Bessie gave a wry smile. ‘And you did okay, one hundred and seventy-two?’ She didn’t really want to hear, knowing it would be another knife to swallow, but wanted to support her best friend.
‘Good enough, yeah.’ Michelle kept it vague, looking now at the grey paving slabs, warmed by the sun, anywhere but Bessie’s face. The small smile at the corner of her mouth and the sparkle to her eyes told Bessie she had done more than good enough. And she guessed at a handful of B’s and C’s. One hundred and seventy-two . . . What wouldn’t she give right now for one hundred and seventy-two?
‘Come on.’ Michelle tried to pick up the mood with her perky tone. ‘Let’s go via my house so I can tell my mum and dad, and then we’ll go to yours and—’
‘Actually, Michelle,’ she interrupted her friend, ‘I . . . I think I just want to go home on my own.’
‘Oh . . .’ Michelle nodded. This never, ever happened; they never chose to be apart. ‘Okay, of course! Well, I’ll come over later and we can get ready for the rugby club. I think the whole year’s going! And I’ll bring m—’
‘Can I just meet you there?’ Bessie knew at that moment that what she wanted – needed – was as much time alone today as she could manage, to try to think things through, wash away the sticky sense of failure and embarrassment that coated her skin, order her racing thoughts. She needed to clear her head, come up with Plan B.
‘Oh, sure . . . If that’s what you want.’ There was a crease of confusion at the top of Michelle’s nose, as if she were struggling to fathom quite what was happening. She stepped forward and wrapped Bessie in a loose hug that felt a little unfamiliar, as if someone had placed a thin veneer between them. Their touch was muted, a little cooler than they were used to and, for the first time ever, verging on awkward. It didn’t feel nice at all and only added to the unease that suddenly enveloped them both.
The two girls went their separate ways at the school gates. Bessie looked back over her shoulder and watched her friend speed up, eager to get home, no doubt, to knock on the caravan door and shout, ‘I did it!’, while she did the opposite, slowing her pace, uncaring if it took all day before she had to tell her parents and her smart brother of her failure. Her tears came at last and she rubbed at her eyes.
Looking down, she saw bright smudges of eyeshadow and dark streaks of kohl on her fingertips; no doubt it was all over her face. How stupid she felt, wanting to look nice when it was the last thing anyone would remember about her today. Gary Bradshaw, who lived at the bottom of her road, whizzed past her on his bike, heading in the direction of home. The sound of Melanie Hall snickering behind her rang in her ears and as Bessie came to the roadworks on the corner, she stared at the big hole the workmen had dug and thought for a minute how nice it might be to jump right in and never come out.
CHAPTER FOUR
August 20th 2021
It wasn’t that Bess wanted birthday fireworks or anything of the sort, not at her age, but for Mario not to have a card ready was disappointing. Duck or not. When they were younger, he used to regularly leave cards and notes for her to find, sometimes just a postcard with a heart on it, others crammed with tiny writing: long, descriptive, effusive ramblings of what she meant to him and how very, very thankful he was that she was his wife. They had made her feel nice. Safe. It had been some years now since a card of that nature had been left under her pillow or propped up against the kettle. She sat on the sofa with her legs tucked beneath her and Chutney illegally by her side. Sipping at coffee that had cooled to the point of unpleasant – although at this hour, caffeine was caffeine – she felt a small bite of resentment that was hard to explain.
An irritatingly catchy tune came through the TV. How this advert grated on her nerves: ‘For all your skip-hire needs, call P . . .’ She pressed mute and rubbed at the twitch beneath her left eye. The sound of her husband thudding around in the bathroom overhead caused her to look up and sigh. He was so noisy. The ceiling light in the lounge shook as he slammed the shower screen door, as he did every morning.
‘For the love of God!’ she whispered under her breath. She took in the empty mug, folded newspaper and discarded crisp packet down by the side of Mario’s chair. There was a loud rap on the front door. She opened it to find Jim the postman standing on the step with his heavy bag slung across his body. It was unusual for him to knock. Ordinarily whatever he had to deliver was small enough and flat enough to plop through the letterbox without further interaction. She greeted him with a smile. Her mum liked to remind her that in an emergency it was good to be able to call out to someone like the postman. Although, in fairness, Bess was hard pushed to think of an emergency in which Jim would shine, plus the chances of him being at the end of the driveway in such an event seemed slim.
‘Someone’s popular!’ the postman said cheerily, waving a fan of pastel envelopes in her direction.
‘Morning, Jim. It’s my birthday.’ Bess rolled her eyes, hoping to convey how over the whole birthday thing she was and how it was more than a little embarrassing to be discussing it. She was conflicted, partly of the opinion that anyone over the age of twenty-one should simply and quietly acknowledge the day if they felt so inclined and move on without all the fuss, shenanigans and expense that a birthday incurred – save a decent card from their other half, which should at all costs exclude ducks. Nonetheless, she was keen to see all her lovely social media messages, which cost nothing, but showed the world that she was loved.
‘Twenty-one again, is it?’ Jim gave the throaty laugh that irritated her as much now as it had done for the last seventeen years. And yet, weirdly, she liked their interactions – it always broke up her day and made her feel part of the community.
Bess didn’t mix too often with her eclectic bunch of neighbours. It wasn’t their fault per se, but she just found it easier to keep herself to herself, uncertain of what she could possibly contribute to any gathering or whether she had anything of interest to say. Not that she was averse to peering at them through the haphazardly fitted slatted wooden blind at the bedroom window. These observations could brighten up the dullest of mornings, especially if she got a glimpse of the handsome Mr Andrew Maxwell, who was tanned, slim and had very good teeth.
The Maxwells’ Christmas drinks party was an insufferable annual affair where neighbours who pretty much ignored each other all year round, save a nod and a wave on bin day, were herded together and fed morsels of food, while Mrs Helen Maxwell told you exactly what was in them and how she had made them, like anyone cared. To get through it, Bess either ate and ate or bit the inside of her cheek to stop from yelling, ‘Sweet Lord above, woman! No one – and I mean no one – cares that you added a pinch of cayenne and let the pastry rest for forty-five minutes! Do what we do: go to Asda! Buy the bloody things!’
But, of course, she didn’t. Instead she nodded and smiled through her mouthful, dreaming of getting home, when she could ping off her bra, which was cutting into her left shoulder, and kick off her silver sparkly-heeled sandals, snatched from the shelves of TK Maxx at such a ridiculously reduced price that the fact they didn’t quite fit was secondary, even if it meant her little toes were alternately numb and then throbbing. And all the while, with Simon and Garfunkel duetting in the background, Mr Maxwell padded across the soft carpet, pouring wine, decanted into a carafe, while explaining the grape profile and soil mineral content, as the bewildered residents of Larkspur Close nodded and sipped the chilled white, as if they could discern any difference between the wine Mr Maxwell described with its heady bouquet and rich oaky notes and the cheap plonk they bought by the boxful from the petrol station up the road for a little under five quid. Mario detested the evening as much, if not more, than she did, and she had to stand and smile, trying to paint the affair with a happy gloss, just to make it bearable.