Another Night, Another Day (2 page)

This house has seen so much – good times as well as bad. When they moved here she and Glenn had just got engaged – every inch is chock-full of memories. What a dreadful wrench it
will be to leave.

Tears prick behind Abby’s eyes. I can’t cry, she thinks. I mustn’t. If I start, I won’t stop. I have to get on. She picks up the letter confirming the valuation of the
house which Glenn left out as a pointed reminder the evening before – braces herself, and dials.

* * *

Several miles east over the pastel-coloured terraces and chalk downs, Michael is just setting off for work.
Welcome to Historic Rottingdean,
says the sign he passes on
his way to the car, and not for the first time he hears his wife’s voice: ‘Rotten name, beautiful place.’ But today he’s not sure he agrees about the latter. Michael and
Chrissie live in a modern pebble-dash bungalow off the main coast road, not in the village further inland with its pretty cottages, flint church and duck pond. When the sun is shining, the light
bounces off the sea and the broad sweep of their crescent feels generous – it seems to provide more space for the residents to breathe and be themselves. But this morning a thick layer of
pale-grey cloud causes their neighbour’s snazzy Doric columns to appear kitsch. Mizzle hangs in the air; it clings to Michael’s hair and makes it more apparent that he’s thinning
on top. This irks him; he likes to look good for the ladies – it could even be argued that this is essential in his business.

He quickens his pace. He’s got to be at the shop before nine – the Dutch lorry is due. If it had been up to him, he’d have scheduled the delivery for later to avoid rush hour,
but Jan, the driver, has other drop-offs to make. Across the road he can see several kids dressed in uniform making their way to the bus stop. The schools must be back, thinks Michael. The traffic
will be even heavier.

He unlocks the MPV, puts his work bag on the passenger seat and the plastic carrier containing his lunch alongside it. The Tupperware container of sandwiches Chrissie has made for him slides out
and onto the floor. As he’s reaching to retrieve it, there’s a ringing from inside his donkey jacket pocket. He is tempted to leave the call, but it might be Jan – with any luck
the lorry will be held up and Michael can relax a little. He manages to answer seconds before his mobile switches to voicemail.

‘Hello?’

‘Blast,’ he says to himself, seeing too late that it’s Tim, the manager of Hotel sur Plage. He has to talk to his client. ‘Good morning, Tim. What can I do for
you?’

‘Ah, Mike—’ Michael winces: if anything, he prefers Mick or Mickey – ‘have you left home yet?’

‘I’m heading into Hove any second.’

‘Splendid. Don’t suppose you could swing by us on your way?’

‘I’m afraid not – I’ve a delivery coming. Can I call you when I get in?’

‘Oh, er, I suppose . . .’ There’s a moment’s silence, then Tim says, ‘It’s only I’d like a chat, Mike, and it might be worth doing before you put in
your order—’

What’s the betting he wants to give me a steer on which stock to buy again, thinks Michael. He’s such an interfering young man, always sticking his nose in with ideas, even though
I’ve been arranging flowers since he was in nappies.

Michael is poised to ask Tim to elaborate when he realizes the call has been cut off. His Nokia has been playing up recently.

I must get a new mobile, he vows. This one’s like me: nearly past its sell-by date.

He frowns as he checks the rear-view mirror and turns on the ignition. Was it his imagination, or was there an awkwardness in Tim’s voice?

I’ll ring from the landline the moment I’m at the shop, Michael decides. The hotel is his florist’s biggest contract and it’s important to keep them sweet, but he
can’t stop now.

The estate agent is on Abby’s doorstep within an hour. Apparently there’s a shortage of properties coming onto the market – he’s eager to finalize
details. ‘I’ve people queuing up for places in Prestonville,’ he says when Abby telephones. ‘It’s a real premium being near the station.’

Before he arrives, Abby dashes round tidying, but it’s not enough time to make much impact – she finds it impossible to keep abreast as Callum creates mess at such a rate. Too soon
she hears a knock at the door.

‘I’m Ollie.’ The agent puts out a hand. His grip is assured. Like all sales people, thinks Abby, I bet they’re trained to do it. She takes in short ginger hair gelled
into pine-cone spikes and a navy suit and is conscious she’s wearing a faded velour tracksuit. Then – oh help – she sees the camera.

‘You’re not going to take pictures of the house, are you?’

‘I was, yes.’

‘I thought you were only measuring up.’ Don’t be stupid, Abby, she thinks, of course he’ll need photos.

‘I can take a couple so we can get it online and come back to do the rest another day if you’d prefer?’

‘That would be good.’

He steps inside. ‘Nice place you have here.’

The carpet on the stairs is best not scrutinized, so she directs his gaze upwards. ‘The cornices are all original.’

As he examines the ceiling, Abby notices white flecks of dandruff on his jacket. Who am I to judge? she rebukes herself. I haven’t even put a comb through my hair.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’

‘Mm, please.’

She leads him into the kitchen.

‘These are attractive.’ He runs a palm over the fitted cabinets. They’re dated, Abby knows. She is thankful he can’t see inside – she spilt almost an entire box of
cornflakes on one of the shelves in her haste to clear up breakfast.

‘You don’t mind if I take a picture in here?’ says Ollie, raising his digital camera. ‘It’ll come out well – look.’ He clicks to show her the image on
the screen. The wide-angle lens makes the room appear huge.

He steps towards the window.

‘The garden’s a state.’ She cringes. The grass hasn’t been mown since last summer, and the people with the house backing onto theirs overlook their lawn. ‘The best
view is from the front. I’ll show you upstairs.’

‘It’s a good space for a property this central.’

His enthusiasm only serves to emphasize the pain of Abby’s loss. Doubtless he’s assumed they’re upgrading – purchasing somewhere bigger, or moving further out of the
city.

Ollie removes a bright-yellow object from his pocket. He stands back and points it at the far wall. There’s a bleep.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s an ultrasonic tape measure.’

‘How does that work?’ Abby moves closer to look, and sees Ollie glance at the red-raw mark on her neck. His consternation is palpable. ‘Ah, kettle’s boiled,’ she
says, thankful for the excuse to turn away.

‘So why are you moving?’ asks Ollie, a few moments later.

Abby’s first inclination is to lie but she’s likely to need Ollie’s help finding somewhere new, and he must come across situations similar to theirs all the time. ‘My
husband and I are separating.’ She’s embarrassed to hear her voice crack.

‘Ah.’ A silence, and Ollie shifts his feet, awkward. ‘Er, where next? Lounge?’

‘Sure.’

As he turns to leave the room, he stops, stares.

‘Blimey, what happened there?’

Abby feels her cheeks burning. The television on top of the fridge-freezer has been smashed, how could she have forgotten? Shards of broken glass splay out from the centre of the screen, as if
it’s been hit by a bullet. It happened only yesterday, and she knows her son will keenly miss being able to watch TV in the kitchen. Abby isn’t sure it’s worth replacing: a new
set might meet the same fate. Nonetheless she must get rid of it. Callum’s term starts full-time tomorrow; perhaps then she can get to the tip – the glass is a real hazard with a child
around.

She senses Ollie gazing at the wound on her neck again, assimilating.

* * *

I’ve had far worse goodbyes than taking Molly to school for the first time, Karen reminds herself. Anyway, the start of January is notoriously dispiriting. Isn’t it
around now some DJ or other inevitably declares, ‘It’s the most depressing day of the year,’ as if a nationwide announcement will help alleviate the gloom? Best keep myself busy
– it’s time the Christmas decorations came down. She scoops her hair into a makeshift bun using a nearby biro, and goes upstairs.

Getting the boxes out of the loft is an effort. Simon was such a big bear of a man he would have done it as a matter of course, but now she must manage alone. Even lowering the ladder is a test
of her strength, then she has to drop the boxes through the hatch without anyone to catch them below. The fibres from the insulation make her cough, but at last she’s standing in the living
room covered in dust and sweat, mission accomplished.

What a shame to throw these away, she thinks as she begins taking the cards down from the mantelpiece. Putting the decorations up was so joyful – Molly squealing with excitement as they
turned on the fairy lights, Luke pretending he wasn’t bothered but clearly thrilled at the growing pile of presents. Even Toby, their cat, seemed to regress to kittenhood as he chased a piece
of gold string around the room. The sense of anticipation gave them a lift, and on the whole she coped well – she bought gifts online to save money; the three of them made and iced a cake
together; they joined her friends Anna and Lou to watch fireworks on the beach to celebrate the winter solstice; her mother, Shirley, came to stay for a few days and spoiled the children rotten.
Still, sometimes Karen would catch herself standing with a plastered-on smile, trying to mask her upset. ‘Fake it to make it,’ Anna suggested. ‘It’s a good strategy for
appearing more upbeat than you feel.’

In contrast, tidying up seems to say nothing other than
the fun is over,
thinks Karen. After all, what have I got to look forward to? The second anniversary of my husband’s death
in a few weeks’ time? On the one hand it seems a century ago we were getting cards wishing Merry Christmas to the four of us; on the other as if it was only yesterday Simon was here to help
with chores and DIY.

The trouble is that grief isn’t linear, Karen has learned. It doesn’t go in a neat line upwards, as if you were climbing a mountain. Then you could get to the top and say,
‘I’ve done it, I’ve stopped being sad. Now I’m ready to meet people, to smile, laugh, drink, party. Bring it on!’ Instead, grief sneaks up from behind, grabbing you by
stealth, like a mugger. Sometimes it can be extremely frightening; certainly it robs you of a great deal.

The events she is able to brace herself for because she expects to feel miserable tend to be easier; then people rally round. Christmas Day was like that; Karen and the children had several
invitations. And she has friends – Anna is one, Lou another – who are good at foreseeing occasions which might trigger upset and try to be there to support her. But the gaps in between,
if she’s not got her guard up, are when the mugger will strike. Without warning she’ll pull a deckchair out of the garden shed and it’ll smell of Simon – how does that
happen after nearly two years? Or she’ll be the only single guest at a dinner party other than a friend-of-a-friend who’s been invited as a pairing for her, although it’s
glaringly obvious they’re ill-suited. Or it might be at night; she seldom got chilly with Simon there, but these days she is often freezing, even in summer. She’ll pull the duvet round
her tight as wrapping paper, yet nothing will stop her shivering.

One by one she unhooks the glass baubles from the tree with a shower of pine needles. The baubles are so worn that the mirror effect is peeling off. She wraps them in tissue paper and places
them inside a box. That tinsel, she thinks, when I swathed it round these branches it appeared so festive and glittery; now it looks tacky. Why do I bother?

For the children, she reminds herself. That’s why. Without them, I’m not sure how I would have kept going.

* * *

Sod’s law, the lorry doesn’t turn up at nine, and when Michael tries Tim’s mobile he fails to answer. Michael leaves a message with the hotel switchboard, and
verifies his ancient Nokia is working by ringing from the landline. While he waits for the delivery, he focuses on the spartan supplies he has left; maybe he can make them presentable enough to do
some trade, although early January is a bad time for flower selling.

Perhaps I should have closed up, taken this week off, he thinks. But he can’t afford to: he has responsibilities – a mortgage to pay, a car to run, children at university; and his
wife’s income, such as it is, comes from her working occasionally at the shop, too.

At the back of the florist is a cool, dark room where Michael keeps stock when the store is shut, but once he gets the flowers into the light he sees they are past their best: gerberas folding
back on themselves, petals sagging; freesias beginning to brown at the edges; hyacinths drooping under the weight of their blooms. The little he can salvage won’t sell unless substantially
discounted.

Eventually the deep throb of an engine heralds the lorry’s arrival. The vehicle is enormous; Jan can’t park it outside on the busy main road for more than a few minutes before other
drivers start honking their horns and shouting. Michael mounts the steps of the truck and scans the shelves, assessing what will attract his customers. Roses are always a good fallback and though
he prefers to buy them in London because the quality is better, these will do till he can get up to the market. Chrysanths usually go fast as they’re cheap, but offer little in terms of
repeat business because they last for ages. He spies daffs and tulips, trays of primula and winter pansies, all traditional favourites.

‘I’ll take these,’ he says, once he’s gathered a hoard. Next he ponders what he might create for the hotel. How frustrating he’s not heard back from Tim.
He’ll have to make his purchasing decisions regardless – the Dutchman won’t be back till next week.

‘These are fantastic.’ Jan shows Michael some amaryllis.

‘Wow.’ For a brief moment Michael is caught up in the sensation that made him want to run a flower shop in the first place. Eighteen-inch stems crowned by four giant red trumpets
like loudhailers at a country show – he feels a rush of pleasure.