Never Too Late (31 page)

body. Stephen certainly knew how to create an atmosphere,

she reflected as she tried to smile gamely at Sasha.

She knelt on the floor and did up the tiny covered buttons.

‘We’re going to have a lovely day,’ she chanted, ‘lovely,

lovely day.’ The little girl knew better.

‘It’ll be all right, Mummy,’ she whispered. ‘I asked Santa

to make it better.’

It was all Olivia could do to stop herself breaking into

hysterical sobs. Poor little Sasha. In her innocence, she’d

asked the most powerful person she could think of to fix

things, not realising that it’d take more than a cuddly old

man in a red suit to make things better between her

parents.

‘Sasha,’ she said quietly, so Stephen wouldn’t overhear,

‘there’s nothing to make better. Mummies and daddies

have fights sometimes, that’s all.’

The little girl regarded Olivia for a moment from serious

silver-grey eyes.

‘Scary fights?’ she asked.

Her mother hesitated. How could she say, ‘Yes, scary

fights,’ when she knew that lots of people didn’t have

arguments the way she and Stephen did: vicious and bitter

comments from him, cowardly silences from her. Fights

that must be utterly terrifying to a child. She didn’t want

to lie to Sasha but how could she tell her the truth? Four

year olds shouldn’t hear stuff like that.

‘Yes, scary fights because daddies get tired from working

and having lots of things to worry about …’ Sasha was still gazing at her with those big eyes but Olivia ploughed on.

‘And they’re not really scary because we know that Daddy

loves us and doesn’t mean it, don’t we?’

Sasha didn’t look convinced. I’ll have to learn how to be

a better liar, Olivia thought anxiously. And then an idea

sparked in her head, like lightning hitting a church spire,

frightening and fierce. Why should she learn how to lie?

Why lie at all? Surely, if she and Stephen didn’t have the

sort, of relationship where Sasha could live without fear,

then they shouldn’t be together. It was that simple.

Like the church spire after the lightning strike, Olivia’s

mind remained white hot with her own astonishing idea.

Her thoughts raced, frantic and turbulent, as the notion

stuck in her head. Why stay with somebody who made you

so miserable and who was clearly so miserable with you?

And why stay when the daughter you adored was driven to

asking a mythical Christmas figure for help when her

father lost his temper and vented his all-too-frequent rage?

The solution was clear. It was simplicity itself.

‘Olivia!’ roared Stephen and, as if scared that he could

see into her mind and discover the forbidden thoughts

lurking there, she got up nervously and ran to the door.

‘Yes!’

‘You’re not wearing that to the wedding, surely?’

That was the simple navy trouser suit she’d decided to

wear with a cream silk knit top underneath. It was very

plain but that was partly why she’d chosen it: she didn’t

want to upstage Vida, and anyway, the way Olivia felt, she wanted to blend into the furniture.

‘You’ll look like a little mouse. It’s too boring, far too

dull,’ sniped Stephen, holding the suit at arm’s length and

looking at it as if it was infectious. ‘Wear your white wool

dress with the black jacket. You’ve never worn it and it

cost me a fortune in London.’

Starkly geometric and quite startling, the outfit would

make her stand out in the crowd as plainly as if she had a

halo of flashing lights over her head screeching ‘Bought At Great Expense in Harvey Nichols’. The dress was short and showed off far too much of her legs, and it was white, for

Godsake! You couldn’t wear white to a wedding, it was

unfair to the bride.

‘Stephen,’ she started. ‘I don’t really want to wear

that …’

But he didn’t let her finish. Utterly used to getting his

own way, it never occurred to Stephen MacKenzie that his

wife might not want to wear his choice in clothes.

‘Olivia, wear it. You haven’t a clue, have you?’

He turned on his heel, convinced that the matter was

now over. Olivia would do what he’d asked - she always

did. It was that dismissive action that decided her. The

simple ‘the conversation is over’ gesture that sent Olivia

hurtling over the edge.

Under normal circumstances - normal, placateStephen-at-all-costs circumstances - she would have

smiled sweetly at him, done what he wanted and said

nothing. Like she’d done on myriad occasions before

when Stephen screamed at her because the tea tasted

funny or she’d bought the orange juice he didn’t like or,

worst of all, when she’d got his car repaired at the wrong

garage while he’d been away.

But on the morning of Andrew Fraser’s wedding, when

she was doing her best to keep her husband in a good

mood so he wouldn’t get too bored during the day,

something snapped inside Olivia MacKenzie. Maybe it was

thinking about Cheryl Dennis’s latest exploit which had

involved joking loudly and throwing paper aeroplanes

throughout a whole double period, blatantly ignoring

Olivia’s attempts to quieten her down. Maybe it was

because she was worn out with misery and her blood sugar

level was non-existent because she couldn’t eat. Or maybe

she’d simply had enough of her domineering husband.

She slammed the door shut so that Sasha wouldn’t hear

and faced him, eyes blazing.

‘Are you ever going to stop telling me what to do,

Stephen, or are we going to live like this for the rest of our

lives - you shouting at me at the very end because I died in

the wrong place, at the wrong time, and it didn’t fit in with

your plans?’

He almost gasped with shock. For one brief triumphant

moment Olivia saw astonishment mixed with bewilderment

on his face. His dark eyes were wide open, the same

as his mouth.

She was breathing heavily, stunned that she’d said anything

but unable to stop, the momentum pushing her on.

‘I’m sick of it, Stephen! Sick of you treating me like

some cretinous child who can’t make up its mind about

anything! You think I’m an idiot. Well, I’m not!’

He recovered with dizzying aplomb, taking her victory

and shattering it.

‘My God, Olivia, you’re turning into your mother,’ he

said, lips curled in disgust. ‘Hysterical and ranting, like

some crazed banshee. I never thought I’d see the day.

You’re not fit to be a mother to Sasha. Do you want to

destroy her the way your mother destroyed you with these

ridiculous tantrums?’

Olivia stared at him, devastated. She wasn’t anything

like her mother, was she? And she wasn’t hurting Sasha.

She loved her daughter, adored her. She’d never do anything

to hurt Sasha.

Stephen wasn’t finished.

‘I don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve with this

behaviour, Olivia,’ he said, his voice vicious. ‘I only want

the best for you but you’re determined to twist everything

I say into something negative. Maybe it runs in your family.

Your mother can’t open her mouth without savaging someone and you’ve gone the same way.’

She crumpled. Unused to voicing any opinion these

days, she was utterly unaccustomed to being angry with

Stephen. She’d wanted to say something for so long but

because the mirror never answered back when she practised

her rage on it, she’d totally forgotten that he could

respond, that she wouldn’t be speaking in a vacuum.

And Stephen was responding. When he was angry, his

ice-cold rage had the power to cut through anyone. It

ripped through Olivia’s soft centre like a rapier slashing

through feather pillows.

‘I didn’t mean …’ she said hoarsely, wanting to say that

she was merely standing her ground about what to wear to

the damn’ wedding.

He didn’t want to hear. ‘I know exactly what you meant,

Olivia,’ he said coldly. ‘Wear what you want. You de Veres

always do what you want anyway.’

He slammed the door behind him and she sank on to

the bed, too stunned to cry. Was she turning into her

mother? It was her greatest fear, to become like the vicious

and cruel woman she’d had to fight hard to love.

You were supposed to love your mother, but it was just

so hard sometimes. She tried to be different, tried to be

soft and gentle instead of unyielding and selfish like Sybil.

Perhaps she was kidding herself that she was soft.

Perhaps she was really a bitch, a stupid bitch who’d end up

lonely and unloved, having turned her only daughter and

her husband away from her.

Shaken to the core, Olivia sat white-faced, one hand

nervously scratching at the unmade bed, bringing up little

bobbles on the sheet.

After ten minutes, she knew she had to move. She could

hear Stephen pottering about inside, could almost feel the

white hot rage he’d been in. What had she done? Why had

she said anything? Her outburst hadn’t solved anything; it

had only made matters worse. Now Stephen would be in a

total fury all day.

Olivia’s head throbbed at the thought of an entire day

like this. How would she cope?

The solution came to her - the tablets Stephen had been

given for his back. Valium. The doctor recommended both

a muscle relaxant and a painkiller when Stephen’s back

went into its rare but agonising spasm. He’d never taken

any of the valium, of course, preferring to suffer, and not in

silence, either.

The little container was still in his part of the bathroom

cabinet, full to the brim. She took one and peered at it.

Five mg. Washing the tiny tablet down with a splash of

water from the cold tap, she was about to put the

container back but thought better of it. She took another

two tablets for later. Better safe than sorry.

Now, vaguely anaesthetised, Olivia sat beside the surly

figure of her husband and listened to the priest going on

about the holy state of marriage.

She closed her eyes and tried to tune his voice out. She’d

rather not think about the state of her own marriage and,

she thought caustically, he was hardly speaking from

experience, was he? What the hell did he know about

family rows and bitter arguments between man and wife?

If he’d ever been married or in a relationship with someone

as difficult as Stephen, perhaps he wouldn’t be quite

so keen to discuss love in that general, rose-coloured

glasses way.

Ahead of her sat Evie, a small upright figure in blue,

unmoving as a marble statue while her father got married.

Olivia wondered idly what it would be like to give a

fiddler’s toss about your parents marrying again. Although

at ‘east if her parents stayed married to each other, they wouldn’t have the chance to make two other people deeply unhappy as well.

Evie had taken Andrew’s remarriage badly at first

although she was coming round.

‘We’re going to have a wonderful day,’ she had said

firmly on the phone the night before when Olivia had

rung to see how her friend was bearing up. ‘I won’t let you

down, Livvy. I promise not to scream and roar,’ she’d

joked. ‘Honest! If I can dance in those perilous shoes

you’ve lent me, I’ll dance away like a mad thing and show

Dad I’m delighted for him.’

‘I’m so glad,’ Olivia said with relief. ‘You’d hate yourself

afterwards if you didn’t. It’s going to be a lovely wedding

and Sasha is terribly excited about being a flower girl.

She’s in bed now, quivering with excitement at the

thought of wearing a princess dress and having flowers in

her hair!’

Nothing had worked out quite as planned, though.

Sasha was subdued after the row between her parents,

while Cara and Evie were sitting as far apart on the

church pew as was possible, a sure sign of trouble. Olivia could never quite figure out what had ruined their once incredibly close relationship. They’d been best friends for

so long, more like mother and daughter than two sisters.

It was sad that they were feuding. Olivia would have

done anything to have a sister of her own, someone who

could share her horrible childhood. Someone who could

have diluted the alcoholic misery of the Lodge when she

was growing up.

In her mind, once you actually had a sister, you had to

appreciate her. Under the benevolent haze of the valium

she’d taken an hour and a half previously, Olivia decided to

sort out Evie and Cara. She’d do something wonderful for

other people, even though her own life was a disaster.

‘Daddy, Daddy, are we nearly there?’ asked Sasha plaintively,

looking out of the window and ignoring the glorious

countryside Olivia was admiring.

‘Ask your mother,’ he snapped. ‘She knows everything.’

Olivia didn’t even flinch.

Yes, darling,’ she said calmly. ‘Another few minutes and

the photographer will be taking lots of lovely photos of

you in your princess dress.’

With Auntie Vida and Uncle Andrew?’ asked Sasha,

brightening up.

Yes.’