24 HOURS EARLIER
It had started weeks ago, the tickle, the nudge, the grab, the feeling that she was hunted. A creeping sensation at her back, a sudden jerk awake in case it should catch her sleeping; she’d been feeling unwell for a while. A flutter through her veins, her heartbeat up a notch; through the darkness and boredom of everyday life it was the chink of a door just open, a light she could have, a promise of fun, the adrenalin rush of abandon. She could do what everyone else kept locked in a cupboard. She could break free. But it was ridiculous. Tessa, who had a home to a run, a child to love, a husband who needed his dinner. Tessa who was a member of the home counties, middle class community who drank too much, bragged about holidays, compared their children and flirted with each other’s husbands. They didn’t take hammers to cupboards, they didn’t go mad they got drunk, and had sex, and behaved badly but laughed about it, badly like their parents before them. If they got fat they cleansed, and if they were lonely or frightened or sad beyond repair, if the unhappiness in their heart and betrayal in their gut, the madness in their soul rose up like a chemical explosion that threatened to ruin everything, they did up the kitchen. There was no time for the insistent nagging to kick down doors, break free. Nowhere was it written to smash walls. Tessa didn’t have time for any of it. She had a house to tidy, a rugby match to get to, supper to think of.
A grey mist dampened the garden like an overcoat left out in the rain, great gulps of autumn had flattened the harvest and slowed to a miserable sniff. She’d had two hours sleep but she’d figured it out completely. She’d move the cooker, put in an island, and redo the floor in slate. They’d have halogens and dinner parties and a sofa at the end. There’d be freshness and clean surfaces and most of all there’d be order. This sense of unrest, this feeling that something was wrong was down to crappy cupboards ruining her view. If she redid the kitchen, she’d feel better.
By half past eight Freddy was running out the door, his school bag slung over his shoulder while Scott, a piece of toast in one hand, pushed him on but Tessa, at the table, hadn’t moved. She didn’t expect him to talk to her, but a kiss would have been nice. She stared at the slick of milk that had washed up over Freddy’s bowl of Cheerios. What she needed was a list.
She took her Filofax from the windowsill, slid the blue Biro from its leather loop, found an empty page and wrote architect. Then she crossed it out and wrote builder.
Get dressed or find a builder or tidy the breakfast away or get dressed. She walked in circles, picking up a fork, putting it down again. She rolled a cigarette and forgot to smoke it. She stared at the damp garden. By a quarter to twelve all she’d managed was to remove one plate from the dishwasher. Her phone buzzed.
me & Ros getting quick sandwich at pub. on way now. Come? x
*
In the tiny mirror of the cramped cubicle in the ladies’ toilets of the White Horse Pub, Tessa inspected her face, then her neck then her waistline. She shouldn’t have had the scampi. She should have had the salad, like Clare, or the club sandwich, like Ros. Then she wouldn’t be feeling so fat. Outside her coffee was waiting for her. Hints of sunshine pushed through the clouds.
“Please can’t one of you do it?” said Clare. “I don’t want it to be just me and Brian.”
They’d been talking about Blithe Spirit, the latest production by the Midhurst Amateur Dramatics Society. Brian was the director.
“It won’t just be you and Brian. Diane’s in for Madam Arcati, and I’ve said Issy can be the maid.” Ros ripped a corner of Sweet n’ Low with her teeth.
“You know what I mean. He’s always suggesting we run lines together.” Clare had sandy brown hair cut like a scarecrow.
“He can’t help it if he’s in love with you,” said Ros.
“He’s lonely,” said Tessa.
“He’s a nutter,” said Clare.
“He’s kind,” said Tessa. “I wish Scott was kind.”
“You should do it, Tess,” said Ros. “You’d be perfect for Elvira. You wouldn’t have to rehearse.”
“I’m not dead.”
“But you are married.”
“Only just.” Tessa relit her roll-up.
“What happened?” said Clare.
“I burnt the dinner.”
“It’s not 1953. I burn things all the time,” said Ros.
“It was soup.”
Ros and Clare laughed.
“Then you should definitely do the play. Show Scott what you’re made of,” said Ros.
“And you can teach me how to be his annoying other wife,” said Clare.
“He only does the play to get away from me,” said Tessa.
Ros picked up the teaspoon that Tessa had knocked to the grass when she’d tried to smoke a cigarette and drink her coffee at the same time. Blonde hair, shades of bombshell, fell over her face. She was so effortlessly pretty. She got a sparkly black clip out of her bag and twisted it up into a loose, messy chignon.
“What time tonight?” said Tessa.
“Seven-ish.” Ros got up. Clare and Tessa followed her. A BMW estate, a battered Subaru and Tessa’s Range Rover were parked in a row. Ros opened her car door. “And don’t be late. Peter’s determined to have a last barbecue effort so I fucking hope it doesn’t rain.”
*
Home from the pub, Tessa made herself another coffee. It was hard to know her mind when it kept jumping about. She sat outside, the saturated sandbox at her feet. It had been the focus of last week’s list, throw away/clean/donate to charity. She hadn’t done any of those things. Do the play. Don’t do the play. Ask Scott if she should do the play. Tell Scott she was doing the play. Put the whole thing off until tomorrow. Ask Scott tonight. Don’t mention it tonight. Ask him what he thought on their way to Peter and Diane’s. Avoid talking about it completely. He blamed her; that was the problem. He said she didn’t try hard enough.
She threw the dregs in the bushes. It had done her no favours. As she pulled on her boots by the coat stand, she pretended not to see the man in the trilby who’d been watching her. She put on a baseball cap and pulled it low over her eyes, picked up her bag, and set off for Freddy’s school.
The road from Midhurst to Billingshurst is one long shoot of the A272. It bends through Tillington, doglegs through Petworth and weaves round the corners of Wisborough Green but if she imagined she was flying, then the effort was an arrow pointing east. She set off at speed leaving Midhurst behind as she flew the rise and fall of blind hills. Cowdray polo grounds fell away to her right, the golf course on her left gave way to woods. She looked in her rear-view mirror. There was a police car following her. It had tucked in behind her when she’d turned onto the main road, and it hadn’t swerved.
She rang Clare.
“Hi.” She had to shout, she had the windows open.
“Hey,” Clare’s voice was distant. “Hang on a minute, Tess.”
There was a clatter of buckets, or maybe it was the wind, or maybe she imagined it.
“Clare?”
“Give me a minute, hang on.”
“There’s a police car following me.”
“Hang on Tess. A what?”
“A police car. It’s been on my tail the whole way.”
“Hang on.” A door banged and Clare’s voice became clearer. “Where are you?”
“On my way to school.”
“Should it be following you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, is it following you? Are you sure it’s not just behind you?”
“It’s been on me the whole way.”
“But it’s not doing anything?”
“It won’t get off my tail.”
“Are you hands-free? And you haven’t jumped a light or something? Are you speeding?”
“They’re wearing hats.”
“Hats?”
“Their hats.”
“Does it matter?”
“They only wear hats when it’s serious.” She veered around a motorbike and kept her speed exactly at the limit. “It doesn’t matter.” It was difficult to concentrate. She cut the call and checked her rear-view again. The police switched on their lights; the blue siren flash filled her brain. She slowed, they indicated, sped up and overtook her.
She steadied her breathing. Calm. Be calm. She kept her eyes on the road as it dipped and rose beneath her. As she crested the next hill, she saw a zebra run into the forest and be lost amongst trees.
She held on tight to the steering wheel. She tried very hard to breathe but her hands were sweating, and her chest was tight. She turned on the radio. I Feel Love swept into the car.
Ah... It's always the zebra
Bloody Zebras!! poor tessa