot stickiness across his cheek. Jamie let out a howl of pain and outrage.
And so she sat back and waited for the explosion of anger. But it didn’t come. Jamie had started to cry and rock, very softly. Greg went to the boy, wrapping his burly arms around him tightly and muttering, ‘Shoosh, it’s okay, it’s all right.’ Soft, meaningless words that seemed to comfort Jamie quickly, and then Greg was wiping away the remains of the globby potato with a paper napkin.
Kathie told Mel sharply that she was to help tidy and wash up. And that later on she would apologize to Jamie.
Mel had obeyed the first command at least, surprised into meek submission by the lack of violence.
She’d then avoided talking to Jamie at all for the first week, but felt his eyes roaming over her constantly. It was obvious that he fancied her, but at thirteen had no idea what to do with the seismic feelings she invoked.
Melissa kneads a fist between her eyebrows now and makes a small sound of repressed frustration. Why is he here, bringing all these unwanted memories in his wake? He carries the past about him, like body odour, and she can’t stand it.
The sound of footsteps above fills her with resolve. He’s up. Time to get him to leave, however badly he takes it. This can’t go on for another night.