The Playdate (15 page)

One is whispering loudly to the other as they reach me.

“Who?” the taller one is saying, animatedly.

“That show we saw at the Tate?”

“Ooh!” the taller one replies, glancing back. “Yes. I think you’re right. Parker, or something? Loll Parker, was it?”

I am so taken aback, I accidentally meet their eyes. The women realize they have been caught.

“Loll Parker,” one of them murmurs conspiratorially at me, pointing with hidden pantomime hand gestures and wide eyes back toward the restaurant.

“Ah,” I nod, smiling, walking past them.

“OK, Cal?” Guy calls out loudly as I reach the door.

In the reflection of the window, I see the women’s heads turn and watch me. I see Parker place his hand politely on my back and guide me through the door that Guy is holding open into the restaurant. The women turn away, with wide eyes and embarrassed hands over mouths. If they are anything like Mum and Aunty Jean, I know they’ll be in hysterics on the train home, recounting their story in peals of laughter.

An urge overcomes me to shout after the women, “No, really, honestly, trust me. This situation is as weird for me as it is for you.”

But I realize that they see me, like Guy, as someone who belongs here.

*     *     *

In the end, the lunch lasts a couple of hours, during which Parker tells us about growing up in east Stockholm with his Swedish mother and Nigerian father, and the sense of displacement he felt as they moved to Lagos, then back.

“OK, this might sound a bit mad,” I venture after we finish the second bottle of wine. I feel Guy’s eyes boring into me. Be careful, they say. “But OK, I think what you are after is that idea of the harmony of an environment shifting and changing.”

Parker watches carefully. He’s listening, I realize. He’s taking me seriously.

“So . . .” I continue, praying that Guy is with me, “I know you’re thinking of using actual building sounds, but what if
we use natural sounds instead? Sounds that we pick out of the ‘silence’ mix and distort to create a shift in the harmony. So, say, for the sawing, you could have the buzzing of flies amplified until they’re overwhelming and unexpected. Or a really high-pitched, screeching birdsong for the drill.”

Parker thinks for a minute. “Interesting,” he says, tapping his fingers on the table and looking at Guy.

Then he nods.

He NODS.

“I like it. Could you do another rough of that, Callie?”

Did he really just say that?

My cheeks burn. “Of course. I’d love to.”

“Good. Let’s do it,” says Guy, raising his eyebrows at me, and waving for the bill.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s elation. I feel like someone has just plugged me into the wall and switched me on. Inside me, darkened rooms light up.

“Thanks, Cal,” he says. “Listen, call it a day. We’ve got a lot done today. You can start tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“On the dot, though, mate. There’s a lot to do.”

*     *     *

I walk on air.

My legs feel like they have been extended to twice their length as, an hour later, they effortlessly race up the hill that takes me from Alexandra Park station to Rae’s school. The pavement is bathed in cheerful June sunshine. It’s difficult not to smile. Parker liked my ideas. He liked them.

And then there is Megan’s invitation to go out in Soho on Thursday.

This is working! I can’t believe it. It’s really working. Already I can feel myself mentally separating from Suzy.

I stride on toward the after-school club, wondering how Rae will be after this morning’s grumpiness. Checking my watch, I realize I’ll have plenty of time to chat to Ms. Buck about how she is settling in.

To my surprise, however, Rae greets me right inside the door with a huge grin on her face.

“Mum!” she yells. “Can I go to Hannah’s house?”

What?

“Can she?” Hannah shrieks, appearing from the cloakroom and grabbing Rae’s hand. They jump up and down together, giggling.

“Um, I don’t know, Rae, I mean, how’s . . .”

Flummoxed, I look up to see Hannah’s mum, Caroline, emerging from the cloakroom behind Hannah with her backpack.

Has Caroline offered Rae a playdate? My heart hammers. Caroline always did seem a little warmer than the other mothers, even asking me if I’d like to come to the parents’ school quiz with her and her husband shortly after school started last September. But then Suzy needed me that night when Jez was away and one of the boys was ill. And after that, Caroline and her friends seemed to form a clique and she never spoke to me again.

“Hi, Caroline,” I say. “Rae was just saying . . .”

There is a small twitch on her face.

Her nose. It wrinkles almost imperceptibly.

Oh God. My breath. It smells of alcohol from the restaurant.

“It’s just, Rae was just asking me if . . . um . . .”

“Yes,” Caroline replies. Her tone is not unfriendly. Just neutral. “That should be fine.”

Fine?

“But not today, I’m afraid. Hannah’s got piano.”

“Tomorrow then, Mummy?” Hannah yells.

“Yes, tomorrow?” Rae squeals.

I watch Caroline for her reaction. She smiles a closed-lip smile. What is happening here?

And then I see it. With horror, I realize that Caroline has not asked Rae for a playdate; Rae has become so desperate, she has asked Caroline if she can come to her house. Caroline is being put on the spot. There is no way she can possibly say no.

I freeze.

Caroline nods, and looks at me. “Yes. Tomorrow should be fine. I’ll pick Rae and Hannah up early from after-school club. You can get her about six-thirty?”

Rae’s mouth drops open in excitement, and she runs to hug my legs.

I hug her back, but the word
fine
is still reverberating through my head. Maybe it’s my embarrassment, or an early hangover from lunch, but internally I feel myself bristling in defense. “Fine?” I want to say. “Excuse me, Caroline, but that is really not good enough. My daughter is not ‘fine.’ She is beautiful, and sweet and kind. She has an amazing laugh, if you ever gave her the time to hear it. She has survived more than you can imagine, and deserves more than ‘fine.’”

Then I catch sight of Rae’s face, pink with excitement.

Oh, poor Rae. If only she knew. It is me who is unpopular with the school mothers, for a reason I have given up trying to understand. It is me who has ruined her chance of a playdate. And me smelling of alcohol at 5
P.M.
is not going to help.

So I bite my tongue. An unwillingly donated playdate is better for Rae than nothing right now. “She’d love to come, thanks.”

Caroline opens the door to let Hannah pass through. We follow them out, and through the after-school club gate onto the pavement.

“Our address is on the class list,” she calls back.

“Brilliant.” I nod.

Caroline leads Hannah off down The Driveway, her eyes fixed firmly on her daughter’s face in what appears to be an attempt to impart a secret code. Hannah wisely keeps her eyes firmly on the ground.

“I’ve got a playdate!” Rae squeals, holding my hand tightly and jumping up and down till it hurts.

Today has been the best day both of us have had for a long time. There’s no point, I decide, telling Rae off about her behavior this morning, or about pestering Caroline.

We start to head off toward Churchill Road. Then I think of our empty flat with the broken toilet, and Suzy, waiting across the road, like always.

Not today. No, I can’t.

I stop and dig out the coins that I found in the bottom of my bag at lunchtime.

“Rae. Suzy told me there’s a new milk shake bar near the roundabout in Muswell Hill,” I say, counting out £6.30. “Shall we go and try it?”

Rae’s hopping about becomes even wilder, with a “yippee” thrown in. I take her hand, grinning, and head up the hill for the fifteen-minute walk to the Broadway, Rae skipping at my side.

Too late, I remember I forgot to tell Caroline about holding Rae’s hand in the street after school tomorrow, and to make sure she has my mobile number in case of medical emergencies.

I turn, but Caroline has disappeared down the hill.

Not to worry, I’ll ring her tomorrow from work.

17
Suzy

What on earth was Jez doing?

Suzy moved round her kitchen, shutting cupboard doors and turning on the dishwasher.

This was ridiculous. It was nearly 7:30
P.M.
and he still hadn’t emerged from his study. He’d been in there since after breakfast, with the door firmly shut. At one point, after she had returned from a four-hour shopping trip to Brent Cross, she had crept up the stairs and tried to listen at the door. But there was no clue. No rumbling of his voice on the phone, or the music he played sometimes in the afternoon, or the tap of his fingers on the keyboard. Just silence.

She picked up a dishcloth and began to wipe the kitchen surfaces she had already cleaned twice today, once after breakfast, and again after lunch. Cereal and milk, followed by drips of vegetable soup and crumbs; now it was cold baked potato and broccoli remnants that she pushed into her palm. At six o’clock, as the children fought and sang and yelled, she’d
shouted up to ask when Jez wanted to eat, hoping he might help put them to bed.

“Later,” he’d called down. “Leave it in the oven.”

That was an hour and a half ago. Something to do with a presentation he was giving in Birmingham on Thursday, he’d mumbled this morning. She’d dealt with the kids by herself.

The urge to barge in there and ask what he meant about Henry’s school was overwhelming. Instinctively, however, she knew it would just make him withdraw even more.

No. She’d have to be patient. Wait till he was out of this mood. When she had rung Vondra this morning, from Brent Cross, she had promised to chase up the Michael Roachley lead as soon as possible. And there were other things Suzy could still try in the meantime.

With a long sigh, she threw the cold potato and broccoli in the bin, washed out the cloth, walked into the front sitting room, and shut the door.

Checking that she still couldn’t hear Jez on the stairs, she walked over to the white sofa. Carefully, she pulled it away from the wall so that it didn’t scrape the stripped floorboards. The corner of a dark green plastic bag became visible. She leaned over and pulled at it. It emerged with a satisfying weight.

“OK,” she murmured, sitting down on the sofa and opening it. Checking the door again to be sure, she tipped it out on the floor. Various tubes and tubs of designer makeup tumbled out, much of it with the price sticker still on. A £53 foundation rolled to the side, and she trapped it with her foot, beside a £77 moisturizer.

She picked up the shiny wands and shimmering pots. Taking as many as she could carry, she stood up and went to the mirror above the mantelpiece. Donning a new pink hairband,
she pulled back her hair and wiped her skin with a cleansing wipe from a fresh packet. Then she applied the rich, creamy moisturizer with the tips of her freshly manicured hands. Now for her makeup. Oh, she knew how to apply makeup. That, she would never forget. Marianne, a girl at work back in Denver, had shown her how. Then she had met Jez, who had told her she didn’t need it. Well, now perhaps she did again.

Carefully, she applied the foundation, smoothing out her pale freckles. A picture of Sasha, with her smoky eyes and pale pout, came into her mind. She took a light brown eyebrow pencil and stroked it through her pale brows, bringing it down harder toward the end to achieve a more defined shape. Silver and navy shimmering eye makeup followed in deep sweeps. Then she reached back down and took out a little plastic box. Two rows of spidery eyelashes sat waiting. With an expert hand she applied the glue and stuck them onto her upper lids, applied some navy blue eyeliner with a steady hand, and a couple of coats of mascara, then stood back to see the effect.

Even she was shocked at the transformation. Her turquoise eyes smoldered sexily from behind thick lashes. She dusted rose-colored blush across her cheeks, and smoothed pale lip gloss on her lips.

Pulling herself up to her full height, she threw back her shoulders, making her neck long, and pouted a little. On impulse she undid a few buttons of her checked shirt and dropped it off her shoulders to hang around her jeans, revealing a rose silk camisole she’d also bought this afternoon and already tried on in the bathroom.

If this is what he wanted, she’d give it to him.

“Suze?”

His shout took her by surprise.

“Damn,” she whispered. In a panic, she tried to sweep some of the makeup off the mantelpiece back into the green bag. It would do her no favors right now if Jez discovered the cost of today’s expedition to Brent Cross. She hadn’t meant to buy so much. The day had just stretched ahead so emptily without Callie.

As she pushed everything into the bag, the open pot of silver makeup fell onto the white rug, sprinkling it with sparkling dust. She knelt down, scrabbling to pick it up.

“You in here?” he said, suddenly opening the door. She stayed bent down, the green bag clutched into her stomach, her back toward him, her shirt flapping around her sides.

She felt Jez’s eyes boring into her, wondering what the hell she was doing.

“Dinner’s in the oven, hon,” she said breezily. “Give me a minute, I’ve just dropped a needle on the rug.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take it up—going to be a late one,” he said quietly, and walked out of the door.

A late one.

She stayed where she was, shaking her head gently. With a sigh, she stood up and walked over to the wall. She placed the green bag behind the sofa again, then sat down on its firm cushions. Pulling her shirt up and back around her shoulders, she waited for the clank of the oven door and the clatter of the cutlery drawer to turn into heavy footsteps as Jez took his tray back up to the study and shut the door once again.

Doing up her last button, she opened the sitting room door and padded gently up the stairs in his wake. At the top, she sat down in her usual place in the space and the silence, and took hold of each end of her false eyelashes.