Page 19 of Out of Control
Christmas Day had been a masterclass in acting. There were several times when Rob had looked on the verge of blurting out the truth but, each time, she managed to either steer him into the kitchen or change the subject. Fiona went to bed as soon as their guests left. Rob stayed up to finish clearing away and then he followed her instructions to sleep in the spare room. But the next morning her parents turned up on the doorstep with food and sympathy, plus a demand from her mother to know why she hadn’t been told about the pregnancy sooner. Rob had phoned both parents with the news after he was sure Fiona had fallen asleep, exhausted after spending the previous night on a noisy ward and then faking festive smiles all day.
“It was a massive thing to have happened.” He’d tried to defend his actions later. “Our parents needed to know why the two of us will never be the same again.”
He was right when he said that neither of them would ever be the same again but he was wrong to have gone against her wishes. Just as he was wrong to have sent this note which could only rake up the past.
For a couple of minutes she took comfort from holding the hot mug in her cupped hands. Then she put it down, took a deep breath and carefully eased open the flap of the envelope.
The card was a generic snow scene but the letter was handwritten. Immediately it felt emotionally invasive. Why hadn’t he hidden behind a typescript? The address at the top of the letter was a new luxury block of flats at the other end of town. Rob had done well for himself.
Dear Fiona,
I hope this letter reaches you via our mothers who have recently become reacquainted. Through their catching up I’ve learned the basic facts about your life and what I’ve learned makes me feel able to contact you without fear of upsetting your apple cart too much.
I don’t know how much of my situation has worked its way through to you. Like you, I’ve never found another life partner and have struggled to come to terms with the loss of our baby. The latter has been made more difficult because I know the miscarriage was my fault and for that I am deeply, deeply sorry. Of course, I acknowledged my guilt at the time but now I realise the immediate trauma of that episode made it difficult for you to process much of what I said or promised. I admit that, at the time, I thought you were beingunreasonable but the passage of the years plus counselling has made me better understand how it must have been for you back then.
Counselling. I bet that’s shocked you, hasn’t it? It was recommended to me recently by someone I met at Gamblers’ Anonymous (I haven’t gambled since shortly after the divorce but still attend meetings to keep me on the straight and narrow and to help others) and I wish I’d done it years ago instead of carrying a head full of spaghetti emotions for half a lifetime.
Anyway, the counsellor suggested that reparation could be the final step in putting the loss of our baby to rest. And, God knows, I need to do that if I’m to have any sort of peace as I head into retirement.
Why am I contacting you? Because I want you to be part of my journey to reparation. Please will you join me?
Fingers crossed,
Rob
Fiona screwed up the letter and dropped it in the pedal bin. She didn’t want to be part of his ‘journey to reparation’ — why on earth did he think she would want that? She had no intention of pandering to his conscience or making him feel better about what he did or offering him any sort of forgiveness. When he gambled away their possessions, he also killed their daughter and stole Fiona’s future. Absolutely no way could she assist her ex-husband on his search for redemption. And she needed to instruct her mother that under no circumstances should she pass on any further information about Fiona’s life. Except toemphasise that she was now living with Joe and therefore any further communication from Rob would be unwelcome.
On second thoughts Fiona retrieved the letter from the bin, unscrewed it and tore it into shreds. A paper snowstorm drifted down and coated the existing rubbish. She exhaled the breath unconsciously trapped in her chest. Obliterating his missive increased her sense of control and determination. And that was what she needed in the current upside-down mess of her life. Then she forced Rob to the back of her mind and returned to tidying her handbag and wondering if she could follow through and be completely positive about the baby shower; Fiona had wet blanket and party-pooper tendencies very near the surface of her personality.
Chapter 15
Dorothea checked for the third time that she had Tony’s clutch of letters and his two photographs in her handbag. She patted her hair in the mirror; her stylist had used so much hairspray that it now felt like she was wearing a crash helmet, but it was better than arriving at her lunch date looking like Worzel Gummidge.Date.Date. The word sent a shiver of excitement to her stomach and caused it to somersault. She hadn’t been on an actual date for at least sixty years, since she and Arthur started courting. But Arthur had been dead two years. The initial grief had been so all-consuming that Dorothea hadn’t wanted to even poke her head outside the front door. Then Fiona had helped her to move to this flat and Dorothea had realised that she had to make a new life for herself or drown in the never-ending loneliness. Fiona visited when she could, but one daughter couldn’t be expected to fill every hour of every day. Responding to Tony’s advert in the free newspaper had felt like a betrayal of her marriage vows, but gradually the pleasure she’d gained from their correspondence had dimmed her guilt; she was the one left behind when Arthur died and she had to get through it as best she could. Tony used a PO Box number instead of his address, which had seemed a bit cloak-and-dagger. Her first instinct had been to respond with her actual address, but then she’d read the advice at the bottom of the lonely hearts column about divulging only a minimum of personal details and meeting in public places until you could be sure that a prospective partner was genuine. So she’d gone to the main post office in town, somewhere that she wouldn’t be recognised, and taken out a three-month PO Box subscription. It wasn’t cheap but Fiona would never forgive her if she got burned playing with fire. As it was, Fiona would never find out about this lonely-hearts foray. If it worked out, she and Tony would cook up some imaginary way that they’dmet, and if it didn’t work, well, her ultra-efficient and controlling daughter would be none the wiser.
The bus was five minutes late and then it got held up by temporary traffic lights. Dorothea was flustered by the time she entered the café and scanned the room for a good-looking, older man with silver hair, large black-framed spectacles and holding a copy of theDaily Mail. Tony spotted her first and waved from a table in the corner. As soon as she reached him, he stood up and kissed her full on the lips. Before she could react, he pulled her close for a hug and then kissed her on the lips again.
“Oh!” Dorothea staggered backwards as soon as she was released.
Tony hurried round to her side of the table, pulled out the chair for her and helped her off with her coat. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you in the flesh, Dorrie.” He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze before taking his own seat opposite her.
“Dorrie?”
“Lovers always have nicknames.Dotsounds common.Dottysounds like a dog’s name. So, Dorrie it is, darling.”
Dorrie. Darling. Kissing on the lips. None of this fitted with the Tony she’d imagined from his letter. Was this how the dating scene was in the twenty-first century? Even for oldies like themselves?
“Aren’t you going to say anything, Dorrie?” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I’m feeling a bit emotional and over-awed as well. Meeting you in the flesh and taking our relationship to the next level is fantastic.”
He must think she was a tongue-tied numpty. She had to respond in some way. “It’s lovely to meet you, Tony.” She looked around for inspiration to get the conversation onto a more neutral footing. “Is that the menu? I could eat a horse.” It was alie. Tony’s greeting had robbed her of what little appetite first-date nerves had left her with.
“I like a woman with a healthy appetite.” His eyes glinted unnervingly as he passed her a menu. He leaned across the table and she felt his breath on her face. He’d eaten garlic the night before. “Have whatever you like, this is my treat.”
He was too effusive and overpowering. She looked at the menu. Tony wasn’t pushing the boat out to impress her. The most expensive thing was a jacket potato with a smoked salmon, scrambled egg and mayonnaise filling. She ordered it. Tony had the same. “We’re a match made in heaven,” he said, winking at the waitress. Dorothea thought how different, in a slimy way, Tony was from her late husband.
“Tell me about where you live?” he asked between large mouthfuls of potato. “You mentioned a flat but you didn’t say where it was. I’m in a bungalow in Gleneagles Road.”
The growing line of tension across her shoulders pulled taut. She spent some time dissecting bits of pink salmon and remembering the advice in the newspaper. “Just a small flat in an anonymous block. Nothing special.”
“Everything is special about you. I loved the way your hips shimmied as you walked over to me. You are fragrant, with a face at least a decade younger than your years.”
