Chapter 12 #2
I find myself thinking about my mum. Although I loved watching the sunset with her, she’d always imagine what other people were doing around the world, other people with different dreams and passions, other people in more glamorous, exotic places, but living under the same sun.
She never seemed to talk about our life or what we were doing in Manchester.
After a while I worried that she wasn’t happy and wanted to be somewhere else.
That she didn’t want to be with me. That I wasn’t good enough for her.
And I tried to be good enough, convincing myself that if I could just make myself better, Mum would be happy.
In the weeks leading up to her death I worried even more.
She started to behave suspiciously, having hushed phone conversations and quickly hiding things whenever I walked into the room.
Once, she told me she was going to the local tanning shop to use the sunbed but I saw her sitting on a bus going into town.
I sensed she was covering something up but didn’t want to tell Dad in case he got angry at her and she became even more unhappy—or in case she got angry at me.
Then came that awful morning when I found out she was dead.
Dad told me she’d been hit by a car on a night out with Auntie Julie—but I could tell that he was hiding something, too.
I decided Mum must have killed herself. And I couldn’t escape the feeling that it was my fault.
I’ve never brought up the subject with Dad—or Auntie Julie. I couldn’t bear to hear them confirm my worst fears. What would it say about me if I wasn’t even good enough for my own mum to want to stay alive?
I hear the buzzing of a mosquito and bolt up onto my feet. I need to go down to the house and put on some spray.
I turn my back on the setting sun.
As we get ourselves ready for bed, I ask Theo how he dealt with Mabel.
“We had a long talk.” He cups the back of his neck with his hand. “She said she’s sorry.”
“Yeah, right,” I want to say.
“I believe her,” Theo adds.
I force out a “Brill.”
I strip down to my underwear and stuff my clothes into the already full laundry bag. I must remember to buy some kind of basket—and a couple more for the kids’ rooms.
“We’ve agreed she’s going to email the driver of the car and apologize properly,” Theo continues. “And as a punishment, she’s going to give our car a bloody good clean. I mean, it’ll be covered in dust again the next day but it’s the principle.”
“Absolutely,” I state, without much conviction.
We’re in our bedroom, on the upper floor of the cottage.
I can only assume Wilf didn’t come in here, as it’s the shabbiest part of the property.
The white walls are browning in places, yellowing in others, with clumps of plaster flaking off.
The radiators are rusty, the window frames are rotten, and there’s a wardrobe that’s made of some kind of fake, reconstituted wood, looks about forty years old and sways like a drunk whenever you open the doors.
But the thick chestnut beams running along the ceiling give the room character.
Once the builders have given it a good going-over—and I’ve replaced the furniture—I’m sure it’ll look fab.
I move into the bathroom, which has a floor covered in tiles with an ugly brown swirl pattern and a suite that, when I sent a picture to my sisters, Gloria called gonorrhea green.
I cleanse my face—using cold water that splutters out of the taps so aggressively I have to step back—then apply my moisturizer.
I pause to look in the mirror. With all the suncream I’ve been slathering onto my skin, my face is becoming a bit greasy.
I probably need to change my products but don’t have the time to do any research.
At least my hair is looking good: it’s already been lightened by the sun and is now the color of golden syrup.
I floss my teeth as I walk back into the bedroom.
Theo has taken off his clothes and is in his briefs.
I admire his toned body, which has bulges in all the right places.
He’s been going for a run in the early evening—while we let the kids have some quiet time and I make the meal—coming back to do press-ups, squats and sit-ups.
I, on the other hand, haven’t done any exercise at all—and bulge in all the wrong places.
Conscious of my expanding gut, I step back into the bathroom. I really don’t feel attractive.
“And what about Kate?” I ask through the open door.
“What about her?” says Theo.
“Well, it was obvious she was winding Mabel up.”
Theo steps into the bathroom and I pull in my stomach.
“I don’t want to think about that,” he says.
I feel a prickle of irritation. I understand Theo feels guilty about breaking up the family—and I understand it will have been hard for Kate—but I’m sick of letting her walk all over us.
I drop my floss into the bin. “Yeah, well, you might have to soon.”
“What do you mean?”
I squeeze toothpaste onto my brush. “Theo, she’s not going to stop at this.”
“She’ll calm down.” He gives my shoulders a little massage. “Come on, let’s brush our teeth and go to bed.”
Once we’re lying on our pillows—on top of the sheets because of the heat—Theo moves in to kiss me.
I open my mouth and respond, but I feel stiff. I tell myself to relax but it’s no use.
Theo pulls back and gives me a wolfish grin. “You know, I bought some lube when I was in the supermarket the other day.”
I sit up. “You don’t seriously want to have sex, do you?”
“Yeah, we haven’t all week.” He shrugs. “Why not? Is there a problem?”
I grimace. “Well, for a start, I’m fat.”
“You’re not fat. You’re gorgeous, every little bit of you.” Theo kisses me on the shoulder and starts stroking my nipple.
I pull away. “It’s not just that. I don’t want to mess up the mosquito nets. I stink of spray and I’ve been sweating all day.”
“So what?” he says. “I’ve been sweating, too.”
“This old mattress squeaks,” I go on. “And the kids are in the other room.”
He smirks. “Ads, they’re on the other side of the house.”
“Yeah, well, the doors are thin. And I’m sorry but it doesn’t feel right.”
Theo sits up. “Why? I used to do it with Kate.”
“I don’t want to think of you shagging your ex-wife, thanks very much.”
“Alright, point taken. But what I want to say is, straight couples have sex while their kids are in the other room—sometimes the same room when they’re in a hotel.”
“I know,” I say, even though I don’t. “I’m just not feeling it, that’s all.”
I give him a peck on the lips, slip in the mouth guard that stops me grinding my teeth, and turn over.
Theo sighs. Then he lets his sigh hang in the air. The silence thickens.
He sits up and switches out the light.
The first time we came to Italy, Theo and I couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I couldn’t get enough of him.
I feel a surge of anger at myself. What if he goes off me?
And I can’t escape another thought: if he does, it’ll be my fault. I’ll have driven him away, just like I’ve always done. Just like I’ve done with everyone I care about.