The Flavours of Love (27 page)

I have seen him many times since
that day
, though. He came to the funeral, he sometimes drops Zane off with Imogen. Last summer he finished and graduated from Lincoln University so moved back here. Around the time Phoebe began to spend hours on her phone, in fact.

‘Hi, Damien,’ I say.

‘Erm … Hi … Mrs Mackleroy,’ he says.

Maybe I am reading too much into this. Maybe he was always like this, maybe like everyone else he’s always felt uncomfortable. How would I have noticed since it’s only in the past few months I’ve started to notice much of anything?

‘How’s the job-hunting going?’ I ask.

‘Erm …’ He steps around me, heading for his bedroom. ‘Fine.’

‘Not found anything yet?’

‘Erm … No.’

‘So that means you’re around during the day a lot,’ I say. ‘Doesn’t that get boring?’

‘Erm … No. Erm … I hang out.’

‘Who with?’

‘Erm … friends.’

‘Girlfriend, by any chance?’

More colour bleaches out of his skin.

‘Erm … sort of.’

‘What do you mea—’

‘Erm … got to go. Sorry. Bye.’ He moves so fast, dashes so quickly out of my sight to the staircase to the loft I can’t say anything else to keep him talking.

If he’s the one, God help him
.

I shut the bathroom door, then quietly prepare myself to do what I came up here for. I can’t take too long, I can’t make anyone else suspicious about me and what I do.

‘I won’t walk you to the door,’ Lewis says as he pulls up outside my house. He’s kept the engine running. ‘You know, just in case.’

I want to kiss him. I would so love to kiss him and see what happened next, I feel incredibly still inside right now, so serene that I could take that step. I can’t, of course, because my mouth was full of sick. I rinsed it out with water, but I’m sure if anyone came too close they’d be assaulted with the putrid stench of who I really am.

‘It’s nothing personal,’ I say to him. ‘It really isn’t. I actually … I actually quite like you.’

The lines of his face, tense with being so restrained and neutral, relax as he allows himself a little smile. ‘That’s not the impression I get.’

‘You’re a widower, you must understand how hard it is when you meet someone and it opens up all these possibilities but to even contemplate the possibilities you have to let go a little of the person you lost. The thought of letting even a little of Joel go … It’s impossible to my mind. What was your wife’s name?’

‘Hallie,’ he says, his demeanour sombre and reserved.

‘You did tell me, but when did she … ?’

‘Four years ago.’

‘Was she ill before she died?’

He nods contemplatively. ‘Yeah, she was.’

‘Have you been out with people, dating and stuff like that?’

‘I have.’

‘When did you feel all right about seeing other women and not extremely guilty at the very idea of being attracted to other people?’

‘I’ll let you know when it happens.’

‘Well, if it’s like that for you, can you understand where I’m coming from?’

His black-brown eyes run carefully over my features until they settle on my lips. ‘Can I kiss you?’ he asks.

A wave of embarrassment and humiliation crashes over me. ‘I’d love it if you did, but I, erm, the food tonight didn’t really agree with me and when I went to the loo earlier, I kind of … Kissing would not be a pleasant experience.’

‘OK,’ he says. Amusement dances around his lips. He doesn’t believe me.

‘It’s true.’ I have simply left out the part where I did it because I’d been forced to eat to prove I don’t have an eating disorder.

‘I see,’ he replies, the mirth has moved to his eyes and is now a huge smile. At least he thinks it’s funny, not hurtful, that I might lie about throwing up to avoid kissing him.

‘And anyway,’ I say after a glance up at my house, ‘if I’m not mistaken, my daughter is in my bedroom, sitting at the window watching to see if we are just two people who went to the same place at the same time or if we’re dating. The last thing either Phoebe or I need right now is another thing to fall out over.’
Plus
she
is out there somewhere, watching. Noting this down to write into a letter
.

With remarkable restraint, Mr Bromsgrove doesn’t look around. ‘Well, yes, there is that. Next time?’

‘Next time,’ I agree. I say it but it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean I have to do anything. ‘Maybe.’

He creases up with another amused smile.

At least he thinks it’s funny.

My early start, the chance to get the shopping out of the way before the others wake up this Saturday morning, has been thwarted.

From my place on the pavement, my reusable bags tucked under one arm, my handbag slung across my body, I stand and I stare at my car. All four of the tyres have been let down – the little rubber covers have been left neatly beside each tyre. I’m not sure if it’s before or after the air was let out that the large slash mark has been made at the centre of each tyre. The cuts are long and wide, made with an obvious stab, a twist then a drag downwards. It looks like they’ve been made with a hunting knife to get through the thick rubber.

Under the left windscreen wiper, the one nearest the pavement, placed to be the first thing you spot after the tyres, is a folded-over rectangle of paper. No envelope for this, her anger was too urgent, too immense for her to bother with such formalities.

Whore

I thought no one, not even Phoebe, could resent me more than I did for wanting to spend time with Lewis Bromsgrove, but I was wrong. This person does. This person has shown me, with four reenactments of what the kitchen knife did to Joel’s abdomen, how furious she is with me.

Is there something wrong with me? Should I be reacting differently to this? Should I be on the phone to the police already, begging them for help? Or should I be refolding the paper, slipping it into my bag and working out how much it’s likely to cost to get all the tyres changed today because I need the car?

I am in this halfway house between fear and anger. I am teetering between these emotions and not sure which one will help me to get through this without anyone else getting hurt.

Back in the house, I check the clock – 7:49 – before heading for the kitchen and my laptop, ready to search for someone who will fix my car. No doubt they’ll have questions, no doubt I’ll play dumb and pretend I’m going to call the police. The house phone bursts into the silence of a still-asleep household and I dive for it, forgetting it might be Joel’s mum.

‘Did you snog him?’ Imogen. My heart sinks.

‘Morning, Imogen,’ I say.

The brightness of her smile is too much even down the phone.

‘Did you?’ she replies, unable to hide or contain her absolute glee. ‘He’s a bit yummy, did you do us all a favour and snog the face off him?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I thought I felt a vibe between you!’

‘You probably did,’ I admit reluctantly. I wander into the living room.

‘Oh my God, but that’s brilliant!’ she squeals. I hear her settle her cup of tea – white, two sugars – on the table so she can clap her hands. ‘I mean, it’s obviously so difficult to think about all that stuff after what you’ve been through, but this is great. Really. It’s not too soon at all, so don’t you even think that! I can totally see you two together!’

‘It’s not that simple.’ I think I need to tell her. I need to see if she has any clue about Damien and Phoebe. If she has, then the news of the pregnancy would give me a reaction that would tell me I was on the right track with thinking it might be Damien. It’s not my secret to share, but I also need someone to talk to who isn’t a man I’ve slept with, a man who I’m attracted to, or an older woman who is hiding something even though she is living in my house.

If Damien is the father though … It could complicate things. If Phoebe hasn’t told him the truth – which I don’t think she has – then that would mean putting her at risk of unreasonable pressures and demands.

‘Oh? Why not?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ I say to her. I rub my eyes. ‘I wish I could, but it’s not my news to tell and I can’t talk about it. My head is well and truly wrecked.’

My poor blue car seems so defeated, looking at it from the living room window. So damaged and hurt. Why did she do that? What was she thinking? Or wasn’t she thinking? Is it easier to stick a knife in and twist it as a solution to your problems if you’ve done it before and were never punished for it? It’s not that much easier for me to wake up every morning and know I face another day without Joel, but maybe that’s because it was forced upon me. Maybe if I’d actively decided to be without Joel I wouldn’t mind doing it again and again and again. Maybe it’s the same for her. Maybe by the second tyre it was as easy as breathing.

‘Oh, Sweetheart,’ Imogen coos on the phone, her voice a welcome balm, ‘maybe it’s good that you and Lewis are getting closer. Phoebe might have a thing or two to say about it but you can’t live your life according to the whims of a hormonal teenager. It’d be so good for Zane, too. He needs a father figure. He’s got Fynn, I know, but it’s not the same. When you are in a relationship with someone it’ll make everything so much better.’

I spin away from staring at my car and return to the conversation in full. ‘Better?’ I query.

‘You’ve done an amazing job with those children since … but I really think that you need to move on and being part of a couple will help them to feel more secure.’

‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ I say. ‘Are you basically saying my being a lone parent is destabilising for my children, more than, say, their father being killed?’

‘Please don’t take it the wrong way. It’s just that children need two parents, they need a mother
and
a father. It’s not your fault that you’re a single mum. I mean, look at last week and you being called up to the school about Phoebe. She used to be such a sweet girl, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but now she’s getting in trouble. The
way she spoke to me the other day when I was just asking how she—’ She stops talking and the sound of her mouth dropping open fills the line. ‘Oh my God, she’s not pregnant is she? Is that why Lewis is taking an interest in her?’ My heart stops in my chest. ‘Or is it drugs? Underage drinking?’

‘Nice to know what you think of me and my family, Imogen.’ Maybe Aunty Betty had a point after all.

‘Sweetheart, no. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just … If you do get together with Lewis, properly, a man with a decent job and who obviously has a positive influence on wayward kids, it’ll do wonders for all of you.’

‘How’s Damien getting on?’ I ask to change the subject, to follow up what I was thinking about last night not long before my car tyres were brutalised.

‘Damien? He’s fine.’

‘Has he managed to get a job yet or is he still under your feet all day?’

‘It’s so hard out there for graduates,’ she says. ‘I’ve applied for a few jobs for him and I’m sure he’ll get something soon.’

‘I expect he spends a lot of time with his girlfriend when he’s not applying for jobs? I saw him upstairs last night and he got all embarrassed when I mentioned it. Bless him, he looked so cute. Like he was a teenager all over again.’

‘You know that boy, always has an army of girls after him. I remember Phoebe had a crush on him once upon a time.’

‘Yes, I think she did,’ I say. I needed her to confirm that I am remembering it right. That it may well be him that is involved in this, not Curtis.

‘We should all get together soon, you can invite Lewis.’

‘I may just do that,’ I say.
It’d be great to spend some time with Damien, it really would
.

As I ring off the phone, all the things I need to think about crowd in on me. If I knew what Phoebe wanted to do, I could talk to her about talking to the police. Until she decides, I can’t put anything
else on her. I have to put up with the stalking, with the judgement from Imogen, with the hurt I’ve caused Fynn, with the feeling I’m betraying Joel by even thinking about Lewis.

Until Phoebe knows what she’s doing, nothing else can happen. I am stuck as I am, out of control in my own life, waiting on someone else.

‘What do you think I should do, Aunty Betty?’ Phoebe asks.

They obviously do not know I am in here. Why would I be? Why would anyone be in the small toilet beside the kitchen unless they’d recently stuffed themselves with as much food as they could, pushing it in by the handful, filling themselves as much as they could, forcing down every single feeling they had, hiding away every unpleasant thought with every swallow, and then had purged until their throat was raw, their eyes were running and they were shaking with the pain in their chest from heaving? Why would anyone have collapsed onto the floor and stayed there, unable to move from the exhaustion and horror and disgust at what they’d done? Trembling because their heart felt like it might give up at any second.

As silently as I could, I shifted my still-quivering body until my back was resting against the white door.

‘No one can tell you that, Child,’ Aunty Betty replies. I wonder what they’re doing up at this time. I thought it was just me who couldn’t sleep. ‘You are a child, but in this situation you need to make big woman decisions.’

‘Mum always tells me what to do, I thought she’d tell me what to do now.’

‘Your mum can’t do that about this. It’s your life and your body, your mum can’t make those choices for you.’

‘But I don’t know which choice is the best one.’

‘No choice is easy,’ Aunty Betty says. ‘There are three main choices, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Keep the baby, have the baby adopted, abortion.’

‘Yes.’

‘Which one is the one that you instinctively think might be right for you when I say it like that?’

Phoebe says nothing for a while. ‘I don’t know. Every time I think about one, another one seems better.’

‘Child, you are fourteen. No choice is better than the other at your age. Every option will weigh heavy on your mind and heart. The only thing we can do in this sort of situation is choose whatever it is we think would be easiest to live with.’