Something Might Happen (22 page)

Other stuff is also piled almost to the ceiling, tin boxes, broken chairs, old bedspreads, spider plants spilling over.

Lacey looks around him.

You like books? he says.

Yes, I say, I do like books. Do you?

He says nothing, just laughs to himself.

Some are stacked in formal glass cabinets, others crammed into cardboard boxes that are in their turn balanced on old wooden
step ladders or spilling out of metal filing cabinets.

There’s quite a bit of handwritten labelling and a system of sorts. Health, cookery, DIY, crime, history, France, Egypt and
nature studies. And religion and philosophy and fiction, as well as Rupert Bear and sci-fi and 60s TV programmes. On the dusty
brick walls are strange canvases of twisting, fleeting figures and shapes, all done in oils, many of them for sale.

Up in the area that you might call the till—though certainly nothing like a till is in sight—is an upturned Carr’s biscuit
tin and a broken wooden spoon. And next to it, a felt-tipped sign done on corrugated cardboard: Bang With Stick On Tin For
Attention.

Shall I bang? Lacey asks me.

No! I whisper. Don’t you dare.

The owner doesn’t seem to be around. He never is. There’s no one else in the place at all and no sound except for rain coming
down outside. Or maybe it’s inside as well,
for some kind of creeper grows through the upper windows which seem to be pretty much wide open to the elements. Above our
heads, bare light bulbs hang, attached to strings at different levels.

I undo my coat.

Have a look around, I tell him.

OK.

I’m going to fiction, I say. I think he might follow me but he doesn’t. I glance back and see he has picked up a book and
is leafing through it already.

Hey! he calls softly after a moment or two. Tess! Come over here.

He’s not where I left him. Following his voice, I make my way between birdlife of East Anglia and Norwegian cookery. He is
in the furthest corner of the shop, a little book-lined room all of its own, with a metal step ladder on wheels and a stack
of empty cardboard boxes in the corner.

Look, he says. Come here.

What? I say softly.

He’s holding a book in his hands.

This, he says. Looking at me and waiting.

I stand there, too hot now in my coat.

What? I say. Look at what?

Here, he says. Come here.

And I move right over to him. The book is small and heavy and old, with a shiny tassel of a bookmark.

I hold out my hand.

Let me see—

But he doesn’t give me the book or pass it so I can look. Instead he puts it gently down and reaches forward and opens my
coat. Pulls it wide open and holds it by the stiff wool lapels—and pulls me closer.

No, I say, laughing and resisting.

Yes.

No, I say more seriously. You mustn’t.

Oh, Tess—

I can’t do this.

You’re not doing anything. I’m doing it.

I look up at the shelves. A sign above me says, Miscellaneous Theories.

He doesn’t let go.

Are we in Religion? I ask him.

I feel him looking at me—at my shoulders or my neck or my face.

I blush hard.

Why are we in Religion? I whisper as he pulls me closer still and I smell the unfamiliar smell of his breath, see the shadows
on his skin, the way the hair brushes his ears.

It’s the quietest, he says.

Oh.

I put my face near to his neck. A pulse is banging there. I’ve done it now, I think.

But the whole place is quiet, I tell him.

I know, he whispers and he puts a hand on my head, pulls me to him, but this bit’s the quietest.

His skin is warm.

I’ve never done this, I say as I feel the worry and the confusion of it and the mixed-up swish of both our bloods banging
against each other.

Why? What are we doing? he says.

I don’t know.

Afterwards, we go around the corner and stand by the duck pond and watch the ducks. There’s a bench and a weeping willow and
a wire-mesh litter-bin. We stand right next to each other, but don’t touch.

Ducks love the rain, I say.

Yeah, says Lacey.

I realise I’ve never been here without my kids. I’ve never stood on the edge of this pond and not had to grab the hood of
some child or other to stop it falling into all that weedy water. I’ve never in all these years with Mick pressed my face
into the neck of another man.

Mallards are paddling up with their bright legs and eyeing us beadily.

Oh, I say, I wish we had some bread. We should have brought some.

You don’t really think that, Lacey says.

No, I agree.

The rain is pelting down very hard now. I shiver. I’m terrified but I don’t know what of.

I’m going to kiss you, Lacey says quietly. Not now, but later. Don’t say anything because I’m going to do it whatever you
say.

My heart swerves.

Not here, I tell him quickly. Don’t do it here.

But I don’t say what I should: don’t do it at all.

When I get home, Alex is there with Mick. Nat too, sitting at the table and refusing to eat.

Hi, Mick says.

He says it perfectly calmly. Maybe he hasn’t noticed how long I’ve been gone. Alex just looks at me. He looks stoned.

Liv is wriggling on Mick’s lap. Sockless, the front of her sleeper damp with dribble. I can see from her frantic face that
she’s been fretting for ages. As I reach out for her, she cries loudly in a sorry-for-herself way.

Sorry, I tell Mick, undoing my shirt.

I don’t know what you’re apologising for, he says.

For being so long.

You got wet?

I can feel my hair wetting my shirt, my shoulders.

It’s pouring.

And you’ve been out in it.

Yes.

Alex laughs. I shove a damp breast pad in my pocket, feel the dragging sensation deepen as Livvy sucks.

Smell this. Nat thrusts a spoonful of yoghurt in my face.

Why?

He says it’s off, Mick says wearily.

Hold on. I try to adjust my arm around Livvy so I can take the spoon from Nat. I can’t just smell it.

I taste it. It’s slightly fizzy.

It’s way past its sell-by, Nat says. Admit it. He wants to poison me or something.

Nat goes and the door bangs. The room is quiet again. Alex starts to roll a joint.

So. Al went to Halesworth, Mick says.

Oh, I say, realising I’ve forgotten all about Lennie, the funeral. Oh my God—and?

And they haven’t released the body yet.

Alex says it in a blank voice, blank and triumphant.

No? I say. But surely—?

Tomorrow morning. Or that’s what they’re saying now, he says.

Can you believe it? Mick says.

But I thought it was supposed to be today?

It was, Alex says, but there was a cock-up. So tomorrow it will have to be.

Soon after Alex has gone, Jordan appears in the doorway, one hand sliding up the doorframe, the other delving down inside
his pyjama bottoms.

Go to bed, says Mick. Straightaway Jordan looks at me.

You heard, I tell him without looking at Mick.

But he doesn’t move, just gazes at me, eyes shiny with exhaustion. He’s at the age when kids look old enough during the daylight
hours, but then go back to being little all over again at night.

I sigh.

You want me to take you up? I ask him.

Yes, Jordan says and carries on looking at me steadily.

Mick makes an exasperated noise.

Well, of course, he says. I mean if you offer him that—

You’re a hard man, I say to Mick. I say it half joking but the voice I use is not very jokey.

He looks at me as I clear the plates off the table and put them by the sink.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Nothing, I say. Come on, boy.

On the stairs, I prod at Jordan’s small hard bottom till he giggles and collapses back against me. Relieved, I breathe in
his warmth and his bed-smell.

At the doorway to his room, he yelps.

What?

Ouch-y. I stepped on Lego, he says.

Shouldn’t leave it lying around, then.

I didn’t. It was Rosa.

I put him in bed and he immediately tugs the duvet up to his chin. As I kiss the bridge of his small nose, he reaches out
for a handful of my hair. Holds it.

Where were you today? he says.

Oh, nowhere much. I had to see Maggie and a couple of other people. Just jobs and things. Why, what did you do?

I got worried, he says, yawning.

But why? Didn’t Daddy say where I was?

He did but I was still worried.

Why, darling?

He says nothing. Just looks at me and his mouth stretches down at the corners like it does when he’s going to cry.

What, darling?

His mouth stays down. I stroke his face—slide the palm of my hand all over it, feeling all the curves and dips and softnesses.
He shuts his eyes. A tear squeezes down the side.

You weren’t here, he says.

I’m here now, I tell him.

He gives a little sob.

I was worried, he says again.

Worried about what?

That something might happen.

Oh Jordan—

He sobs again.

Nothing’s going to happen, I say, kissing his face. And I’m not going anywhere.

He says nothing.

OK, sweetie?

He blinks.

OK?

I might have to tickle you, I tell him. If you’re not going to answer me, I might just have to do it.

And I do and I feel the wriggle of him, crazy beneath my fingers. I drink in his toothpaste-and-saliva breath. But in the
end I stop, because he’s just not laughing. Or at least, he is, but not quite enough.

Downstairs, Mick is sitting with the last of the wine. Fletcher is asleep at his feet. Mick has his shoes off and his
feet are stretched out in their thick woollen socks. One of the dog’s front paws twitches ever so slightly.

OK? Mick says.

He’s just overtired.

I knew you’d take him up.

You think I shouldn’t?

It’s getting into a habit with him, that’s all.

I shrug.

I just felt bad, I say. At being out so long today.

What do you mean? he says, staring at me. You’re allowed to go out.

Yes, I say, but for so long.

I don’t look at him. I don’t know what I’m trying to tell him—whether I’m trying to tell him anything. The more I try to tell
the truth, the more it feels like a lie. He sighs and pulls out a chair, puts his feet up on it.

I told you. You’re a free agent, Tess. Please don’t make me into this person who always wants you home. It’s not fair.

Yes, I say, but the baby—

She was OK. And as you say, we could start her on some formula.

He twizzles his wine glass round and round on the table.

Friday, he says at last, is going to be difficult.

Yes, I say, I know.

He stops turning the glass, finishes the last mouthful of wine.

And after Friday, he says, I’m not sure exactly how life is going to be either.

I sit down.

How do you mean?

He looks me in the eye.

I mean us, Tess. Our family. You and me.

He runs his hands through his hair. It’s getting long again—even though he always has it cut extra short, in a style I hate,
just to save money. He has good hair. I watch as the thick, gold band of his wedding ring runs through all that hair.

I shiver, listening to the wind. Pull my cardigan round my shoulders.

I’m sorry, I say, I’m tired. And I don’t know what you mean and I don’t know what to say.

He looks at me.

It’s just—I’ve run out of energy for saying things, I tell him.

Anyone would look at this family, he says quietly, and think we were happy.

I shut my eyes.

That’s a weird thing to say.

Is it? he says.

You know it is. We’re happy, aren’t we?

You tell me, he says and he sounds almost angry. You tell me, Tess—do you like this? How is it for you? Are we?

I sit there and I can’t speak. Panic shifts things around in my chest.

We’ve all been having a terrible time, Mick, I say. It’s no one’s fault.

I hear myself and think I sound like Lacey.

This goes beyond that, he says.

Does it?

I think so.

He hesitates.

If you want me to be different, he says, if you want me to change, you have to say how.

Yes, I say.

Yes what?

Just yes, I’m listening.

He stops a moment.

But you have to give me a clue, he says. Otherwise it’s just not fair. The odds are just too stacked against me. Do you see
that?

I nod.

I’m going to think about going back to work, he says then. The paper would have me. We could come to an arrangement. I talked
to Blake.

You did?

Mick nods.

Today. I called him.

You want to do that? I ask him.

Maybe, he says. Maybe I have no choice.

What do you mean, no choice?

He’s silent.

We’re managing, I tell him. We have enough money.

It’s not just money, he says after a moment.

I don’t want you to change, I tell him. I’m about to continue and tell him that he doesn’t have to go back to work either,
when he stops me.

Don’t, he says. Don’t say anything now. I mean it. I’m
not asking you for that. But do me the favour of thinking about it. We have to get through Friday. We have a lot to get through,
you and me.

OK, I say.

You’re important to me, he says and gives me a bruising look. He pushes back his chair and the dog wakes up, stretches.

We should get to bed, he says.

Yes, I agree. Bed.

Sometimes, when I carry Liv around for too long, I’m left with a memory of her in my arms, a heaviness you can’t quite shake
off. Or perhaps a lightness, an emptiness. That’s what I’m feeling now, except the memory is of Lacey. His touch, his breath,
the feeling of what might happen next.

Mick looks at me and I flush. If he looked inside me, he could probably see it too. If he wanted to.