The Family. Louise Jensen
‘I’ve been applying for—’ I began but she cut me off.
‘Iwan swallowed his pride and began working for someone else after all that hoo-ha with the land. Oh, take that look off your face,’ she snapped at me. ‘Who cares if it was with a rival firm? He had a family to support. Gavan should have admitted defeat and got a proper job too.’
‘Gavan knew he’d done nothing wrong. It didn’t matter that the estate was being built on a former landfill site. If it wasn’t safe the council wouldn’t have sold it to us, or granted planning permission. He didn’t give up because he believed in the business. He believed in you, Iwan.’ I stretched out my fingers towards him but Anwyn placed her hand on his before I could reach him. He snatched it away. ‘He never stopped trying.’ Tears filled my eyes as I remembered his determination. His optimism that he could turn things around. ‘He’d lined up a deal he said would get everything back on track the night he died. He loved what he did. He loved you, Iwan. You were his brother…’
‘I think Iwan knows that. Family is important to him.’
‘But we’re your family. Tilly and I…’
Anwyn snorted. Iwan glared at her. The tension that sat heavy between them when I arrived thickened.
‘Laura, I can’t help you.’ His words were soft but they struck a blow.
‘Can’t or won’t? Please, Iwan. Just be honest with me.’
‘Honest!’ Anwyn stood so fast her chair toppled backwards and crashed to the ground. ‘Don’t come here cap in hand and bloody talk to us about being honest, Laura. Don’t forget we know the lengths you’ve gone to in the past to get what you want. The lies you’ve told. I know you.’
I couldn’t believe she’d dragged that up and thrown it in my face. I stood too. My hands flat on the table supporting my weight as I leaned forwards.
‘That’s a nice way to talk to your family.’ My voice was low.
‘You’re not family.’ Her face was inches from mine. Her rancid breath made my stomach roil. ‘And neither is that daughter of yours.’
‘Let’s all calm down,’ Iwan said. ‘Tilly’s family, and Laura is—’
‘Laura, you’ve made your own bed.’ Anwyn cut in. ‘You’re not family to us anymore.’
Those were the same words my dad used all those years ago and hearing them felt like ripping off a plaster, raw and painful, the wound gaping wide open once more. Instinctively I slapped her.
‘Oh God, Anwyn. I didn’t… I…’ Shocked, my hand dropped to my side as hers rose to press against her cheek.
‘Get out!’ she screamed.
But I was already leaving the room, pulling on my coat. Feeling sick, I called for Tilly.
The front door opened. ‘Aunt Laura?’ Rhianon hesitated halfway across the threshold, sensing the atmosphere. ‘Is everything okay?’
Tilly pushed past me, then pushed past Rhianon, and I squeezed my niece on the shoulder as I followed my daughter to the car, knowing I would never set foot in that house again.
Knowing there was only one option left for me, even if the thought of doing it made me feel ill.
But we do what we have to for our children, don’t we?
TILLY
I was annoyed I couldn’t sleep in. It was Saturday for God’s sake. Monday to Friday, Mum had to literally drag me out of bed but that day, with nothing to do and no one to do it with, I was up at eight. I hadn’t slept well, thanks to my inability to stop scrolling through Instagram. Sometimes I even put my phone down, only to snatch it up seconds later in case another post had appeared: Rhianon and Ashleigh trying on clothes in New Look; Kieron and Katie sharing a pitcher in the Moon on the Square where they never ask for ID. It was a world where everyone was thinner, happier, more popular than I was. Eating better meals, wearing nicer clothes. I was the stray ginger cat who prowled our garden and sat on the patio, pressing his nose against the glass, purring to be invited in. I could have explained all that to Mum, but I never did. I knew I wasn’t the only one having sleepless nights. I could hear the squeak of Mum’s bed frame as she tossed and turned. Her footsteps as she padded downstairs for another cup of tea. In the first few days, after Dad died, I wanted to climb into bed with her but it was so weird being in their room without him. His clothes still piled over the elliptical trainer which Mum never used. His brush on top of the chest of drawers. Once I had tugged some of his hair free of the bristles and hidden it in a shoe box at the bottom of my wardrobe, along with a strip of black and white photos of me and Rhianon in one of those old-school photo booths.
I had tried to get back to sleep, but couldn’t, so had stomped to the bathroom instead. Mum asked if I wanted toast. I snapped ‘not if it’s in a heart shape’ or something. It was a low blow, but my foul mood was uncontrollable and the words had come out before I could swallow them back down. I had gone downstairs to offer to make her a cup of tea or something. She was sitting at the table crying, and to know I had caused that with my stupid toast remark made me feel like a prize bitch. Mum had tried to do something nice with my sandwiches after all, and I did appreciate it. Some mums don’t even bother.
It was a surprise when she asked me to go to Aunt Anwyn’s with her. We hadn’t seen much of them socially since Ashleigh got sick, and Dad and Uncle Iwan’s business stupidly got the blame. I thought it was really unfair because I saw Aunt Anwyn in a coffee shop in town with Cathy Collins, Ashleigh’s mum, so they must have still been friends. Mum said things would settle down and everyone would move on. Dad was a scapegoat because Mr Collins needed someone to blame; dads feel like they have to protect their daughters and he must think that he let her down. When I thought of that it made me want to cry. Why didn’t my dad want to protect me?
Thinking of the reception we might get, I almost changed my mind about going but Aunt Anwyn and Uncle Iwan were so kind to me at the funeral I thought if we could all come together like a family I might become best friends with Rhianon again, which would make things easier at school. I knew she couldn’t completely hate me; if she did she’d never have kept quiet about what I’d told her. Anyway, I owed Mum after the whole heart-shaped toast thing so I agreed to go with her. It was my sorry without saying sorry.
It took ages to decide what to wear. It was the same every morning. Deciding who I wanted to be, painting my skin, covering my body, not wanting anyone to see the real me. Not really sure who the real me was anymore. When we were younger, Rhianon and I were given these books one Christmas. The front page had a paper doll you could pop out, the rest of the pages contained her outfits and accessories. She could be anyone you liked. Biker chick. Catwalk model. Must-go-to-the-ball-and-kiss-a-prince-at-midnight princess. I was that paper doll as I pulled clothes from my wardrobe and stood in front of the mirror trying on new identities; flimsy and fragile. Just like her, I had been so easy to screw up and throw away.
Mum thumped on my door and shouted. I was browsing Instagram as I tried on various combinations of clothes. There was an art to clashing prints and patterns. Finally, I squeezed my feet into my baby blue, suede shoe boots and I was, if not satisfied, resigned that this was the best I was going to do. I opened the sample of too-expensive-for-me perfume I’d found in a copy of Cosmo that someone had left in the sixth form common room and rubbed it over my wrists, behind my ears, over my neck.
Mum didn’t say anything when I came downstairs, let alone bother to tell me I looked nice or that she was pleased I had made such an effort. In fact she didn’t speak to me once during the drive. She was either annoyed I had taken so long to get ready, or was still hurt by my toast comment. Who knew?
On the journey I started to think of all the ways my turning up at Rhianon’s unannounced was a bad idea. The swarm of