If You Knew Her Page 24

  Jack, handsome in his tuxedo, a dark-red silk scarf splashed over his shoulders, opens the taxi door for Cassie and then, with a flourish of his hand, offers Charlotte the passenger seat. As Jack lowers himself next to Cassie, Cassie sees Charlotte smiling at her son in the wing mirror, proud of the fun, chivalrous man she’s raised.

  This year, the theme of the Clarks’ annual New Year’s Party is ‘The Roaring Twenties’. Cassie had forgotten to do anything about an outfit, so now she’s wearing a strange assortment of clothes that never should be worn together: a black velvet dress she bought at a second-hand shop ten years ago; red, satin gloves from Charlotte; and her wax jacket in case it’s still raining when they walk home later. The synthetic material of her dress lies scratchily against her skin, and she can feel her tights already slipping down her hips, making an uncomfortable web of fabric between her thighs. She wishes for the hundredth time that she hadn’t agreed to go to the party, that she could stay at home under a blanket, warm and safe with Maisie. But she’d promised Jack in a weak moment that she’d go so here she was. Christmas had been a slog. Guilt had turned Jack into a cheesy sitcom version of himself. He’d been cloying for weeks, acting like he couldn’t do enough for her. He’d bought her an expensive red coat for Christmas they couldn’t afford and she hadn’t really liked. He’d cleaned the house and tried to give her massages. He’d gotten her to pose for photos that he posted to Facebook, and typed ‘beautiful’ next to them. Judging from the comments, no one seemed to have noticed how much effort Cassie had put into holding up her smile. People only see what they want.

  Cassie doesn’t know this version of Jack. Is this his way of covering his back, so, if their marriage dissolves, the world will believe he did everything he could to make it work? Cassie doesn’t know any more. She has no idea what’s going on behind those amber eyes, what he’s capable of.

  In the back of the taxi, Cassie’s phone buzzes in the pocket of her wax jacket. She still hasn’t got round to changing her number. She looks at the message and sees the first line reads ‘Happy New’.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Cassie whispers under her breath as she deletes Nicky’s unread message. Her mother-in-law hasn’t seemed to notice how forced and unnatural things are between her and Jack. She turns in her seat to look at Cassie, frowning slightly at Cassie’s swearing.

  ‘What a treat to be out with my two favourite women,’ Jack says, leaning over to pat Cassie’s knee, in a strange matey way, but Charlotte doesn’t notice. In the wing mirror, Cassie sees her smile at her son again.

  Cassie imagines what she’d say if her mother-in-law wasn’t in the car with them. Maybe: ‘Oh, we’re your favourites tonight, are we?’, or, ‘Where does Nicky rank?’, or similar. Instead, she moves her knee away from Jack’s hand and, the taxi driver says, ‘Off we go’ and as they start to pull away, a premature firework bangs and Cassie’s heart tenses as she hears Maisie bark in alarm from inside the cottage.

  The Clarks’ farm is arranged around a flagstone yard, the huge tiles uneven as bad teeth. The family gave up rearing livestock over a decade ago and have since turned the old barn into a bed and breakfast. Many layers of pastel paint haven’t been able to cover the rust-and-silo smell that seems to flow through the arteries of the old farmhouse. By the back door there’s a huge collection of muddy welly boots, and also a stack of old newspapers, Cassie has no idea what for. She doesn’t recognise the dozen or so guests who have congregated in the kitchen glinting in cheap art deco headdresses and hastily bought stick-on moustaches. They look like they’ve arrived at the wrong party next to the decades-worn pine table and farmhouse dresser.

  Jack and Cassie are each handed a glass of sparkling wine by the flustered hostess who has forgotten they came last year, just back from their honeymoon. She points them towards the door through to the barn before she turns to show a young man dressed as a sailor the way to the toilet. The atmosphere is charged, as if everyone has been shaken up like Coke in a can over Christmas, and, tonight, the final festive night, the metal ring is being pulled slowly back.

  Couples and families, bloated and wired by togetherness, look at Jack and Cassie as they walk into the main barn with a blend of recognition and solidarity.

  God, is that us? Cassie wonders. Do we look like that to them?

  She takes a sip of sparkling wine and thinks they probably look worse.

  A couple’s loneliness together is vivid. It screams, especially loud to those who know it themselves. Cassie knows that now. Fast jazz vibrates out of huge black speakers. Cassie feels the hairs on her arm rise as the music sends jarring vibrations through her skin. She’s always hated jazz; it makes her feel edgy.

  Jack finishes his sparkling wine in just a few gulps. Cassie watches his brow soften as she hands him her glass, pretending it’s too sweet for her. She knows he’ll take it as a good sign, that things may finally be thawing between them.

  He turns to her, holds her wrist.

  ‘Cassie,’ he whispers, ‘I just want to say that I really appreciate you coming tonight. I want more than ever to make a fresh start. I promise I’ll make everything up to you.’

  ‘The lovely Jensens!’

  They both turn to face Martha, an old friend of Jack’s who grew up just outside Buscombe, and her husband Paul. Cassie wiggles her wrist out of Jack’s grip. Martha’s broad shoulders are draped in a black silk shawl with a long fringe, and Paul is wearing a monocle that falls off as he politely kisses Cassie’s cheek.

  Cassie has bumped into Martha a couple of times over the last year and realises now, with a small slap of shame, that she never replied to Martha’s text asking Cassie for a drink. Should she apologise now? Or just act like she never got the text? She feels out of her depth, as though the last few weeks have wiped the rules of social interaction from her memory.

  Martha, as if sensing Cassie’s discomfort, doesn’t try and talk to her, and instead jokes with Paul and Jack, and Cassie is left marooned on the edge of their little conference, her wax jacket hot over her arm. None of them seem to notice as she walks away, towards the drinks table; her throat immediately feels freer. She picks up an orange juice.

  At the drinks tables she bumps into Maggie, the local hairdresser, breasts jostling for space in a tight purple dress at least five decades later than the party theme. Maggie natters away about how bad the roadworks in the village have been for business. Cassie grinds her feet into the floor to keep from running away as Maggie lifts a corner of Cassie’s hair between her fingers as though she’s picking up someone else’s rubbish, and tells Cassie with a little sigh of forced patience that she still needs to trim even if she’s growing her hair long again. An older woman takes Maggie’s hand and Cassie stands back as the two of them start talking simultaneously at the same high pitch over each other.

  A saxophone screams through the speakers.

  Cassie looks over to Jack. Paul’s disappeared, but Martha’s nodding and smiling as Jack whispers in her ear. It looks like a secret. What’s he saying?

  The orange juice burns her stomach like acid.

  This isn’t her place; she shouldn’t be here. She feels like she’s woken up in someone else’s life.

  Behind her she hears two men laugh like honking geese at each other. It sounds forced, mirthless.

  Jack’s right; she does need to start again, but she’s starting to think she needs to do it alone, ball up this life like a scrap piece of paper, chuck it away and start again.

  She scans the room. Where’s Jonny? she wonders. He was with his mum in Edinburgh for two weeks over Christmas. She won’t survive unless she sees one friendly face tonight, but all she can see are raised eyebrows, lips curling into unkind smiles. She feels exposed, naked, as though everyone knows her husband cheated on her with her best friend. Ha! And she’s pregnant and doesn’t know what the fuck to do. Ha, ha ha!

  Underneath her jacket she clenches her fists so her nails bite into her palms; the pain steadies her and she keeps her
eyes fixed on the door as she walks towards it, turning sideways to squeeze past bloated bodies. She wades through the noise of the party, so loud it’s almost physical, like a jelly, the hot wine breath, the laughter, the clashing music.

  She opens the door and the last few minutes of the year seem to open up to her like a cave. She takes in big greedy mouthfuls of freezing air. The lawn is a modest little rectangle, raised slightly from the house, and, at the far end, Cassie sees Jonny smoking in jeans and a white T-shirt, talking to an older, whiskery-looking man who holds a cigar like a pen. They look like the only two who have completely ignored the dress code.

  Cassie breathes out a long white cloud of relief. She’s about to call Jonny’s name when a hand on her shoulder stops her. She turns and sees Charlotte, whose eyes have the same questioning, unsettled look they had in the car on the way over.

  ‘Cassie, are you feeling OK?’ she asks, her head falling slightly to one side.

  She’d be fine if she was just allowed to go and speak to her friend, she thinks. Instead she pulls her lips into a smile.

  ‘Just a bit of a headache, Charlotte. I’ll get some air for a few minutes and then I’ll come back in.’

  Charlotte’s eyes dart up to where Jonny’s standing. They both watch as Jonny flicks ash from his cigarette onto the lawn and rocks on his heels, nodding and laughing at something the older man says, embodying the foppish twenties gent even without an outfit. Charlotte pauses like she wants to say something, her eyes darting around Cassie’s face like she doesn’t recognise her daughter-in-law suddenly.

  Inside, someone has turned the howling music down and a male voice calls out, ‘OK, everyone; get a drink and get in position for the countdown!’

  ‘You should go back in, Charlotte. I’ll be right behind you.’

  She feels her mother-in-law’s eyes crawl all over her back as she turns away and walks across the lawn towards her friend.

  The older man, thank god, has already left; he’s probably gone inside for the countdown. Jonny’s seen Cassie at last, waves and starts walking towards her. They meet halfway across the lawn.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you!’ he says. His grip as they hug softens before hers. She doesn’t want to let go; it feels so good to be held by someone she trusts, someone who knows her. She kisses his cheek.

  The noise drops from the party; a charged quiet, the fidgety kind that can’t stay still for long exudes from inside.

  ‘Oh god, I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you,’ she says, holding onto his hand.

  He looks down at her, his smile slightly lopsided. He swigs from a bottle of wine and takes a step back. Cassie recognises the absent look behind his eyes, as though Jonny’s stepped away from himself, his gestures weird and exaggerated.

  ‘Me too, Cas,’ he says, squeezing her hand. ‘You won’t believe the shitstorm I’ve come back to, though. Christmas has made Lorna even loopier than normal. Somehow she’s made the connection that you’re the girl from the Juice-C advert and she went mental on the phone to me earlier, saying we’ve been sleeping together …’

  Inside the crowd start counting down from 10, 9, 8 …

  Jonny, drunk enough to forget what he was just saying, grabs her other hand and joins in for ‘5, 4, 3, 2, 1 … Happy New Year!’

  He picks Cassie up and spins her around, his feet unsteady beneath them, and he’s laughing so he doesn’t hear as she slaps his back and shouts for him to put her down. Everyone inside starts singing a slurry version of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. As Jonny spins her, she sees a few people huddled round the back door, drinking champagne, still hugging and kissing as if congratulating each other for surviving another year. Jonny finally rests Cassie back on the grass.

  ‘Jesus, Jonny, urgh. That’s made me feel really sick,’ she says, holding her head. He offers her his wine bottle. She shakes her head.

  He narrows his eyes at her and asks, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Your wife thinks we’re having an affair, that’s what’s up.’

  Jonny wags a wonky finger at her. ‘Ex wife.’

  ‘Jonny, don’t be so fucking flippant, I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I. The only way to handle such stupid accusations is to seriously laugh at them.’

  She thinks she might cry suddenly. She’d been looking forward to seeing Jonny for two weeks and now he’s so drunk, so preoccupied with his own troubles again, she feels like there’s no room for her, but she needs his help. She has to try and talk to him at least.

  She takes Jonny by the wrist and pulls him to the corner of the garden. There are more people outside now. A woman dressed as a flapper is handing out sparklers. Cassie doesn’t want to risk someone overhearing her telling Jonny she’s pregnant, that she’s considering leaving Jack, that she needs Jonny’s help.

  But Jonny misinterprets her hand on his wrist. He raises his hand high in the air and pulls her into an awkward jolting dance, his wine bottle pressed against the small of her back. He spins her around and catches her in his arms before he tries to drop her over his arm, but they’re out of sync, their weight unbalanced, and he has to lean forward, pull her up to a hug to stop her from falling. He holds on to her, laughing, his breath stale with wine against her skin, his heartbeat quick against her chest. She pushes him away.

  ‘Jesus, Jonny! Fucking stop it!’ she says. A stinging heat is starting to gather and burn behind her eyes; she feels the bovine gaze of other guests on them. Her heart drops because she knows she can’t tell him now, not when he’s like this, too sloppy and careless with booze for the delicate secret she’s protected for twelve weeks now.

  Jonny finally quietens as she wipes big, rolling tears from her face. They travel quickly, trapped for too long. She’s not crying for herself, though; she’s crying for her unborn child. ‘The secret.’ She won’t let her child be born into all this suspicion. Jonny, suddenly serious, puts his arm around her.

  ‘Shit, sorry, Cas. Why are you upset?’ he asks, but Cassie shakes his arm away.

  ‘I’m upset because I’m fucking scared, Jonny. I’m scared, OK?’ Over Jonny’s shoulder she sees a couple of people staring at them in the vacant way people stare at trashy TV, worried perhaps they might miss something terrible happening to someone else. Fuckers. She instantly regrets telling Jonny she’s scared. Now is not the time to tell him about her fears for her child’s future. She doesn’t want a scene. She turns her back towards the crowd, but she can’t stop crying. The tears feel too good, exorcising the broken little person she’s terrified she’s become since she saw them together.

  ‘Oh god, Cas,’ Jonny says, his eyes widening but his voice fudged with wine. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to …’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not that, it’s … I’m fine, really. Look, I’m totally overreacting. I’m just going to head home.’ She nods her head at Jonny. ‘I just want to go home,’ she says more firmly.

  ‘OK, I’ll drive you.’

  Her face is wet now, her hands stained black from mascara. She smiles at his worried face, but she shakes her head.

  ‘No, no,’ she says. ‘Jonny, seriously, I promise you, I’m fine, OK? We can speak tomorrow when I’ve had a sleep and you’ve got a stinking hangover. I’ll need your help more then, but I’ll walk back now. It’ll take fifteen minutes max. I’ll be fine, OK?’

  ‘Please let me drive you home.’

  If it was only her decision she might have said yes, but it’s not just her safety she has to think about any more; she has to get her baby safely away from here.

  She strokes the side of Jonny’s worried face.

  ‘No, I want to walk. It’ll do me good. I promise I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell Jack you’re off?’

  A firework in the field next to the farm bangs, followed by a small shimmer of light. The crowd make a shy ‘ohhh’ sound.

  Cassie shakes her head.

  ‘Don’t tell him I was upset, will you? I don’t want him to worry. If you see
Charlotte or Jack, just say I went home to check on Maisie, that I was worried about her with the fireworks and everything.’

  Jonny searches Cassie’s face for reassurance, but his gaze is blunted by alcohol, his eyes unseeing.

  ‘Have fun,’ she says, squeezing his arm, ‘and I’ll come over tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘Happy New Year, Cas,’ he says, kissing her cheek before she starts walking down the path, towards the gate that leads directly onto Steeple Lane. Eventually the noise from the party fades and she can hear the stream, swollen from all the rain, alive ahead of her. Her phone buzzes with a message. She thinks it’ll be Jack, already wondering where she is. She looks at the screen. But it’s not Jack, and it’s not Nicky. It’s Marcus.

  Happy New Year, Cas. I’m just having a quiet one at home but just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you, Marcus x.

  She feels her eyes swell again, and her tears fall, landing like water bombs on her screen, distorting Marcus’s message. She pictures Marcus in his silent sitting room, balancing a whisky on the arm of his favourite old chair, with only his failing memory for company. She realises, with a jolt of surprise, that she wishes she was there with him. She wants to be in the house her mum called home and she wants to be with the man who was her mum’s husband, the man who loved her and knew April almost as well as Cassie knew her. Marcus needs her and she needs him.

  Of course. She almost laughs as she drops her phone back in her pocket; it’s so obvious. She can’t decide her future, her child’s future here. She needs a break, some time and space away from her suffocating life and she’ll be able to finally get Marcus to a doctor. She starts walking, invigorated with the energy of her decision. At last she’s going to honour her mum’s wishes; she’ll look after Marcus and she’ll let Marcus look after her. She’ll call Marcus first thing in the morning, and tell him she’s going to come and stay for a while; he’ll be delighted. Then she’ll go over to Jonny’s, before Jack’s even awake, and get him to take her to the train station. If she’s lucky and his hangover isn’t too bad, he might even drive her all the way to Portsmouth. The Isle of Wight will be peaceful. She’ll have space and time to think and paint if she wants. It’s where her mum found solace after all.