The lights of Brian’s truck bumping up the track got Clare out of her Subaru. She waved him to a stop. He leaned across to let her in. His bulk filled the space beside her, cologne and engine oil. She opened her window. A fine mist of wet covered everything, it picked up as they reached the road, spattering the windshield in heavy drops.
“Big night?”
She’d told him she’d lost her bag. He’d texted can’t have gone that far!!!, the exclamation marks making her head spin. She dreaded the day he discovered emojis.
“I always said she was trouble. Glad our Tessa gave her what for.”
Clare had forgotten that bit of the evening, the part where one friend stabbed another.
“I think it was an accident.”
“Some accident.”
The lights of a food truck came up on their left, a lay-by, an awning and some plastic chairs. Brian indicated. She didn’t have the energy to protest the statement or the delay. Sometime between half past one and now she’d drifted through coma, the vibration of her phone clawing its way up her arm and into her brain enough to rouse her, and as dawn crept over the edge of the golf course, beyond the food truck, Cowdray polo grounds remained bathed in a blackness she wished would last forever. She watched Brian lean against the counter, a farming bulk half the height of the brightly lit figure inside who moved from coffee machine to hot plate, handing over cups and food wrapped in greaseproof paper.
“Breakfast bap.” He held out a wrapper.
Clare nearly threw up.
He put hers on the mess between them and handed her a cardboard cup of coffee instead. “Your girl not with you?” Ketchup landed on his shirt as he began the chew and slurp of his own breakfast, a drop of egg yolk followed.
“Peter’s giving her a lift.” She presumed that’s what would happen. School, normal life on a normal Monday in November; the fat watch on his wrist showed a quarter to six. She’d have time to get home, wash and get back to her car before Ros woke up, a spare key kept in the office. “And you’re happy to wait? I’ll be quick.”
His coffee wedged dangerously between his thighs, one hand on the wheel, Clare wasn’t sure which was the lesser of two evils, yet the thought of home kept her mouth shut. A few turns of this twisting road, its blind corners and deaf hills, Midhurst to negotiate, but at this hour only farmers ignored the speeding signs, right at the bike shop and up the hill and she’d be able to stick her fingers down her throat, be sick with impunity in her own sloping bathroom, wash away Ros’ disgust and her own shame, except she’d never get rid of either completely. Like the words of the girlfriend in Manchester who’d said you want to grow up love, and called her a tourist, as if her lesbian was a passing fantasy of student life.
There was nowhere in his chaotic truck to put her scalding cup; even with the cardboard slip, the heat burned through to her freezing fingers. The footwell was littered with empty packets of Ginsters sausage rolls, the crinkling yellow of discarded Monster Munch, crushed cans Red Bull; the story of Brian’s diet. A woollen hat and string gloves embedded with straw and mud were stuffed on top of the handbrake, baling twine and pliers rattled entangled on the shelf above the glove compartment; her Subaru looked the same. They both screamed lonely breakfast baps in lay-bys and Clare wanted to open the door and hurl herself onto the speeding road. She took a sip of her coffee through the tiny plastic hole and burnt her tongue.
In Peter and Diane’s lovely spare room, Scott was waking up. He couldn’t remember what day it was, he couldn’t recall why the ceiling was higher than normal, why the sheets felt cleaner or the pillows softer; Diane had offered him a Valium before she went to bed, unnecessary but pleasant, and he’d been out before she’d closed his door, only a passing thought in her head that she’d rather he took off his trousers. He drifted up from the easy depths of Diazepam, familiar to his system since his wife kept a constant supply, turned over, and decided to leave the mystery of why the side table didn’t look like a broken city of cups gone by, why his alarm wasn’t shouting, till later. Surely it was still the weekend. Perhaps Tessa had done some tidying up.
Ros snored, alone in her bed across the lane.
Nancy, Molly and Issy who’d all shared a room on the top floor of Peter and Diane’s house, scrolled drowsily on Reddit, Instagram and Snapchat, and figured they wouldn’t have to get up till seven fifteen earliest.
Freddy crawled into his mother’s bed after a nightmare had woken him. He curled against her, while Tessa, glad of the warmth, inhaled the sweet soft of his hair, and dropped again into a heavy sleep.
Brian drew up outside Clare’s cottage, the bump of the drive sending coffee over her wrist, she shook it and emptied the cup onto stones and shut the car door with her foot in a single movement that didn’t allow for more questions. Horses looked up from their grazing, a rug slipped here, an electric tape sagging there, the to do list at the stables was never ending. A few of the girls were already up and mucking out, a couple of owners were chatting by the sand school, Clare hoped they wouldn’t grab her. She kept her head down, let herself into the cottage, the door never locked.
Half a tub of water in her sloping bathroom, tepid, she hadn’t been there to turn on the immersion. She wished her landlord would put in a shower. Her nostrils clogged and sore, she blew her nose into the water, strands of blood and snot, Brian had shouted I’ll be right here as she’d closed the truck door on him; she imagined him imagining her naked; for sure he’d have seen her bathroom light go on. Her head hurt. Her heart hurt. There was no way she could ever go on, but she was absolutely going to have to, because if an alien had watched from a distant planet through a telescope at Clare’s last night, they’d have seen vodka and an attempt at a kiss, they’d have seen rejection and white powder smudged on a book and they might have got bored and turned away, offered the view of stupid humans to another because there wasn’t much to look at in the greater scheme of things, it was ants fighting on a molehill, it was nothing. A year of nothing love, a year of nothing friendship, twelve months of having everything revolve around a woman called Ros; Clare dried herself off, the towel scratchy, she’d been out of fabric conditioner for three months, never enough time for anything except watching for her phone to ring, a message to light up her screen: walk? Or pub? And they would be no more. She’d blown it. The last twenty-four hours were the exact reason why Clare kept her mouth shut.
Ros had said to her once, such secrets, Clare and nudged her with her elbow and as quickly turned her expression to concern, a bottom lip edging forward, oh God, I’m sure it’s none of my business and Clare had let her believe that something terrible lurked in her past, but it didn’t, unless shy to the point of painfulness was a beating, in which case Clare was beaten every day. She found clean socks, yesterday’s jeans, her knickers turned inside out because she’d forgotten to put on a wash, a t-shirt and sweatshirt stripped off as one, inside out, recovered and put on as one. She didn’t dare look at herself in the cracked bathroom mirror. She never wanted to see her own face again.
Day was creeping over the fields as she emerged, a limp effort through the rain, sodden horses and potholes filled with water, she pulled her boots on at the door, grabbed the spare key from the office, her breath made clouds in the freezing air, she gave as little as possible to grim smiles of morning. Brian hadn’t moved, his thighs splayed either side of the steering wheel as she’d imagined, every piece of his clothing terrified by his size, an ex- soldier turned farmer pleading to be released from moleskins trousers, checked shirt, padded green gilet and tweed cap.
“The trouble with her sort,” as if he’d never left off; Clare did up her seat belt, he started the engine, “is that they think they can play men like marionettes, toys to pick up and throw down, like every last damn one of us will bay at her fingertips. Tarting about in her daughter’s clothes, tempting men to touch her. I meant to have it out with Scott, warn him, tell him to stay well away. And with Tessa in Spain, I almost got rid of her, you know. I should have. I don’t care what Casualty this and Young Vic that. Actress my ass. Temptress more like. I’ll bet there’s a whole heap of skeletons -”
“It wasn’t her fault.” She didn’t want to get into it, only he wouldn’t stop talking.
“I would’ve thought you’d be sticking up for Tessa.” He veered round a flooded bit of road making an oncoming car flash its lights and lean on its horn.
“It wasn’t either of their fault.”
“You can’t blame a man for his dick, if you’ll excuse the expression.”
Clare couldn’t. And she wished he’d slow down.
“And we all heard him say flat-out nothing happened. What that one needs is a firm hand. Put her in her place. If it wasn’t for being Peter’s sister I’d have got rid of her completely. Leading him on, leading him a merry dance and all the while Tessa in Spain.”
Through Midhurst, over the bridge, the roads flooded and icy. Clare clung on to the door, the better to avoid being flung into Brian as he took another corner at speed.
“I’ve a good mind to go over there myself, tell her what for, that dinner party, do you remember? As if I didn’t know I wasn’t invited. If I hadn’t bumped into her at the farm shop I’d never have known. What am? Not good enough for Little Miss from London? She probably wanted Scott all to herself.”
And yet she’d let her think he’d followed her there. Clare tried to remember. If only her mind would un-fog.
“I’d say Scott’s had a close shave.”
“For fuck’s sake Brian, Scott’s done what all men do,” she didn’t mean to shout but the truck was so loud, and the rain hammered down and the sky was so angry, so thunderous she thought it might bolt lightening at them, end it for them both, a story book conclusion, everyone would say, I always thought they should be together, isn’t it sad.
“Now, Clare,” began Brian, but Clare cut him off.
“Tessa wasn’t in Spain. Okay? She was in hospital. She was sectioned, she didn’t want people to know. And Ros didn’t do anything, she was trying to help. Did you know her ex used to beat her up? Did you know she was in a refuge? She moved here to get away from him, why would she throw all that up for a made-up affair with her new friend’s husband? It’s him you want to have a go at. He’s totally fucked her over and Tess, and he doesn’t give two shits about it, he doesn’t even have the balls to admit it. She’s devastated. We all are.” Clare pictured Ros, her head on the pillows, so animated, so vulnerable, and the screaming horror that replaced what Clare had thought she loved. But that wasn’t love, to launch yourself at someone, that wasn’t care. The mountain of Ros’ friendship loomed large, blocking out the view and Clare found herself at the bottom, bruised and cut, a night that had ruined everyone. “She’ll probably have to leave. She’s my friend and I’m going to lose her, she’s going to go away, I’ll probably never see her again, and fuck knows what Tess is going to do. Six weeks in Mercury Ward and she comes out to that. He’s a fucking asshole.” It was a rule, to never cry in front of Brian, but about the time they reached the main road, the straight shoot from Midhurst to Petworth that wasn’t straight at all, that twisted and turned through a sodden Sussex morning, ice and slush and wet leaves, that rule was broken. She’d started crying, around he’s totally fucked her over and by the time I’ll probably never see her again was choked out, she was wiping the back of her hand across her face.
“He’s hurt you.”
“He hasn’t hurt me.”
“He’s hurt your friend.”
“He’s fucked with everyone I love,” and this made her cry harder, saying it out loud, to Brian of all people, who knew he’d be the one to hear it, but Brian was driving too fast, his hands tight on the wheel, his lips muttering something that Clare couldn’t hear, a man can’t walk out on his wife just because she’s not well, was lost in the shortness of his breath.
Scott, at the wheel of his Land Rover, changed gear to speed up the hill away from Peter and Diane’s lovely home. He’d woken with a jolt of remembering. He’d showered and put on the same clothes, drunk a cup of last night’s coffee reheated, found his keys and bumped down the drive. The girls had been milling about the kitchen, Peter had appeared looking groggy, there’d been murmurs of toast and not missing the bus. Issy had complained about the rain. None of this was Scott’s business, he wanted to get home, he wanted to find Tessa, he wanted to find a way to say sorry. The road rose and fell and rose again. He saw a flash of headlights, a car coming towards him, a truck overtaking. He slowed in case it hadn’t seen him. The next brow was blind. He’d seen accidents there before.
In the cab of Brian’s truck, Clare was screaming. She tried to grab the wheel, but Brian pushed her off. They’d seen Scott’s Land Rover approaching, the black and white stripes zipping through the storm towards them, unmissable. Brian wouldn’t pull back into his lane, he was holding her away with one arm, he was shouting, “don’t worry now, Clare, we just want to scare him. A man can’t go walking out on his wife just because she’s got problems in the head,” but the rain obliterated their view, and the storm made them deaf, and a blind hill got in their way, and a zebra ran into the forest wheels spinning, and was lost amongst trees.
Takes this reader by the throat and holds her there.
Oh, wow, wow, wow! Eleanor, you sure know how to escalate and bring tension!! I remain in awe and grateful to have found you and your writing.