A Thousand Tiny Disappointments, page 25
There was also an envelope addressed to Patrick, with Moretons branded across the top. She ripped it open and skimmed through the letter inside. It was written confirmation of the valuation Jeff Daniels had already given to Patrick over the phone a couple of weeks ago. Martha had no idea why he’d bothered sending a letter to this address – the details had been agreed and finalised by Patrick and the For Sale sign was already up outside. As she read the words the man with the highly polished shoes had written, Martha could almost hear him saying them: At Moretons, we pride ourselves on offering a professional but personal service. We would be delighted to be given the opportunity to market this delightful property on your behalf, and look forward to hearing from you.
‘Bollocks to that,’ she said, ripping the letter in half. ‘You hated the place.’
The bungalow smelt musty. It was less than three weeks since she’d brought Joe here, but seemed like longer. So much had happened since then. She wasn’t intending to spend the rest of the day here, just an hour or so, starting to go through Judith’s things. At some stage she’d have to come back to pack up all the clothes and shoes, and empty the drawers and cupboards. Maybe Alice would want to keep the pretty dressing table in the bedroom – although it might be too old fashioned. As she wandered from room to room, Martha made mental lists – she and Sharon might find the pots and pans in the kitchen useful, along with the microwave, which was almost new.
On top of the bookcase in the sitting room, was the framed photo of herself and Joe. She picked it up and studied it again, although she’d looked at it so often over the last couple of years that it was ingrained on her memory: every line, every shape, every shadow. She ran her finger across the picture of her little boy. It was so wonderful to see his face screwed up like this with laughter: his eyes half closed, his mouth open, the remembered shrieks of what sounded like happiness. This photograph was special because usually there was nothing on this little face – it was a blank canvas that showed no emotion, other than frustration when he wanted food or drink. The only time he looked like he did in this picture was when he was being tickled – but even then, it wasn’t actual happiness, or even proper laughter. It was an involuntary response to her fingers searching out the soft skin on his tummy.
Simon constantly reminded her that Joe didn’t know her. He didn’t recognise the sound of her voice or the shape of her face or the smell of her skin, even though he’d grown inside her body and she was the person who spent most time with him – or had done, until recently.
Was he right? In some ways it was immaterial. They would never know for sure, so what was wrong with her believing she had a special connection with her boy?
‘You know who I am,’ she whispered to the laughing face in the photograph. ‘I’m sure you do.’
She carried the frame across to the armchair on the right – the one Judith had always sat in, her legs crossed, her reading glasses sliding down her nose as she tapped a pen on the newspaper, frowning as she tried to work out a crossword clue. Alice definitely wouldn’t want these awkward, uncomfortable chairs, although Gracie wouldn’t care. Martha imagined her running into this room, Nipper at her heels, clambering up onto the chairs. With an innocent child’s disregard for convention, she must have yelled and laughed, exclaimed and chattered – filling this musty old bungalow with new life.
‘Bring Joe next time!’ the little girl had insisted, as Martha left the flat earlier. ‘We can play in the garden at Nipper’s Granny’s house. Please?’
‘I’ll bring him,’ Martha had laughed. ‘I promise. We’ll come down and see you one weekend.’
She would look forward to doing that.
It was incredible how much better she felt, having spoken to Alice; it was as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. It wasn’t just that she’d passed on good news, and seen how surprised and overwhelmed the girl had been – although that had been wonderful – it was more that Martha’s own guilt now felt so much less significant. Patrick and Simon would both tell her it was ridiculous to feel bad about what had happened, but nonetheless she had, and now it seemed like she’d done the right thing. She had stopped fighting her mother over this and, for the first time in many years, finally felt like a good daughter.
47
Simon carried Joe in from the car and put him in his chair in the kitchen, while Martha followed with the wheelchair and his small overnight bag. It had been packed by Carrie; when Martha put it in the boot of the car, she hadn’t been able to stop herself looking inside, to check there was everything they’d need. She was being paranoid: it went without saying that Carrie would have included all his medication, and he was only home for one night, so wouldn’t need many clothes. But it was strange someone else was now in charge of doing these things.
The traffic had been heavy on the way back, so they were later than planned and hungry. Joe was whining and banging his hand against his leg, so Martha put some pieces of banana in front of him, while she reheated the food she’d prepared last night. She stopped to kiss the top of his head each time she walked past the chair, running her fingers across his cheek, not even minding when he jerked his head away and reached for more banana. There was something subtly different about him, but she couldn’t work out what it was. Then, as she bent towards him for the third or fourth time, running her fingers across his back, she realised his clothes smelt of someone else’s washing powder.
‘It feels like he’s never been away, doesn’t it?’ she said to Simon, as she pulled the dish out of the microwave. ‘Now he’s back here again, in his chair.’ That wasn’t strictly true; it was wonderful to have her boy home, but it was also a little strange. Over the last two weeks she had started to get used to this big, quiet kitchen, and to walking down the hall to the front door without scraping her ankles against the wheelchair. She had even got used to walking past the empty bedroom at the top of the stairs, with its clown patterned curtains and piles of primary-coloured toys, stacked neatly on the shelves. She didn’t like this new normal, but she had begun to adapt to it.
She and Simon ate their lunch at the breakfast bar, on either side of Joe.
‘His hair has grown,’ she said, reaching out her hand and stroking his fringe away from his face. ‘I’ll need to trim it before he goes back.’
‘He looks well though, doesn’t he?’ said Simon. ‘He’s obviously eating properly.’
Martha nodded. Carrie had sent a typewritten report back with them, which was still in her handbag. Although she’d been given regular updates by phone and email and knew Joe was making good progress, she was excited at the prospect of seeing something more detailed, learning about every aspect of her boy’s new life.
‘We can look at that report after lunch,’ she said. ‘Maybe read it while he has his sleep?’
‘Okay,’ said Simon. ‘Good idea.’
They were stepping carefully around each other, being overly cautious and courteous: at times he was like a stranger, rather than the man she had loved so much and spent the last nine years with. But, ironically, since deciding they could no longer be together, things had been so much easier between them: there was unspoken relief that decisions had been made. She had no idea what the future held, and it was going to be very different to the one she’d so carelessly assumed they would all have. But she was telling herself that different didn’t have to be bad.
The estate agent had sent through the rough draft of the marketing brochure this week, and the photographs – taken on a glorious sunny day – showed off the house at its best.
‘I don’t think we’ll have any shortage of interest in this property,’ the woman had said. ‘Someone will snap it up.’
Martha had smiled and nodded, determined not to show this stranger how much it was hurting to have to give up her beautiful home. The board was going to be hammered into the front lawn on Monday – that would give the neighbours something to gossip about – and details had already been sent out to buyers on the agency’s books, for whom this was going to be ‘exactly what they’re after’.
This morning, on the drive down to Greenways, Simon had told her he was moving into a work colleague’s spare room. He would pack his bags and head over there after they’d dropped Joe back, tomorrow afternoon.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ she’d said. ‘It’s not a problem you being at the house.’
‘I know, but it’s better if we have a clean break,’ he’d said. ‘Greg has plenty of space and he’s away a lot for work, so I won’t be getting under his feet.’
‘Okay,’ she’d said. ‘If that’s what you want.’
Even though this would make little difference – they’d already been leading separate lives while living under the same roof – his words had shaken her. Simon moving out would make the finality real. Stretching out in their big bed on her own at night had become easier, but knowing Simon was doing the same in the spare room, just a few steps along the landing, had softened the impact of what was happening. How would it feel, with him gone?
Simon was now feeding Joe his lunch, making big swooshing motions with the spoon to keep his interest. ‘Come on, Joey,’ he said. ‘Just a couple more. This is your favourite. You know Mummy makes the best macaroni cheese in the world.’
She laughed as she watched them enact the mealtime pantomime, clapping as Joe accepted another mouthful. The other day, Dan had said he and Johnny were having macaroni cheese. Had he made that himself, or had his wire basket in Sainsbury’s contained a couple of ready meals? At the time she’d been so overwhelmed by her own grief, she hadn’t noticed or even thought to ask. But now she wanted to find out. She wanted to find out about a lot of things: where they lived, what Dan had done before his son was born, why Johnny’s mother wasn’t part of their lives. She’d sent him a text last night:
Hello again, thanks for rescuing me the other day. Can I buy you a pint when your mum next looks after Johnny? Martha x
As soon as she’d pressed send, she regretted it, but the reply pinged in almost immediately:
I’d love that. You free this Thursday? x
Even if she’d had something planned, she would have rearranged it. Every time she thought about Thursday evening, her heart gave that mad little flip again. She’d already thought about what she would wear, laughing out loud at herself as she stood in front of her wardrobe. She was behaving like a love-struck teenager – and it felt great.
As she began stacking the plates in the dishwasher, the doorbell rang.
‘I’ll go,’ she said to Simon. ‘Are you expecting anything?’
She pulled open the front door and caught her breath.
‘Hi, Martha.’
‘What are you doing here?’
Claudia’s face was tanned, she’d clearly been spending time in the sun. ‘I know you probably don’t want to see me,’ she said. ‘And I can understand why. But will you please just let me come in and explain?’
Martha could hear Simon talking to Joe in the kitchen, his laugh echoing around the big space.
‘I’d rather you didn’t come in, we’re in the middle of lunch,’ she said, her hand still resting on the handle of the front door, her body blocking Claudia’s view down the hallway. ‘What do you want to say?’
Claudia sighed and looked down at the paving slabs by the front door. She was wearing a pair of Chelsea boots Martha hadn’t seen before: brown, shiny, clearly very new. ‘Listen, I know what you must think of me, and I don’t blame you,’ said Claudia. ‘What I did was awful.’
She paused and looked back up. Martha didn’t say a word, she wasn’t going to make this easy for her.
‘If I’m being totally honest with you, I have no idea why I said what I did, when we were here that night,’ Claudia continued. ‘I’d had a lot to drink – we all had – and it just seemed quite funny.’
‘Funny?’ said Martha. ‘What the hell was funny about it?’
‘Nothing, you’re right. It was just… I didn’t think they’d all take it seriously,’ said Claudia. ‘When Selina started talking about the thing you were most ashamed of, it just popped into my head, and I couldn’t think about anything else. We were daring each other to say things, that was the point of it all. I thought you were going to tell them yourself, but then you seemed to be backing away from the whole thing, which I thought was a bit pathetic, so I started to prompt you.’
Martha could no longer hear Simon’s voice from the kitchen. ‘Pathetic?’ she said.
‘Well, you know – it just seemed cowardly. I mean, that’s the point of the game. You’re meant to be put on the spot and made to own up to stuff you’ve done.’
‘Really, Claudia? Why would I own up to something like that?’ she hissed, stepping out and pulling the front door closed behind her. ‘I’d done something I was really ashamed of, and you were the only person I’d told about it – which, by the way, I regretted afterwards, because it didn’t make me feel any better, it made me feel a whole lot worse. But it was a secret, Claudia! That’s the whole point of secrets – you sometimes share them with people who are close to you, but then you expect those people to keep them!’
Claudia’s expression had changed; she was now sheepish, hugging her handbag closely to her chest. ‘I know,’ she said.
‘Is that it? You know. You know you shouldn’t have told them? You know friends are supposed to keep secrets? You know you bloody let me down?’ A vein was pulsing in her neck now, heat flushing through her body.
Claudia finally looked up at her again. ‘All of those things,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Martha felt disarmed. What was she supposed to do now? She should go inside and slam the door in her friend’s face. Yet she also wanted to step forward and throw her arms around her. Claudia had betrayed her – and that was what it had felt like, a huge betrayal – but… this was her closest friend. They had shared so much over the last five years: hopes, fears, laughter, tears, frustration, excitement, good news, and very, very bad news. That was why this was so hard: Claudia was important. She had been at Martha’s side during the most traumatic time of her life; nobody else really knew what she’d gone through and how hard it had been to keep going.
But looking at her friend now, standing near enough to hug, Martha couldn’t decide whether any of that was enough. ‘Thanks for coming to apologise,’ she said. ‘I know this must have been hard for you to do, and I appreciate it.’
Claudia looked back up at her, starting to smile. She put out her hand. ‘Well, I wasn’t sure how you’d react, but it seemed like the only way to get to see you! I got fed up with never getting a reply from you – it was all a bit ridiculous.’
She put her beautifully manicured hand on Martha’s forearm, squeezing it. Martha stared down at it; that really was an impressive tan. ‘The thing is,’ she said, slowly. ‘I don’t think that you coming here like this is going to do it.’
Claudia was now looking confused. ‘But, what else do you want? I’ve tried to text and call you so many times, and I sent you flowers – I know you got them because I checked with the florist. Come on, Martha. This is crazy. You’ve made your point: I did a stupid thing. Let’s put it behind us and move on. Life’s too short to be petty about something like this.’
Martha laughed. ‘You’re right!’ she said. ‘Life is far too short. And I agree with you, we both need to move on. I can’t see any point in us staying in touch, Claudia.’
Claudia’s mouth fell open. ‘But… we’ve been friends for so long.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Martha. ‘We have.’
‘What about the boys?’ said Claudia. ‘They’ve known each other their whole lives, they’ve grown up together. You can’t just cut off contact like this. Barney won’t understand why he’s not seeing Joe anymore. He’ll really miss him.’
Martha shook her head. ‘No, Claudia, he won’t. You know that’s not true.’ She opened the front door and stepped back inside the house, before turning around again. ‘On the other hand, I will miss you,’ she said. ‘But not as much as I always thought I would. I think my life is better off without you in it. Good luck with everything.’
Closing the door, she turned and walked back along the hallway into the kitchen. Simon was by the sink, cleaning the empty macaroni cheese dish.
‘Who was that?’ he asked.
‘No one important,’ she said, bending down to kiss the top of Joe’s head. ‘Right, lovely boy, what are we going to do with you this afternoon?’
* * *
THE END
Acknowledgements
At the risk of sounding like an overwrought Oscar nominee, I hadn’t realised how many people had helped me with my writing in general - and this book in particular - until I began to make a list. Going way back, it all started with support and constructive feedback from my Faber friends, then mentoring from Amanda Saint, followed by an award from Katie Fforde at the Stroud Book Festival, which encouraged me to believe in my writing and keep going.
* * *
Fellow writers are some of the most supportive people in the universe and I owe so much to Hannah Persaud, Rachel Joyce, Kerry Fisher and Chloe Turner, who have always dropped everything to advise, read and encourage. More recently it’s also been great to have the writerly support and friendship of Kirsten, Gem and the rest of the ‘Nanos’.
* * *
I wrote ‘A Thousand Tiny Disappointments’ during the first lockdown, when the world was a strange place, so I felt lucky to be able to slip away and immerse myself in someone else’s life. My mentor Alison May did a brilliant job of helping me knock the plot for this book into shape, then my first readers - book group buddies Amanda, Liza, Sarah and Anne – looked at an early draft, hashed it out with me on Zoom and suggested ways to improve it. I’m also so grateful to Caroline Hutchins for ensuring I handled everything to do with Joe with sensitivity.
