Second Chances (3 page)

See?
Mum popped up, her voice gleeful.
Those chickens are coming home
to roost! One girl’s sordid secret is another girl’s father.

I staggered into the kitchen and filled the kettle, as though a nice cup of tea might somehow save us all from ruin. I couldn’t face those bills, now. The latest copy of my occupational therapy magazine lay half-read on the kitchen bench, smothered among charitable appeals. I leafed vaguely through it as the kettle boiled. Techniques in the classroom, wheelchair fitting. Several recruitment agencies advertised regularly. Jobs in Australia . . . Canada . . . New Zealand. Kit had been to New Zealand as a student, and raved about the place. Carrying the magazine back to the computer with my mug, I typed in the website address. Just for fun, I told myself. Just to pass the time until he came home.

Seductive thing, the World Wide Web. Within an hour I’d educated myself on work, education and costs of living on the other side of the world. I was scrolling my way through visa information when the little carriage clock on the mantelpiece whirred, sighed and struck midnight. The tinny chime sent fear tapping on the door of my mind, though I tried to be rational. He’d roll up any minute, and I’d give him a royal bollocking.

By the time it struck the half hour I was pacing, literally wringing my hands. Kit was wrapped around a tree—oh my God,
why
did I let him take the car?—brilliant eyes blank and staring, blood trickling from the corner of a mouth that would never laugh again. Perhaps he was dying alone in the rain, pulverised by thugs, his vitality flowing away down the drain. Maybe he’d thrown himself into the river.

Inactivity was unbearable. Grabbing my handbag, I scribbled a note for Sacha.
Sorry gone to look for Kit. Love M x

The phone rang as I was opening the front door.
Thank God
. I lunged for it, expecting to hear my husband’s familiar tones—depressed, slurred, contrite. Light-headed with relief, I drew breath for a first-rate fishwife impersonation.

It wasn’t Kit.

‘Mrs McNamara? Barry Prescott, Bedfordshire police.’

The room darkened. I stared in terror at one of Kit’s paintings, and the imp smirked back at me. This was it, then: the voice of doom. I was a widow. I felt the first jolt of grief.

The voice of doom sounded matter-of-fact. ‘We’ve got your husband here. In the cells. He’s, erm, you might say he’s a little bit the worse for wear.’

‘You mean he’s drunk,’ I croaked furiously. Not wrapped around a tree, then; not pulverised by thugs or under the waters of the Great Ouse.

‘We picked him up off the High Street. Lucky he didn’t get himself run over.’

They were really quite nice about it down at the police station, though I expect they’d all been having a good laugh. Sergeant Prescott seemed positively avuncular as he led me to the cells, jingling his keys. He was well past middle age, bushy-browed and seen-it-all. ‘Your bloke’s a bit of a mess,’ he warned. ‘Bet he’ll be in hot water once he’s slept it off.’

I’ve never been so humiliated in my life—for myself, for Kit. It was like collecting a mangy dog from the pound. My beautiful husband lay sweating on a concrete bench, his once-immaculate shirt grubby and torn, reeking of vomit. Hair hung lankly over his face. At Prescott’s good-natured urging he swung his legs to the floor and sat up, pressing his head into his hands.

‘Sorry,’ he groaned. ‘Oh God, Martha, what the hell is happening?’

I needed to be out of that place; I needed to get my man home and clean and human. Prescott swiftly processed the paperwork and gave me back Kit’s wallet. Then he steered him outside and into my car.

‘Next time we find him in this state, we’ll have to charge him,’ the policeman said, and he wasn’t smiling any more. ‘You do appreciate that, Mrs McNamara? We can’t have people rolling around in the gutter.’

I dimly recall rain-soaked streets, the lights of McDonald’s, a black cat streaking across the road with a flash of luminous eyes—did that mean we were in for good luck or bad? Kit half lay with his head against the window, whispering hoarsely—
sorry, sorry
. . .
Christ, I’m such a fucking fool
—and I knew the morning would bring a thudding head, crippling guilt and even deeper despair. He’d try to pull himself up by the bootstraps, swear off the drink for a week, maybe three, and then the whole miserable cycle would begin again.

‘I’ve heard it all before,’ I said wearily.

‘Me too. I’m sick of myself.’

I swerved into our driveway and yanked at the handbrake. ‘This is bloody ridiculous. Okay, so your business went down. Okay, you can’t find work.’

‘And we’re broke.’

‘And we’re broke. It’s been hell. But it’s happened, and now it’s time—’

While I ranted, Kit was fumbling at his door. ‘I can’t get out,’ he said. I walked around and opened it from the outside.

‘There,’ I declared coldly. ‘You’re a free man.’

‘Am I?’ He put his arms around me, leaning his head against my waist. ‘I don’t think I want to be.’

‘C’mon. Bed.’

It was a struggle, because he didn’t have the will to move. I manhandled all six foot of him into the house and up the steep stairs. We’d almost made it when he sat down heavily on the top step, his head drooping as though it was made of stone.

‘Don’t wanna go to bed,’ he muttered. ‘Leave me here.’

‘Rubbish!’ I balanced on a lower step, bending to hook my elbows under his armpits. ‘Couple of Alka-Seltzer, good night’s sleep, you’ll be right as rain.’

His voice rose to a bellow. ‘Jesus, Martha! Leave me alone, will you?’

‘Shh!’ I was furious now, pushing and pummelling, trying to drag him to his feet. ‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together!’

I really, truly don’t believe he intended what happened next, though he called me a fucking smug bitch as he shoved me away. I remember thinking, as I fell—clutched at the handrail, missed—and rolled and hit the bottom step, that he had a deal of strength for someone so shambolically drunk.

I was still crumpled and dazed in a heap when I felt shaking hands on my face. Kit sounded stricken, breathy with panic and almost sober. ‘Martha? Look at me. Come on, Martha,
look
at me! Can you hear me?’

His face loomed close to mine, sheet-white, eyes wide and bloodshot as he searched my pupils for signs of concussion. I’d landed on my shoulder, not my head, but I felt as though I’d been run over by a truck. Kit abruptly pulled me to his chest and wrapped his body around mine. His voice was pitched higher than usual.

‘Christ Martha, Christ Martha, please be okay.’

‘Bloody hell,’ I moaned, feeling the slick warmth of blood seeping from my nose. ‘How much worse can things get?’

Then my self-control crumpled, and I began to cry, out of pure misery. Kit sprawled on the bottom step, his back against the wall, cradling my head and saying sorry, sorry, sorry.

It was there at the foot of our stairs—at rock bottom—that we finally began to talk, and to listen. We talked about our marriage, our past and our future. We faced the facts of our crisis: mortgage, school fees, frozen bank accounts. We worried about Sacha and about the boys. We seemed unable to stop talking, faces close together, whispering anxiously through the early hours. Then we began to look for a way out.

By the time we disentangled our limbs and stood up, our future was utterly changed. I felt stunned by the decisions we’d made, yet quietly elated. Kit brought me a cup of tea, gently wiping the blood from my face with a warm flannel.

‘Jesus, I’m an idiot,’ he murmured.

I laid my finger on his lips. ‘Enough,’ I said. ‘Enough regret. I need you whole, Kit.’

The midsummer dawn was a silver gleam at the window. A new day.

Three

My sister sat pole-axed, her eyes over-bright. ‘For God’s sake, Martha!
Why?
’

I’d been dreading this confrontation. My glass shook, splashing wine in a red worm over my wrist. ‘It’s not been easy,’ I said feebly.

Louisa had a baby shoved up her jersey, as usual. Well, not quite a baby; we were there to celebrate Thundering Theo’s first birthday. He had teeth. He could walk. Call me old-fashioned, but should children who wear orange Kickers still be breastfeeding? She always takes things to excess, does my sister. She had four children in five years. Excessive, I call that.

‘Martha.’ She shut her eyes. ‘Tell me you’re not serious. You aren’t going to sell your house, ditch your career and move halfway around the bloody world?’

‘Well—’

‘This is Kit’s idea, isn’t it?’

‘Not really, although he’s been really low about the agency.’

‘I thought he was sick of the advertising game. Claimed to despise everything it stands for.’

‘Perhaps, but it was
his
game.’

One-handed, she pretended to play a violin. ‘I love Kit, but he’s just a moody bastard. All glittering blue eyes one day, waltzing you around the kitchen, brooding Beethoven the next. You can’t uproot your family on his whim.’ She fixed me with a suspicious glare. ‘Oh God! I get it. He’s hit the bottle again, hasn’t he?’

‘No, no.’

‘If he’s laid a finger—’

‘Christ’s sake.’ I swatted at the buzzing implication. Lou was going to get the sanitised version: I wasn’t letting any skeletons out of closets; certainly not for my effortlessly competent sister. I’d even been too proud to tell her just how desperate our finances were.

‘We can’t all run away from our problems,’ she huffed. ‘How about a career change—I thought he was a frustrated artist? Those murals are extraordinary.’

‘Aha! Nail on the head. He’s going to have a shot at painting.’

The birthday boy popped up, looking smugly moon-faced while Louisa fiddled distractedly with the strap of his dungarees.

‘Kit says New Zealand is beautiful,’ I ventured. ‘Like Ireland, but better weather and no relatives.’

‘Huh. He’s been watching too much
Lord of the Rings.
’

I sighed. ‘It’s actually me you have to blame. I was sitting in front of the computer one night, freaking out about the mortgage.’

‘Join the club.’

‘I couldn’t resist having a little peek at this recruitment agency’s website. I found five great jobs straightaway, so I started researching—Lou, it was like riding on a magic carpet! With a couple of clicks it flew me—
whoosh
—out of my gloomy sitting room and off to a promised land. Forests, mountains, pristine white beaches, all stunningly lovely. No traffic, no queues. People swimming with dolphins. Skiing. Surfing. Kayaking on crystal-clear rivers—hey, d’you know what their advertising slogan is?’

Lou looked as though I’d invited her to see my gallstones.

‘
One hundred per cent pure
,’ I announced, with a flourish.

She stuck out the tip of her tongue. ‘How twee. And what else did you visit on your magic hearthrug?’

‘The estate agent. A dream house in the hills—ten dream houses in our price range, mortgage free. Places for Kit to paint and me to keep chickens.’

‘Like Beatrix bloody Potter.’

‘And finally the government website. We’ll get visas if one of us has an essential skill and—hey, presto!—occupational therapists are on the list.’ I lifted the baby from her lap and pressed my nose to his. I was going to miss him.

‘Have you talked to the witch doctor?’ Lou meant our father, and she was playing her ace card. She knew the children idolised him.

‘I’ll do it tomorrow—and don’t you dare get in first.’

‘Kit’s family?’

‘Not yet.’

She buttoned her shirt, lips clamped into a line. I’d known Louisa thirty-seven years; she was a three-year-old tyrant when I was born, and the only person I ever met who could stare down our mother. She really hadn’t changed in all that time, and I loved her as much as ever.

‘What it comes down to is that you’ve let a daydream get out of control,’ she said.

‘What it comes down to is that we want a different life for our children. Oh, yuck, Theo! You’re supposed to throw up on Mummy, not me.’ I set him down on the Kickers, and he thundered off.

Handing me a bit of white muslin, Lou swayed across the kitchen in her flowery skirt. My sister is opulent, like a peony. The plumper she grows, the better she looks. I’m sure she posed for Botticelli in another incarnation. She might be his Venus, with twining tendrils of caramel hair, a slightly hooked nose and arching brows. Apparently she and I are strikingly similar— could be twins, they tell me—but I slightly resent the suggestion. Lou would never in a zillion years get into my jeans.

Upstairs, Finn and Charlie were having a barney. Howls of rage culminated in a smash, then Charlie’s agonised wailing.

‘Trouble?’ asked Lou, reaching for her cigarettes. She and smoking had a love-hate relationship. She was always trying to give up.

‘It’s not serious; I can tell from the engine note. Anyway, Sacha’s with them.’

Lou flicked her lighter.

‘Sacha’s got a new boyfriend,’ I said, hoping to distract her. ‘Did she tell you?’ She shook her head sulkily, but I persevered. ‘Ivan Jones, the garden gnome. Plays the timpani in her orchestra. He looks uncannily like something you’d find cross-legged on a lily pad.’

‘Does he wear a hoodie?’

I opened my hands, mystified. ‘Nope! No ponytail, no tattoos. Not so much as an earring. Nothing
remotely
rebellious. What a codswalloping yawn. He won’t get her pregnant or hooked on heroin, but what’s he got to offer a girl like Sacha?’

‘Perhaps he’s fascinating, if you happen to be sixteen.’

‘Can’t see it, myself. He’s got a silly little beard and a pink VW Beetle.’

Lou shrugged. ‘Well, there you are, then. Wheels.’

‘He’s hypnotically boring, Lou. Sits there piggling at his fingernails.’

‘Why worry? He’ll be gone by next week.’ She balanced her cigarette in an ashtray and began to chop onions for tomato salad. ‘I wish I had a Sacha—cheerful, competent and permanently available for babysitting.’

‘Ah, but you wouldn’t have enjoyed telling Mum you were pregnant at the age of twenty-one, and not a father in sight.’

‘My virginal bridesmaid, rolling along in that vile maternity dress. The
shame
!’