The Faithless (3 page)

As he went into the sitting room, he smiled at Cynthia’s efforts. The room looked lovely, and he reminded himself how lucky he was to have a wife like her. She was not just pretty, she was like sex-on-legs. With her stunning blue eyes and thick sovereign-coloured hair, she turned heads everywhere she went. He knew that other men envied him his gorgeous wife. Everywhere she went men looked at her, and she noticed them looking, he knew that. It pleased her, because it showed her that she was still attractive, even after having a child. It was important to Cynthia that she was wanted. Not that sex was her top
priority, unfortunately, but because she liked the power it gave her. She was a strange woman, cold – even towards their daughter. She only smiled when the child was doing what she wanted, acting as she felt a child should. Like him, poor Gabby had to behave just how Cynthia believed a daughter should, and not show her up. His wife had no room for reality, and that really worried him. Cynthia had two beliefs: that she was right, and that everyone else on the planet was wrong.

Now he had to give her some bad news and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Not at all. No matter how he dressed it up, she frightened him; her colossal temper could erupt at any moment, and when it did she was like a madwoman. Most of the time she
acted
like a lady, he had to give her that. She was perfection personified – until you crossed her and told her something she didn’t want to hear. Then she could swear like a docker and fight like the Irish. But then her family
was
Irish – not that she bragged about that.

He glanced at the TV set, but didn’t put it on. Cynthia didn’t think watching telly all the time was something
nice
people did. A good film or a documentary was fine, and
News At Ten
of course. But gameshows or comedy programmes were beneath her radar. She saw those as common, and common was what really sent her off her head.

It wasn’t easy being married to her and, even though he told himself that he was lucky a girl like her chose him, it was getting harder and harder to keep up that pretence. They were overstretched in every way – every half-penny was accounted for and, as much as he appreciated her housewifely acumen, he knew they were way over their heads in debt. Not that she wasn’t good with money – she was – but, all the same, he felt they could have lived much better if she didn’t feel this almighty urge to be something she wasn’t. She had such exacting standards and, though he knew she wanted a better life for them all, he felt at times they’d be much better off if she spent the money in
other ways, like on a night out or a day at the seaside, not just on
things
she felt were needed for the home. They had the best house in the street, but still that wasn’t enough for her. She would never be content, he understood that now. The kitchen alone had cost a bloody fortune, and the carpets and curtains, all paid for on the weekly, were another drain on their resources.

Now she had the Christmas bug, had talked about having a goose and all other manner of expensive frippery. He knew she wanted the best for them, but it had to be stopped. She had to understand they couldn’t go on like this.

Cynthia came into the room, slipping in quietly, as if she had materialised out of thin air. Her quietness had been what had attracted him; she had seemed so self-contained, yet so vulnerable. Not that he really believed
that
any more. It was getting harder and harder to convince himself that she was anything other than what she really was. A bully. His mother had warned him, but he had not been inclined to listen to her. Now he wished he had. But, as his old mum also said, hindsight was a wonderful thing.

Cynthia stood before him, her head slightly at an angle, and that tight little smile on her face. ‘I’m dishing up.’

He sighed heavily, and barely nodded in reply.

‘Are you all right?’

He sighed once more. ‘Not really. Brewster got it.’

He saw her face freeze, and could see in her eyes, not pity for him – he could have coped with that – but disgust. Veiled disgust, but he saw it all the same. He knew what was going on inside her head. He tried to talk himself out of those kind of thoughts, but it was no good.

‘And you just let him, I suppose.’

She was still standing there, only now her back was rigid, she was looking at him as if he had done it deliberately. He felt the air leave his body as if it had been punctured. He had been dreading this.

‘I can’t make my boss give me the position, Cynth. Be fair, love.’

She sighed heavily, her face set in a rigid mask of acceptance. ‘’Course not, I mean why would he give it to you, eh? Hardly setting the fucking place alight, are you? You know your trouble, don’t you? You’re weak. Weak as a bloody kitten.’

She left the room then, and her animosity went with her. The quiet was like a balm to his tortured spirit.

Willy Brewster was five years younger than him, and he was a dynamo. Jimmy liked him, you couldn’t not. He was fun, clever and popular; he
did
set the place alight all right, with his energy and wit. Jimmy wasn’t like that, and he didn’t begrudge Willy for being something he wasn’t.

He walked out to the kitchen, feeling better now he had actually said the words out loud. Had told her.

She was standing at the sink. Her shoulders were slumped and her hands were gripping the stainless-steel draining board so hard her knuckles were white. Her head was hanging, and he knew she was biting her lip. He could almost feel the hate coming off her in waves. Looking at her now, he felt a great sorrow for her, because he knew that there was a terrible kink in her nature. It was a mixture of loathing for her start in life, and a covetousness that made her envy everyone in her orbit. She would never be satisfied, because it wasn’t in her nature. He hated that part of her, but he also pitied her for it. He understood that she had never known one happy day because she was always convinced that everyone else knew the secret of happiness, and it would always elude her. Yet if she could just once let herself be content with what she had, he knew she could find the thing she craved. If she could only understand that happiness had nothing to do with an expensive kitchen, and designer clothes, or being better off than the neighbours.

He placed his hand gently on her shoulder, willing her to turn to him, to just once let down her guard. He could feel the
heat of her body through the thin material of her dress, and then when she turned towards him he felt his heart soar. He placed his arm around her slim waist, wanting to pull her towards him, comfort her, but she threw him off her with a strength that belied her slim frame.

‘You fucking useless ponce.’

She was spitting out the words with fury, and the vitriol in them stunned him, as it always did when she exposed this side of herself. She never swore in front of the neighbours of course, she felt she was above that. But in private it was as if the swearing was a vent for her pent-up aggression. When she was angry with him or little Gabby her repertoire was never far away.

‘You do realise what this means, don’t you?’

She was looking into his eyes now, and he could see the first glimmer of fear amidst the anger and the disgust.

‘Look, Cynthia, we won’t starve.’

She pushed him away from her and, sighing, she shook her head sadly. ‘No. No, you’re right, we won’t starve, but then again we won’t be living the high life either, will we? It’s make do and mend, it’s thinking through every purchase. It’s making ends fucking meet, and robbing Peter to pay fucking Paul. It’s the life I grew up with, never being able to do anything . . . Never being able to just have what you want, when you want it. It’s like admitting I’ve failed . . .’ She turned from him, and her whole body seemed to have shrunk, as if the enormity of what she was saying had broken her somehow. ‘It’s being no one, no one and nothing for ever, that’s what this all means to me.’

Jimmy looked at his wife, his heart in pieces. He couldn’t understand why she was so upset. He looked out for her, he looked out for his family. ‘You’re wrong, Cynthia. We have a good life. The trouble with you is, it’s never enough, is it? You always want more than you can have. You should never have married me; I can’t give you what you want.’ He had finally said it to her. Had finally said what was on his mind.

She laughed, a derisive little laugh. Then, facing him once more, she said quietly, ‘Well, you got that much right anyway.’

For a split second she thought he was actually going to strike her and, in her heart, she knew no one would blame him if he did just that. Instead, though, he placed his hands by his sides, clenching his fists as if to stop himself.

‘Maybe you’re right, but do you know something, Cynthia? No one in the world could ever give you what you want, because it would never be enough. You want, want, want, and then when you get it you lose all interest in it, and you start wanting something else. Well, now you know the score, I’ll have me dinner.’

He had never spoken to her like that, not once since she had set her cap at him, and she knew then and there that she would make sure he never spoke to her like it again. But she was trapped, trapped in this house, with his kid, and with his name. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she had a terrible feeling she was pregnant again.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Cynthia! Cheer up, girl.’

Mary Callahan looked at the hard, set face in front of her and suppressed the urge to shake her daughter. Where she had got this one from she didn’t know. Cynthia looked down her nose at everyone around her, had done since she could sit up on her own.

Gabby, bless her heart, was the antithesis of her mother. She looked like a little angel with her halo of blond hair and huge blue eyes. She was a gorgeous, loving little girl, but Mary knew that the poor child would not get that love returned from her own mother. Mary had accepted years ago that her daughter was capable of a lot of things, but love wasn’t one of them. And as for that poor sap she had snared, and who she still had by the nuts . . . Mary wasn’t an advocate of violence against women, but if ever a man should slap his old woman, poor Jimmy was that man. Cynthia rode him like a devil, and he let her, the poor bastard.

Mary glanced around her home; it was scruffy, granted, but it was clean enough. She was of the belief that a home was to be lived in, not just admired by fucking strangers. Unlike her daughter’s gaff. She acted like fucking royalty was due round any minute. Cynthia’s house was like the fucking library, you felt like you had to whisper, creep around it, as if noise of any kind was against the law.

She inwardly shook her head in sadness; her daughter would
never know a really happy day in her life, she wasn’t built for joy. Still, that didn’t mean little Gabriella shouldn’t be happy. Not if Mary had any say in the matter, especially on Christmas Day. Turning to her granddaughter, she said cheerfully, ‘Come on, Gabby, let’s see what Santa left for you, shall we?’

The little girl ran to her nervously, worried as always that her mother would stop her in her tracks, give her a lecture about how little girls
should
behave.

Mary Callahan doted on her granddaughter. She was a little darling. Good as gold and pretty as a picture, with a lovely nature to boot. How her Cynthia had produced something so sweet she didn’t know, but she had, and Mary prayed daily that her daughter didn’t destroy this little girl’s confidence with her constant criticisms.

Gabby sat in front of the plastic Christmas tree, her eyes glowing with happiness. She loved this house, from the garish tinsel everywhere, to the smell of cigarettes that permeated everything around her. She loved the whole ‘Nana Mary experience’. And the constant noise – the TV was always on, as was the radio in the kitchen, and the record players upstairs. It was a jumble of sounds and smells. It was always full of people, there was always laughter, and any arguments were good-natured – unlike at home. She knew her mummy
liked
to leave her here sometimes and she knew, somewhere deep inside herself, that her mummy left her here for all the wrong reasons. But, for Gabriella Tailor, being here was enough.

Mary Callahan followed her daughter into the kitchen, wondering why she was even asking the question she knew her daughter would resent.

‘Have you any idea how lucky you are, Cynthia? That man worships you, and he’d give you the earth on a plate if he could. Yet you still walk about with a face like a fucking wet weekend in Margate. What’s your problem?’

Cynthia gritted her teeth in annoyance. ‘Give it a rest, Mum, eh? You don’t know the half of it.’

‘Then tell me, child, maybe I can help?’ It was a plea, and they both knew it.

Cynthia was tempted to turn to her mother and throw herself into her arms. She knew that, even after everything, she would be accepted, would be enveloped in her mother’s love. But she couldn’t do it. She could never admit to anyone, let alone this woman in front of her, that she had failed. Had made a grievous mistake. Had married a man who she had never loved, for a so-called decent life and who, nowadays, she had no respect for whatsoever, let alone any kind of warmth. He had let her down badly, and she was frightened of what the future held for them.

The worst of it all was she knew her mother would think that her feelings were not justified. She thought the sun shone out of James’s arse. They all did. They thought
he
was a saint for putting up with
her,
and that rankled. They looked down on her for trying to get herself a better life, a decent life. James Tailor had promised her that, and he had reneged on his promise. At least that was how she saw it anyway. Instead she plastered a smile on her face. ‘Nothing to tell, Mum, I’m just tired that’s all.’