Here Lies Alice Page 4

  Inside his pocket is a receipt. I lift it out and glance at it, my stomach coiling and churning when I see the figures listed there. Over £300 for a meal. I shouldn’t be shocked, knowing how these people live their lives, but it still roots me to the spot. It’s for a restaurant in town – Maison. I know of it but have never been inside. It’s not for the likes of me. Far too expensive. Far too exclusive. Perhaps this is where they’ve been all this time, wining and dining in the most opulent restaurant in town while I carried out their menial chores – washing and ironing their clothes, scrubbing the kitchen floor and cleaning their windows. How the other half live. A furnace strikes up inside of me, a spark of envy at how easy, how luxurious and comfortable their lives are compared to my miserable existence.

  When Phillip was around, we could have afforded such luxuries. Not that he was ever interested in visiting those types of places, but still, the disparity in our circumstances since losing him sticks in my craw. And when I say he wasn’t interested in visiting those places, what I mean is, he wasn’t interested in visiting them with me. But that’s a different matter. A story for another time.

  ‘Alice, why don’t you take the rest of the day off?’

  Jack’s voice causes me to jump. I crumple up the receipt and stuff it in my pocket. He won’t miss it. It’s not as if they need a piece of paper to keep check of where their money goes. What’s £300 to these people? It’s small change to them. Chicken feed. To me, it’s a week’s wages. I can put the receipt back tomorrow.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I spin around, my face flushed, my chest, my torso, hot and clammy.

  Jack is still upstairs, his head peeking over the banister. ‘Yes, absolutely. We can manage here just fine. We’re going to spend some quality time with the children.’

  I cringe at his use of that phrase. Quality time. What does that even mean? It’s a trite expression trotted out to assuage peoples’ guilt for ignoring their progenies. I find myself wondering what their idea of quality time is, doubting that it involves anything remotely interesting or child-orientated. They neither know nor understand their own children.

  ‘Okay, well I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ I am out of the house before he has time to change his mind, the receipt a deadweight in my pocket. I have no idea why I took it. Jealousy perhaps. Or maybe it was just because I can. These people are so frivolous with their spending, their lives, their children. They will hardly notice a missing receipt for a horribly expensive meal. They hardly notice me wandering around their house every single day so a little bit of missing paperwork isn’t likely to trouble them.

  I walk by Jack’s car which is parked out the front of the house and am tempted to gouge it as I pass, to dig at its sleek black paintwork with a sharp implement. Their spending and ostentatiousness is a slap in the face to people like me. People who will always have to be thankful for the meagre scraps that life throws their way.

  And then I think of Peter and my heart skips a little. Attending those sessions was worth it. They may not have helped me with my emotions in any conventional sense, but they have put me one step closer to Peter and that’s got to be a good thing, hasn’t it?

  The sun burns my neck as I leave the leafy suburbs and head home to my humble abode closer to the centre of town. I put all thoughts of my absent other half to the back of my mind. He’s gone now and although life is a damn sight harder without him around, if I’m being honest, it’s also a relief. No more arguments, no more worrying. No more name calling and accusatory remarks. And yet I hate this life he has left me with. I resent him leaving me to cope on my own. I hate the bitter memories that swill around my brain. I hate all of it and yet I don’t hate him. I miss him so much it’s like a physical ache that cuts me in two. Would I have him back? Absolutely not. I miss the idea of him and also without wanting to sound too mercenary, I miss the money. He had a good job. We never had to worry about our finances. All I ever worried about was his movements, keeping track of where he was and more importantly, who he was with. That was nearly the undoing of me.

  Bitterness at the hand life has dealt me swells in the pit of my stomach. Some would say I deserve everything I’ve got. I would tell those people to shut their mouths and leave me alone.

  I think of Peter and wonder how much longer it will take him to get over the death of his wife? Months? Years? I’m hoping it’s the former. I’m hoping he sees beyond his grief and allows me into his life. I’ve worked hard to get to know him. I pray he doesn’t turn me away and leave me out in the cold. I don’t think I could handle another blow. I need this opportunity. I need to get even.

  8

  Peter

  Lauren is right. Of course she is. He’s in denial. It’s a form of self-preservation. He’s protecting himself. Covering his tracks with his behaviour, his acts of total dedication towards his wife as a type of deceit. He knew what was going on before Sophia died. Who she was with. Both he and Lauren know it. It sits between them, a huge opaque obstacle, stopping them from getting on with their lives. At some point, they will have to climb over it. He just didn’t expect it to be now.

  He turns the corner, the car violently leaning to one side. Placing his foot on the brake he glances at Lauren before turning his attention back to the road. ‘Why don’t you have some friends over sometime?’

  ‘Friends?’

  He can feel her eyes boring into him as he leaves go of the steering wheel and changes gear, slowing down when they approach the traffic lights just outside of town. ‘Yes. Friends,’ he replies lightly. ‘You know, those people that you spend time with who aren’t related to you.’

  She laughs and he is relieved she has understood his stab at humour. Humour that has been absent from their lives for so long now it feels alien to him.

  ‘Okay. When?’

  ‘Anytime you like. I just think it’s time for us to start living again. You especially. You’re young. You need to get out and meet people. I’ve got my church sessions but it occurred to me that you’re stuck at home on your own.’ He smiles, hoping he hasn’t overstepped the mark and inadvertently insulted her. That isn’t his intention at all. They are both treading water here. It’s time to build up their strength and confidence and get back in the deep end.

  ‘Are you going to continue going to church, Dad?’

  Peter can see her concerned expression in his peripheral vision. She thinks he’s had some sort of epiphany and has had a complete about-turn in his thinking. He hasn’t. It’s just that he doesn’t want to reveal to her the real reason why he attends. Initially a recommendation, it’s now something he is compelled to do for reasons he cannot or will not explain. Even to himself. That’s the hardest part – coming to terms with it, having to listen to that small still voice in his head that tells him daily how he needs to attend to assuage his guilt. Maybe he should start believing. If only he could. It might just silence that voice.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. This isn’t about me. It’s you I’m worried about. I’d like to see you getting out and about, meeting people. Having fun.’

  Having fun. What a phrase. Easy, light. Relaxed. It feels like an age since they have had any fun in their tiny little family. There is a great big hole where their smiles and laughter used to be. Lauren deserves to have fun and so much more. She deserves the happiness and closure that he himself is searching for.

  ‘There’s a party at Lacey’s next weekend. I wasn’t going to go but maybe…’

  ‘Please go, sweetheart.’ He sounds desperate. He doesn’t mean to. It’s just that he doesn’t want his girl to become lonely and isolated. No more sitting in her room texting. No more brooding and solitude. He thinks Sophia would agree that it’s time they both started living again. She certainly did plenty of it before she died. Now it’s their turn. Maybe there is a form of life after death after all.

  By the time the weekend arrives, he is worn out. Work is hectic, the travelling up and down the A1 to meetings in Birmingham, an exhausting trudge. One of these days he will look for another position, one that doesn’t involve so many needless journeys. One that is more fulfilling, less gruelling. Travelling from home on the outskirts of York, to Birmingham two, sometimes three times a week is enough for any man. More than enough.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Lauren is standing in front of him, hands on hips, expectancy on her face. She has curled her long dark hair into thick ringlets and is wearing a pair of jeans and a green floaty top that matches her eyes. She looks so much like her mother, it pains him. So many memories. So much hurt.

  ‘Sensational.’

  ‘Sensational? Dad, you sound like an ageing rock star. Since when did people say something or somebody looked sensational?’ She laughs, her eyes glistening as she points her finger at him, a playful expression on her face. ‘You really need to up your game, you know. Get to grips with everyday language and terminology. You’re stuck in a time-warp, old man.’

  ‘I don’t want to. Quite happy as I am, thank you, being stuck in this time-warp. It’s nice in here. Familiar and comforting.’

  ‘It must be. Look at you, all alone in your own special antiquated little world.’ She is laughing even harder and shaking her head at him.

  ‘I’m not alone. There are loads of us here. It’s a great place. People are pleasant to one another. They still have manners and use words like sensational.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, looking more relaxed and happier than he has seen her in a long while, ‘you’re welcome to it. Would somebody as quaint and polite as you fancy giving me a lift to the party?’

  The place is bouncing as they pull up outside. A sliver of anticipation pushes through him, darting through his veins, nestling under his skin. ‘Be careful, yes?’

  She rolls her eyes. This is something she used
to do a lot, something that irked him but he managed to ignore. This time he doesn’t dismiss it. He thinks of drugs and alcohol and young men and their capabilities. He thinks of the food.

  ‘Have you got your–’

  She opens her bag and inside is her EpiPen, lying at the bottom amongst the detritus – bits of old tissues, lipsticks, discarded tampon wrappers, something else he has had to learn to deal with as a single dad. Every day brought a new challenge. He had no idea how much Sophia did for them both until she was no longer around to do it. And then he recalls the other side of his wife, her furtive ways, her indiscretions. He shuts his eyes, opens them again and turns to face Lauren.

  ‘Please tell me it hasn’t expired?’

  She looks at him from under her lashes, dark and silky, just like Sophia’s. Jesus Christ, she is everywhere. Everywhere and nowhere. Will this ever end?

  ‘Dad, it hasn’t expired. Now will you stop worrying? Go home and pour yourself a glass of wine.’

  ‘I can pick you up later if you like?’

  She sighs and leans over to give him a kiss. ‘I’ve got friends in there. We’ll get a taxi together.’

  ‘Right,’ he replies dolefully. ‘Make sure you’re not the last one in the cab.’

  She lands a punch on his arm and widens her eyes. ‘Stop it! Go home, old man, and get drunk. Watch a film on TV. Ring a chatline. Anything! Now begone before I slap you again.’

  She steps out of the car, blows him a kiss and saunters up the path. This was his idea, this party. His idea for Lauren to start socialising again. This is another part of single parenting he hadn’t accounted for – worrying for both of them with nobody at home to talk to, nobody to listen to his fears and anxieties. Nobody to tell him to go to hell when he asked the question he never thought he would ever have to ask about whether or not his wife was sleeping with another man.

  But that’s over now. A thing of the past. He can move on without having to monitor her movements, without checking her phone. She’s gone. Her lover is in prison for her murder. What more is there to be said?

  9

  Alice

  He’s not coming. I feel sure of it. I cornered him last Sunday, forced him into this. He’s had a full week to mull it over and now he’s not going to turn up. I missed the counselling session at church. I couldn’t face it, sitting there opposite him as he tried to catch my eye, watching and waiting for him to subliminally tell me that he no longer wants to be associated with me. I don’t blame him. He doesn’t know me. Not really. He doesn’t know why I’m here, what my intentions are. I’m not even sure I know that myself, not the full endpoint of it all. I just know that I need to strike up a relationship with him, become a part of his life. And then it will all fall into place.

  My phone buzzes. I lift it out of my pocket and stare at the screen. Another missed call from Sandra and two texts. I turn it off and slip it back into my pocket. I don’t have time for her or anybody else from that period of my life. It’s in the past. I’ve moved on.

  The door opens behind me, warm air wafting my way. I don’t turn around. I don’t want to be disappointed when I’m faced with somebody who isn’t Peter. I’ve waited a long time for this moment and it seems it may not happen after all.

  ‘Another latte? I see you beat me to it.’ And there he is, standing looking down at me, his eyes shining. And he’s smiling. I haven’t scared him off. I haven’t sent him running in the opposite direction. He’s here. With me.

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ My chest tightens as he goes to the counter and orders our drinks, then comes back and slips effortlessly into his chair.

  ‘You made it.’

  ‘I made it.’

  ‘I thought perhaps you weren’t coming. Thought maybe I’d scared you off.’ I smile at him and he smiles back. This is easier than I anticipated.

  ‘I didn’t see you at the grief session.’

  ‘Ah yes. I thought that maybe it was about time I stopped going. It’s been a year now. Time to move on, I think.’ I divert my gaze away from his, keep my voice even. Try to conceal my innermost thoughts. He hasn’t recognised me. My deliberate changes in the last year have served me well.

  There is a moment’s silence before he replies, his voice dry and husky. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe it is time to move on.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’ I look up at him again, try to soften my voice, my posture, to welcome him into my world. My upside down damaged little world. If only he knew.

  He grins. ‘My daughter was out last night. She didn’t get in until turned 2am and I couldn’t sleep until I heard her key in the door, so you’ll have to excuse me if I appear a bit tired.’

  I nod to indicate my comprehension at his words even though I don’t have any teenagers and have no clue how it would feel to lie awake nights worrying about them. I’ve lain awake worrying about many other aspects of my life, but never given any thought to how I would deal with teenagers of my own. I suppose now I will never find out. My body clock is ticking, the hands racing around the face at an almighty speed. Too late for me now. Everything is too damn late.

  ‘So, I decided to have a lie-in this morning and am moving at half-speed, which explains why I’m a bit behind time.’

  ‘Good for you. I would have done the same myself had I been able to sleep.’ I glance away, stare out of the window, knowing he is watching me, knowing he is trying to work out what is going through my mind. Trying to work out what it is that stops me from sleeping. If only he knew. We wouldn’t be sitting here in such close proximity, being gracious and courteous if he did. He would walk away in the opposite direction vowing to never see me again. I bite at my lip and lower my gaze.

  ‘How do you fancy a walk after we finish our coffee?’ He is still watching me, waiting for my reply.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I say quietly, sipping at my latte, steam billowing off it in tiny tendrils.

  ‘There’s a footpath that runs behind the church. We could go there. That’s if you want to?’

  I nod, trying to appear neither nonchalant nor overly eager. It’s a fine balancing act, keeping him interested. Scaring him off is the last thing I want to do. I’ve worked too hard to catch his eye to then blow it at this stage by appearing too brashy and needy. Easy does it.

  ‘It sounds just perfect.’

  We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, drinking, watching the world pass by outside the window before he breaks the stillness. ‘I was thinking that maybe we could go out for a meal. Not now, I mean. I was thinking of an evening. There’s a place in town that I know. They do the best lasagne.’

  I am tempted to refuse, just to keep him dangling for that little bit longer but know that it would be churlish and downright stupid. Who is it I’m trying to punish here? Peter or myself?

  ‘Thank you, I would love to go. It feels like an age since I’ve been out for a meal.’ I laugh and turn to look around the café. ‘I mean a proper evening meal in a restaurant, that is.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Apart from lunch with my daughter yesterday, I’ve not been anywhere either. Maybe it’s time to start living again.’

  ‘I think you’re right. Those grieving sessions were the highlight of my week. They gave me something to look forward to, but now I think perhaps it’s time to find my own way back into the world. I was relying on them just a bit too much.’ My hands are pressed against my knees as I speak, my knuckles taut, my nails digging into my flesh as embellishments and untruths pour forth from my mouth. I’m becoming quite the liar. And enjoying it too.

  ‘I totally understand that. After losing Sophia, I thought the world had come to an end but now given time, I’m getting back on an even keel so I’m thinking that it’s time to step away from the church and those sessions. There’s a fine line between needing support and relying on that support, not standing on your own two feet.’ He is nodding now, as if he has just confirmed his own innermost thoughts and approves of them.