I Invited Her In. Adele Parks
20th, that’s tomorrow.
A small part of me would like to meet her for a drink. I’m not sure which force is driving me the most. Curiosity or kindness. It doesn’t matter, because I don’t live in London. Funny that she should think I do. She clearly hasn’t read my Facebook profile in any detail. I’m based in Wolvney, on a housing estate that’s sprouted up halfway between Coventry, where my parents live, and Northampton, where Ben works. I suppose it’s not entirely out of the question that I go to London to see her for an afternoon. It’s only just over an hour on the train. We sometimes take the kids there for a daytrip at the weekend but we tend to only do so for a special occasion. The last time we went was to see Matilda the musical. It was Imogen’s birthday. We all loved it, even Liam. Bless him. It would take a bit of organisation to hoof down there on my own but I’m sure Ben wouldn’t mind holding the fort up here if it was something I really wanted to do.
But is it?
It’s been a long time. Too long? Long enough? I don’t know.
Suddenly I have a better idea.
Or is it a worse one?
I could invite Abi to come and see me here in Wolvney. That way she’d meet the kids and Ben. I’ve never had the urge for her to meet my family before, quite the opposite, but now she’s made this move, and under these circumstances, it seems the right thing to do. She probably won’t accept anyway. I can’t imagine her coming all this way out of London. Not that it’s far but there are certain types that think anywhere out of zone three is abroad. Is she that type? I won’t know unless I invite her.
Before I change my mind, I draft a quick email back to her.
Hello Abi.
Wow, it’s so lovely to hear from you although I’m sorry it’s under such awful circumstances.
I would love to meet up. Actually, I don’t live in London, I live in Wolvney, urban sprawl outside Northampton. It’s just a zip on the train. It can take as little as 51 minutes if you get the fast train, no changes. I was wondering, would you like to come here? You could meet my family. I could pick you up from the station or you could get a taxi – there are always plenty available. You could come for the day or stay for a weekend. Well, whatever works, stay as long as you like!
Love
Mel
I read through my message once and wince at the slightly needy, girlish tone I fear it strikes. I feel disloyal referring to Wolvney as urban sprawl; it makes it sound much worse than it is. It is in fact a very well thought-through, quite attractive housing estate, a mile from a pretty village. I guess its biggest crime is that it’s ordinary. I find a certain comfort in conforming; an unplanned teenage pregnancy can do that to you. Our house was built ten years ago and is identical to seven others in our street; a four-bedroom (well, three and a box room) semi-detached, its best feature the quite spacious walk-through kitchen diner. Still, I like to think it has warmth and integrity. However, for some reason, I feel I need to undersell it so that when she sees it, she’s more likely to be pleasantly surprised. If she ever sees it. Also, do I sound desperate? All that detail about the travel arrangements. Possibly, saying ‘stay as long as you like’ is a bit over the top. A bit keen. I hope she doesn’t think I’ve turned into the sort of person who is being particularly nice because she’s famous now. I’m really not. I’m being particularly nice because she’s going through a difficult time. I’m not some nosy curtain-twitcher, desperate for the gory details on the death of her marriage.
I consider redrafting but don’t. I press send without over-thinking the invite.
She probably won’t accept. After all, she is famous, I don’t doubt she has countless people she would rather stay with. More exciting people than me. Trendy, waiflike women, men with groomed beards and abs. Don’t get me wrong: I love my life, I adore my family and am proud of our home, our own little enclave but, when all’s said and done, we’re not especially interesting to anyone other than each other. We like it that way.
I have loads to do today even though I’m not working. My at-home days are far busier than the ones in the shop. Even though I have two full-time members of staff and three part-timers reporting to me in a thriving store, it’s never as much work as being at home. However, I find that as I am cleaning the kitchen floor, loading and unloading the washing machine and scrubbing the hard water marks off the shower door, I can’t get Abi out of my mind. I have thought of her often enough over the years but usually, when I’ve done so, I’ve deliberately pushed thoughts of her away. She is intrinsically linked with such a difficult time. No matter how fabulous the result of that time is (and Liam really is a fabulous son) it isn’t easy thinking about being pregnant and having to leave university. I’ve never wanted to think about her. Her path was so different to mine, I just found it easier not to dwell on what might have been.
But everything is different now.
Throughout the day, I keep checking my phone to see if she’s responded to my email at the same time as telling myself she absolutely won’t have. A shiver of excitement skitters through my body when I see her name once again in my inbox and I feel jubilant when I read her reply.
Mel, Angel!
I’d love to visit! Send me your address. I’ll be with you on 22nd Feb.
All love, A
A. Just A. I remember that’s how she’d sign off her notes when we were at uni. Assumptive and intimate all at once. The twenty-second. Thursday. Just three days away. Wow, I’m flattered and excited. She’s coming to see me more or less straight away. A pit-stop in London and then up to see me. I can hardly believe it. Thursday isn’t an ideal evening to have guests – the girls have ballet. Oh well, I suppose they can skip a week. My eyes dart around the hallway where I happened to be standing when I checked my phone for emails. There is a jumble of boots, shoes, sandals and wellingtons tumbling out of an over-full wicker basket in the corner; they look as though they’re making a bid for freedom. We have five coat hooks on the wall, one each. There are about five coats hung and slung on and over each hook. The light grey carpet was a mistake. Who chooses light anything for a family hallway? Well, I did because I saw it in a lifestyle mag and it looked amazing. In all the time we’ve lived here, we’ve never had the carpets cleaned. That’s probably a mistake, too. The paintwork could also do with a freshen up. We’ve got cats – they rub against the walls which, over time, leaves grubby marks. In fact, because of grimy handprints or general wear and tear, most of our rooms look like they’ve been stippled, an effect that hasn’t been popular since the 1980s – and with good reason.
I’d better get to work.
Abigail was always honest with herself. She’d had enough life experience and counselling to understand and appreciate the value of developing a high level of self-awareness. It was essential to be completely truthful with herself because there was no one else with whom she could ever be completely so. She found people were less enamoured with the truth than they believed themselves to be.
So, as she packed her suitcases, she had to admit he had never lied to her or misled her. Not about the baby thing. He’d always been very clear, laid out his stall. No babies. Not then, not ever. She’d accepted as much, even told herself it was what she wanted, too. She decided to work hard at her career instead. That was fulfilling. Very much so. For a time. Quite some time. But that hadn’t panned out exactly as she’d thought it would. How she deserved it to. A gap had opened up in her life.
She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, puffy eyed, gaunt. She really needed to pull herself together, put some make-up on. She was likely to be recognised at the airport. She was a face. Someone.
Maybe not a name – people didn’t always remember her name – but certainly a face.