The Right Time (28 page)

He scratched his forehead, checking his watch. ‘Okay, a quick one. I have to get changed first.'

‘I'll wait.'

He sighed. ‘All right. Meet me in the staff cafeteria. I'll be about ten minutes.'

‘So, what did you have to talk about so urgently?' said Andrew when he rejoined her in the cafeteria, dressed in his civvies.

Liz took a breath. ‘I had a patient today, an autistic boy.'

His curiosity now morphed into wariness. She could see it in his eyes.

‘Poor kid's riddled with eczema, it's going to be a long road, but we established a tiny bit of rapport today.' Liz paused, but Andrew remained stonily silent. ‘He was a funny kid, really. Was only interested in facts, he kept insisting I told him the facts. So that's what I gave him – facts, statistics. He wanted to know exactly what the cream I prescribed was made of, how it worked, and I had to use the terminology, not simplify anything. He was an extraordinarily bright kid, really interesting, actually.'

‘Why are you telling me this?' Andrew said bluntly.

‘I don't know,' said Liz. ‘It's just . . . well, it's weird. Autism has had a profound influence on my life, but I don't really know anything about it. And I certainly haven't had anything to do with it.'

‘So you think now you've met one, you know it all,' he said tightly. ‘That all autistic kids are the same?'

‘Of course I'm not saying that –'

‘Jesus, Liz.' He was shaking his head, clearly annoyed. ‘You think they're all like Rainman? I wish. I actually hoped that was how it was going to be with Danny, but it's nothing like that. He regressed, he's lost language, he can barely communicate. If we tried to bring him to your rooms, he'd be more likely to have a fit and start smashing things than sit down and listen to you.'

‘I know, I understand Danny's different.'

‘Then what is your point?'

Liz sighed. ‘I just wanted to talk about it,' she said, beginning to wish she hadn't. ‘This boy, he had an unusual background, his dad left when he was quite young, but his mother remarried, and this man, his stepdad, is wonderful –'

‘What the hell are you suggesting now?' Andrew said angrily. ‘That I leave Danny so Jen can find another guy, better than me?'

‘Would you stop taking everything I say as some kind of accusation?' said Liz. ‘I just wanted to talk about it. It occurred to me that this boy obviously got very used to someone else, someone who's been really good for him. You decided early on that any change could only be bad for Danny. You don't know that.'

He dropped his head, dragging his fingers through his hair, before he looked up again, meeting her eyes. ‘This isn't the right time, Liz. Danny hasn't adjusted to high school at all, he's getting further behind. They've had to change his aide three times
this year, no one wants to work with him. He's too aggressive, too unpredictable. Jennifer and I had to have a meeting with the principal and the counsellor a few weeks ago. They're suggesting a special school.'

‘Andrew . . .' Liz shook her head. ‘Why haven't you told me this?'

He took a while before he answered her. ‘I didn't want to tell you because you know what it means for us, for you and me.' He paused again. ‘How many more promises can I break before you say you've had enough?' His eyes were glassy, staring at her. ‘And right now, I can't see an end to this, ever. Jen's a mess, I couldn't walk out on her now. And what about Samantha? She's getting lost in all this. Everything has been for Danny, but despite all the therapies and special programs, all the money, he's going backwards. We've tried everything. So now I think it's my fault, because I haven't been around.'

‘You can't blame yourself,' said Liz, on automatic pilot, as she felt her insides recoil. This was her role, to help Andrew cope.

They sat there for a while, not touching their coffees, not saying anything.

‘I have to go,' he said finally. ‘I'm expected. I wish I could stay . . .'

‘Never mind,' said Liz. ‘I understand.'

‘He wants to go again.'

Steve looked at Evie. They had met at the same place, but Steve led her on a different route this time.

‘Craig. He wants to go to the club again.'

‘How do you feel about that?'

‘You know exactly how I feel about it.'

‘So have you told Craig?'

She shook her head. ‘I haven't wanted to bring it up, I was hoping he'd forget about it.'

‘Ah, the always successful head-in-the-sand technique,' he nodded.

Evie gave him a weak smile.

‘You really should just tell him it's not your thing, that you tried but you couldn't go through with it.'

‘But I didn't try, did I?' said Evie. ‘That's what he'll say.'

‘Well, you can only lead a horse to water . . .'

‘The thing is, I can't help feeling that if I refuse to go with him, he'll go off looking for another avenue. I mean, he more or less told me straight that he wants to try sex with someone other than me, at least once in his life. What if he finds someone he'd rather be with?'

‘That's what's kept me going with Cheryl,' said Steve. ‘Hey, why don't you let me know when you're going and I'll arrange for us to go the same night. Then we can just hang out at the bar like last time.'

‘That's really nice of you, Steve, but I can't expect you to do that every time, and sooner or later Craig is going to want me to . . .' Evie took a deep breath. ‘. . . to join in. I mean that's the whole point, isn't it?'

Steve nodded. ‘But you're not going to be able to do that, are you?' he said plainly. ‘You have to talk to him, Evie.'

But Evie couldn't find the right moment; either the kids were around, or Craig was engrossed in some TV show, or asleep in front of some other TV show. She kept thinking that maybe she should try it . . . or at least be open-minded about it. Steve was a nice guy, a really nice guy. He wasn't a weirdo, or a pervert. And yet he was the one who had suggested it in his relationship. Yes, it had backfired now, but Evie certainly didn't doubt that he loved his wife. Maybe, if Evie willingly joined in, that might be enough for Craig. He'd realise that he loved her and only wanted her, that he didn't want to see her with other men . . .

That's when all the rationalising came to a screeching halt inside her brain, like a needle scraping across an old vinyl record. It was all very well to theorise about this, but the reality was that Evie would have to engage in some sort of sexual activity with people she didn't know. And Steve was right, she really didn't think she was capable of that.

As Ellen walked back to her car she was amazed yet again by how, well, ordinary it looked. You could never tell the whole side had been crushed in only a couple of weeks ago. She supposed it shouldn't surprise her – the doors had actually been replaced, but the paintwork was seamless; even though the car was quite a few years old they had matched it exactly. Just as Jake had promised, they had brought it back as good as new.

Which was a little how Ellen herself was feeling right now. She pressed the remote lock, which was working perfectly again, opened the door . . . but then she stopped herself. She dropped her handbag on the driver's seat, before slipping off her beautiful new jacket. She opened the back door and laid it carefully across the seat. Her beautiful new
Prada
jacket – the devil wasn't wearing Prada today, she was. Never in her life had she imagined owning anything by Prada, and here she was, dressed in an entire suit. She felt as though she was an actor playing herself in a movie.

Something had shifted for Ellen in the past few weeks, since that day she had sat on the upturned milk crate, having coffee with Finn. He was right. Whether she was a victim or not, she had decided she had to stop
feeling
like a victim. She was going to stop letting things get her down and take charge of her life. That meant she had to do what was best for her and the kids and not worry about what people thought. So she went ahead and applied for the position at the private school; she would deal with her parents if she actually got the job. After all, they had up and sold the house without consideration of any of them, so they were going to have to respect her decisions as well.

Getting an interview buoyed her resolve, but it also sent her into a spin. She had to find time to get to the hairdressers, and what the hell was she going to wear? So she decided once again to bite the bullet and take Emma up on her offer.

‘Oh my God!' Emma exclaimed when she called. ‘This is fantastic!'

‘Are you sure you've got the time, with the wedding and all?'

‘Are you kidding me? I'll make the time,' she declared. ‘I've been wanting to get my hands on you forever.'

‘You have?' Ellen said nervously.

‘This is what I do,' said Emma. ‘Trust me.'

So she did. Emma dragged her around to designers' warehouses in back alleys in places Ellen didn't even know existed – these were not for the general public. And she had her try on clothes Ellen would never have chosen for herself.

‘You don't wear clothes that flatter you,' Emma said. ‘You just cover yourself up, and you've still got a nice figure, Ellen. It's not perfect, but whose is?'

‘Yours comes pretty close,' Ellen muttered.

‘Ha,' she scoffed, ‘I just know what to wear. I've got the Beckett backside.'

‘Well, I got the Turner boobs.' All the Turner women, their mother included, had ample bosoms, which was all well and good when you were sixteen and they sat up all on their own. Not so good once you were the wrong side of thirty and had to wear scaffolding for a bra.

Emma rolled her eyes. ‘I can't stand women who complain about having big tits, I mean,
come on
!'

‘But I'm all out of proportion,' Ellen complained. ‘I've never been able to find a jacket that fits me properly.'

‘Trust me, I will.'

And she did. Ellen felt like a different person in the classic black suit; somehow it gave her an entirely new silhouette. It was all in the cut; Ellen had always heard that, now she understood. She looked taller, more elegant. She looked . . .

‘Amazing!' Emma declared. ‘Now we have to find the right shoes.'

‘No way – no, I can't wear heels like that,' Ellen insisted when Emma took her to yet another back-alley place and picked out two beautiful pairs of shoes for her to try.

‘I bet the last pair of shoes you bought cost, what, sixty dollars?' said Emma. ‘Maybe eighty? It's no wonder you won't wear heels, Ellen. Quality costs.'

When Ellen tried the shoes, she had some idea of how Cinderella must have felt when she put on those glass slippers. And
she understood how all the celebrities were able to walk in them. They were a feat of engineering beyond her meagre comprehension, or her meagre income. But in the end, a deal was struck, and Ellen had the feeling she had paid for little more than the box they came in.

Her younger sister had a lot more pull than Ellen had ever given her credit for. No one in the family had ever really given Emma her due; teaching, doctoring, mothering, even hanggliding had more status in their collective eyes. Ellen was as guilty of it as anyone.

‘Now we have to get the rest of you up to scratch,' Emma announced when the shopping was complete.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Your interview's Friday, right?' Emma said, scrolling through her diary on her iPhone.

‘Yeah, we scheduled it for after school, so it wouldn't interfere –'

‘Well, you can forget that, you're certainly not going to work first.'

‘What?'

‘Ellen,' she said, looking at her directly, ‘I've seen how you look after a day at school – that will never do.'

Emma finally talked her into taking the day off and arranged to pick her up at nine.

‘Why so early?' Ellen asked. ‘The interview's not till four.'

‘We've got a lot of work to do before then.'

When they'd pulled up at the salon spa that morning, Ellen had baulked. ‘Emma, I can't afford this. I mean I know you got me the suit for less than cost, but –'

‘Don't worry about it,' Emma dismissed. ‘This is a freebie. I'm calling in some favours. And believe me, they owe me big-time.'

And so she spent the day being preened and plucked and waxed and generally slapped into shape. The first hour or two were all about pampering – a massage and a facial followed by a deep relaxation bath with rose petals and essential oils and God knows what else. Ellen felt a little like she was stewing in herbal tea, but she had to admit it was quite relaxing. Then the real work began, starting with a pedicure – the first in her life – followed by a manicure. Then it was time to attack her hair. Ellen had
worn her hair in the same style for more years than she could remember. She had been going to the same hairdresser and when she occasionally suggested a change, showed her a photograph, the hairdresser would agree, but her hair never looked any different afterwards. Ellen blamed her hair.