The Rose Petal Beach Page 7

  I met Tami a little while later and I’ve been grateful ever since they’re in my life, that I’m like family to them, and them to me.

  The spurt of water on my tired body is a divine experience. There’s nothing like the first shower of the day to wake you up and get you going. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit unnerved about driving past Tami and Scotty’s last night and the lights being off. It’s so not like them. The last time that happened was when Cora’s appendix burst and she had to be rushed in for emergency surgery.

  I haven’t got time to drop in on the way to work, so it’ll have to be afterwards. Although once I’m in the office who knows what time I’ll leave? I’ve just got this nagging feeling that all is not well over there. I’ve got a feeling … Ahh, you’ll probably laugh at me, so I won’t finish what I was thinking. I’d better get on with this shower and then hit the road to Kent. Joy, joy, joy.

  Tami

  ‘Rice Pops? Again?’ Cora protests when her bowl is full to the brim with small pieces of cereal.

  ‘You didn’t have Rice Pops yesterday, did you?’ I ask. Yesterday morning seems an age away.

  ‘No,’ she replies.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘We always have Rice Pops.’

  ‘Apart from yesterday. And, if I recall correctly, the day before, as well. In fact, this is the first time you’ve had them all week.’

  ‘We always have Rice Pops,’ she repeats.

  ‘OK, Ansy, would you like Rice Pops?’ I ask, reaching for the pink and white spotted bowl in front of her to swap with Cora’s blue and white striped one.

  ‘OK, Mama,’ Ansy replies. ‘But I don’t want the ga-ga spoon, I want the BIG Wallace and Gromit one. Not the little one, the big one.’

  I make the swap and return my attention to Cora. ‘What would you like instead?’

  Her large brown eyes are swimming with tears, her mouth is turned down, while her pulled-in chin is wobbling.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t want that bowl. It’s the baby bowl.’

  This morning they woke up within minutes of each other in the big bed and both lay very still, looking around them, taking in the surroundings. They looked suspiciously at each other, then reached under the covers – and Cora discovered she was still wearing her jeans and Olympics T-shirt. Anansy, who always puts her pyjamas on the moment she comes in from school to save time later, discovered she was still wearing her red towelling dressing gown.

  ‘Good morning, sleepyheads,’ I said brightly, trying to crowbar some normality into the day before fragments of last night came crashing in. I’d sat between them all night, drifting in and out of sleep, waiting for something to tell me that I’d imagined everything that had happened.

  ‘Morning, Mama,’ they mumbled, stretching and unknotting their young bodies. Slowly, their expressions changed and I could see what happened last night was playing in their minds. I put my arms around and hugged them. ‘We’re going to be OK,’ I said to them, dropping a kiss on each of their heads. ‘So will Dad. He’ll be OK, too, I promise.’ In response, they wrapped their arms around me, managing to avoid each other’s arms, and clung on.

  Right now, Cora and Anansy are telling me in their own ways that they didn’t believe me.

  ‘Here we go.’ I decant the Rice Pops from Cora’s bowl into Anansy’s. I know this will not be enough for the tall eight-year-old with two shoulder-length plaits on either side of her head. It’ll still have yuckiness on it so won’t be fit for any other cereal. Taking the bowl, I go to the sink, pausing to open the dishwasher and pluck out the requested spoon. I wash both items with washing-up liquid and the green sponge, making a big show of it so neither can protest on its level of yuck-freeness.

  ‘OK, what would you like?’ I ask Cora.

  I see it in her eyes, in the way she moves her face, I hear it, too, in the short breath she takes before she mumbles, ‘cornflakes.’ What would she like? Her daddy back, please.

  ‘Me, too,’ I say to her and fill up my own bowl with cornflakes, too. She knows what I mean, what I am saying.

  Fourteen years ago

  ‘Do you ever trace your name in the stars?’ Scott asked me.

  We lay on the beach, our second night in Brighton, and stared up at the sky: ink-black and endless; a bottomless ocean suspended above our world. It was cold and we were freezing, but it’d seemed criminal not to come out here to see the black sea up close.

  ‘No, I’ve never done that’.

  ‘Look, it’s easy.’ He raised his hand, curled his other digits inwards, making a pencil out of his index finger. ‘See?’ His hand moved in big strokes, taking in multiple stars, multiple galaxies. A stroke down and then across: ‘T’. A diagonal sweep up, a diagonal sweep down, one across: ‘A’. A sweep up, then down a fraction, up a fraction, then long sweep down: ‘M’. A sweep down, two small sweeps top and bottom: ‘I’. A diagonal sweep up, a diagonal sweep down, one across: ‘A. TAMIA.’ As he wrote, I could see it, I could see the invisible line that joined up the heavens until they were all about me. Until me, my name, filled the sky. ‘Can you see it? Can you see your name up there?’

  ‘Yes, yes I can,’ I breathed.

  ‘OK, hold onto that, see it really clearly, and then close your eyes, take a picture of your name in the stars and store it here,’ he brushed his fingertips on my forehead. ‘And here.’ He pressed his fingers to my chest, over my heart. ‘Never let it go.’

  My eyes lingered shut as I willed my mind to hold onto the memory, begging my heart to do the same.

  After it was there, branded deep into me, I turned my head to him, watching him with his eyes closed, taking a picture and storing it too. I did the same to him: his wild brown hair, his smooth skin, his straight, narrow nose, his long, dark eyelashes, his wide, almost perfect mouth. I fixed the image in my head, then I closed my eyes and took a picture for my head and for my heart of the boy who gave me the stars.

  After both of them have milk, their favoured spoon and the correct channel on TV, I sit at my place and pick up my spoon. I haven’t got any kind of appetite, but I can’t encourage them to eat if I don’t at least attempt mine.

  Silence is unnatural at this table, especially on a school day when chattering and speculating on who will get into trouble or who will be awarded the much-coveted ‘star of the day’ often overtakes everything. They usually need to be mentally herded back to eating.

  Carefully, I lay down my spoon beside my bowl. I need to say something, anything, that will crack the dome of anxiety that is shrouding us. ‘Dad is—’

  Into the gap between words, a key is inserted into the lock of the front door. Then comes the groaning yawn of the front door being opened, footsteps inside the house, feet being wiped on the mat – one foot, other foot, both feet in quick time, and then feet walking along the tiled hall, turning, walking …

  ‘DAD!’ Cora and Anansy both scream, slipping down from their seats and tearing across the kitchen to him. They run to him and he drops to his knees, taking them both into his arms and hugging them close. He buries his face in the space between them and draws them closer still.

  I stand watching them, waiting. Patiently waiting for that thing to kick in where I want to throw myself at him, hug him close, check with a thousand kisses that he is in one piece, he is safe, he is all right. I’m still waiting as the girls’ relieved chatter fills the room. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

  Scott lied to them. He took them off to school with lies sitting in their ears that soothed their troubled minds, settled their fears. I’m sure he thought he was doing it for the best, to reassure them, but a lie is a lie is a lie.

  ‘Why did the policemen take you away, Daddy?’ Anansy had asked. ‘Did you do something naughty?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said, dropping kisses on each of their heads – first Cora then Anansy. ‘No, no. I’m sorry you had to see that.’ Kiss. Kiss. ‘It was a mistake. They thought I was someone else.’
Kiss. Kiss. ‘They said sorry and that it won’t happen again.’

  I knew he was lying because of what the policewoman told me. I knew he was lying because he would not look at me. In fact, at that moment, it felt like I knew he was lying because his lips were moving. I stood back and let it happen because sometimes all you want is to hear the lie when you know the truth is too awful to bear.

  He told them to finish their breakfast while he had a shower and then as a special treat he was going to take them to school.

  They’d done as they were told and I’d forced a smile on my face to see them off at the door. Any minute now he’ll be back. I’m not sure which I’d like to do first: tear a strip off for him lying to them, or scream at him for putting us in this position in the first place.

  As it turns out, when I see him I do neither of those things, I stare at him across the kitchen for long seconds, then I walk towards him and put my arms around him, the relief so huge it almost drowns me.

  My husband clings to me in return and we don’t say anything, we simply stand holding one another as the world carries on around us.

  Twelve years ago

  ‘We don’t actually need to spend so much on our wedding rings,’ I reminded Scott. Probably not what the jeweller we were standing in front of wanted to hear, but it was the truth. The ring, the dress, the venue, the food – it was all pretty and lovely but the truth of it was, if we had to wear jeans with a Hula Hoop on our ring fingers it’d still be special because marrying Scott in six months’ time was the most important thing of all.

  I didn’t think sometimes he understood that. I didn’t care about the rest of it as much as he seemed to. He kept pushing the budget, going for the most expensive option, as if he wanted to prove that we’d done well for ourselves. People looked down their noses at us, certainly, especially in the posher places we visited, but it didn’t bother me, I simply wouldn’t use that person. It got to Scott though, it needled him and caused him to want to make big, showy gestures.

  ‘I know,’ Scott said. ‘But I want to spend so much on our wedding rings. It’ll be a symbol of how far we’ve come and how far we’ve got to go – together. When we were growing up in our tiny houses and with my family and you not going to college … did you ever think we’d be able to afford to walk into a shop like this, let alone buy something, let alone something so …’ He paused to look at the bloated, balding man standing on the other side of the counter listening avidly to us, then tugged me a little way away to give us some privacy in a shop that was only slightly bigger than the size of our living room but was still classily crammed with cases of unusual and gorgeous jewellery. ‘Let alone something so unique and pricey,’ Scott whispered, standing close to me. He found my eyes with his. ‘Let’s do this. We’ve both got good jobs, let’s splash out on this and show people how important we are now,’ Scott said.

  I glanced back at the rings, resting on top of the counter on a large piece of purple velvet. They were platinum creations that fitted together to make one ring. The top ring, the woman’s ring, had a straight upper edge, the lower edge a wavy line with hidden notches that connected it to the lower ring. The lower ring, the man’s ring, had a straight bottom edge, with the upper edge swirled in a similar way to allow the woman’s ring with corresponding notches to sit upon it and become one ring. The jeweller had explained that once you owned it, the rings were resized together to make sure they still fitted together as well as on your finger. They were beautiful. And nearly three grand each. I had money, Scott had finished studying and was earning, but still …

  ‘TB, I want to do this.’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s so much money.’

  ‘Look, we have to do this. Actually, we are doing this. We deserve nice things so we’re doing this. OK?’ He lowered his head to be nearer to my face. ‘OK?’

  I nodded. ‘OK.’

  He grinned that grin that always made my stomach flip and took his credit card out of his wallet. The rings were too expensive, but if I divided the price by the number of years we were going to be together, it’d be hardly anything at all.

  ‘This is such a nightmare,’ are Scott’s first words as he sits back on his preferred part of the sofa (nearest the door with the plumpest cushions). ‘I never thought this could happen to me.’

  ‘What is happening to you?’ I ask. I am in my preferred seat, which is the armchair nearest the door. I can’t relax, I want to be doing something. I’m not entirely sure what, just something physical that will displace some of the anxiety.

  ‘The detective said she’d spoken to you, told you what I’ve been accused of and by who?’

  ‘Yes, and that was all she would tell me. I don’t know details or anything like that.’

  ‘Well neither do I. It didn’t happen so how can I know details?’

  ‘So she’s lying? My best friend has made it all up for fun, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘So I did it, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No, Scott, I’m saying I want to know what’s going on.’

  He sits forward, agitated, his features pinched as he holds back anger. ‘Look, her work hasn’t been up to standard recently. She’s sloppy, misses deadlines, can’t seem to come up with any original ideas. I’ve been calling her on it, you know I don’t carry passengers in business, and she’s pissed off at me.’

  ‘There’s pissed off, which you take to industrial tribunal, and then there’s this.’

  ‘She said she was going to get me back, this is obviously it.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense …’

  ‘We work a lot of late nights together, and she can’t get at me by sabotaging my work, so yeah, why wouldn’t she make something up like that? As you can see, it’s had the desired effect – I’ve been arrested and you’re doubting me.’

  ‘Women don’t do that,’ I say in my head. ‘They just don’t.’

  ‘There’s more to this, Scott, and you are not telling me what.’

  The cogs of his mind whirl and click as he waits for me to drop it. I simply wait. Scott doesn’t operate well with silence, he needs to keep talking until he knows you’re so tied up in knots you give in. I, on the other hand, can wait. I am good at waiting.

  ‘All right,’ he says, lowering his gaze to the spot he was standing when he was arrested last night. ‘All right. She might have come onto me.’

  ‘What?’

  He is on his feet, his hands out to calm me, to stop me losing the plot. ‘It was just a little banter that went a bit too far. I stopped it when I realised she was taking it too seriously.’

  ‘You should have told me this,’ I say.

  ‘I know, I know, but I was so embarrassed and ashamed that she got it so wrong from my behaviour. But you know I’m always like this so it was a shock to realise that someone was taking me seriously. And now she’s resigned I won’t have to see her again.’

  ‘She’s resigned?’

  ‘Yeah, two days ago, turned up and handed in her notice, said she had a month’s holiday owing and she was off. Like that, no talking about it, no discussion about handing over to a replacement. This accusation was obviously her parting shot.’

  ‘Did you tell the police this?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What do you mean “sort of”?’

  ‘I think it’s best to keep my head down and let it go away.’

  ‘What? Who has a plan like that? Look, what does your solicitor say about it all?’

  ‘I haven’t got a solicitor, I don’t need one, I have nothing to hide.’

  ‘But Scott, don’t you—’

  ‘No, look, TB, I don’t want to talk about this any more. You just have to trust me that it’s going to work out. I mean, they let me go without charge, without needing bail or anything because they haven’t got a thing on me. They said they need to make further enquiries, but I know and they know there’s nothing on me. I don’t need a solicitor. This is all going to go away, I promise you.’


  ‘What if I want to talk about it and keep talking about it until I understand what’s going on?’

  He raises his hands and opens his mouth as if about to speak, then decides against it. ‘You’re supposed to trust me,’ he says. ‘Look, never mind, I’m going to sleep. If I stay here, I’m going to say something I regret.’

  With that, he exits the room and climbs the stairs. Leaving me to deal with the feeling that I am the one who has brought our family to this point.

  Seven years ago

  Scott was comfortable in front of the crowd of fifty or so people assembled at The Look Is The Idea, about to give a speech. I kept looking around at the faces, so proud of all of them and how far we had come. When I moved down I had come to work in the Corporate Communications department of TelemeCo. Through many, many late nights working together, Terry Cranson, the man who had originally employed me in London, and I had come up with a plan to take the department and make it into its own business. We would work on financing to make it a separate entity that would then do work for TelemeCo and other businesses. It’d take us time to make a profit, but we were sure TelemeCo would go for it since there would be no overheads for them.

  Five years later and we had made the kind of profit we hadn’t even dreamed of. Scott was Customer Relations Manager, having been recommended for the job by me, Terry was President and sat on the board, and I was CEO.

  ‘Thank you, everyone, for taking time out of your extremely hectic schedules to come here today to say goodbye to Tami Challey,’ Scott said, graciously.

  He had asked Terry if he could make the speech today. Scott paused while a few people clapped and I smiled, embarrassed. I’d never liked being the centre of attention, even if it was only for a few minutes. ‘It’s not often a man gets to admit he’s sleeping with the boss and keep his job,’ Scott continued, eliciting the laughter he’d wanted, ‘but I’m lucky like that. I’m even luckier that Tami is going to be having our second child in just under a month, but it’s very sad for all of us here that she won’t be returning to work afterwards. Tami feels she can’t concentrate on looking after our children as well as single-handedly running the company here – don’t tell Terry I said that, obviously.’ More laughter. ‘So she is stepping down. But I’ll still be here to give you regular updates on the progress of our family and my amazing wife.’ A few awwws from around the room. ‘I’d like to say how proud I am of Tami. When I first decided to move down here to study for my MBA and Tami, rather wonderfully, agreed to move with me so we could stay together, I had no idea what she would do with the job transfer she requested.’ I didn’t know where Terry was in the room, but I knew beneath his face of stone he would be staring at Scott with incredulous eyes. ‘Tami – and Terry, of course – have created something wonderful here and I think we can all say how grateful we are to them for having the vision to see it through. So, in conclusion, I’d like to ask you to raise your glasses to Tami Challey.’ From wherever he was, I could feel Terry’s eyes on me now, trying to remind me of the conversation we’d had yesterday, and I heard his voice, louder than the rest, as they chorused, ‘Tami Challey.’