On Saturday morning Hugo forced himself out of a single-frame nightmare. He had been in a straitjacket, physically confined, screaming to be released. The context eluded him, his brain was leaden, not giving a thing, but he still had the sensation of being encased in concrete. Once he was more fully awake, a headache kicked in, the pain like a series of pneumatic drills driving into his skull; he was dripping with sweat and wanted to cry out in agony.
God, it was Saturday too. How could he have done it, got in this state? How could he live with himself? How could he cope? He rolled over, shuddering with the effort, and squinted open his eyes to see the time. Nine o’clock. The bedroom door was ajar, a diagonal of painful light shafting in, shining right into his eyes, while harsh daylight seeped round the window blinds. He closed his eyes again fast.
Nine o’clock. Hugo groaned and drew up his knees. Nattie said she’d bring Lily and Thomas at ten. Staying out late, liquid dinners with drunks from the office, bingeing all week – what single conceivable thing had he hoped to achieve? His children were all he had. Last night was a total blur. He’d been at home, alone and lonely, he knew that much. Feeling released from Amber and her hassling as well.
She had gone to Chertsey to be with her aged mother, which she did most weekends, caring for her and doing her shopping. Amber said her mother really ought to be in a nursing home, but had such a terror of going that it seemed heartless to push it. Better just to help out. It was kind and unselfish and Hugo admired Amber for that – as well as being glad of the weekend respite.
He squinted at the clock again. Ten past already. How was he even going to get out of bed, let alone be in a fit state to look after two noisy demanding kids? He managed to swing down his legs and made it to a sitting position on the side of the bed. Christ, he was still in his work shirt and trousers, must have crashed out in a coma – sweet release from the lousy, unfeeling world. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. His mouth felt disgusting, furred up and dry; he felt as repulsively foul-smelling as a pavement drunk.
He got to the bathroom and took three extra-strength codeine. Should he take four? Better not. He cleaned his teeth, overloading the brush with toothpaste, and stepped into the shower, which was effortful, but it helped to feel clean again.
He pulled on a T-shirt, which made him reel, though the freshly laundered check shirt he eased on to wear as an overshirt was a soft fabric and comfortable. He began to feel he had a chance of survival once the painkillers kicked in. They hadn’t yet. He slid on his watch; quarter to ten and they could be early. Coffee was what he needed – buckets of it, strong and black.
The kitchen was a mess. He shoved all the empties into a sturdy black refuse sack – bulging guilty evidence, he should have padded the bag with kitchen towel – and made a mug of espresso-machine coffee, double-filled. He lifted it to his lips gratefully with a shaking hand.
He’d made it through a week in the office at least. Amber had seen how much he was struggling, she’d covered for him, been his saviour, but there was a price to pay for that. He’d got by, though, even made it through the opening of Cupcake Corner at Palmers and survived his nemesis, Christine. The A guest-list had been a lost cause, but Amber had rounded up some last-minute glamour and, whether for the freebee and chance of a morning’s shopping, a decent number of B-listers had turned up as well.
Better still, a pouting model, one of Amber’s fill-ins, riled by the fruity putdowns of a loose-mouthed Press Association photographer, had picked a fight and chucked her glass of cheap champagne at his digital camera. Other cameras had been clicking: she’d succeeded in carrying Cupcake Corner into all the gossip columns, even the local television news. And with the instant pick-up on social media Christine had a virtual orgasm. She’d told Hugo, sodden, shaking, nauseous, sweating, what a brilliant job he’d done. He was her golden boy, she said – God forbid.
The doorbell rang. Hugo started at the shrill sound and spilled half his coffee; he wiped hurriedly at the spill while his headache raged. He had to lean on the worktop to steady himself, sickened to think of Nattie ringing the bell. She had a key; it was her home. He couldn’t stand it. Why couldn’t Ahmed have stayed the fuck on the other side of the world, met his end, never been born.
He let out a few curses, took a deep breath, composed his face and went to get the door. He could hear Lily banging the letterbox flap, calling, ‘Daddy, Daddy, where are you? Come and open the door!’
‘Sorry,’ he said, scooping her up and hugging her. ‘I was wiping up some spilled coffee, but I bet Mummy will think the kitchen’s a bit of a mess anyway!’
Nattie followed in with Thomas attached to her hip and a big canvas bag on her shoulder. She closed the door behind her, turned to face him and he met her eyes. He had to look away. He felt the rush, the swell of his need of her; and an intense rush of bitterness as well. He wanted her, his beautiful wife, his own wife, and she was with another thieving man. She was too beautiful, the pain too great. He’d spent five drunken days trying to blur and obliterate that vision, her beauty; losing his mind, risking his job. Trying to forget her softness, her wonderful dependability before Ahmed’s return and the disaster of where they were now.
‘You okay, darling?’ Nattie said, staring at him, looking full of alarm – which was hardly surprising, after all.
‘I’m fine, slight headache, that’s all; it’s been a long week. How’s my Thomas then? Big hug for Daddy?’ He held out his arms for his son who clung to her, hurtfully resistant. ‘How’ve they been?’ he asked, hiding the hurt.
‘I’ve been reely longing to see you, Daddy,’ Lily chipped in, with a what-about-me look on her face; she had to be the centre of attention. ‘I got two stars at school, one for writing and one for reading, and I’ve got a new story to show you! I thought it up all on myself! It’s in Mummy’s bag where we’ve packed things for staying. Tubsy’s Pampers and stuff like that.’
‘Just a few things you might need,’ Nattie said, sounding apologetic about it. ‘There’s plenty of kit in Tubsy’s drawers as well. Shall I stay a moment or two to settle them in or would you rather take over right now?’
Hugo sensed her embarrassment. Neither of them knew what to say or do. ‘No, stay a while. Have some coffee, don’t hurry away.’ Hadn’t people in this situation mostly fallen out with each other? Nattie wasn’t being cold and businesslike, just looking at him with concern. No good reading anything into that caring look. Better stick to needing to curl up and die.
He took Thomas into the kitchen and set him down on his feet. The effort involved in bending, then coming upright again, was bad. Hugo’s head throbbed with both physical and emotional pain. He felt giddy; the room was pitching and rolling like being on board ship. Was this the way to enjoy his children? Could he get nothing right in his life?
Nattie had a quick glance round, trying not, he felt, to seem too critical or involved. He’d missed a couple of bottles and the bulging refuse bag was a giveaway; he hadn’t had time to sling it into the recycle bin outside the back door. ‘I’ll just put on the dishwasher,’ she said, collecting up mugs and glasses. The machine was mercifully quiet.
‘You did really well with Cupcake Corner,’ she grinned. ‘Christine must have been pleased. That model certainly did you a favour! I read the guy’s suing her for more than the cost of his camera, which seems a bit hard.’
She binned some rubbish – used coffee-pods, stray detritus – and asked, a bit pointedly, ‘Heidi came to clean okay on Wednesday? I told her to take any laundry down to the cleaner’s, by the way, and said you’d collect it. They open at eight, so you can always pick it up on the way to work. Have you been for last week’s load yet?’
‘I was going to go this morning,’ Hugo lied. Laundry hadn’t been top of his list.
‘Perhaps take the children to the park and get the laundry on the way back? Tubsy does love that little area with the swings.’
‘Good idea.’ He smiled, trying not to grimace with the pain of arranging his face.
Nattie smiled awkwardly in return. ‘I’m sure you’ve got plans,’ she said, ‘but they’re always happy mooching around at home, if you’ve nothing special on.’
She knew he hadn’t got anywhere near making plans. She could always see right through him, hardly needed those surreptitious glances at the bottle bag. She knew all right. That was one thing, but her talk of the children being happy at home really carved him up. They weren’t fucking well at home; she’d taken them away from at home. They were occasional visitors.
He should have made plans. Other fathers would have. He felt useless, pathetic; guilty enough to be mordantly angry. Thomas was clinging to Nattie’s leg, his little face pressed against her skinny black jeans. His son unsettled, needing to get his bearings in his own home – how could she do that to her children? Ahmed had let her down too, buggered off, dropped off the face of the earth – didn’t even that give her pause? It was a pointless train of thought, Hugo knew; he’d never have had five precious years of marriage if the fucker had kept in touch for a single day more than a year.
‘I’ll make the coffee,’ he said, pulling himself together. ‘How about playing with your garage, Tomtubs? Let’s get it out of the toy box, shall we? But you must come and help.’
Lily squatted down too, pulling out toys from the muddle in the deep, low-level kitchen drawer, which made a frightful clatter. Nattie offered to make the coffee while saying it was really time she left. ‘You can’t go yet, Mummy!’ Lily wailed. ‘You’ve got my story in your bag and Kangy – and Tubsy’s Pampers.’
‘Don’t be silly, the bag’s for here. You’re in charge of it now, Lily, and helping Daddy lots, remember, and doing all we said.’
‘I’m going to help you change Tubsy, Daddy,’ she said proudly, ‘and I’m going to be nice to him too, and not fight.’
‘I will need lots of help, angel,’ Hugo said. ‘It’s wonderful to have you here and . . .’ He was distracted. Thomas had unearthed his favourite police car with the flashing lights and siren; he had his finger stuck on the siren button and the sound, like the scream of brakes and clashing steel of a violent car crash, was driving in daggers of pain. Hugo put his hands to his aching head, feeling close to throwing up. ‘Just nipping to the john,’ he mumbled and made it to the downstairs loo. He managed a thin dribble of bile and broke out into an all-over cold sweat; his hands trembled as he splashed water onto his face. Dabbing it dry, wincing at the touch, feeling overcome with misery, he flushed the chain for cover and went back.
‘I’ve dug out that percolator Thermos we never remembered to use,’ Nattie said, eyeing him. ‘The coffee should stay hot and you’ll have some on the go for the morning, if you need. I’ll have a quick cup then and be off. You’ll be okay with them?’
‘Sure, why ever not?’ he said curtly, resenting her patronising tone, irritated by her knowing how much he needed the coffee. Didn’t he really want her to see the state he was in, though? Didn’t he want to touch her conscience and trade on her soft heart?
‘Jasmine’s all set to come to do supper and bath time,’ Nattie said. ‘She’ll babysit too, if you need her to, if she can bring her boyfriend Pete along. I, um, took an executive decision and told her to come about half five, but I can always change that.’
‘No, don’t, it’s fine,’ Hugo said, a bit too quickly. He didn’t want to seem to be longing for help. He worried about coping with lunch; better go out somewhere.
‘I’m sure you’ll be glad to have Jasmine around for an hour or two,’ Nattie said, pressing down on the plunger and pouring coffee into two bright yellow mugs, ‘helping at bath time. And . . .’ She looked up. ‘I hesitate to ask this, but Mum and William are in London tomorrow and they’d love you to bring the children for Sunday tea. Perhaps, if it fits, I could pick them up from over there instead of here at about six? Don’t forget Lily’s Kangy, though, and the stuff in the bag. Anyway, how does that sound? I’d understand if you’d rather not.’
‘Fine, good idea.’ Hugo was sipping steaming black coffee, only half absorbing what she said.
Lily screwed up her face. ‘I must have Kangy. We can’t leave him behind.’ She looked close to tears. Hugo tried to sharpen up and concentrate.
‘I’ll text to remind Daddy, promise,’ Nattie said, kissing her. ‘Bye, honeybuns, be good children. See you tomorrow at Granny’s house.’
He saw her to the door like seeing out a friend, the plumber or electrician. He couldn’t bring himself to kiss her cheek, his breath would be so bad. Lily was between them and he was jiggling Thomas too, who was still grizzling, holding out his arms to go to Nattie. It pierced Hugo’s heart.
He closed the door behind her and wandered back into the kitchen with Lily, still trying to jolly Thomas into a smile. ‘How’s my lovely boy then? We’re going to have a great day.’
‘Now will you look at my story?’ Lily demanded, skipping and dancing around. ‘Can I have a drink? Tubsy has one too, in the mornings. And we have bits of dry mango or rice biscuits, usually.’ Hugo felt panicked, sure there wasn’t any of that sort of stuff in the house. He didn’t know where to look, it was ages since he’d been left in charge. ‘They’re in here, on the middle shelf, I think,’ Lily said, going to the larder cupboard next to the fridge, ‘only I can’t reach.’
‘I’ll get your drinks in a mo,’ Hugo said, desperate for more codeine, ‘just need to pop upstairs. Keep an eye on your brother for me, my little helper, then we’ll sit at the table and you can show me this story of yours. Thomas will need a little attention, of course.’
‘You just give him another chew, Daddy – you know that.’
Hugo returned, found the plastic mugs, sorted the drinks and eats. He left Tubsy in his high chair with another piece of mango and faced looking at Lily’s Ahmed-inspired story. She laid the pages out in a row. An A4 cover page, two further pages. The title on the cover page, JIMMY THE GIRAFFE, was in big bold multi-coloured capitals, professionally printed in a way that had allowed her to colour in the letters.
BY LILY DANGERFIELD was suitably spaced underneath.
‘Dan says having my name on the cover tells everyone it’s a story all by my own,’ Lily said. ‘He helped me a very little bit, but only with the ending, Daddy, only about the tree sur . . . people. And I chose the name, Jimmy, on my own too. We do the drawings on Dan’s computer with a speshul programme and then I colour them in. Dan said a blue giraffe is very original – which means sort of unusual, he said – and he said my brown markings on the blue looked very smart. Do you like them, Daddy, and my colouring-in? Is it a good story?’
Lily was looking at him with huge round honey-brown eyes, her mother’s eyes. Hugo swallowed hard and contained his anguish and fast-seeding jealous hatred. ‘It’s a wonderful story, darling,’ he said, with a loving smile, clearing her hair from her eyes, ‘and beautifully coloured in, clever girl. I’m a very proud daddy.’
‘I haven’t thought up another story yet,’ she said, getting down to skip round the kitchen table, ‘but I will soon. Can we go out now? Our old buggy is still here, Mummy said. We’ve got a new one at our other house – lots of new things.’
After his struggle through the day, Jasmine couldn’t have come sooner. Hugo had just about coped; his seething jealousy had been fortifying. Lily, chatting freely, happily, about Dan this and Dan that – Thomas too, with his ‘Dan, Dan, Dan’, which sounded like ‘Dad, Dad’, but wasn’t – was a far greater agony than any physical pain, yet the vicious resentment burning him up had helped to lift him out of a defeatist, self-pitying slump. His need to weaken Ahmed’s insidious influence was overwhelming. He could think of nothing else.
Jasmine had just left. She’d seen herself out, leaving him to give Thomas the bottle she’d prepared, which wasn’t proving an easy task, especially with Hugo’s desperate need of a stiff drink. Thomas was restless, missing his mother’s arms; she was softer, smelled sweeter, had a more familiar way to hold him. But he smiled up at his father once snugly poppered up in his sleeping bag and settled in his cot.
Hugo read to Lily next and was rewarded with her special arms-round-his-neck goodnight hug. He gazed down at her before leaving; her eyes were closing, she was on her side and so sweetly cuddling her raggedy kangaroo that he felt too emotionally loving to be distracted by bitterness.
The loathing was back again once he was downstairs and fighting to resist a second large neat whisky. He mustn’t, couldn’t let his children down, couldn’t be incapable if they cried in the night. He nursed his misery and hate instead. Ahmed was influencing them, amusing them, manipulating them, but what in hell’s name could he do about it? Determination turned into despair. He didn’t have Ahmed’s quick mind, couldn’t draw giraffes on his computer, wasn’t a bloody sainted hero. His wife didn’t love him enough to stay.
His need of whisky was dementing. He remembered Nattie putting whisky in the soup and found a single tin of consommé in the cupboard. He heated it up in a mug in the microwave and slugged in as much whisky as he dared. He hadn’t eaten all day. They’d stayed home, he couldn’t face taking the children to a restaurant, and the meaty, oniony smell of the ready-made frozen lasagne heating up had put him off. Feeding Thomas was a full-time job anyway. Amazing Nattie wasn’t half starved with the difficulty of ever getting in a mouthful of her own.
She’d cooked him eggs that horrifying night as well . . . Hugo made himself an omelette, taking treasured sips of his laced soup while he did, the fiery burn of alcohol reviving him by the minute. He toasted some stale bread and ate hungrily. He decided to do a food shop next day with the children, after a turn in the park; the supermarket was open from eleven o’clock on Sundays if he’d remembered right.
He slept. Hadn’t expected to, managing on just one more whisky, and only woke when Lily came running in. He had a faint residual headache, but felt a comparatively new man. It was a better day. Lily and Thomas enjoyed going shopping, Lily telling him what she wanted for lunch, fish fingers and chips. They ate a great many chips smothered in tomato ketchup and very little fish – Nattie wouldn’t have approved.
They were excited about going out to tea. ‘Can we cook some fairy cakes to take Granny and Gramps?’ Lily said, her eyes shining expectantly, tugging on his arm.
‘I don’t know about that,’ Hugo said, playing for time. ‘Um, don’t you think Granny will have done some baking and be a bit disappointed at being upstaged?’
‘What does upstaged mean?’
‘Your fairy cakes being better than hers – and when she’ll have worked so hard doing tea for us all.’
That saved the day. Lily looked smugly mollified. She didn’t even complain when Hugo took the chance to mention going to his parents’ one weekend soon. He hadn’t faced telling them about the break-up yet, too sodden and lacking the strength to pick up the phone; surviving at work had taken all his energy, staying compos, getting through the week. One day at a time.
He was looking at his watch, about to round up the children and set off for tea when the doorbell rang. Sure to be the Seventh Day Adventists or some ex-inmate thrusting a card, selling dusters and ironing board covers. He would have left it, but Lily was shrieking, ‘It’s the doorbell, Daddy!’ which would have been overheard.
Amber was on the doorstep. He went cold, so surprised that he almost forgot to hide his shock and supreme irritation.
‘Don’t look so gobsmacked.’ She laughed. ‘I was on my way back from my mum’s and a bit worried how you were managing with the kiddies. It’s hard at the best of times, getting through a break-up, and you’ve taken it bad. I mean, what could be rougher, walking out like that and leaving you in the lurch?’ Amber said, with a grimly satisfied expression. ‘You look like you’re pulling through, though. Mr Handsome again! Aren’t you going to ask me in? Any chance of a cuppa then, lover-man?’
Lily had come into the hall; she was hovering behind him, probably staring at Amber wide-eyed. Had she heard that last bit, even about being left in the lurch? She was sure to have got the gist. The damage was done. And he had no out. And Hugo was well aware, after the last week at the office, of just how much he owed Amber. Chances were he’d have lost his job if she hadn’t bailed him out.
‘Sorry!’ he said. ‘Come on in. I’m afraid it’s a five-minute cuppa, though. We’re due at the grandparents’ for tea.’
‘Nice surprise, though, I hope. Is that your parents? Don’t they live out of town?’
‘No, it’s actually the other lot. Do you mind coming into the kitchen? My young son needs a constant eye.’
‘So this is your little girl?’ Amber smiled at Lily in a slightly obnoxious way. ‘She looks like you, Hugo – a stunner. And this young man too, just a bit chubbier.’
‘We call him Tubsy,’ Lily said, ‘ ’cause he’s tubby and eats so much.’
Hugo held on with difficulty, hating every minute with a deep, desperate passion, but he somehow managed to keep his cool and busied himself putting the kettle on.
Thomas didn’t seem too happy with the invasion either. He got to his feet to run to his father but tripped, not for the first time, and fell forwards onto his head. He began to scream loudly, which he seldom did after a tumble. Lily went to him, still being the little substitute mother, but Thomas’s yells reached such a crescendo that she gave a helpless shrug of her shoulders, implying, a little impatiently, that this was beyond her pay grade. Hugo picked him up and cuddled him.
‘There, there, old man,’ he soothed, willing Amber – over Thomas’s blond head – to just get the message and go. He furiously minded her being there, standing so close, touching his arm, giving knowing glances and giving Lily ideas.
He tried to make the tea holding Thomas, who was still screaming. Amber moved to take him over, but Hugo held on tight. ‘Can you get two tea bags out of that jar?’ he said, with rare firmness. ‘He’ll settle soon but, I hate to say this, we really need to go in a few minutes. Sorry.’ Why hadn’t she called, texted – anything but turn up unannounced? She was so thick-skinned.
She plonked herself down at the kitchen table, first clearing away the remains of lunch, and they got through a hurried cup of tea. Hugo sensed Lily taking in every bloody tactile gesture, every word of insinuating chat. He could imagine her reporting back to Nattie, ‘A lady came round, I think she’s Daddy’s new girlfriend!’ Shit, shit, shit.
He got Amber to the door, opened it encouragingly, but she stayed her ground. ‘Are you on your lonesome tonight, lover-boy? Come round, I’ll cook supper. Do you good, a little cosy relaxing after the weekend you’ve had.’ Hugo had a moment’s hesitation, dreading the long lonely evening. Parting with the children, facing Nattie, returning to an empty house. Meaningless sex with Amber wouldn’t help, wouldn’t lessen the agony; it could only make matters worse.
‘Thanks, but it’s no can do, I’m afraid.’ He put on his best rueful face. ‘I’ve fixed to see an old mate, straight on from the in-laws’ tea party. Sorry about having to rush. See you.’
Amber had caused tension enough, but his nerves were building again. Tea with Victoria and William, even with the children for cover, would be a concentrated strain. Then came the pain of seeing Nattie. Hugo felt it ever more keenly, even the smallest contact; she’d texted about not forgetting Kangy, which had driven home the stark truth of being separated still more. He should never have bought those two more bottles of whisky out shopping, but he was going to need them that night.
He remembered Shelby calling a while back, phoning out of the blue and making contact. He’d been chatty, easy, charming as ever. ‘Give me a bell sometime, when the mood takes you,’ he said, signing off. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
It was typical of Shelby, being so confident that Hugo would be delighted to hear from him again. Shelby’s gall had to be experienced to be believed; he always got what he wanted. He’d had a life of being indulged by his rich, entrepreneurial father and glamorous actor mother who was Irish and wild and adored him. Shelby never stuck at anything, he simply used his flashy, black-haired, blue-eyed glamour-pants looks to get out of scrapes and make money in more dubious ways. Dealing in drugs.
Shelby had stolen Nattie from him in those early days, but he hadn’t stolen her heart. That had been down to Ahmed. He was about the only man ever to get the better of Shelby, which must rankle deep.
Would it be supping with the devil to share a few shorts with Shelby? Why not? Hugo could see little harm in it. Shelby had pushed dope at a party, got him onto cannabis, coke and more, though Hugo had to concede that he had only himself to blame for his full-blown addiction. And Shelby had done time for his dealing, after all: he couldn’t be back at it, surely?
He’d be company, he was always gossipy and fun. Hugo felt he might even find Shelby in on a Sunday night. He was quite taken with the idea of calling him up – and he’d be honouring what he’d told Amber, which was satisfying in its small way. It was either that or home to black loneliness.