The Island Escape. Kerry Fisher
hard, like she used to when she was a toddler and a dog sniffed at her. ‘I can’t eat any more.’
Maybe it was the rasp in her voice. Or the whispers in the dining room. The heads craning round pretending to look for a waiter, but having a jolly good stare at the wife with the atrocious husband instead. Alicia’s humiliation was tangible, her whole body rigid. We were supposed to protect her, not invite ridicule. I looked at Scott. His jaw was set, that familiar look of self-justification clamped around his features. A hot rush of emotion coursed through me. Then a surge of release as though I’d removed a pair of crippling shoes.
Just because I wanted our marriage to work didn’t mean I could make it work.
I was never going to make it right. Never. I got quietly to my feet, fished in my bag and handed the BMW key to Alicia. ‘Just pop out to the car for a minute, darling.’
Alicia hated being the centre of attention, and relief mingled with her confusion. She scuttled past Scott before he had time to argue. I looked at Adele, who was fiddling with her necklace and looking every one of her sixty-eight years. ‘I’m sorry, Adele. We shouldn’t have let you come over this year. We’ve had a bit of a tough time lately.’
I sucked myself in, clenching every muscle in my stomach in case I suddenly jellyfished onto the floor. There was only one chance to say this. I screwed up my eyes, then dived in. I forced out little more than a whisper.
‘I’m leaving you.’
Scott sat back in his chair, hands in the air in disbelief. ‘Don’t be silly. Where are you going to go? Come and sit down.’
I couldn’t say anything more. Too many eager faces were waiting for my next move. Yet another occasion when a random crowd would witness Scott ‘having his say’. I’d add it to the list of sunny barbecues spoilt by a wine-fuelled argument with the host. Parties when Scott had decided to ‘have a word’ with a guest he deemed to be flirting with me. Meals where the chef’s opinion on what made the perfect dish differed from Scott’s. Enough of my life had been played out in public. I stared at the man I’d loved for so long.
Maybe I still loved him. Now I had to save myself. And Alicia.
He looked like he didn’t believe me, as though he somehow thought he had the magic word, the clever spell to bring foolish Roberta back in line. My last glimpse of him was sitting there puzzled, as though he’d been showering me with compliments and I’d taken umbrage at nothing.
I turned round and concentrated all my energy on putting one foot in front of the other. I squeaked out a ‘thank you’ and a ‘sorry’ to the Maître d’ at the door without stopping to hear his reply. Just a corridor to go. A courtyard with a Christmas tree. A patch of grass. Then the car. Alicia was standing by the passenger door as pale as an icicle in the sun. I pushed out the last words I could manage.
‘I’m sorry, darling. I’ve left your father.’
Christmas Day wasn’t a day for unexpected visitors, so when the doorbell rang, I assumed it was carol singers and left Jonathan to deal with them while I organised the Christmas pud. I’d poured the brandy over it and Polly was about to take centre stage lighting it, when Jonathan shouted through to me.
‘Roberta’s here. And Alicia.’ Jonathan didn’t do gushing welcomes.
I came out into the hallway, squeezing past Jonathan and all the anoraks breeding away on the coat hooks. Jonathan clearly thought he’d covered the social niceties and disappeared back into the dining room. I hugged Roberta. ‘Happy Christmas. Hello Alicia, darling. Come on in. Have you had a good day? You’re early. I thought we were walking at four.’
Before she could reply, Polly shouted from the dining room. ‘Mum! Mum! When are we going to light the pudding? Charlie says he’s doing it, but I want to.’
‘I’m coming. Just a sec.’
I turned back to Roberta. She was silent, flicking at the tassels of her scarf. My smile faded.
She stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry to do this to you on Christmas Day. I know you’ve got your own issues to deal with.’ She didn’t get any more out. Just stood there, silent tears running down her face. Alicia was wary, her face buttoned-up and defensive. I did an inward sigh.
‘Not more trouble with Scott?’
Roberta nodded.
Polly shouted again.
I took Roberta’s arm. ‘Oh God. Shit, just let me do the Christmas pud with Polly, then I’ll be right with you. Come through.’
‘It’s OK. I’ll sit in the kitchen. You finish lunch. We don’t want to get in your way.’ Roberta looked gaunt. I wanted to bring her in and warm her up with chunky soup and beef stew.
I ushered her down the hallway. ‘Make yourself a cup of coffee. Alicia, there are some little chocolates on the side, lovey, help yourself.’
I dashed into the dining room and sat back down next to Polly. Jonathan raised his eyebrows. Turning away so Mum couldn’t see, I pulled a ‘yikes’ face at him. As Polly snatched up the matches, I put my hand out for them. ‘Here, let me show you.’
‘I can do it. I’m not a baby.’ She scraped away until the match snapped.
‘Isn’t Roberta coming in to say hello?’ Mum asked.
‘Not just yet. She didn’t want to interrupt our lunch.’ Roberta wouldn’t need Mum’s tuppence-worth today.
‘It’s very rude to leave her in the kitchen.’
I cut Mum off, leaving her pursing her lips and muttering about common courtesy. I turned back to Polly.
‘Right, darling. Have another go. Strike it gently, but quickly.’ I was itching to put my hand over hers and hurry her along, conscious of Roberta sitting next door with her life going up the Swanee while we were faffing about with the finer points of pyrotechnics.
Tongue out in concentration, Polly raked the match across the box until, to everyone’s relief, it finally burst into flame. I pushed the pudding across to her. The brandy lit with a whoosh. Polly beamed. I glanced through the hatch at Roberta. I wondered if she wanted to stay the night. Jonathan had already given me the belt-tightening speech, as if I needed it. He wouldn’t be sharing out his dinner too eagerly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Polly lean forward to sniff the brandy that was licking about over the pudding in a purple haze. I managed to say ‘Careful’ before a flame burned its way up a length of her brown hair. She screamed. Jonathan grabbed a serviette and his glass of wine and belted round the table, sloshing and smothering. I shot out of my chair, patting at her with the edge of the tablecloth.
Polly started crying, ‘My face, my face.’
The room smelt as though I’d let a pan of rice boil dry. Jonathan dashed into the kitchen, shouting at Roberta to get some ice out of the freezer. Immi came flying round and clung to me, shock pinching her face. I cuddled her while I inspected the damage.
A chunk of hair had burnt off about halfway up, the charred ends black against the pale brown. A red welt ran vertically up her cheek.
Jonathan raced back in with a bowl of iced water. Polly was shaking as we bathed her face. Jonathan held back her hair, shushing her gently. ‘It’s going to sting for a bit, but you’ll be OK.’
‘What about my hair? They’ll all laugh at me at school.’ Her little chest was heaving up and down.
‘We were going to get it trimmed anyway. The hairdresser will sort it out.’ I leaned towards Jonathan. ‘Do you think she needs to go to hospital?’
I thought I’d whispered, but