Chapter Ashleigh Fitch and Remy Hughes 2002 Aged 40 #7
Now why didn’t I think of that? Her mum’s lack of understanding of what life in the crowded capital could be like was both endearing and frustrating.
‘That’s a good idea.’ She sat back in the seat and took another deep breath.
‘Speak soon, darling.’
‘Yep, speak soon.’
It always had a strange effect on her, hearing her mother’s voice, a reminder of that slower, simpler life that meant time for cups of tea, popping in and out, and even meeting for pub lunches in town.
A life that hadn’t felt like hers for the longest time, not since she’d taken up her place at St. Jude’s, when she’d had to adapt to fit in.
The trouble was, and what she hadn’t banked on, was that changing shape to fit into her new life at school had meant she no longer quite fitted in at home.
Already late, she abandoned the car in Sainsbury’s car park and ran as fast as her Choos would allow her, all the way to the office, arriving with a red face, hair that was less than pristine, the desire for a shower, aching feet, and horribly squished toes.
Guy, she could see, was leaning forward at his desk, talking earnestly to the man in the chair in front of him. The man who owned the big house on Hartington Road. The man who had quibbled over the asking price. The man who drove a shiny Mercedes. The man who wore a striped red-and-blue beanie hat.
Shit! Her mouth felt sticky with nerves, and she cursed her quick-tempered and terrible reaction to the man earlier.
‘Here she is.’ Guy stood to introduce her.
The man turned to face her, his deadpan expression filling her with relief – he didn’t recognise her! Phew!
‘I am so sorry for my lateness, the traffic is foul! Absolutely foul! I’m Ashleigh, Ashleigh Fitch, Guy’s business partner.’
The man stood and reached for her outstretched hand, shaking it gently.
‘I’m the beanie-wearing dickhead.’ He stared at her. ‘Mr beanie-wearing dickhead.’
Guy shot her a look that spoke of his confusion. Her blood ran cold.
Not for the first time that day, Ashleigh felt a little lost for words and a little stitched up like a kipper . . . although this time, she had no one to blame but herself, as it had been her who was holding the needle.
Remy
Remy pulled the car on to the narrow drive behind Midge’s van and ratcheted up the hand brake.
It seemed that every light in their new-build house was on, and she smiled, imagining what her dad would say: ‘Looks like Blackpool bloody Illuminations! What are you, made of money?’ This would no doubt be followed by his detailed observations on the concrete that made up their driveway and the general construction of their home. It was his obsession.
He had been on first-name terms with the team who had laid the foundations and screeded the driveway, watching the house rise in a matter of weeks, keen to tell anyone who would listen that this was his daughter’s plot, waiting for them on the pavement like a proud father, to smile, nod and thank them for a job well done.
He’d been a little devastated when they finally moved in and the team moved on. It made her smile even now.
How she loved this moment in her day, knowing her family, bar Sophie of course, were all safe and sound inside, feeling smug at having completed her double shift with satisfied tiredness clinging to her limbs, keen to walk into the chaos and hear about everyone’s day.
Her phone flashed with a message from her mother.
Your Sister is coming to dad’s birthday! isn’t that wonderful!
She sighed, again trying to fathom how she and Midge ran around after her parents day after day without thanks or acknowledgement, and yet news of her sister setting foot in the county and her mum went into raptures.
Almost as if the novelty of Ashleigh and the fact she was preoccupied with her London life made any visit doubly precious.
Maybe it was; maybe Remy needed to be a bit kinder, a bit more understanding.
Great! she replied.
No sooner had she put her key in the door than the cacophony assaulted her ears.
Either Harper had McFly over for tea or was playing their music loudly in her bedroom.
Remy didn’t mind, knowing if the lads were here they could easily make room at the table, grab the spare chair from the landing; some would have to stand, of course, or eat in the lounge on their laps, but they seemed like nice enough lads who wouldn’t mind.
Midge was in the kitchen.
‘Please, kids, put your school stuff away and tidy the mess up in the lounge. We don’t want Mum to come back and think we’ve been burgled.’
‘Too late!’ she called in response.
‘Mummy!’ Bertie ran from the kitchen and threw his arms around her waist. She inhaled the scent of her boy, who was a little stinky – he often smelled like a dirty straw after haring around all day, in a way that her daughter never did.
‘You need a shower, baby boy.’
‘I had one yesterday!’ he responded without a whiff of irony.
‘Yep, that’s how it works: you have to have one every day. Did you have a nice time at Max’s?’
‘It was okay. They’ve got a cinema room.’ He sounded impressed, and she had to admit, it sounded fancy. ‘But his mum made garlic bread and she put cheese on it!’
‘Oh no! That’s awful! What is wrong with her?’ She liked to match the drama. ‘What did you do?’
‘I said I didn’t like cheese, and she said scrape it off, but it was stringy, and I didn’t want it on my fingers, so I left it.’
‘I’m sure Max’s mummy won’t mind.’
‘We had Haribo for pudding, so that was good.’ His eyes sparkled with delight, and she suspected a healthy smack of sugar coursing through his veins.
‘Lucky you. I hope you said thank you for having you.’
‘I did.’
‘Good.’ He was a lovely kid, polite and chatty. Her heart swelled to be this close to him.
‘You’ll never guess where we found Morty this morning?’
‘In Max’s cinema room?’
‘No!’ He laughed.
‘In the bath?’ She kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair.
‘Nope!’
‘In the fridge?’
‘No!’
‘Erm.’ She sat on the bottom stair and pulled off her Uggs and socks, wiggling her bare feet on the cool laminate flooring, which felt quite blissful. ‘In your school bag?’
‘Mum! Come on, guess!’ His skinny legs danced on the floor with impatience.
‘I am guessing!’
Midge appeared behind their son, a tea towel slung over his shoulder, as he drew a circle with his finger; she was grateful for the clue.
‘In the washing machine?’ She gasped, that could have ended very differently.
‘He was inside my football, the one with the hole in it. He’d eaten the hole bigger and was having a nap inside it!’
‘D’you know, I don’t blame him. That sounds so snuggly. I think I’d quite like to have a nap inside a football.’
‘I’m going to go and check on him!’ She watched his little feet clamber over her and head up the stairs.
‘Washing machine?’ Midge pulled a face.
‘I thought you were drawing the round door.’ She stood and leaned against him, gratefully receiving the kisses he dotted on her lips.
‘Remind me not to pair up with you for charades next time we play.’
‘Ha!’ Slipping her arms around his waist, she let the day catch up with and wash over her. She yawned.
‘How was work?’ He spoke into her hair.
‘Same old. Graham was on form, as per. Tyler was very shouty, and in my head, I can still hear the beep, and I’m saying, “Thank you for calling Castle Care. You are through to Remy. How can I help you today?”’
‘I’ve got something you can help me with.’ He squeezed her tight.
‘Oh yeah, what’s that?’ She looked up at him.
‘The spuds, you did say.’
‘On it.’
Reluctantly she let go and, with fatigue firing arrows of ache into her heels and spine, she headed to the kitchen.
It appeared she had stumbled into the aftermath of a very rowdy party or police raid.
Harper’s school bag had been upended on the floor; its pink-and-pastel contents made it look like a Care Bear had thrown up.
The sink was still full of breakfast things, topped with drinking glasses and sticky plates.
The cutlery drawer was open. The dishwasher flashed to indicate it had finished its cycle.
The butter, lidless on the countertop with a knife still sticking out from it, looked like it had been murdered, the weapon of choice abandoned.
The peanut butter jar was a mess, with great gobs of the stuff snaking down the glass and on to the breadboard.
The floor carried the faint dusting of biscuit crumbs, and empty crisp packets (salt and vinegar flavoured) had been deposited near the bin, next to the bin, but not in the bin.
‘Flippin’ ’eck!’ She rubbed her face and reached into the freezer for oven chips, suddenly losing the energy and inclination for any form of spud that required more effort.
‘I was just having a tidy.’
‘Well, I would have hated to have seen it before you tidied!’
‘They’re like animals, Ren. They come in and tear through the kitchen in seconds, looking for the chocolate stash, which they failed to find, and this is the result.
I find it overwhelming. It feels easier to just stand back and wait till they’ve retreated before I do a thing.
It’s like coming back to camp and discovering bears have found your picnic.
Far better to let them finish than confront them – safer.
I honestly don’t think they’re children; I think they’re part locust, part wolf.
I’m actually scared of them when they’re hungry, and I’ve served with the Royal Marines!
I’ve faced hostile territories! I got a flipping medal for bravery! ’
‘I know, my love, I know.’ She closed her eyes and smiled in his direction, bless him. ‘I’m here now.’
Truth was, despite her tiredness, she couldn’t care less about her home being pristine, understanding it was just that, a home.
He slumped down into a chair at the table, as if it were all a bit too much. ‘And just a heads up, Harper asked me if she can get some tampons. I said that was your department.’