Out Late with Friends and Regrets Read online

  Out Late with Friends and Regrets

  by

  Suzanne Egerton

  Published in 2013 by:

  Paddy’s Daddy Publishing

  Cover design by Bradley Pow

  A YEAR AGO

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  THE YEAR AFTER

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  A YEAR AGO

  A flicker of movement caught Fiona’s attention. The voice of the all-purpose cleric conducting the service was without rise and fall, and he was evidently trying to spin out the patchwork eulogy constructed from the notes she had given him. There wasn’t a lot of material to work with, admittedly. It had been difficult to offer an appropriate description of Paul’s personality, let alone supply an anecdote fit for public consumption. The vicar had been somewhat creative in making up the shortfall, and she found herself feeling quite detached from its appraisal.

  That flicker again, in the corner of her eye. She looked up, and saw a tortoiseshell butterfly fluttering in a spider’s web slung from one corner of the heavy curtains which framed the gateway to the hereafter. She looked away quickly, down to the flowers on the step, some of them already appearing weary and superfluous. The chair was hard, despite its upholstered seat. Not much longer, surely.

  She stared at the rollers on which her husband’s coffin lay, and wondered about the hidden mechanics which in a few minutes would propel the ugly box into the consuming flames. She thought of his vulnerable body, inside.

  Then the drone of more words, and a hymn to camouflage the hum of the motor, and the final, irrevocable valediction. The massed shuffle out to the dark line of sober cars. She didn’t remember anything of the journey to Cantlesham Park Hotel.

  A life of disappointments had left its mark on the face of Paul’s mother. It was a face that settled naturally into brooding, with a watchful victim behind the eyes.

  “Did you make sure Paul had the last rites?” she asked. Then, in case her daughter-in-law had forgotten the term, “The Sacrament of the Sick?”

  Mary Hay, her skin greyer than usual against her black coat, almost certainly already knew the answer to her question. She just seemed to need that extra little jab of suffering.

  “I’m sorry, er, Mum. Paul always insisted that he- he didn’t want any of... that sort of thing.” Mumbo-fucking-jumbo was the way he had usually put it.

  “You could have insisted. And we could have had him buried in the Church, instead of- that place.”

  Fiona felt bad for her; her faith was really all she had. Although it was hard to imagine a deep and loving relationship between Mary and her God, somehow. But Mary clung fiercely to the observances.

  “Really, Mum, he- he made me promise. He even said he didn’t want anyone at his funeral, only me.”

  “And when would this be? He was in a coma, wasn’t he?” Just a hint of a challenge.

  Of course she knew. She knew. She might have tried to obliterate from her memory the sight of Paul after his own father’s funeral, inappropriately merry, mimicing Father Jered’s facial tic and shaky hands, and declaring that neither this silly old priest nor any other would be carrying on such a bloody pantomime over his dead body. Mary would have tried to overcome with long-distance, forceful prayer his denial of everything she considered important.

  “He said it many times. Many times. I couldn’t...”

  Paul’s mother looked away, bit her lip, and moved away to speak to others of the small gathering, those whom she, the matriarch, had insisted ought to be there. They included the slummocky uncle with the strawberry nose who had pressed his way into Fiona’s buffer zone, enquiring, “No tears from the grieving widow, eh? Ah, you’ll need a bucket for ’em later, I expect.”

  Fiona could feel her knees wobbling to such an extent that she looked for the nearest vacant chair at the edge of the room. Her head felt muzzy, and she kept having to swallow. Oh, please, let it be over. She had put down her glass of unpleasant white wine somewhere, but didn’t want to get up again to seek it out. The mourners wouldn’t stay too much longer, surely. They’d witnessed Paul’s last exit, and the bought-in canapes provided by the hotel were down to the last crumbling few.

  “Here. You look as if you could do with it.”

  The fumes from a brandy balloon under her nose were fragrant and comforting. Fiona looked up, murmuring her thanks.

  “Mind if I sit down?” said Janet, Paul’s older sister, sitting on the next chair. She was a little like him to look at, but not as attractive. She smiled with a mouth that was like Paul’s, but it was a thoughtful, measured smile, not like his reckless grin. Fiona took a deep breath. She didn’t know Janet at all well, and wished she didn’t have to speak to her. She told herself to sip the brandy slowly; the last thing she needed was to get maudlin and weepy. But its sharp fire helped, and numbed the sickly hollow in her stomach.

  Janet turned her own chair towards her, and Fiona braced herself.

  “You’re coping well.” Janet’s direct stare was uncomfortable.

  “Um, thanks, Janet. Thanks for the drink, too.”

  “How are Patrick and Anna?”

  “Patrick couldn’t come. He’s doing well, though, my brother’s taken him on at his winery, in Australia. I can’t see Anna just now, but I know she’s here, somewhere...”

  Fiona had seen Anna creep into a rear pew of the chapel, late. At least she had come.

  “Yes, I knew about Patrick, of course.”

  “Of course. Yes, sorry.”

  “He and Paul didn’t get along.” It was a statement.

  “Uh, well, there were... some problems...”

  “It’s all right. There was only ever space for one ego that big.” Janet’s mouth twitched at one corner. “I should know.”

  “Oh.”

  “And what’s Anna doing now?”

  “She’s got a job in an office, but she wants to go to London to be an actor. She got a scholarship to The Beryl Linecar School of Speech and Drama last year, but Paul – we - didn’t like the thought of her living away. They don’t have student accommodation or anything. But now, I suppose she’ll go. Now that he’s - now that she’s older.”

  “At least she’ll be around to support to you over the next few weeks.”

  “Yes, oh yes. That is, she doesn’t actually live at home, she’s got a flat with another girl, in Cantlesham. Likes her independence, I’m afraid.”

  “I see.”

  Fiona suddenly wished for an end to this unexpected intimacy. She had said too much, given too much away. The brandy was
a puddle the size of a two pence piece in the bottom of the oversized glass. She wished she hadn’t said anything.

  “Excuse me, please, Janet, I have to go to the Ladies.”

  “Yes, of course, I’ll go and have a word with Anna, I think I saw her in the bar.”

  Fiona sat on the lavatory, head in hands, until her elbows made aching pits in her thighs. She mustn’t stay in there too long, someone might come looking for her. She washed her hands, noting that the touch of lipstick that she had applied earlier had worn off. She didn’t look too good, but it didn’t matter. Paul had liked her to have a pleasing appearance in public, neat and calculated not to attract too much attention. In the shop, though, she could wear jeans and one of her own T-shirts designs, because it was good for trade, and that was liberating. And when Paul’s health first began to deteriorate he became less interested in the running of the business anyway, which was a relief. She loved the shop.

  She carefully tissued away a smudge of mascara. That would do. She took a deep breath, and returned to the function.

  “Oh, there you are. We’re just off. Hope things go all right for you, dear.”

  “Thank you- ” Oh, God, what were their names again, Paul’s other uncle, “Charlie, and, and-” Mind blank.

  “Bella. That’s all right, dear. We understand. At a time like this...” They squeezed her and kissed her cheek with kind smiles. Nice couple. Their Christmas cards usually featured cosy fireside scenes, with laughing children and sparkly snow on the sills of leaded windows. Paul used to be so scathing about their dull little lives.

  Then two more left, and then Strawberry Nose and his wife, Paul’s mother hostessing them on their way as soon as they had made their goodbyes to the widow. And then Mary herself.

  “I’ll have to be going, Fiona, my taxi’s here. You can ring me sometime, if you get round to it. Perhaps the children will write, I did say hello to Anna, but she was busy talking to Janet. Well... goodbye, then.”

  “Goodbye, er, Mum. And-” Yes, needs must. “Thank you for... organising all this.”

  “Yes, it went well, I think. At least it was something I could do for my son.” Her cheeks seemed to sag, and she turned away quickly.

  Fiona heaved a sigh of profound relief. Perhaps she could go now, tear off the indifferently-fitting black jacket and skirt she had last worn ten years ago, soak in the bath and go to bed. Well, not just yet, as it was only five o’clock, but she wanted so very badly to be rid of the damned day.

  Somebody waved from the bar area. Janet. Sod it. She stared at the pattern of the corporate carpet swirling round the tables, its waves drawing her like a broken-masted ship towards the rocks. She sat obediently in front of a second brandy, between her daughter and Janet.

  “Thank you.” No question of driving home now; she would have to take a taxi. She hoped she had enough money with her.

  “Anna’s been telling me about her life. And about her move from the family home,” said Janet.

  Oh, God.

  “I think it’s clear that she’ll do anything to take up that place at drama school,” she continued, “and I want to put this to you, Fiona. I know we haven’t been that close for one reason and another, but since my divorce I’ve been thinking of getting a lodger. If we could come to some fair arrangement, I’d be happy to have Anna; I’d sooner have family than a total stranger - you just can’t tell who you’re going to get when you advertise, can you?”

  “It’s a great idea, Mum, Auntie Janet’s isn’t far from the Northern Line, I could be into town in no time, and I’ve told her I can do her ironing as part of the deal...”

  Quite a bit of ground had been covered in Fiona’s absence, clearly.

  “Well, yes, I’m sure we could afford it -” No mortgage to pay now, and a fraction of the booze bill.

  “I’d get an evening job, anyway.” There was a hard little stone in Anna’s look that said, I want to do this myself, I’m eighteen, you won’t stop me, and why should you think I need you now?

  “You’d be learning lines in the evenings, wouldn’t you dear?” said Janet, “You might want to earn a bit of pocket money at the week-end, and that’s up to you, Anna. But the arrangement would suit me well enough, ironing or not! And it seems Anna’s happy with the idea, so what do you think, Fiona?”

  “Yes, I’d be fine with it.” One less resentment. “But you’re sure, Janet? I mean, a teenager... it might be quite, well...”

  “Anna seems like a very mature young woman to me.”

  Yes, so she was. Very grown-up. Aloof, almost. Separate now, not coming back to her father’s house, ever. Never aware of intercessions made on her behalf, or her brother’s.

  Anna rose. “Sorry, Auntie, I really have to go, you got my number, didn’t you?” she said, smiling. Then her composed face, for her mother. The kiss, the goodbye, the turn, the exit. Fiona watched her daughter’s youthful perfection walk out. No wave from the door.

  Janet’s silence was long enough for Fiona to take a few long, controlled breaths, and swallow the constriction in her throat.

  “She’s a lovely girl, Fiona.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “I’m guessing you had a hideous time with my brother.”

  “Oh, no... not really...”

  “You know, I sometimes think he was born with something a bit wrong with him. He was my brother, and nothing changes that, but God, talk about Jekyll and Hyde. He could charm the birds down from the trees... and then wring their necks.” Janet gave an abrupt laugh.

  “Yes, it’s funny how everybody was drawn to him,” replied Fiona, the image of Paul’s roguish smile immediate and vivid in her mind, “but he never wanted to be with them. Unfortunately, he, er, he always said that he couldn’t stand people.”

  Except me. He always loved me.

  “Oh well. Whatever his demons were, he’s at peace now.” Janet sighed. “I’d better order a taxi, I don’t want to miss my train. Can I give you a lift?”

  “No. Thanks.” Just home, protect the soft shell under a familiar stone.

  “I’ll be in touch, Fiona, I’ll ring you in a day or two, about Anna. Just get plenty of rest. It’s going to take a long time to adjust to things. If you get a bit frazzled, just call me, OK?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  No, I won’t.

  Janet kissed her cheek, and when she left, Fiona sat staring into space for a very long time.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Gaahshit!”

  The empty glass exploded with a shrill chish as it shattered against the door jamb, the sound followed closely by the whump of her own body crashing down on the rug. The rug that had tripped her up.

  She gasped for breath for a number of jerky inhalations, then exhaled with a groan. She clung to the thick pile with one hand, groping for a tissue in her pocket with the other, and gave in to a proper, self-pitying blubber. Her rug, too. Not the one Paul had bought. Her own rug had tripped her.

  She gave herself a few minutes to sob, curling into the rug’s softness and running her fingers over the soreness of her shoulder, which had caught the stern coffee table off guard as she fell.

  Eventually she sat up, leaning against the sofa. At least the glass had been empty, and only a small carmine scar marked the woodwork. As if it had cut itself, thought Fiona. At least I won’t have to repaint the whole thing. Sweep the bits up later.

  She clambered to her feet and made for the kitchen, pouring the last of the bottle into a fresh glass. Hardly any. She opened another bottle, filled the glass, and kicked the corner of the rug flat as she came back into the sitting room.

  What a bloody awful Sunday. It was only last night she had realised it was a year since Paul’s death, and the sense of daring and achievement in making changes to her surroundings had pretty much run out of steam. Early on, she had painted the interior of the house white, with a concentrated energy and speed that surprised her, recruiting the black bedsheets as dustcovers and paint rags. Banished from the wall
s were the moody seascapes and the bleak monochromes of Scots pines which had become part of the closed landscape of the marital home. She had hung a huge, glorious abstract over the fireplace, a crusty burst of flame, ochre and scarlet which lifted her joy levels every time she looked at it. She felt guilty about the purchase initially, and equally in trading in her small saloon for a sporty two-seater, but the resulting pleasure damped down the discomfort. In the garden she ripped out the insipid roses (“I’m sorry, but you’re seriously under-performing and I’m just not prepared to keep you on,” she told them) and replaced them with marigolds and nasturtiums, enthusiastic plants which knew how to make the best of their opportunities. Paul’s CD collection had gone to the Oxfam shop in Cantlesham; the sentimental Nashville compilations would probably appeal to some local buyers, but less so the obscure, tortured-introspection stuff, the music he claimed held the key to his being, and which, according to him, she could never be expected to understand.