The Way Out Page 8

  He bites his lip and tries to remember the future. If he could will himself there, be fully present in that small room with the smell of bare plaster. If he was only strong enough.

  Ari says, ‘Chilli Pepper. You know this one. This is the colour of the mark my hand left on your face when you said afterwards It’s for the best and It wasn’t meant to be and You’ll get over it in time. This is the colour of never getting over it, of never forgetting.’

  His hands shake and his vision blurs as he tries to focus on the paint swatches he knows are there. He’s looking for something now, searching for a shade definite enough to pull him back to the present and anchor himself there.

  Ari says, ‘This one?’ She places her finger on the last shade, which looks sore and shows signs of blistering. ‘That one will never heal. Even when it looks like it’s gone, if it’s exposed to the right conditions it’ll blister up again, and weep.’

  He takes a ragged breath and lets the paint swatches fall from his hand and leans his head against the plaster wall of what will be the baby’s room. His baby’s room. Now. Here, in the future.

  His wife picks them up, straightening with a grunt of effort. ‘Let’s forget these,’ she says. ‘Let’s go for blue instead. A nice strong colour.’

  He can’t speak so nods and wraps his arms around her and they stand with the future round and full between them, her belly pressed into his. When the kick comes he feels it almost as if it came from inside his own body. And he is helpless. Helpless as his wife laughs and brushes the tears from his face.

  Ladies’ Day

  A wet, gusty wind barges across the race track. The women, the ladies, are woefully exposed to the elements in thin dresses that flick and snap around goose-bumped fake tan, not a coat to be seen, clinging on to head gear, reinserting clips and pins, trying to hold it all together. Three of us from the baby group – me, Kaz and Ashley – shelter behind a bookies’ booth.

  ‘Remind me again why we’re here,’ says Ashley, leaning on my shoulder for balance as she picks a wad of muddy grass from the heel of her stiletto.

  Kaz glares at her. ‘We’re here to have a day off. We’re going to have fun, right?’ She scowls at the two of us until we nod agreement. ‘Anyway, the tickets cost a bomb so at least pretend like you are.’

  Ashley examines the muddy streaks on her fingers. ‘I need a drink,’ she says.

  I give her a baby-wipe from the packet in my bag.

  I should’ve phoned Kaz and said I’d got a cold, or Sean’s shifts had been changed at the last minute. Something. Anything.

  Sean had come up behind me as I fiddled with my hair in the hall mirror. ‘Mmhmm. Looking good,’ he said, wrapped his arms around my waist and pressed in against my back. His hands travelled upwards as he nuzzled into my neck.

  I steadied myself against the wall. I’m not used to heels so my balance wasn’t great to start with. I peeled his fingers off and wriggled out of his grip.

  ‘Thanks, that really helps.’ I tried a laugh to soften the sarcasm in my voice but it came out bent. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My reflection frowned at us both from the mirror.

  ‘What?’ The mirror-Sean raised his open palms behind me. ‘Well, you look sexy,’ he pretend huffed, stepping back.

  ‘No I don’t. I look like someone’s mum.’

  The dress was bought for a wedding last year and was supposed to be floaty to blur the edges of my post-baby figure, but it just hung on me like a worn-out flowery dishcloth.

  Sean smiled. ‘You are someone’s mum, pet.’

  ‘I know that.’ There was that irritability again, showing through like a spot under too much concealer. ‘I meant someone older. Someone… else.’

  A moment of silence opened up and out of it poured this sadness, like the sky had just emptied straight down on me. The anger washed away but I was drenched, the stupid dress drooping and dripping. I jerked in a breath and blinked a couple of times. Sean squeezed my shoulder and for a second I thought maybe he understood but I didn’t have time to find out because there was a cry from upstairs. We both froze and tilted our heads to listen. A couple more whimpers and then silence. We looked at each other and nodded.

  I went back to jabbing at my hair clips. Had I done them right? We were all supposed to have hats for today and I did try but hats make me look fake. I even tried a few of those feathery things Kaz showed me. ‘It’s a fascinator,’ she said. ‘Like I’m not fascinating enough already,’ and laughed that loud laugh she’s got, daring anyone to contradict her. All the time, this phrase, morbid fascination, kept pushing into my head and the fascinators, the morbid fascinators, started to look like exactly what they were: bits of dead bird. So, I compromised with these tiny enamel flowers, three of them in different purples. Hopefully they’re enough to show I made the effort.

  We make our way to the line of bars and food stalls strung out behind the betting ring, backing on to the red brick pavilion. Two plastic cups of fizzy wine pretending to be champagne and a double vodka later, the weather isn’t so bad.

  ‘Another?’ I wave my empty cup at the others. I’d be feeling quite relaxed if it wasn’t for these heels.

  ‘Nah. Those prices are ridiculous,’ says Kaz. ‘Ashley, phone your Barry and get him to pass something over the fence for us.’

  When the rumour had first gone round about security guards at the gates searching handbags and confiscating any alcohol, the options were discussed at our Tuesday afternoon baby group.

  ‘You know if you open up boxes of wine, they have plastic bags inside?’ Kaz had said. ‘I could get a couple of them, strap one to each leg, up high so they couldn’t be seen. They’re not going to actually frisk me, are they?’

  The other mums looked sceptical but cracked up laughing when Kaz stood up and waded around the hall like a fat gunslinger.

  Liz, an old hand on baby number three, came up with another scheme. ‘Those blue bricks you freeze for coolbags? Empty them out, fill them with whatever and stick them in with the picnic. You’d get a fair bit in that way.’

  In the end, we didn’t put any of the plans into action. We did get our bags searched though, which was just rude.

  The Barry plan is a good one. If we keep buying drinks in here, I’ll run out of cash before I manage to place a bet. I wouldn’t bother, but it’s not, strictly speaking, my own money.

  Sean lifted his jacket off the banister and pulled his wallet from the inside pocket. ‘You got enough?’

  ‘I took some out of my account,’ I muttered, looking at my shoes.

  He knew as well as I did, there’s nothing left in there. I’ve not worked since Tom. That was the deal and it isn’t like what I do at home, looking after Tom, cleaning, cooking, all that, isn’t work. We both agreed. It’s fine. It’s only times like this, not that they happen often, when there’s something just for me and it takes money. I can’t ask. Cannot force the words out my mouth. I’d rather go without than have to ask. I know Sean would never grudge me a few quid for myself, and I shouldn’t feel this way. But I still do.

  ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Put a few bets on for me.’ He was trying to make it okay by turning it into something I could do for him, like a favour, or a job. He understood that much. ‘I’ll expect a share of your winnings when you get back.’

  He pressed the money into my hand and I took it, said thanks and shoved it into my handbag. There was an awkward silence and I turned towards the stairs. ‘I’ll just—’

  ‘You’d best not,’ Sean said. ‘Don’t want to wake him.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ I whispered, already half-way up.

  Tom lay on his back, arms thrown up above his head, as if the afternoon nap had taken him by surprise. His sleep breath snuffled in and out in a steady rhythm. I leant over the cot and felt that familiar desperate lurch in my stomach. Despite the satisfaction of seeing him grow, I can’t help wishing he’d never change, that I could protect him from time and everything it’ll bring, even though
I know it’s impossible and I’ve already failed. I reached a hand out to brush his curls but stopped short. Leaving would be much harder if he woke.

  I stepped slowly backwards towards the door, in the pattern dictated by which floorboards creak and which don’t. Almost there, my heel came down on the soft toy from hell. It started up, high-pitched and insistent:

  It’s a small world after all

  Christ, bloody thing.

  It’s a small world after all

  I hear that tune in my sleep. I snatched it up,

  It’s a small world after all

  and fumbled with the off switch.

  It’s a small, small —

  Finally!

  Tom turned his head and raised one arm, like he was waving, but his eyes were still closed and he puffed out a sigh and settled back to sleep.

  Me and Kaz stand near the paddock, waiting for Ashley to get back, watching the horses being led in circles, snorting and stamping, manes knotted in bumpy braids, tails wound up tight. Women drift in and out of the betting booths and bars, carrying drinks and fluttering betting slips. The rain has gone off and a weak sun is making the grass sparkle. The scene looks almost like it was supposed to.

  ‘That one!’ Kaz shouts. ‘We should bet on that one.’ She’s pointing to a brown mare skipping nervously around the paddock. The horse’s skin looks tight and thin, every sinew and vein visible, eyes rolling, nostrils flared. As she goes past I catch a sharp whiff of sweat and earth and hot grassy breath. She’s making a horrendous sound, chewing at the metal bar between her teeth. Flecks of white froth collect at the soft corners of her mouth.

  ‘Why that one?’ I ask.

  ‘It just had a shit. I heard they go faster if they have a shit first.’ Kaz folds her arms and looks knowledgeable.

  ‘Well, less weight I suppose.’ She might have a point.

  ‘Perhaps we should try to scare another one,’ she says.

  ‘What for?’ I ask, looking at the other horses, bristling with trapped energy. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘So they, y’know, go…?’

  Sometimes it’s hard to tell when Kaz is joking. But for once we don’t have to stop and explain, or apologise. We’re both crying with laughter, holding onto each other’s arms, when Ashley arrives carrying a rolled-up cardigan.

  ‘Guess what Barry says to me?’ she demands, but doesn’t stop for an answer.

  Me and Kaz straighten our faces.

  ‘He says Talk about special treatment. You get to have your own day. Blokes don’t get anything like that. We don’t get Gentleman’s Day. Can you believe that? Poor you, I says, all you get is every other day.’

  ‘What did you get then?’ Kaz interrupts, plucking at the edge of the cardigan to reveal the red top of a vodka bottle.

  Ashley steps away, pulling the wool back over the bottle and giving it a pat, cradling it like a baby.

  An hour later, Ashley sits cross-legged on the tartan rug, one strap hanging off her shoulder, talking about her Barry and how he’s great with the twins but the house will be a bombsite when she gets back. When she starts talking in circles, Kaz takes over about her dad’s cancer and how her brother’s no help at all since their mum’s gone and she has to drag the kids backwards and forwards to the hospital. She talks fast, eyes wide, lips wet with vodka and coke. I think she’d like to stop talking because now she’s rounded the last turn and we can all see what’s waiting on the finish line. She stops abruptly and stares off across the track then knocks back the rest of her drink before clambering to her feet and swaying off to find the Ladies. I start talking about Sean and Tom and how I’m thinking of going back to work, which surprises me. I hadn’t realised I was seriously considering it. None of us are used to talking without constant interruption from children. Combined with the drink, it’s like running too fast downhill.

  The horses thunder past, throwing up crescent-shaped clods of turf high into the air, the jockeys hunched on their backs in bright colours like parasitic beetles. The ground shakes, like drums from underground working their way up.

  Kaz arrives back, waving a race programme. ‘Right! We need to pick which horse to bet on. I think we should go for Liberty Trail, but I like the sound of Blue Tomato too.’

  I pour more drinks and Ashley blows her nose.

  ‘So, twenty quid each way?’ Kaz pauses but gets no answer. ‘I’ve no idea what that means either so don’t look at me like that.’

  I watch the horses as they loop back round for another circuit. I think I can see that mare from the paddock. She’s out in front and my heart starts beating faster as I watch her straining ahead, a hurtling mass of muscle and sweat. She’s tearing through the air, ripping it apart. It’s like she’s trying to tear a hole in front of her and escape through it, to some other place where something else, something more is waiting, a place where maybe she can stop running. It’s always that bit further ahead. The promise of that.

  Like Arseholes

  MEGAN

  The receptionist smiles and hands me a white address label with my name in capitals written across it in blue biro. ‘If you could just wear this?’

  No surname, although they’ve got my full name printed on the sign-in sheet. It’s one of the ways they try to make everyone feel at ease. Doesn’t work.

  ‘If you could wait over there?’ She nods towards a small group already installed in the far corner of the lobby, perched on sofas around a low table. ‘Help yourself to coffee and biscuits. Someone will be down to collect you all soon.’

  I join the three others, take my coat off and stick my label to my blouse. I scan the other labels. I’m rubbish with names but the faces look familiar, especially the old guy. Bristly salt-and-pepper hair, face red with broken blood vessels, silver-framed glasses digging into the soft fruit of his nose. Clean though. Polished black shoes and ironed jeans. Reformed alky? Name label says ALLEN. I’ve definitely seen him at one of these things before but can’t quite place him. No biggy.

  FRANCES

  I remember Megan. Saw her few months back if I’m not mistaken. Had a thing about bananas. She’s sitting quietly at the moment, but that won’t last. She’s right mouthy when she gets going, that one. Not that I blame her. It does make the time go faster when it’s a lively group. Sometimes folk get all contentious just to keep themselves awake. I’ve been guilty of that myself, if not on the same scale.

  Mixed genders this time. That can damp things right down, with the women just clamming up and letting the men talk. Depends. The older man looks like he’d hold forth given half a chance but that young one hasn’t looked up from his phone since we’ve been sitting here. Hunched over, his big thumb stroking the thing up and down, only stopping to scratch his chin every now and then. Is that supposed to be some kind of trendy facial hair or is he just plain lazy, I wonder?

  JAMIE

  Shit. One bar? Fucking kidding me. Crap battery life. Defo changing my contract soon as I can. Can’t get out of this one easy though. Fucking lock you in, eh? Thing is, there’s always a better deal to be had somewhere else.

  MEGAN

  When you’ve been doing these things a few years, you start to recognise faces, although no one ever knows who anyone is, really. Everyone bends the truth to fit whatever the researchers are looking for. We all do it. My age has been known to vary by five to ten years either way. I’ve been a homeowner and a renter, had children and stayed child-free, been married, single, cohabiting, separated, divorced, had at least a dozen different jobs, and sometimes none. I’ve owned and not owned cars, smartphones, compost bins, timeshares, stocks and shares. Name a popular product or service and there’s a good chance I’ve taken a particular stance towards it. I have loved it, hated it and been completely indifferent towards it.

  Don’t think I’ve seen the young guy before. Maybe the middle-aged woman with the hair and the inch-thick orange slap on her face. Nobody is talking yet. We’re still in the small smiles and nods zone.

>   I reach for a custard cream just as the woman opposite does the same.

  FRANCES

  To be honest, I’ve come to expect better. ‘Bit sparse, this,’ I say, gesturing towards the single plate of not-chocolate biscuits. ‘I like when they have sandwiches and sausage rolls and those mini pork pies, that sort of thing. Saves me cooking dinner.’ I bite into my custard cream. ‘Doesn’t do to pass up free food.’ I smile at Megan. There’s a girl who clearly doesn’t pass up much in the way of edibles, free or otherwise.

  She nods, her eyes widen. ‘Pakora!’ she says, spraying crumbs down her front. ‘I was at this one once, had all this Indian food. Bajis and samosas and all that. Brilliant. I was stuffed.’

  A shame the way young women let themselves go these days. She could be quite pretty as well. Lovely eyes. But the way her stomach pushes out over her waistband like that? Oh dear.

  I look around at the group. Jamie is wearing a suit so has obviously come straight from a job, and not a manual one. I like a well turned out professional man, but his suit is in need of dry cleaning, his shirt off-white.

  There’s an unspoken agreement amongst the regulars that we don’t talk about our real lives. So there’s no real point in the normal kind of exchanges about families and jobs. The lack of proper information leads to speculation. At least it does for me.

  The chat as we wait to be rounded up is usually about what other groups people have done, which was the easiest money, which had the best free food. And that’s the way this is going. Megan’s pakora outburst having broken the proverbial.

  JAMIE

  I put the phone on silent and join the chat. We can talk like this because we’re out of ear-shot of the receptionist, not that she probably gives a fuck, and the organisers, whoever they are, haven’t shown up yet. No idea what this one is for. We hardly ever know exactly what it is we’re going to be having opinions about till we get started.

  The one lie that you have to stick to in these groups, as far as the researchers are concerned, is the one about not having done anything similar before, or at least not for six months or a year. I had three groups last month and played the new boy in each one. We all do it.