Beneath the Skin Page 8

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Charles, our son is not a juvenile delinquent, as you so generously put it, he’s just growing up and experimenting. It’s natural. Don’t tell me you didn’t try the odd puff or tab at university. I certainly did.’

  Charlie stares at Helen for a few moments. She thinks of Paddington Bear and his hard stare, except Charlie’s eyes are grey, not brown. The blue dressing gown he usually likes to wear for breakfast adds to the mental image and she has to try very hard not to chuckle.

  ‘Well, that explains a lot,’ he eventually replies before scraping the chair back and stomping off in his slippers, slamming the oak-panelled door behind him.

  Sophie waits for the click of the front door, then lowers herself on to the toilet seat, puts her hands to her face and weeps. Heavy tears. Frustration, anger, anxiety and despair blending with the intoxicating aroma of Sami’s aftershave. The tears soon stop, but she doesn’t move, she doesn’t have the energy. Or the inclination. And it’s only the ladies book club. She can go back to bed and ignore the doorbell. They can all sod off somewhere else. But eventually Sophie remembers the glorious chilled wine waiting in the fridge and by the time Antonia arrives, first as always, she’s cleaned her teeth, done battle with her contact lenses, applied make-up, got dressed in a too-tight lycra bodycon dress, danced to some Beyoncé and drunk two large glasses of wine.

  ‘He’s told his fucking mother!’ she announces at the open front door.

  ‘Can I get in first? He’s told his fucking mother what?’

  ‘About the IVF.’

  ‘Oh.’ Antonia shakes her umbrella and looks at it doubtfully. ‘It’s raining. Where should I put this?’

  Sophie ambles to the lounge. ‘It pisses me off. He pisses me off. It’s always the same. If he’s got something to say that he knows I won’t like, he lets it out as a parting shot when he’s halfway out of the front door. He’s afraid of confrontation. He’s a fucking coward.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  Sophie follows Antonia’s eyes and shrugs. ‘I couldn’t be bothered with tidying. But I did buy Kettle Crisps. Oh, and wine. I’ve started, join me. Of course he knows I’ll simmer down. No doubt he thinks I’ll be nicely caramelised by the time he gets home. More like anaesthetised.’ She looks thoughtful for a moment, then smiles. ‘But it’s the book club, so Sami can’t possibly complain about wine, sweet wine. At least that’s a result.’

  Antonia stoops to the coffee table, collects some dirty mugs and heads for the kitchen. ‘Shall I open the crisps?’ she asks.

  ‘And why has he told her now?’ Sophie continues, following Antonia into the kitchen. ‘He didn’t before. Understandably. He hates failure. I mean, what does one say to one’s mother who has so many kids that she obviously couldn’t say no?’

  ‘Sophie! That’s not—’

  ‘He’s told her because he doesn’t want me to back out. Of course that’s a joke; it shows just how little he sees. If he understood anything at all, he’d know that the last thing his mother wants is the tie of a grandchild, she’ll never get rid of me then.’ Sophie puts her hands on her hips and frowns.

  ‘I’m sure Martha—’

  ‘Oh God. The fat old cow’ll put her oar in every step of the way. What if she wants to come to appointments and pretend to hold my hand when Sami’s at work? Suppose she asks the doctor questions?’

  Antonia puts a hand either side of Sophie’s shoulders and holds her firmly. ‘Sophie, calm down. Everything’s fine. Really. And there’s the doorbell. I hope you’ve read the book this time.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Antonia drops David off outside the Royal Oak as usual, but after waving her off, he walks away from the pub, past Aladdin’s, the deli and Cartridge World towards the huge Victorian houses on Parsonage Road, most of which have been converted into flats.

  David had lived in Withington as a student at Manchester Poly and he still feels a tremendous affection for it, for its buzz, its strange mix of young and old, its pubs and late drinking clubs. The best kebab take-out in South Manchester too, still going strong at midnight over twenty years on.

  He’d got a place at the polytechnic through clearing to read law at pretty much the last moment and had to search for digs. It had been a lonely search. School and the Proctors had been his family until then, but suddenly he was eighteen, he had three duff A levels and the trustees who’d carefully nurtured his parents’ wealth just handed it over to him, job done. Still officially under his aunt’s roof in Matlock, he’d gone a little wild at first, buying a silver soft-top MG and spending the summer visiting school mates dotted around the country, dishing the dosh. But Charlie intervened when David crashed the MG on a lonely Derbyshire lane. He’d taken to the narrow tree-lined lanes when he was bored at his aunt’s, ‘to test the motor to its limit’, and on one of those days of boredom, ‘a bend appeared in the road which hadn’t been there before’, as he laughingly told Charlie.

  David walked away from the collision without a scratch, but the car was written off. Charlie was livid, as never before or since. ‘You could’ve died or been crippled, you fool. Didn’t you learn anything from your parents’ death?’ he’d shouted down the telephone. ‘Stop being a failure, David. Bloody well grow up and get on a law course somewhere, for God’s sake.’

  David was surprised at Charlie’s reaction, even more so at the uncalled-for mention of his mother and father and ultimately quite offended. ‘It was black ice, not speeding, actually,’ he’d replied. But he loved Charlie enough to phone around the polytechnics until he secured a place through economy with the truth and his usual lavish charm.

  His aunt had reluctantly offered to come and look at some digs in Withington he found through the Manchester student union. He’d said no to her offer, but as he stepped off the bus, he felt a little Dutch courage was in order before meeting the three postgrad foreign language students he’d be sharing with and there, immediately in front of him, was the Royal Oak with its multi-flowered window boxes and friendly white facade.

  ‘What’s up, lad. Somebody died?’ the huge, curly-haired and sweaty barman had asked with a grin as he pulled a pint of the local beer. ‘I’m Seamus, by the way. The landlord of this establishment. Welcome to Withington.’

  David had looked around him. The pub strangely reminded him of his house study at school with its tatty but aesthetic furniture, its low beams, nooks and crannies. For a moment he’d stood still, listening to the hum of conversation around him. Then he’d sniffed the air, felt the warmth, breathed in the feeling of comfort. ‘On the hunt for digs, Seamus,’ he’d replied. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a spare room upstairs?’

  He pulls up the collar of his coat as he continues to walk past the bay windows of the old houses along Parsonage Road, peering into people’s lives. White Gables is an old house too, but it was gutted for the renovation, completely stripped of its past and so it feels like new. New for him and Antonia, a couple happily without a past. Yet here he is again, walking in his own footsteps.

  As he strolls, he thinks about Antonia. She looked beautiful tonight, all dressed up for the book club at Sophie’s. He wanted to chat with her over dinner or in the car. Not about all the work crap consuming his thoughts, but about anything and nothing, just to connect. But she seemed far away, distracted. Once, in a rare moment when they touched upon the past, he’d tried to explain how lonely it was being an orphan. How he was better with noise, in a crowd. ‘I suppose I’m sort of an orphan too, so I do understand the loneliness,’ she had replied, holding his hand to her cheek. ‘But I quite like it.’

  ‘How are you doing, man?’ Sami asks.

  He shakes Mike’s hand at the bar of the Royal Oak. It started as a joke, the handshake, but neither of them can recall why. There were so many quips and so much laughter in the Boot Room that this particular lore has got lost. ‘Are you off to the match tomorrow?’

  ‘I am, but I’m not renewing next season if they carry on playing so bloody badly
. All that money and they’re still rubbish. They need a new manager,’ Mike replies.

  ‘Funny, I feel as though I’ve heard that before. Now if you stuck with one manager instead of binning them every two minutes …’

  ‘Yeah, well, even for twenty championships I wouldn’t have had Beetroot Face if he was the last manager in the land. You still pretending to be a Red, Sami?’

  ‘Only when a client invites me for champagne and prawn sandwiches. Come on, even you wouldn’t turn down a corporate freebie.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘I’m always right, man. Though trying to convince the wife is another matter.’

  Mike inwardly winces at the expression ‘the wife’. ‘She has a name, you know. You are so bloody sexist,’ Olivia reprimands Sami whenever she hears him use it.

  He glances at Sami. ‘Everything OK?’ he asks.

  ‘You know Sophie.’ Sami looks thoughtful for a moment then laughs. ‘Nothing I can’t sort out. What’s going on in here? It’s bloody empty tonight. Maybe it’s the scaffolding. Always said this place would fall down.’

  ‘Easy bet, Sam. It is seventeenth century! A pint or a pint?’

  ‘Hello, chaps. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.’

  Mike and Sami turn towards the voice. It’s Charlie Proctor, white-faced and sweaty. ‘Bloody hell, Charlie, what are you doing here?’ Mike laughs. ‘Has Helen let you out or did you escape?’

  ‘Thought Friday nights were spent in bed with your experienced older wife,’ Sami teases.

  ‘I escaped and I’m here to get legless,’ Charlie replies, breathing heavily. ‘Be a good man and get me a whisky, would you? It’s bloody cold out there. Has David arrived yet? He’s not answering his phone, but I tried Antonia and she said he was here.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s got, er, waylaid?’ Sami replies glancing at Mike with a grin.

  Mike studies Charlie’s baffled face. There’s something innocent and childlike about his expression, even though he usually looks far older than his years.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be here in a couple of minutes,’ he says, putting a reassuring hand on Charlie’s arm. Then he grins. ‘Come on Charlie, spill the beans, what’s Helen done to upset you?’

  ‘Should we talk about the book at some point?’ Antonia asks no one in particular. The other women are Sophie’s friends. They’re deep in discussion about local gossip, the latest series on Netflix and the Kardashians, leaving Antonia in her familiar place on the periphery. She likes to talk about the book choice. Her secretly made notes are stashed in her handbag. Hopeless at school, leaving with only a few low-grade GCSEs to her name, she’s recently discovered novels and can’t get enough of them. But a hum of women with lots to say surrounds her in Sophie’s warm, brightly coloured front room, none of it about the book.

  ‘I’ve read the book!’ Sophie announced earlier to the eight or so book clubbers in the room. ‘Though maybe not all of it.’

  Which is progress, Antonia thinks. Sophie usually reads a summary of the chosen novel on the internet and still manages to have an opinion. Still, it’s Sophie who suggested the book club originally, so Antonia isn’t complaining, and one or two of the women are nice. She leans over to Sophie, whose unusually heavy eye make-up has smudged quite noticeably.

  ‘Couldn’t Olivia come?’ she asks.

  ‘Was I supposed to invite her?’ Sophie replies with a shrug. ‘Where have all the crisps gone?’

  ‘Sophie, that’s not fair. Olivia is nice and we’ve known her for ages. How would you like it if you weren’t included?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t know, would I? Anyway it’s Olivia’s fault for being so forgettable.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘She’s so mumsy with all that right-on Chorlton-cum-Hardy Breast Is Best stuff. All she ever talks about are those boring children. “Rachel’s so clever, she could recite Karl Marx when she was in the womb.” And the other one who cries all the time, whatever her name is, “So awfully, awfully cute.” And they go to state school, don’t you know. Well, so did we! I don’t remember anyone giving us a medal.’

  Antonia lowers her voice. ‘If children are so boring, Sophie, why are you trying to have one?’

  ‘Oh sod off, Antonia. At times you’re as dull as she is.’

  Sophie’s voice is harsh and the other book clubber heads twitch towards hers, too polite to stare, but Antonia is sure their ears are open wide. Sophie’s voice drops, the husky catch more prominent than when she’s sober. ‘Anyway, Toni, why are you so bothered? I didn’t think mumsies were your type. Thought you only loved me. Why don’t you have a drink and chill out?’

  Antonia stands up and straightens her skirt. She’s aware that the other women are now openly staring; she wishes they wouldn’t. ‘I’d rather go home, actually.’

  Sophie guffaws, the red wine splattering over the side of her glass. ‘Don’t be such a drama queen. Anyway, you can’t go, we haven’t discussed the book yet and I believe it was your choice.’

  Antonia sits down, her handbag clutched on her knee and she gazes at the drops of red wine as they seep into the carpet. So very much like blood, she thinks.

  The glazed chintz curtains of the high-ceilinged room are drawn and the lamp is dimmed by a matching fringed shade.

  ‘What’s up, David? You’ve gone quiet again. I told Seamus I’d take over the bar at ten.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m in a funny mood.’

  ‘I gathered that, love. Cheer up or you’ll make me think I’m losing my touch.’

  ‘I’d like to talk more. It’s just … Or don’t you have time?’

  Misty peers at her watch, the gold wristband loose on the tanned skin of her wrist. ‘If it was up to me you could stay all night, you know that. But I’m not the person you should be talking to, am I? I’m hardly Brain of Britain, but I can see that you need to talk to Charlie. As soon as. Or Seamus might be able to help, he knows people with money. Maybe a short-term loan would do the trick?’

  David shakes his head, his eyes on the wallpapered ceiling. As usual with Misty, he’s said too much. It usually helps; him wittering, her listening, her eyes kind and supportive. Knowing she won’t tell another soul. But that was just stuff, small irritations, petty concerns, things forgotten the moment they’re voiced. Whereas this problem is huge and talking just made it seem bigger. He doesn’t want to think about it any more.

  ‘And there’s Irish Mike. You like him, don’t you? He seems kind and discreet. He might be able to help.’

  He strokes the back of Misty’s hand absentmindedly. She’s in her fifties now and the flesh is loosening, but it’s soft, it’s welcoming. ‘At least you don’t suggest a friendly little chat with Sami.’

  ‘He’s all right. A bit full of himself, perhaps. I don’t know why you have it in for him. He seems pleasant enough.’

  Feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, he roughly shakes his head. ‘There’s no way I’d let Sami have one over me.’

  Misty glances at him and smiles. ‘Because he knew Antonia before you did? That’s silly. He married Sophie, not her.’

  It’s something David has never asked. Was there prior history between Sami and Antonia? He doesn’t really think so, certainly not if Sophie had anything to do with it. But occasionally he thinks of Sami’s dark hands on Antonia’s flawless skin.

  Propping his head on his hand, he studies Misty’s dimmed beauty for a moment. ‘How many years has it been now? At least twenty since you and Seamus took in a poor orphan! God knows where I’d be without this, without you—’

  ‘A pleasure,’ Misty says with a soft smile. ‘But, seriously, love, you need to speak to Charlie. To sort things out, not just for you, for Antonia too.’

  David leans against her shoulder and closes his eyes. He can feel her fiery-coloured hair soft against his cheek. ‘Trust me, I know,’ he replies. ‘I know.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Antonia expects a wall of heat and the usual fetid smell
as she’s beeped through the door of The Ridings. As the door opens, the heat is still there but the smell is long gone. If Antonia looked, she’d see sofas with cheerful cushions in the reception area, wallpapered walls, fresh flowers and chirpy staff. But Antonia doesn’t look. She hasn’t looked since she was a teenager.

  Candy is in the lounge in her usual chair by the window. Jeremy Kyle is mouthing silent words on the television screen, his frown prominent. She is looking at her hands, examining their backs and then turning them over to gaze at her palms, as though the answer is there. Antonia notices that someone has painted her mother’s fingernails and it gives her a jolt of memory and of surprise. Candy has put on weight over the years and there’s little resemblance between mother and daughter, but Antonia has Candy’s hands, her youthful soft hands with long slim fingers and nails that are now painted bright red.

  The flash from childhood hits Antonia’s chest and for a moment she’s breathless. But as usual she rallies. ‘Hello, Mum.’ She bends and kisses her mother’s solid cheek and then pulls up a seat, careful not to disturb an elderly man in the next chair. His eyes are closed, his mouth wide open. He might be sleeping, he might be dead. She supposes the former as two of the carers stand chatting in a corner with folded arms. ‘How are you, Mum?’

  Candy lifts her head and after a moment her large eyes focus on her daughter. ‘Hello, love. Oh, look at you. Don’t you look lovely.’ Reaching out her hand, she softly strokes Antonia’s hair. ‘Your hair has grown long again!’ She breaks her gaze after a moment and turns to the carrier bag. ‘Have you been shopping?’

  ‘Not today, Mum. But I’ve bought you some new slippers and a box of chocolates. What have you been up to then?’

  It’s the question Antonia always asks and Candy always replies that she’s been to see Sacha, the German shepherd they owned when Antonia was a child.

  ‘She was so pleased to see me, jumping all over and she licked my face. I took her some treats.’