The Wife Who Ran Away Page 6

  I take another sip of water as the little ginger kitten rearranges himself on my lap, his tiny chest throbbing like a motorized toy. Absently, I stroke his ears. I’ve always despised people who couldn’t cope. Since when did I become one of them?

  ‘I’m sure Ned and the kids can cope without you for a day or two,’ Julia presses. ‘Why don’t you just take a little time to get your head together before you go rushing home? A couple of days to yourself might be all you need. Then you can go back and face the music. Doesn’t that make more sense?’

  ‘But what about the children? I can’t just abandon them.’

  ‘You’re not abandoning them. Come on, Kate. They’re teenagers, not babies. I think they’ll survive a few days without Mummy there to hold their hands. It’ll be good for them. Anyway, it’s not like they’ll be on their own. Ned and Eleanor will be with them.’

  ‘A few days,’ I echo.

  ‘At least stay till the weekend. Blame me if you want to. You can tell Ned I had some sort of emergency.’

  ‘I don’t want him to know I’m here,’ I say quickly. ‘He’ll have a fit if he thinks I’ve dumped everything in his lap to come out here on some sort of girls’ weekend.’

  Julia snorts. ‘If you ask me, it’s about time he had everything dumped in his lap, but have it your way. Tell him you had to go away on business, and let your boss know you’ve taken a few days off so they don’t compare notes.’ She picks up our empty coffee cups. ‘It’ll be OK, Kate. Stop making such a drama out of this.’

  She’s right. I’m blowing this way out of proportion. Everything got on top of me for a bit, and I snapped. Walking out the way I did was a bit sudden and unorthodox, but at the end of the day, I’m just spending a couple of days with my oldest friend, catching up on the past and reliving a few happy memories. No need to make such heavy weather of it. Of course it doesn’t mean I can’t cope.

  ‘As long as I’m home before the weekend,’ I say, suddenly feeling better than I have in a long time. ‘Ned would never cope with the kids on his own.’

  Still stroking the ginger kitten, I follow Julia back into the kitchen with the tray. She’s right. Agness and Guy are teenagers now, not babies. They don’t really need me. They’ll probably enjoy the freedom for a few days.

  I don’t suppose they’ll even notice I’m gone.

  Day zero

  Guy

  You can’t take a frigging crap in this house without being interrupted. Cursing under my breath, I stop texting as my sister hammers on the bathroom door.

  ‘Get a move on!’ Agness yells. ‘You’re not the only one who wants to take a shower!’

  Hunching my shoulders, I ignore her and turn my attention back to the small screen, my thumbs moving rapidly across the keys.

  Need gear. Got any?

  Sorry bro all out hv u tried Ben?

  No go. Any1 else?

  MayB. Get back 2U l8r.

  Fuck. It’ll do my head in going to school without a buzz on. I need something to take the edge off.

  I chew my lip. Maybe my mum’ll have some over at hers. I meant to bring some back this weekend, but I forgot. Bet Liesl will have a bit of weed, at least. Can’t hurt to ask.

  Agness gives the door a final bang and thumps down the stairs. ‘Mum! Guy’s locked himself in the bathroom! Can I use yours?’

  I put the phone down and yank off a fistful of paper. If I get out of the house before Kate notices, I can take the bus into town and then walk to Mum’s instead of going to school. Kate won’t know any different.

  Turning on the tap, I stick my head under it for a few seconds so Kate’ll think I’ve taken a shower, and rub some toothpaste round my gums. Dad’s left his aftershave on the side of the sink; it stinks worse than cat piss, but it’ll hide the fact that I’m wearing the same rank T-shirt I’ve slept in for the last two days, so I slap some on. At least I don’t have to wear a fucking uniform like Agness. It’s bad enough dealing with the psychos in my year without getting jumped on my way home by the losers in the village because I’m dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy.

  The kitchen’s empty when I get downstairs. I open the fridge and chug half a pint of milk straight from the plastic container, then peer at the crammed shelves. For a moment I think I’m SOL, but lurking behind Gran’s weird bionic yoghurts and Agness’s low-fat low-sugar low-fucking-taste crap is a box containing the remains of a pepperoni pizza from last week. I pull it out and open it. There’s at least a third left; it’s got a bit of blue fuzz round the edges, but that’s, like, penicillin, right? It can’t be any worse for you than the yoghurts.

  Standing over the sink, I munch the pizza and stare out of the window. Kate’s chasing the cat round the garden in her fancy wool suit and a pair of wellies, trying to get the dumb furball to come in for breakfast. Gran must’ve let it out again. Stupid fucking animal. One of these days it’ll end up as roadkill.

  Kate looks up and beckons to me to come and help. I pretend I haven’t seen her and help myself to another slice of cold pizza. Maybe I should text Ivan. We could go and hang out at the Mall, or maybe even take off for the coast. I quite fancy spending the day slinging rocks from the pier.

  My phone buzzes. Wiping my hand on my jeans, I slide it out of my back pocket. My thumb hesitates over the name illuminated on the small screen. Monkeyboy69. Who the hell is that?

  Warily, I click on the message. Hope ur dick shrivels up ponce.

  Angrily I hit delete. Seconds later, another email appears in my inbox. Fuckin loser u desserve 2 die. Arseholes can’t even spell.

  The phone spazzes in my hand as more messages hit in quick succession.

  Y dont u just kill yurself now.

  Yur mutha sucks cock.

  U sad fuck its all ova 4U now.

  Delete. Delete. Delete.

  I don’t recognize any of the user names, but that doesn’t mean anything. A few clicks and you can be anyone. I know who’s really behind it. I could change my own email and phone number, but what’s the point? I’ve done that before, and sooner or later they always find me again.

  A message appears from Ivan and I open it.

  A-holes tweeted ur number.

  Sorry dude. Wanna borrow my fone?

  Screw em, I text back.

  Meet me at Eddies in the Mall?

  Cant. Rents on my case.

  Fuck. Ivan’s dad is OK, but his mother’s a frigging Nazi. She’s on his case twenty-four-seven like a fucking stalker. He won’t be going anywhere this morning but double chemistry.

  I turn my phone on to vibrate and slide it back into my jeans. The Mall’s out; no point going on my own.

  There’s a whoosh of cold air as the back door opens and Kate comes in, the cat squirming in her arms. ‘Can you feed Sawyer for me, Guy? He’s been out all night again. He must be starving.’

  ‘That’s Agness’s job.’

  ‘Come on, Guy. Agness is already upset over giving her room to Gran. Don’t make my life more complicated than it has to be.’

  Scowling, I open the cupboard under the sink and get out a tin of Whiskas. I hate that fucking cat. A couple of years ago, I sneaked up on him when he was sleeping with the vacuum cleaner hose and sent him yowling four feet in the air. He retaliated by spraying all over my favourite leather jacket like a fucking skunk. These days, he stays out of my way, and I stay out of his.

  I fork some of the goop into his bowl and mix in some dry biscuits. He gives me a dirty look, then stalks over to the bowl, taking his time.

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’ Kate asks me.

  I shrug.

  ‘How about some porridge? Or eggs? You’ve got time for an omelette if you’re quick.’

  ‘Already ate,’ I mutter.

  ‘Cold pizza? That’s not breakfast.’ She opens the fridge. ‘Come on, let me make you some—’

  I grab my jacket from the back of a chair. ‘Gotta go. I’ll be late.’

  ‘I told you I’d give you a lift this morning. You don’t
need to take the bus.’

  She doesn’t get it. My life sucks. I don’t need my mother – stepmother, whatevs – dropping me off like a fucking mummy’s boy at the school gates.

  ‘I’ll take you now,’ Kate says, picking up her bag. ‘Dad’ll drop Agness off later. Gran wants me to pick up some gloves for her at lunchtime, so I could use an early start myself to get a jump on the day.’

  Fuck it. I pick up my backpack and steam out to the car. I’ll have to sneak out by the fire escape after registration. Maybe Ivan and I can go across the back fields to the abandoned farmhouse near the chalk pit and hang out. No one’ll notice if we’re not there after lunch; they never take afternoon roll call.

  ‘There’s lasagne in the oven for tonight,’ she says over her shoulder as she reverses her clapped-out old Land Rover out of the drive. ‘You’ll need to put it in at a hundred and eighty for forty-five minutes – I’ve written it down. I’ve got a big meeting this afternoon, so I may not be back in time for dinner.’

  ‘With that wanker who’s trying to steal your job?’

  She glances at me in surprise. ‘I wish your father paid as much attention. Yes, with the wanker, as you put it, who’s trying to steal my job.’

  ‘You’ll be there tomorrow night for my presentation?’ I blurt suddenly. Heat rises in my cheeks. I hadn’t meant to say anything.

  ‘It’s tomorrow?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter if you aren’t,’ I mumble, embarrassed. ‘It’s only a stupid PowerPoint thing.’

  ‘Of course I’ll be there,’ Kate says warmly. ‘I’ll have to move a couple of things, but I promised, didn’t I? A promise is a promise.’

  I settle back in my seat, feeling a bit better. Kate’s all right. I love my mum, obviously, but Kate’s the one who takes care of stuff and gets things done. She makes sure I’ve got clean rugby kit, and she gets it when I tell her I need a new pair of Nikes. When I was on the cross-country running team, she came to every single meet, even when it was pissing with rain. Dad didn’t even bother coming to the championship race. Kate’s about the only grown-up who’s never let me down.

  When all the crap started going down at school a few months ago, I told Vance, my year advisor. I figured he’d, you know, keep an eye out. Maybe have a quiet word with some of the bastards without letting on he knew the score. Instead, Vance makes this big song and dance during our advisory class about ‘valuing each other’ and ‘non-aggressive dispute resolution’ and all the rest of the bullshit, and looks at me, like, the whole time he’s talking. It got a thousand times worse after that.

  Vance is on top of me the second Kate drops me off, and I don’t get a chance to sneak out across the playing fields after assembly. But it means Dessler and his mates can’t get near me either, so I’m OK for now.

  At break, I catch up with Ivan by the lockers. ‘I’m out of here. You coming?’

  ‘Nah. I’ve gotta get my biology project sorted.’ He slams his locker door shut. ‘Come on, Guy. You can’t keep skipping school. Dessler isn’t worth it.’

  ‘Forget it. Catch you later.’

  ‘Guy—’

  I walk away from him, waving without turning round to show there’s no hard feelings. But the fact is, it’s not his arse on the line. He’s not the one having his head shoved down the crapper every frigging day.

  I don’t intend to wait around for Dessler to make his move. I’ll head out to the old farmhouse and hang out for a while. Maybe Ivan will grow some balls and join me later. I don’t have any weed, but I’ve got a stash of Jack Daniel’s and some fags and porn hidden in the abandoned place. Better than double frigging chemistry, I know that much.

  I almost make it.

  Dessler’s waiting for me in the corridor by the fire escape, leaning against the grey wall. I glance desperately over my shoulder as he steps forward, but I already know there’s no way back.

  His sidekicks grin nastily at me as I back up, my head swivelling as I try to keep all four bastards in view.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Dessler sneers. ‘Looking for Teacher?’

  I raise my chin. Fuck ’em. I can take whatever they dish out.

  Seconds later, they’re bundling me into the girls’ bathroom. Break is over, so it’s empty. I brace myself for another dunk in the shitter, praying some minger hasn’t left a used tampon lying around. But before I realize what’s going on, they bend me over the sink instead and a wad of bog roll is shoved in my mouth to stop me from crying out. One of them twists both my arms painfully behind my back, while another yanks down my jeans. I struggle as my arse cheeks are pulled apart, choking on the wad of paper in my mouth. There’s an agonizing, invasive pain and I almost pass out.

  ‘Did you get it all?’ Dessler asks. ‘Cool. That’ll do.’

  Someone kicks the back of my knees and I collapse, banging my forehead on the basin. Then, as quickly as they came, they’re gone.

  Slowly I spit out the paper and pull the bloodied toilet brush from my arse, crying with pain and humiliation. Snot runs down my face, mingling with blood where I’ve bitten through my lip. Fucking bastards. I’ll kill them for this.

  I yank up my jeans, wipe my face and stagger out of the bathroom, every movement agony. Vance is passing down the corridor as I emerge, and his eyes narrow suspiciously when he sees me.

  ‘What are you doing in the girls’ bathroom, boy?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ I say.

  Kate

  No mother should have a favourite, but if I’m honest, and against the rules of biology, I have a particularly soft spot for Guy. He was an easy child from the first day I became his mother. There were no terrible twos or childhood dramas. I can’t remember a single family crisis that involved him. He didn’t fall out of trees, electrocute the cat, shove gravel up his nose, play with matches, wear his wellies to bed for three months or trigger the car airbags in the throes of a tantrum, all of which Agness managed before she was six. At least I can rest assured that he’ll be fine while I’m gone.

  Julia’s right: Agness and Guy don’t need my constant attention. In fact, they’re probably better off without me fussing round them all the time. I’m sure they’ll cope beautifully without me for a few days. And it’s not as if they’re on their own: like Julia said, Eleanor and Ned will be there to look after them.

  I check my iPhone again as I walk back to the Metro station in the centre of Rome’s upmarket shopping district, a clutch of glossy cardboard carrier bags dangling from my fingertips. Ned still hasn’t called. Dozens of emails from work, but not a single message from my husband. I haven’t spoken to him for two days, but he hasn’t even noticed I’m gone.

  I put the phone back in my bag and rearrange the carriers in my hands. Suddenly I no longer feel guilty about the money I’ve just splurged. I have never spent this much on myself before, let alone on the kind of frivolous, non-work-related, impractical clothes I’ve just bought: a delicate sea-green chiffon summer skirt from Armani, a Pucci jersey sundress with its trademark swirls, several tissue-soft T-shirts from Kenzo and a gorgeous pair of high gold strappy sandals from a tiny Italian boutique I found tucked away in a side street. But I refuse to feel bad about any of it, despite the stacks of brown envelopes I know are waiting for me at home. Surely I deserve a little bit of retail revenge? I earn six figures; I should be allowed to spend a tiny fraction of it on myself. If we’re in debt, it’s not because of my spending.

  I can’t believe I’m thinking like this. What have I started?

  Stop beating yourself up. You’ve bailed Ned out enough times. If it wasn’t for him, there wouldn’t be any brown envelopes.

  When I arrive back at the nearest Metro stop to Julia’s house, I decide on impulse to walk home. It’s a beautiful day, and I can’t help enjoying the fact that I don’t have to rush to be anywhere. For the first time in years, I have no deadline to meet or schedule to follow. It’s a novel sensation. I stop off at a couple of local shops in the village and take my time buying some fresh bread,
mozzarella, tomatoes, Chianti and salad, noting with slight alarm that I have less cash left than I’d thought. I can’t sponge off Julia, even if it’s only for a couple of days. I need to pay my way.

  By the time I get back to the cottage, I’m hot and sweaty and I have blisters on both heels, but I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time. Julia isn’t yet home, so I take another brief, inadequate shower in the bath house and then slip on a pale green T-shirt and the chiffon skirt, feeling absurdly frivolous.

  I pour myself a glass of white wine from the open bottle in the fridge and go upstairs to the brick terrace outside my room. I brush dead leaves off a battered rattan basket chair and curl up in it, gazing across the gardens towards the seven hills surrounding Rome. The late afternoon shadows are lengthening into dusk, and the soft susurration of cicadas floats towards me on a warm breeze along with the scent of jasmine, thyme and mint. Despite a dozen family holidays in destinations as far-flung as Florida and New Zealand, it’s been nearly twenty years since I had a moment like this.

  The little ginger kitten appears again and twines himself around the legs of my chair. I put my glass down and pat my lap. In an instant he leaps up, kneading my thighs until he settles himself. I smile and stroke behind his ears.

  ‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’ I scold.

  The kitten mews softly and closes his eyes. I feel strangely comforted by his presence.

  I pick up my glass again, slowly sipping the wine. I had so many dreams and ambitions when I was twenty-one; not just in terms of my career, but for all the things I wanted to do with my life. Surf in Hawaii, ski in South America, visit the Taj Mahal with my lover, any lover. Keep bees, throw a pot, learn about wines, write a screenplay, experience multiple orgasms. When did the limit of my hopes become the private schools my children attended or a bespoke Small-bone kitchen? What happened to me?

  At the sound of a car on the gravel drive, I jolt out of my maudlin reverie and unfold myself from the chair, cradling the kitten in my arms. Julia’s ancient orange Fiat bounces erratically down the long drive. I’ve never envied Julia her trust fund or even her happy family background, so different from mine, but for the first time I feel a faint pang of jealousy. She’s the architect of her own life. She has a job she adores, and she answers to no one. If she wants to spend a day gazing up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, she can. If she decides to lie in bed all day, no one will come in demanding to know where their rugby shorts are or when dinner will be. She can party all night, take a new lover every night of the week, or get a tattoo on her forehead if she feels like it. I can’t remember the last time I was even able to choose the TV channel.