FOUR
The Manchester rain hammers against the roof of Mike’s car. The traffic is at a standstill, Princess Parkway chock-a-block, with no sign of movement. He looks to his left. The queue at the drive-through McDonald’s is immobile with morose folk seeking their hunger-fix. Once, years ago, he and Olivia vowed their children would never eat junk. They wanted to do nothing but right for their girls. Mike sighs: how time and experience changes everything.
There must have been an accident, he thinks, as he strains to see beyond the line of traffic in front of him. No habitual impulse of a prayer pops into his head, he forced those thoughts out long ago. His Catholicism, drummed in during childhood, had once burned deep, creating a wound he thought would never heal. That profound belief or fear or superstition, or whatever it is, that there is a god. No, not a god, but The God. But that scar has healed; when he needs his faith, he finds it has gone.
He switches from Radio 4, to 2, to Capital, listens for a moment to Rihanna and thinks of his girls dancing, giggling, showing their pretty white teeth. ‘Look, Daddy. Watch us dance!’ It’s a happy thought, he knows this, but he’s lost the feeling of happiness, its sense, its touch.
He turns off the radio and watches the rain splatter and spread against the windscreen. It’s making shapes he’s never noticed before. Interesting, he thinks, but the ruse doesn’t work for long; his bleak thoughts are too dominant, too powerful for Rihanna, or the rain, or even his lovely girls.
Shaking himself, he tries to resurface, to focus on the traffic tailback and the noise of the vehicles happily jam-free on the flyover ahead. He looks at his watch, knowing that he should text Olivia, but wondering what he should say. ‘Stuck in traffic’ is the obvious choice, but he can predict the reply, ‘How long will you be?’
How long will this go on? The gloom, the pestering, dark thoughts. He had them before as a teenager, but they were intermittent then, somehow controlled by the guilt of the priest’s regular Sunday words, ‘There’s always someone worse off.’ But this time it’s been months and he bores himself. It’s truly pathetic. Always the same, it’s the little things that pull him down. He can go for hours without giving it a second thought and then something will happen to make the black dog bound in. Today it was an email circulating around the office inviting the staff to contribute to a present for one of the associates, the newly proud father of a healthy son. An everyday office occurrence, but enough to throw him.
A knock on his window makes him start. His mobile is still in his hand, text unsent.
‘Are you all right, mate? Need a push or has the car just stalled?’
Mike notices the blare of horns behind him and the empty road ahead. It’s still raining.
‘Yeah, just stalled. Sorry.’
As he slips the car into gear, the black dog lurches forward and then settles in for the ride.
‘Get up to your bedroom, now!’ Olivia bellows as Mike walks through the front door of their semi-detached Victorian home. He shakes the rain from his hair and puts his briefcase down in its usual place by the stairs.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks, looking from mother to daughter. It’s unlike Olivia to scream at Rachel. Or at anyone. What is it that she always says when they watch Question Time? ‘He’s shouting. Ha! He’s lost control of the conversation.’
‘I will not have any daughter of mine speak to me like that,’ Olivia replies breathlessly.
Rachel spins round on the stairs, the knuckles of her slim hand white against the stained wood of the banister. ‘Well, it’s true. You tell us to be honest. You’ve been a cow for weeks, Mum. We can’t do anything right. We might as well not exist for all you bloody well care.’
‘Rachel, go to your bedroom,’ he says quietly. ‘Your mum’s right. Don’t you ever speak to her like that again.’
Rachel stares at him, her face pained with reproach. ‘I knew you’d take her side,’ she says, before running up the rest of the stairs.
He stands for a moment, the slam of Rachel’s bedroom door loud in his ears. He shakes off his jacket and looks at Olivia. She hasn’t moved and her face is set. He’s never seen her so angry. ‘It’s raining,’ he murmurs, looking for time, wondering how best to handle such an unexpected situation.
‘What’s going on, Olivia? This isn’t like you two.’ He reaches out, placing his hands at the top of Olivia’s arms to draw her in. She’s trembling. He can feel the anger rising from her as she pushes him away, the flat of her hand firm against his damp shirt.
‘And how would you know?’
He stands and stares. Is Olivia laughing? He isn’t sure. He hardly recognises her.
‘How would you know?’ she repeats. ‘Tell me, Mike. You’re never here. And even when you are here you’re in some unreachable place. You don’t notice me, you don’t notice the girls.’
‘That isn’t true.’ He sees his daughters in his mind, dancing to Rihanna. ‘Of course I notice you all. Come on, Olivia, this isn’t like—’
‘When was the last time you gave me a compliment?’ Olivia isn’t laughing, she’s crying, but the soft contours of her pale face are gone. ‘When was the last time you bought me a box of chocolates or some flowers? I had my hair cut last week and you didn’t even notice.’
He gazes at her hair. It’s blonde, elfin short; it suits her petite face and her frame. ‘I did notice. Of course I noticed. It looks lovely. But flowers, chocolates? Come on, Olivia, you don’t do chocolates.’
‘Fuck the chocolates, then. Fuck everything. You just continue to take it for granted that I’m going to be here, the little wife with a smiling face when you come home, your bloody dinner waiting on the table.’
He catches his breath. This is Olivia, calm, capable, witty Olivia; Olivia who takes everything in her stride. She’s never been and will never be ‘the little wife’. She’s clever, opinionated and strong. He stares again, aware that life has shifted, that the world has somehow moved without him noticing.
‘What do I do on a Tuesday, Mike? You never ask me how I am, where I’ve been, what I’ve done. I could be anywhere, with anyone. You’re just so used to me I’ve become invisible.’
‘That isn’t true. Really. You never said,’ he replies quietly.
‘I shouldn’t have to say anything. If you loved me, Mike, you’d see, you’d know.’
She stares at him for a moment, searching his face, her amber eyes wide and sad. ‘What’s the point?’ she mutters, then walks into the kitchen and closes the door.
A wisp of a thought enters Mike’s head, an impulse to turn around and walk out of the door he entered only minutes earlier. But it’s only a thought and only for a moment as his eyes catch the pink fur of Hannah’s favourite slippers. She’s under the stairs, hidden from view, her arms around her knees and her blonde head buried.
‘Is it my fault, Daddy?’
‘Of course it isn’t.’ Mike pulls her to him, his beautiful bag of bones, breathing in the cosy smell of shampoo and baked beans. ‘It’s Daddy’s fault. Don’t worry, I’ll make it all better, I promise,’ he says, hugging his warm living child tightly to his heart, wondering where on earth he should begin.
It’s late. Antonia is in bed, asleep, her long hair spread away from her face like a fan on the pillow. David studies her features for a while, taking in her glossy skin, the definition of her jaw and the graceful length of her neck. He longs to trace his fingers from the small lobe of her ear to the hollow of her throat, but he doesn’t want to wake her and spoil the moment. He slips in beside her, the clean sheets feeling crisp and cold, much like his sleeping wife.
In those few moments when the terror of his worries relaxed their grip, he thought