The Birds and the Bees (5 page)

Stevie sighed, pushed back her chair and looked at the words that plopped out of her printer on the page. Yet another sheet to join the ream of bad writing destined for the recycling bin in the garage.

‘Yeah, this is really going to pay the bills, pratting around like this,’ she said to herself. She had a block as big as Everest in her writer’s flow. In fact, she might as well log off
for ever, then get a job in a factory sprinkling cheese on pizzas.

It was not often that writing felt like hard work, but today it did. Not that she usually wrote at the weekend, but seeing as she hadn’t touched her keyboard since last Monday, she thought she might take advantage of the hour whilst Danny played
Harry Potter
on his GameCube. He was busy zapping toadstools to get Bertie Botts beans to buy some spells at Hogwarts, and he seemed quite content, although Stevie felt guilty that she wasn’t doing anything more exciting herself to entertain him.

She always tried to do something special at the weekends–take him for a walk to the park, or do some gardening together, or play board games. It was a kickback, she supposed, from her own childhood. She would get piles of games for Christmas and birthdays, but find there was no one to play them with. Her mum was always too busy to sit down and shake a dice, and even though their tiny home was like a new pin, Edna Honeywell was continuously scrubbing or Brasso-ing the ornaments. Later, Stevie suspected that was probably just an excuse to avoid getting roped into playing
Frustration
or
Ker Plunk
and, much as she herself liked a nicely kept home, she vowed never to make such a god of the housework that she was too busy to play with her own children. Her dad worked long hours and so when he did get home, he could barely manage a ‘hello’, never mind a game of
Cluedo
. He needed to save his energies for the rabid arguments that Stevie listened to as she lay trembling in her bed.

So one day, Stevie simply stopped asking her parents to
play and turned to herself for entertainment, drawing and scribbling, reading and writing, constructing little books and stories of love and happy families that became longer and more structured and crafted. She never showed them to anyone, they were her own private treasures. Her diaries were highly detailed too. In them, she found an overflow pipe for her frustrations and ambitions and crazily mixed-up emotions. Especially when her father ran off with the woman with a really thick neck a few doors away, and her mother, in vengeance, took a slimy lover whose eyes were too close together and who stared too long at Stevie’s budding breasts for her comfort. It had been a difficult time and stained her teenage years with some memories she would rather forget. She had burnt the diaries in the end; they had been useful to write but far too painful to read.

It had been a relief to get away to university to study English, made possible because it was in the old days when students of moderate-earning parents got grants and they only had to stump up the minimum payment, which her dad did out of guilt because it was easier to give presents and money than time. That was why she always wanted to give a child what she had never had–a parent’s interest and attention. Preferably two parents, although that chance seemed forever to be slipping past her.

Today, though, she did not want to play with Danny and that made her feel mean, although she had accepted a long time ago that she wasn’t Supermum. She just wanted to go to the gym and hurt herself with big weights, then come home and soothe the aches in a hot bath, wrap herself in
her fluffy towelling robe and fold onto the sofa to sleep until Tuesday, the day that Matthew came home.

It was an incredibly soggy day. The air was damp and the Yorkshire earth was dealing with the aftermath of heavy showers through the night.

‘I’m bored,’ said Danny, quitting Harry.

‘Me too,’ said Stevie. Paris and Brandon would have to wait. If only she could write her own destiny as easily as she could theirs. Then again, maybe that wasn’t wise, with the self-destructive mood she was in at the moment. She would only have had herself trampled by Brandon’s horse just to get some relief from the pain gnawing away inside her.

Well, she couldn’t curl up and do nothing, that was for sure. Cooping a bored child up in the house with a bored adult was like mixing petrol and struck matches.

‘Danny, get your wellies on and your big coat,’ she said impulsively.

‘Cool. Where are we going?’

‘Bluebelling,’ said Stevie.

There was a lovely wood at Pogley Top that she had once discovered with Mick when they had driven aimlessly out to christen her new (well to her, anyway) car. The ground had been far too muddy to explore in his best shoes and her heels, which was a shame as Mick was all for having his wicked way with her, right there on the thick carpet of scented bluebells. It was on that day he proposed.

Matthew had taken her there too one warm spring day when they had first started courting. He had made up a basket that was full of the most delicious food, only for most of it to get wasted when they spent all afternoon
snogging on the gingham tablecloth under the trees, feeding each other the odd Twiglet to keep up the strength in their lip muscles.

Danny sat in the front of the car on his booster seat, trying to read the road signs and asking what they meant.

‘Why’s that say “n”?’

‘It’s not an n, love, it’s an upside down u. It means No U-turns–you can’t turn round there.’

‘What’s that one mean, Mummy?’

‘Hump-back bridge,’ said Stevie, checking for oncoming traffic and then taking the bump at a speed not conducive to good car maintenance. Her son gave a thrilled little scream, the way she used to on the trip to the grand annual Church picnic at Higher Hoppleton Park. Every Sunday, Stevie was shunted off to St John’s, whilst Edna gave the house a good bottoming. It was one of her better moves though, for Sunday School gave Stevie most, if not all, of the lovely warm moments she would carry with her into adulthood, the picnics being top of her list. The kindly old men of the church would ferry everyone from the holy meeting-place to the park, overtaking each other en route, much to the delighted shrieks of the 300 kids piled up on the back seats well before the days of rear seat car belts. Then, young and old, little old ladies in hats and the Reverend alike had played rounders, football, picked bluebells, eaten egg and cress sandwiches, and butterfly buns. Aw, those picnics had been so wonderful. She loved May bluebells for the fond memories they evoked. They seemed to feature in all her happiest memories.

There were nicer woods than Pogley Top, but none felt
quite as magical. Maybe it was because the trees all conspired overhead to give it a dark, mysterious feel. Maybe it was because it was sheltered on all sides and the air seemed extra still there. She had come here so many times when things turned bad with Mick, hoping to rewind time to that perfect day.

‘Come on, mate,’ said Stevie, holding the car door open for her son and then helping him out. His little wellies were sucked down straight away into the squelchy mud and together they went for a drunken, giggly walk in between the trees. That musty, pungent smell never failed to take her back to happier times. If ever there were fairies, she was sure they resided in these silent bluebell woods, where their fragile wings would never be blown off-course. As if to add credence to her imaginings, there was an Enid Blyton fairy ring at her feet that her trendy pink welly narrowly missed.

They picked a way through the flowers, collecting armfuls, although Danny dropped three for every two he picked up. Stevie laughed. He would definitely need throwing in the bath when they got home, clothes and all, but what the hell. The fresh air wasn’t taking any of the pain away, but it was nice to splash around on some soggy land and get mucky with nature.

When they got home, they stuck the flowers in conventional vases, and then when they ran out, in milk bottles and the cream jug. Once Danny was tucked up in bed and well on his way to Sleepyland, Stevie took up Paris’s plight of unrequited love again, but still her head wouldn’t play the game. There was no conviction in Brandon’s proclamation of love. She only wanted to warn Paris that he was
bound to bugger off at some point, if not right then, and the omnipresent bluebell scent in the room only served to remind her of kissing Matthew, or being besotted by Mick. Or even to take her further back, with memories of those sunshine-filled May picnics, when she was someone who still believed in fairies and magic and that princesses got their princes. And that there were such things as happy endings.

Two days later, when the bluebells had started to wither, Adam watched Stevie enter the gym, swinging her bag, and present her entry card at the front desk. She had spotted him, he knew, but was trying to pretend she hadn’t by whistling a merry tune and looking everywhere but in his direction. Pathetic really. She had been here every morning since she joined; he had checked her records to find out when that was precisely. The date alone had made it pretty obvious why she was pounding away on the treadmills, although she wasn’t going to lose a lot of weight building up a mad sweat and then going off and eating half the restaurant like he had caught her about to do on what he now realized was her first day.
Yeah, great start
.

Her friend’s hair had looked infinitely better then, he had noticed. In fact, she looked quite a classy piece, having got rid of the weird pink.
She
had had hers done too, but he
so
wanted to drum it loudly into her obviously less than bright skull that it wouldn’t do any good. She should have thought of making such improvements
before
she drove her man away. Did she think she was seriously going to lure him back by cutting off a few dead ends? Not when faced
with the mighty attributes of his beloved Jo. She could not even hope to come near to Jo, who could knock any woman off the planet with her looks. She would be far better following
his
plan of action but she wasn’t going to listen to him, she had made that perfectly clear. In fact, from her snotty attitude, he actually had the impression that she thought some of this might be his fault! How, he hadn’t worked out yet, and he wasn’t going to ask the little madam how she’d drawn that conclusion. Well, he just hoped she didn’t cock up his plans for reclaiming his woman. He was going crazy without her. He could hardly sleep for the nervous excitement that her homecoming tomorrow was giving him.

Stevie went into the gym with a heart that was stuffed full of blame and looking for a target, but Matthew was as protected and cloaked as the starship
Enterprise
during a Klingon attack. Her head just wouldn’t let her attack him, because surely he was a victim in this–emotionally outmanoeuvred, a sitting duck. She wasn’t even starting to allow herself to think what she wanted to do to Jo, but she had to grudgingly concede that even Joanna MacLean was a sort of victim too, and you didn’t need to be a genius to point to the source of all this heartache: that Scottish animal, masquerading as something human and respectable behind that desk, the wildman who had come into Stevie’s life and tried to wreck it. Oh yes, she had seen the blame in his eyes, the belief that this was somehow her fault. She didn’t know how he worked that one out, but then again, his type never took responsibility for their own actions.

That cocky look he was giving her just made her want to storm over there and tell him that if
he
hadn’t been such a psycho-nutter, if
he
had treated his wife like a woman should be treated, if
he
hadn’t brought her low with mental torture and physical violence, she would not have had that air of vulnerability which had been obviously irresistible to her soft-hearted, gentle, uncritical Matthew. In comparison with
him
, Matthew had looked like a knight in shining armour, and no woman could resist that.

This mess was all Adam MacLean’s fault. She despised him.

MacLean was trying to pretend he hadn’t seen her, which was good because she didn’t want to talk to him either. What on earth could they possibly have to say to each other? Besides which, she didn’t want to talk to anyone today, not even Catherine. She was too busy with her preparations for tomorrow, and trying to cling onto her dwindling reserves of inner strength. The house was extra-sparkling clean, the fridge was stocked up with lovely goodies and treats, and all Matthew’s favourite nibbly things. The bills due had all been paid, the banking was done, although the joint-account status had been a bit of a shocker, but she would sort that one out with Matthew later. All that was left was to get on that treadmill and start running, in the hope that by some miracle she would have lost a stone by the time Matthew landed tomorrow, and also that she might burn off some of the hatred she felt for that red-haired gorilla.

Adam did a sweep of the place an hour and a half later and saw that Stevie was still pounding away on the
treadmill. He almost felt sorry for her, before remembering it was her fault they were all in this position. He noticed that she was glaring in his direction and so he glared back. Then she suddenly buckled, lost her footing, tripped over her own trainer and fell on the treadmill, which transported her backwards, made her do a reverse roly poly then rudely deposited her with a thud on the floor. Buster Keaton couldn’t have choreographed it better. A couple of people started to come over to help, but they were mainly pensioners around at this time, and Adam beat them to it.

His long legs thundered over to her. She was a customer, after all, and he had a responsibility to her. Even if she was the one who had wrecked his relationship with the most wonderful woman in the world, he still had his professional duty to do.

‘Are you awwwrrright?’ he asked, helping her up.

When she realized who it was helping her up though, she shrugged him right off. People were looking at her and she felt a total idiot and, even though she knew it was a huge cliché, Stevie really did want the ground to open and swallow her up whole and get her out of there via an underground network. It was her own stupid fault, she knew, for not eating enough. In the past five days she had eaten little more than three bites of that ham and Brie panini, and was surviving mainly on the milky coffees she had been drinking on a half-hourly basis. It wasn’t as if the caffeine would interfere with her sleep patterns, because she wasn’t getting any sleep. As a result, she felt totally wired all the time, a condition not helped by the adrenaline
surging through her veins, generated by the anxiety of waiting for this week to be at an end.

Now the only thing she could feel was embarrassment. People were going to go home tonight and say, ‘Ha ha, this woman fell off the treadmill today big time–it was hilarious,’ and just to add total humiliation to the mix, Bigfoot had tried to lift her up. Her nose felt clogged up and was swelling before everyone else’s eyes, and she wasn’t going to be eight stone and beautiful by tomorrow. She would still be plump, but with blonder, shorter hair and a big, fat, swollen, split-open, red nose. There was no way she was going to cry in front of
him
, though, however defeated she felt
.
In fact, thinking about it, this was his fault as well. If she hadn’t looked over and seen him staring at her, she would not have lost her running rhythm. Bloody Scottish jinx. Was he making it his new mission to screw up her life totally?

‘Let’s get you tae the First Aid room,’ Adam said.

‘I’ll fix it at homeb,’ said Stevie, cringing with embarrassment as a big splodge of nose-blood landed on the floor. She hadn’t a tissue or even a long sleeve, and was forced to accept the soft white hankie he offered her from his pocket. His best one too, he thought. He wouldn’t see that again.

‘Dank you,’ she said grudgingly.

‘Come and sit down for a minute.’

‘Doh. I just wand my bag and do go homeb,’ said Stevie, sniffing and then wincing because it hurt to do so. ‘I’b bring dor hankie back dext timeb.’ That is, if she could bear the indignity of everyone pointing her out as the in-house entertainment.

She did look hellish pale, thought Adam, and a wee bit woozy. He would be failing in his duty if he didn’t advise her not to get into her car, even if home was just down the road.

‘I really don’t think you should drive for a wee while,’ he said, attempting to take her arm again. ‘Trust me, I’m Firrrst-Aid trained.’

‘I’mb fine,’ she insisted, pulling back as his hand made contact.

‘Well, I cannae force ye, of course,’ he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of defeat.

‘Really? Ad there’s be thinking dat’s your sbeciality!’ said Stevie, and with as much dignity as she could muster in the circumstances, she turned on her heel and headed towards the changing rooms, leaving a stunned Adam thinking,

Now whit the hell did the stupid woman mean ba’ that?