It's a Wonderful Life, page 4
Daniel’s phone buzzed. A message from Beth. He loved the way she still texted him in the day. Though they had married young – too young some of their friends had thought, especially with a baby on the way – theirs was a good marriage, and he was more contented than most people he knew in his position.
Having a slow day. Any chance of lunch?
He smiled. Eighteen years married and he still was just as much in love with Beth as when they’d first met. He really wished he did have time for lunch.
Sorry, no can do. Meeting. But let’s do dinner tonight.
And with the thought of that playing happily on his mind, he strode down the corridor with renewed purpose. As long as Beth was beside him, he could cope with anything.
Lou
‘Can I get you anything, Mum?’
I’ve come into the kitchen to find Mum staring into the garden. She’s still wearing her dressing gown and looks like she hasn’t slept.
‘A different life?’ asks Mum bitterly.
Oh God. Here we go. Every day since I’ve moved back in she’s been like this. Never mind that my own life has spectacularly imploded since Jo left. To top it off, I finally got made redundant just after Christmas. My manager blamed cutbacks, told me it was nothing personal, but it was the last thing I needed after the blow of Jo leaving. I can’t afford the rent on my flat without a job. If I’d still been with Jo, I could have gone to stay with her. But I had nowhere else to go, hence why I’ve ended up back home. I may as well be miserable with Mum and Dad rather than be on my own.
I’d thought maybe there might be a silver lining to moving back home, that my being here might help Mum, and help me too in a funny way. I thought it might take my mind off my own misery. But she barely acknowledges me, and I’m not sure if I’m making any difference. I mean, I get how she feels. I’ve had my fair share of heartache and I’m no stranger to being dumped and cheated on (Jo said there’s no one else, but I’m not sure I believe her. But that might be my insecurity talking). Finding out your husband of over forty years has been cheating must be horrendous. But I hadn’t expected this. This shadow of a person, not moving, inert, just accepting her fate. The Mum I know would never give up like this. Why can’t she be angry any more, the way Beth and I are? It’s like all the fight’s gone out of her.
I want to shake her and say, Do something. Fight for him. But she doesn’t. Beth thinks she needs time, but I’m not sure my sister realises how bad the situation is. Sam and Megan, of course, think it’s hilarious that Grandpa could even be having an affair. The idea of seventy-somethings having a sex life is completely incomprehensible to them. But this is serious. Mum and Dad have had their ups and downs, but they’ve always been together. And the situation is further complicated by the fact that Dad seems to be spending a lot of time with this Lilian woman, but he still hasn’t officially left Mum’s house. He’s sleeping in the spare room and sneaking out to see her every day. He never says where he’s going, or what his plans are. Presumably because the first time I asked him about it we had a stand-up row; it was horrible. Dad isn’t the rowing sort, and since then he’s refused to discuss the situation with me.
I don’t know what to do. I’ve spent my whole life being regarded as the pathetic one in the family: poor Lou stuffed up her A Levels, poor Lou can’t get a decent job, poor Lou hasn’t got a man – and now here I am having to act like the responsible one. I really haven’t the faintest idea how to do it.
‘I was thinking more on the lines of a cup of tea?’ I say as cheerfully as I can, but Mum looks at me blankly.
‘I suppose,’ she says. Her eyes look dull and lifeless. It’s a bit scary how quickly my energetic mum has morphed into a zombie. She’s barely been out of the house since Christmas, and I keep being bombarded with messages from her friends, checking up on her because she refuses to speak to them.
‘How about we go out for a coffee at the garden centre?’ I say.
I’d like to suggest going shopping, but I know I’ll get nowhere with that. I’ve been doing the shopping for the last two weeks, Dad being incapable of doing any domestic tasks. Lucky Lilian.
‘What’s the point?’ says Mum.
‘The point,’ I say firmly, ‘is you need to get out of the house. Trust me, I know.’
I think of all the times people have done this for me, stopped me drowning in self-pity when all I wanted to do was sit in my PJs eating chocolate and drinking too much wine. I’ve only coped this time because Mum needs me so much I haven’t had time to wallow in it. But when I’ve been heartbroken in the past, I’ve always been lucky enough to have someone there to kick me into shape and get me out of my despondency. I know it works.
‘So come on,’ I say. ‘Time to have a bath and pull yourself together. Dad’s never going to take you back if you wander round looking like a wet weekend in November.’
‘Don’t be rude,’ says Mum, with a flash of her old self, which gives me some hope. Slowly but surely, she does start to get ready.
First steps, but maybe I’m getting there …
Chapter Two
Beth
I’m on a train to London to meet my new editor, Vanessa, in person for the first time. Normally I enjoy my trips to see my publishers. It’s always been a chance to catch up with Karen, talk shop and thrash out new ideas – it’s creative, energising and fun. Plus it gets me out of the house.
But today is different. If Karen were still around, I’d at least be able to discuss things, but I barely know Vanessa. I’ve been trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but so far have found her to be annoyingly patronising, and often quite rude. I know I should be open-minded but I’m finding it increasingly difficult to take suggestions from a woman young enough to be my daughter, who always approaches every conversation as if I’m a problem that needs solving and keeps saying things like, ‘Well, it’s not that I don’t like it, exactly, it’s just there’s a spark missing.’
I know there’s a spark missing. She’s the editor, I was rather hoping she’d help me find it, but her latest solution to send my little angel on a journey round the whole world feels overcomplicated to me. ‘It’ll help give it that international feel that’s so vital to the picture-book market,’ she gushed down the phone last week.
‘Yeah, I know how it works,’ I said, biting my lip. I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and I understand the importance of foreign editions; they help increase the print run and bring down the production costs. Without them, it’s much harder to get a book off the ground. One or two of my early projects foundered as a result of too few foreign publishers coming on board. I don’t need Vanessa to lecture me on how important it is. I feel she’s treating me like an idiot, and it’s making me resent her even more.
Anyway, whatever I’m doing isn’t working, so I found myself agreeing to take my angel on a journey that involves London, Paris, New York, Berlin and Rome, even though apart from Rome none of these places even existed in Jesus’ time.
When I pointed this out, I was given an airy, ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter, it’s symbolic.’ Though of what, I’m not quite sure.
So I’ve done as she’s asked and drawn up some spreads of the Littlest Angel making friends with a pigeon on top of Nelson’s Column and asking the Mona Lisa for directions. In Berlin she’s getting a view of the city from the Reichstag, and in Rome she’s at the Vatican.
It doesn’t make any sense to me at all. Every time I draw the angel, I can’t seem to help myself giving her a puzzled and despairing look. It’s just how I feel. Though I know the book wasn’t working, I don’t think Vanessa’s solution is any better.
I get to the office in plenty of time for our meeting, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach. What am I doing? Why am I allowing my gut instincts to be overridden by someone like Vanessa? If only I had a clear view of my story I’d be able to fight back, but the trouble is, I don’t, and I know this book is going to end up being a disaster.
Vanessa doesn’t keep me waiting long. As I anticipated, she’s a pretty, bright young thing, all gushing enthusiasm. Suddenly it occurs to me that she might be as nervous as I am.
‘I just can’t believe I’m working with you, Beth,’ she says. ‘I loved your books when I was little.’
Great, now I feel really old, but then, my first picture book did come out seventeen years ago.
‘Thanks,’ I say, attempting a smile. It’s the first vaguely positive thing she’s said to me.
‘Come on in.’ She ushers me into a bright, airy room. ‘I’ve asked our new art director to join us, I hope that’s all right.’
‘I didn’t know you had a new art director,’ I say.
‘Oh yes, Andrea left just after Christmas, didn’t anyone tell you?’
‘No,’ I say, my heart sinking. Damn. The previous incumbent, Andrea, was with the company for five years. She, Karen and I had made such a good team. Now I’ll have another new face to contend with and win over. I’m not sure I’m really up to the challenge at the moment; I’m beginning to feel hemmed in and slightly panicky.
The door flings open and a good-looking man in his late thirties strides through it. I look into his eyes and I’m stunned – it can’t be. My legs nearly buckle from the shock.
‘Beth, can I introduce you to Jack—’
‘Stevens,’ I stammer in confusion, and my face flares red. ‘Yes, we – know – knew each other …’ My voice stutters and drops away.
The years melt away and I am eighteen again, standing in the college bar, seeing Jack Stevens for the very first time. He is beautiful. Every head in the room turns as he walks through the door. I long for him to look at me, but of course he doesn’t. Not that first time anyway …
How can Jack Stevens be here? I haven’t seen him in over twenty years. And now he’s standing right in front of me, every bit as gorgeous as the last time I saw him. Oh, God.
‘Lizzie Holroyd!’ Jack throws his arms around me with delight. ‘I’m such an idiot, I didn’t make the connection when I saw your name.’
I return his embrace in stunned silence. Jack Stevens is the new art director? Jack Stevens who I loved so unrewardingly through art school, Jack Stevens who I haven’t seen for years, Jack Stevens who is standing here in front of me with his still mesmerising blue eyes, which annoyingly are still working their old magic. I feel faint and dizzy, as if I’ve just walked out of the dark into the sunlight.
Jack Stevens, a blast from my past. The one who got away. And he’s working on my new book.
Lou
‘Mum, when are you going to tell Dad to leave?’ I say as we mooch our way round Sainsbury’s on a grey wintry day. We’ve managed a step forward this week, I’ve actually got her out of the house a few times, but it’s a huge effort. She always has an excuse not to go – mainly blaming the weather. But today the sun shone for about five minutes, which was enough of a reason for me to drag her out. It’s gone back behind the clouds now, of course.
‘But where will he go?’ she says.
‘Mum,’ I say as gently as I can, ‘he can go to Lilian’s or one of his mates, or even a hotel for all I care. It doesn’t matter. But he has to go. You can’t carry on like this.’
And to be honest, neither can I. Living with the two of them is horrendous. The atmosphere in the house is either glacial, with the pair of them passing icy requests to the other through me, or explosive when they have a massive row. Or to be more accurate, Mum occasionally remembers she’s angry with Dad and stirs herself to shout at him, and he looks crestfallen and says nothing. It drives me mad that he won’t even try to justify his behaviour. He just looks mournful and says things like, ‘I never meant for this to happen.’
‘You just fell into Lilian’s arms by magic?’ I snarled at him last time he said it, and he looked even more sorry for himself, and said, ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’
Which is true, I don’t. I cannot comprehend what he is playing at, especially at his age.
‘How will he manage?’ Mum says now. ‘You know what he’s like, he can’t even boil an egg.’
And whose fault is that? I think. Mum has never ever let Dad do anything in the domestic sphere. It’s her fault as much as his that he’s so incapable.
‘I know, he’s utterly hopeless,’ I say, ‘but Mum, you can’t worry about that. For your sanity you have to let him go. He cheated on you. He’s betrayed all of us.’
As I say this, I realise just how angry I am with Dad for what he’s done. It’s like he’s blown apart my whole world view; I have always clung on to the certainty of their relationship amidst the multiple wreckages of my own. How can I survive if theirs has been a lie this whole time?
I know their marriage wasn’t perfect, but whose is? Mum and Dad had always lived separate but parallel lives, but they’d always seemed happy enough, even though Mum drove Beth and I mad with the way she’d always run round after Dad. She might be a child of the sixties, but feminism completely passed her by. Which also explains her appalling favouritism of Ged, who can do no wrong in her eyes. Typically, we have barely heard hide nor hair from Golden Boy since Christmas, even though he and Rachel have moved into a flat in south London, which isn’t a million miles away. Mum lets him off, because, ‘He must be so busy, what with the baby coming and everything,’ but it drives me up the wall. It wouldn’t hurt him to ring Mum up occasionally, just to find out how she is.
‘You don’t understand,’ says Mum. ‘You can’t just throw forty-two years of marriage away like that. If you’d managed to keep a relationship together for longer than a year, you’d know that.’
Dammit. She can be cruel sometimes.
‘Thanks for reminding me of my failings in that department,’ I say.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,’ says Mum, looking a little shamefaced. ‘Sorry, love, I’m a bit tetchy these days.’
‘I didn’t think you did,’ I say, sighing. ‘But still, you and Dad: it’s not working, is it?’
The tension between them at the moment is unbearable. They either don’t speak or are at each other’s throats. I sit for long evenings with them both in silence, or I have to make excuses to leave the house when they start bitching at each other about who hasn’t put the bins out. Honestly, I’ve never taken so many long walks in my life. I really, really wish I didn’t have to be stuck in the middle of it all, particularly as I’m struggling to get over Jo. Every day I resist the urge to ring her or text her, and every day my own misery about being out of work is compounded by the terrible atmosphere at home. I’d rather be anywhere but here. But at the moment I have no choice. I’m thirty-eight, single, broke and living with my mum and dad. It doesn’t get more pathetic than that.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ Mum says, pausing to stare at the vegetable aisle as if the carrots will give her the answer she’s looking for. ‘I’m just frightened that if he goes, he’ll never come back, and then what would I do?’
She looks so worried and vulnerable when she says this that I forget my earlier irritation. She’s so capable and organised most of the time, it’s hard to remember that she’s sixty-nine. I’m finding it tough enough picking myself up after Jo. How difficult must it be for her to start again after all this time? She’s been married for more of her life than she hasn’t.
‘Then you pull yourself together and make a life without him,’ I say. ‘Believe me, it’s the only thing you can do.’
Good advice, Lou, I think as we make our way to the checkout. Shame that right now you’re not managing to do the same.
Daniel
‘Sit up straight for Mr King.’
Daniel sighed as he regarded the student before him. Jason Leigh was one of his brightest pupils, who had done spectacularly well at GSCE, but was failing badly at A Level, so his mum had demanded an interview with the Head to see what could be done about it.
Not a lot without Jason deciding it was time to pull his finger out, was Daniel’s honest response, but he suspected that was not what Mrs Leigh wanted to hear. As far as he could see, she was part of the problem – the worst kind of helicopter parent, constantly on Jason’s case.
Daniel felt some sneaking kind of sympathy for Jason, who clearly had had enough of the education system and had done appallingly in his mocks. Miraculously, despite having taken very little interest in the application process, he actually had two offers from universities. Daniel suspected that although Jason was more than capable of getting the required grades, he wouldn’t actually bother to try.
‘So how did you feel the mocks went, Jason?’ he asked, trying to ignore Mrs Leigh, who clearly had the bit between her teeth.
There was a mumbled ‘Dunno,’ and Jason slumped into his chair even more, followed by a ‘Jason, don’t be rude!’ from his mother.
Daniel waved her concerns away. He didn’t think Jason was intending to be rude, he was just a seventeen-year-old who couldn’t see the point in any of this.
‘Come on, Jason,’ said Daniel, ‘this isn’t about me or your mum. This is your future we’re talking about. None of us can do your exams for you.’
Jason shrugged again. ‘I just don’t see the problem. It’s not as if speaking French and Spanish is going to get me a decent job.’
‘But Jason,’ said his mother, ‘you love Spanish and French.’
