I Invited Her In. Adele Parks

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СКАЧАТЬ he’ll accept pretty much any invite that comes our way and we reciprocate, too. However, he has his limits. He likes waking up in his own bed and he doesn’t like entertaining before breakfast, so he’s not a big fan of stayovers.

      ‘I’m not sure. As long as she needs,’ I reply, vaguely.

      ‘But why?’

      ‘I told you, she’s getting a divorce.’ I realise this doesn’t address the question he is asking. Why would I invite someone he’s never heard of until today to stay with us? We rarely have house guests. Theoretically we have a spare room but it’s incredibly small and currently stacked with boxes full of Christmas decorations, old clothes, files and photo albums as well as unused gym equipment and the ironing board. ‘I think it will be nice,’ I say breezily.

      ‘How will it be nice? It will be cramped.’

      ‘Cosy,’ I insist. I start to devour my sandwich. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until I stopped painting. Besides, with my mouth full I can’t answer any difficult questions.

      Ben studies me. ‘Will it be OK, her staying here for a few days?’

      ‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it be OK?’

      ‘It’s just I haven’t heard you talk much about this Abigail Curtiz over the years. At all, actually. I didn’t realise she was a particular friend, not the sort you offer our spare room to indefinitely. I mean, who is she?’

      ‘Well, we were once very close. People lose touch.’ I hope Ben won’t push. I can’t bring myself to articulate exactly why we had to go our separate ways. Why me having Liam made it impossible for me to continue to be her friend. He must understand our lives went in very different directions. While I was trying to secure a place for Liam at nursery, Abi was stepping onto the stage to receive her certificate that confirmed her first-class honours degree. While I was spooning goop into Liam’s mouth, Abi was being interviewed for her first job in TV as the assistant to Piers Morgan’s assistant. ‘No big thing. We just drifted,’ I say with a shrug. ‘You’ll like her. I promise. Everyone does.’ I stand up, lean across the table and kiss him briefly on the lips. He stands too and puts his hand on the back of my head, kisses me hard and long. Even after all these years, that particular manoeuvre makes me melt.

      ‘I have cleaning to get on with,’ I mumble, breaking away.

      ‘We’ll be quick.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Liam’s out and the girls are asleep. Why wouldn’t we?’ He’s kissing my neck now.

      ‘What’s got into you?’ I ask, giggling. ‘It’s a Monday night.’

      ‘It must be the paint fumes,’ he replies. He slips his hand up my T-shirt and works his thumbs under my bra strap. My body leans into his; instinct, habit, pleasure. I’m aching from painting and tidying all day but suddenly I realise this is what I need, what I want. It delights me that Ben knew as much before I did.

      ‘You are not suggesting doing it on the kitchen table, are you?’

      ‘I thought that was why you cleared the clutter.’

      ‘Are you mad?’ I ask, laughing.

      ‘About you,’ he replies, cheesily.

      We compromise and do it on the sofa in the sitting room.

6

       Abigail

       Tuesday 20th February

      Neither airports nor aeroplanes particularly excited Abigail; she’d become accustomed. She didn’t bother looking at the tax-free luxury products that were available because she could afford to buy them at full price, if she pleased. She didn’t grab the in-flight entertainment brochure and get excited by the movies that were showing because often she’d been to early screenings, even premieres. She wasn’t interested in the glass of champagne that was complimentary in business class, because alcohol was dehydrating and it was important not to look drained after a flight. Today she visited duty-free, bought the first perfume and lipstick that came to hand, put it on his credit card; she’d have bought more but they were calling her flight. And while she did still ignore the in-flight entertainment, she put herself in danger of becoming it, as she helped herself to four glasses of champagne and knocked them back swiftly, ignoring the slightly concerned looks on the flight-attendants’ faces.

      Abigail felt cheated.

      He’d stolen from her. Her dignity, her youth, her opportunities, her time.

      Him, and that woman. She wasn’t going to take it lying down. She was going to even up the score. She was owed. And she was going to collect.

7

       Melanie

       Thursday 22nd February

      Abigail insisted that she’d get a cab to ours rather than allow me to go out of my way to pick her up. I’m grateful because it gives me a bit more time to dash around the house, making last-minute adjustments. The box room has been cleared to the extent that it is now at least possible to see the sofa bed. The musty old boxes have been shoved into the attic. I promised Ben that I would sort them one day, maybe when all the kids leave home and go to university. I’ve put the exercise bike, which I insisted upon buying about a year after I had Lily, into Liam’s room. He wasn’t best pleased but I pointed out he could throw his clothes over the handle bars, rather than on the floor, which means I won’t have to stoop so much when I’m picking up his dirty washing. I’ve squirrelled away the rest of the rubbish wherever I could.

      Along with the house, I’ve benefitted from a mini makeover. I’ve taken care with my make-up, I had my hair blow-dried and I’m wearing a new shirt. I’m wearing accessories: hooped earrings and multiple bracelets. I’m now worried that rather than channelling hippy chic, I’m more gypsy fortune-teller. I’ve bought scarlet gladioli, because they’re dramatic and impactful but don’t break the bank. I’m just hunting out a long thin vase – I know we used to have one; I think it may be in one of the boxes that I’ve just moved up to the attic – when the doorbell rings.

      Abigail. She is even more glamorous in the flesh than either I remembered her or the photos on the internet revealed. She is five foot eight, four inches taller than I am, and yet seems somehow dainty, frail. Maybe it’s because she’s been through something so awful recently. Her skin is pale, cool and smooth. No spots, no freckles, no lines or creases. She looks brand new. I fight an urge to caress her cheekbones. They are so sharp, I might prick my finger and draw blood, like people do in fairy tales if they touch a spinning wheel. Her hair is sleek, slightly longer than she wore it at university, blunt cut at the shoulder. Glossy. With her arrives a waft of something exotic, a shiver of something exciting.

      After all this time, it’s good to see her.

      ‘Darling.’ She flings her arms around me and hugs me close to her. I feel her collar bone and can smell her perfume and cigarettes. I’m surprised she smokes. I thought it was practically a criminal offence in LA. ‘You look amazing,’ she gushes. Her voice oozes – I think of amber syrup СКАЧАТЬ