Page 15 of Out of Control

“Not for me.” Adele took the last piece of pizza from the serving plate and left the room before Fiona had chance to mention that blueberries were supposed to be a ‘superfood’, or to suggest the use of a plate to avoid greasy, cheesy crumbs being trodden into the stair carpet.

Joe shrugged his shoulders and his expression said,What can you do?

When Fiona came back into the room with their desserts the fourth advent calendar chocolate was sitting in the bowl of her spoon.

“My way of apologising for her,” Joe said.

Fiona bit the chocolate in half and shared it. Joe rewarded her with a grin that reminded her of the pleasure of their weekly date nights. Maybe there was a reason to stay on that bullet train. Adele wouldn’t be here forever.

Chapter 12

Tuesday morning brought a welcome stillness to the house. Joe had gone to work after taking Monday off in lieu of his monthly working Saturday. Adele had gone to the GP’s surgery to register and, hopefully, access some antenatal care. Fiona surveyed her home. The place felt and looked as though it had been invaded by aliens. The bed in the guest room was a dishevelled mess. Adele’s rucksack spewed crumpled clothes on the floor, and the open wardrobe showed a half-hearted attempt at unpacking — presumably symbolic of the fact that Adele didn’t want to be there. A feeling of compassion for this disorientated young woman, heavy with child and hormones, made Fiona start tidying. If her own daughter had lived and found herself in this situation, Fiona would want some other woman to show her understanding and make her welcome. She fully emptied the rucksack, filling the bedside drawers and the wardrobe. Then she remembered the scented drawer liners, an unwanted raffle prize from the summer fayre at her mother’s retirement complex. She emptied the drawers again and carefully cut the violet-scented paper sheets to size. The smell wasn’t the most attractive in the universe but it was a touch of luxury that she hoped the girl would appreciate. She wanted Adele to get the message that Fiona was doing her best.

Afterwards she cleaned the bathroom, which was suffering under triple the usage it normally saw, and then her own bedroom. That was the room that felt most violated. Until a few days ago it had been her private sanctuary, with Fiona able to control who went in and how frequently — i.e. Joe, but only at pre-arranged and rationed times. Now it almost felt as though it was open to the public.

She boiled the kettle and dwelt again on the previous day’s supermarket trip and her inability to cope with the babydepartment. She was counting on Adele having left before the baby came in a month’s time. Or six weeks if it was late. The thought of having to handle a newborn, to see its detritus everywhere, or at the very least hear it cry and possibly feel a ghostly tingle in her nipples, made her hands shake as she poured a mug of tea. She couldn’t do it. She could pay for Adele to decamp to a hotel. A newspaper headline appeared in her mind: ‘Selfish girlfriend evicts lover’s pregnant daughter at Christmas time’. Not good.

The tea calmed her temporarily. She had to do it. She had to cope with a baby in her home or explain why not. And she couldn’t explain because of the pity tsunami. Pity would open the chute back into that big black hole and remind her that the only person you can properly trust in this world is yourself. Telling her story to Joe, Adele, or even Meeko, would cause them to hover and fuss and treat her like someone who didn’t know her own mind. Just like thirty years ago when Rob had insisted that she needed her mother’s care and had phoned Dorothea without his wife’s permission. Regardless of the pleas from her mother, father, husband, GP and relationship counsellor to let the hormones and grief settle and give Rob a second chance, she’d ploughed on with the divorce. She’d wanted to show them that shedidknow her own mind, and that meant shedding her skin like a snake and starting afresh, in a new job and free from old relationships. Her friendship circle had eventually got the message and drifted away. Her parents were the only ones she’d felt obliged to provide with her new address and phone number when the marital home was sold and she was forced to rent until she could afford the deposit on a house solely in her name. Consequently, her mother was the only person still in her life today who knew everything that had happened back then.

Without pausing to think, she pulled on a jacket and drove to her mum’s flat. She didn’t want to talk to the old lady aboutthe past or its impact on her current situation — she just wanted to be with someone who knew her completely. Even if the two of them rarely agreed on anything.

“Fiona! I was hoping you’d pop by but I didn’t like to ring because I know what you’re like for sticking to a schedule.”

Despite Fiona’s protestations that she’d only just had a cup of tea, the kettle went on, two homemade scones were warmed and a lacy cloth went over the teak coffee table.

“It’s not your usual day — is something wrong?”

“No.” She didn’t need her mother offering solutions to a problem the old lady couldn’t fully understand.

“So why have you come today?”

That rigid visit schedule was backfiring on her. At the beginning of the year Fiona had annotated her mother’s calendar with all the dates that she could expect to see her only child. This was as much to set expectations on her mother’s side as to give Fiona a sense of order and control in her own life. Dorothea was struggling with loneliness and Fiona wanted her to be heartened by the sight of regular bright orange circles on the calendar, in the same way that yellow circles of sunshine on the weather forecast can make you feel the warmth of the sun on your back. She didn’t want her mum sitting in the flat wondering when or if Fiona might come. This meant she now had to provide a reason for turning up, or run the risk that her mother would expect multiple ad hoc visits in the future — and then suffer disappointment on top of her loneliness.

“The sale of your house.” The letter had arrived on Saturday and ideally Fiona had wanted more time to put plans in place before presenting a fully formed timetable to her mother, but it was the best reason for her visit that she could come up with.

“Am I going to be rich soon?”

“Not exactly. The buyer’s survey has shown some damp in the cellar and a fault with the electrics. They’re asking for a ten-thousand reduction in the price.”

“You do know that your dad and I paid under three thousand for it when we got married in 1960? Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Fiona had long ago stopped trying to explain that the price her mother had had to pay for the retirement flat, the bridging loan plus the ongoing, sky-high service charge, meant there was no profit from the house sale and her mother’s savings had taken a hit.

“I wouldn’t call it a gift horse but we’ll take the offer because you need that cash now — we can’t wait for another buyer to come along.” It grieved her but it was a financial necessity.

“Have a scone.” Her mother had spread butter and jam thickly on them both. “It’s so nice to have company to eat them. I miss having someone to bake for.”

“I’m not hungry, Mum.”

“I told you before, my freezer’s full of baking and no one to eat it.”

“Could you ask the complex manager to organise a coffee morning and you’ll supply the eats?”

“I don’t know about that. They all keep themselves to themselves around here. Probably no one would come. Go on — have one now. You’ve not an ounce of fat on you.”

And I want to keep it that way. “Can I wrap a couple up and take them home for Joe?”

The old lady beamed. “Take four — men always have a good appetite.”

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