18
I wake up in my old bedroom with the beginnings of a headache pressing against my temples. It’s like someone has trapped me in a time capsule. Apart from the ironing pile and my mother’s Peloton in the corner, everything looks the same to the smallest detail. I wonder why she’s ditched the bike here, having three more bedrooms at her disposal.
One of the walls is solely covered with posters of the Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys because I was going through a ’90s bands phase in my teens, while the other has a noticeboard stuck to it with old photos. There are a few photos of Catherine, but it’s mostly filled with Vicky pouting her lips at the camera and an occasional flash of me. The corner of my face here, a lock of hair there. I pad barefoot towards the board, knowing what I’m searching for. As soon as I find the incriminating photo, I pluck it off the board mercilessly. In the picture, I’m standing next to Catherine at one of the rare parties we attended, neither of us being much of a party animal. We’re both dressed in collared shirts, but where mine is ditsy floral, hers is burgundy.
But it’s not our dismal fashion sense or the terrible haircuts we’re sporting in the photo that enrages me. In the corner of the picture stands a boy with ginger hair, looking at me with an unreadable expression. He resembles the Alex I know now more than ever. My grip around the photo hardens. For the first time, I spot another person in the photo I’ve never noticed. Vicky is standing a little distance away in the crowd, sipping a drink and watching Alex with hooded eyes. I study her strange expression for a moment.
Alex is the sole reason for what I do next. Hot tears leaking down my cheeks, I rip it into confetti-sized pieces and chuck it in the bin. Without another glance, I pad back to the warm bed and barricade myself with my pillows and duvet.
Last night when I cried on the phone to my mother, she insisted that I stay overnight at their place, and for once, I had no strength to refuse. I tried to play the sad drunk card, but I don’t think she bought it because I haven’t cried in front of her since I was a child.
I lie lethargically in my childhood bed for long moments, staring helplessly at the ceiling covered in fluorescent stars that my dad stuck on when I was fourteen. I remember he gave himself back pain for a week, never having been one for physical labour. I cherished them because I knew he had gone out of his way to make me happy. A fresh wave of searing tears covers my face, soaking into the lavender-smelling pink bedding.
My mood shifts from crushed to irate; I need to scream or smash something so badly my hands are shaking. I’ve suppressed this part of me for the last ten years, convincing myself that all those broken parts had healed over, but the truth is, I’d just pushed them deeper and fragmented them into even smaller, much sharper, pieces.
Eventually, I make myself move and take a shower. I find some old clothes in the wardrobe that are freshly laundered and pressed. The wardrobe, too, is a time capture of an eighteen-year-old Holly, so I choose the least offensive garments to put on. Embarrassingly, both the flared corduroy trousers and the purple polo-neck top still fit. When I look at myself in the mirror, I resemble an older version of Sabrina Spellman. I wash my face but don’t bother with make-up. I feel marginally better but still fragile.
I head downstairs and find the kitchen abandoned. I pour myself some coffee from the cafetière sitting next to the fancy-looking bread bin and douse it with five heaped spoons of brown sugar. It’s still warm and bitter, and it’s exactly what I need. I head to the lounge with it and park myself on the largest sofa, pulling my legs up. Feeling exhausted from all the emotions, I drop my head to my knees.
‘Hangover?’ My dad asks jovially from the doorway. His tone is a little too cheery to be genuine.
Everything tenses in me. It’s a reflex that I haven’t learnt to override for the last ten years.
‘Sorry for crashing here last night,’ I say automatically.
‘You’re always welcome here. Your mother was so excited she went to the bakery to buy some fresh pastries for breakfast.’ I nod because I don’t know what else to say. I don’t remember the last time we were alone like this. His expression is uneasy, he’s fighting with something. He says carefully, ‘It’s been too long since you’ve stayed overnight.’
I guess he never understood why, last minute, I chose a university all the way in Wales when all along I planned to go to a local university. I haven’t lived at home since I was eighteen, and yet, I still feel like a little girl in this room with him. Surrounded by cream chenille sofas and potpourri in various silver and bronze bowls placed around the room, I feel more like the old Holly than ever, and it chafes like polyester against sensitive skin.
I can’t stand to look at him, the good old dad. The benevolent father figure he’s pretended to be for so long, and I’ve let him maintain that image by keeping quiet.
He sits on the sofa opposite me and sips his coffee. He’s wearing one of his many almost identical chequered M I’ve shocked him. The immature, angry Holly inside me is pleased.
‘To top it, he’s expecting a baby with her. What do you say now? Do you still like him that much? Maybe you should give him a chance yourself. It’s not like being married has stopped you before.’ I don’t know what has got into me, but a dam has burst, and all the feelings and memories spill out.
*
The street is abandoned, and I check my phone to find that I’ve passed my curfew by twenty-two minutes. If my mother catches me, I’m dead, literally coffin material. Alex and I lost track of time. It’s been happening whenever we touch. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating. All I can think about is him and all the places he hasn’t touched me yet.
A flash of movement catches the corner of my eye. At the sight of the man, I still . My dad gets out of his car, and I wonder why he’s parked two streets from our house. I watch him walk to the opposite side of the car and open the door. He steps to the side and a familiar woman gets out, tugging at her fluffy pink coat to adjust the sleeves.
My eyes narrow as he leans towards her. Then my mouth shoots open. I watch as he kisses her on the lips, and after scanning the street, pulls her to him flush against his body.
When they separate, they both giggle like a pair of teenagers. Bile rises in my throat. I’m surprised that I don’t puke in the bushes. Somehow, I make it home and shut myself in my room. I don’t come out for two days, pretending I’ve got the flu.
*
‘I’m sorry that that’s what happened between you and Aaron, but I don’t appreciate your rudeness.’ His wrinkled forehead puckers. He pulls himself to his feet.
‘Stop pretending. I know,’ I shout at him, and it stops him in his tracks. His face crumples. ‘I know that you’re a cheating bastard. Just like Aaron. Just like every other man in my life. That day ten years ago when I caught you in that café, there were no consultations, were there?’ I wait for him to deny it, still carrying a minuscule spark of hope, but his shattered look is my answer. ‘How could you?’
‘Holly.’ He stretches his arm in an attempt to placate me, but I won’t be so easily silenced any more.
‘No. Don’t bother.’ I put my hands up. ‘I have nothing to say to you. I’ve kept the secret to myself for the last ten years, but I’m done carrying your burden. I’m done with your bad decisions impacting my life and my life choices.’ I realise that as soon as the words are out they are true. My relationships with Alex, and even Aaron, were affected by my dad’s treachery. ‘Why do you think I went to a university so far away from here? Or moved out at the age of eighteen? You’re not on my pedestal any more, Dad.’
I turn around about to storm out when a figure in the doorway halts my steps. My mother’s hand is planted firmly over her mouth. She’s deadly pale.
By the time I arrive at my flat, I have four missed calls from my mother and two from my dad, but I’m too terrified to answer. I can’t lie to my mother any more, so I stay silent.
I spend the rest of the day feeling like a geyser about to spout out boiling water. The next day, I join Catherine and Lydia for our monthly roast dinner that Richard cooks for us. If there were medals for number-one husbands, Richard would get one at least once a week.
His hulking figure is currently moving between various pots bubbling on the stove and chopping carrots on the breakfast bar while checking on the pork joint in the oven. His beard, which is usually his pride and joy, is sprinkled with gravy granules and what looks like a single frozen sweetcorn kernel.
Gabby is working on a Moana colouring sheet with felt tips scattered across the dining table and the floor. I love how self-sufficient she can be at times. She ignores all the outlines and chooses to colour Moana’s face green and her hair purple. The set-up in the kitchen gives Lydia, Catherine and me some needed alone time, and so we spend it in the lounge chatting.
We spread out on the large grey settee with a Long Island Iced Tea, non-alcoholic for me after Friday’s debacle, our Sunday roast tradition.
Catherine takes a gulp of her drink and hums in contentment. She’s wearing a purple Oodie adorned with avocadoes with cute winky eyes. It’s the most bizarre outfit I’ve seen on her so far, but the rules of Sunday roast gatherings are strict. No denim, no zips, no buttons and no regrets. I’m wearing Christmas leggings, stripy leg warmers and an oversized hoodie, whereas Lydia is sporting a feline onesie.
‘When are you going to tell us about Ted?’ Catherine peeks from under her overlarge hood at Lydia with interest.
Lydia waves her hand in dismissal. ‘Nothing to tell. Let’s say Ted and I aren’t compatible. By that, I mean he talks too much, and what he has to say is boring as hell. But most importantly, he’s an awful kisser. At first, I thought he had the geek thing going for him and that he might be dirty in bed, but it turned out Ted is boring regardless of the place.’ Poor Ted is decimated by Lydia. ‘Now, your turn.’ Lydia turns to me like this is circle time at an AA meeting.
I close my eyes for a moment to brace myself. When I’m ready, I retell Friday’s events, finishing with my mother calling. I’m saving the retelling of Saturday for dessert.
Throughout the story, Lydia shouts, ‘Shut up,’ a few times while Catherine gawks at me like I’ve just said that dinosaurs were a social construct.
Catherine shoots Lydia a look at her swearing, her dark eyes locking for a moment on little Gabby who’s totally oblivious to our conversation. Lydia clamps her mouth with her well-manicured hand and then mouths sorry. I study my chipped nails and feel disgusted with myself. I always hoped that by the age of twenty-seven, I’d have my shit together, but I’ve never been further from that than at this very moment.
When I get to the part where Alex told me he just wanted to get me out of his system, a lump the size of a golf ball lodges in my throat, and I pause.
‘That guy is full of crap, Hols.’ Lydia adjusts her cat tail over her knee.
‘You don’t even know him,’ I protest.
‘On this one, I agree with Lydia,’ Catherine chimes. I notice her glass is empty, and I have no idea when she had the time to finish it. I suspect it’s got nothing to do with my story but everything to do with the fact that having a child, one needs to do everything double speed.
‘Yes, he’s behaved like a dick to you since September, but all he’s really done is stop everyone gossiping about you, bought you lunch and apologised when he was awful to you. He also saved you from sleazy-easy John by the sounds of it. Not to forget he’s given you the best orgasm of your life,’ Lydia explains like this is plain old logic to everyone.
‘His actions speak louder than his words.’ Catherine is full of wisdom. ‘On the other hand, it doesn’t justify him being so hostile to you.’
‘I agree with Cat, but having a little romp wouldn’t hurt either of you, would it? It’s not like feelings are involved anyway, are there?’ Lydia’s sole attention narrows on me.
‘No.’ I sound almost convincing to my ears. The truth is, I’m not so sure any more. ‘Don’t you think I’m pathetic? It’s like I didn’t learn my lesson ten years ago. But equally, it was the hottest experience of my life. There was a mirror and a heavy curtain.’ I break off at the size of Lydia’s eyes. She’s itching to ask, but Catherine jumps in first.
‘Better than ten years ago?’ Catherine winks, and there’s a cheeky spark in her eyes.
I nod. ‘This was…’ I keep coming up short of words like I’m a printer running out of ink. ‘It was so carnal. So…’ I get frustrated with myself at the lack of eloquence and my stupidity at repeating the same mistakes.
Lydia looks like she’s ready to pat my shoulder, completely discounting my previous comment while Catherine is grinning from ear to ear.
I grrr at their simpering reactions. ‘You’re my best friends. You should be telling me it’s a really bad idea. So why do I get the feeling the opposite is happening here?’ My mouth shapes into an involuntary smirk. I can’t help but whisper, ‘He said that he finds my clothes disturbingly sexy.’ Maybe they’re right. Why don’t I do the same and try to get Alex out of my system?
Catherine makes a surprised gurgle slash snort. ‘I miss this. Being a mum sucks. Most erotica happens when I manage to get an evening on Netflix and watch Fifty Shades of Grey .’
‘Aaron used to hate how I dressed.’ I’m still stuck on the same thought. I can’t stop comparing the two men. ‘We never clicked sexually.’ I know I’ve lost this game because I’m making excuses to myself.
‘Alex seems like a more well-adjusted man who doesn’t seem to need to play at being a man.’
Alex hasn’t done anything bad per se. He said he wanted me, but he never said anything about feelings and definitely didn’t promise me anything.
‘What are you going to do when you go back to work tomorrow?’ Catherine asks after a few beats of silence.
‘I guess like any functioning adult, I’m going to pretend nothing happened but secretly wait for his reaction first and hope he still wants to take me to bed.’
At that, they both burst out laughing, and I can’t help but follow. I guess I’ve made my decision. The idea of Alex in my bed starts palpitations in my chest, and I need to swallow a few times because I’m suddenly parched.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ Richard’s voice booms from the kitchen.
‘Good old Rich. I’m ravenous,’ Lydia says suggestively. Catherine only shakes her head.