Everything Has Changed Read online

  There was a hush in the room as she said it. Nobody spoke and a lightbulb flickered on and off. After a while James coughed. ‘What, on earth, is that supposed to mean?’ he said, pacing over to the window. ‘Have you any idea what the impact of this has been on the family, Victoria?’

  Victoria stood up. ‘Yes, I do, James. And I think it’s been necessary.’ She glanced over at Lulu who was screwing her eyes up at her, shaking her head. ‘I was careering headlong towards self-destruct wasn’t I? Because I was hurting?’ she carried on, ‘becoming someone nobody liked, my kids, you.’ She turned to Lulu. ‘Why don’t we all admit it? I overheard you and Dad, Lulu – now, that did hurt.’ She came and sat back down on the sofa’s arm. ‘But maybe I had to hear it, you know, “the old Vicky is back”. So no, I don’t hate you, because the old Vicky is back. And it’s because of you, Lulu, the accident, my memory, well, it’s probably saved my family and I hope—’ she looked over at James who had his arms folded next to the window and was staring out of it, ‘my marriage.’

  He swivelled round. ‘You think? You think that the accident might have saved your marriage? I don’t really think so Victoria,’ he sighed. There was such sadness in his eyes. ‘I did see those texts before the accident, and I used to wonder what it was all about. But we were getting a divorce anyway. And then, recently, I thought you’d changed, but now – I’m not so sure. I think the damage between us was done a long time ago and some things are too hard to repair.’ He looked up to the ceiling, and opened his mouth, then closed it again. He seemed to be considering something. But then he strode out the room.

  Victoria slid down from the sofa’s arm. Lulu leant her head on Victoria’s shoulder and then burst into tears. ‘I’m so sorry, Vicky, I really am.’ Victoria pulled her close. ‘It’s all a mess, everything,’ Lulu sobbed. ‘That day. I was just,’ she sniffed, ‘overwhelmed, it was a whole bucketful of things. And now your phone, James.’ She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and scrunched up her nose. ‘Who was that person, anyway? Oh, look, I’m just so sorry.’

  Victoria touched her cheek. She was worried about Lulu, she was worried about Izzy – but knew this wasn’t the time to tackle any of it or explain anything. Her heart was hammering after what James had said. Life turns on a sixpence, thought Victoria, as she studied the weave of the sofa’s covering. One minute you’re hopeful for the future, the next, a split second could change everything. Her problem remained how to convince James that she did love him. But first, she had a daughter to look after.

  ‘It’s not all your fault. Look, right now, I think you need sleep.’ And, as any good older sister would, she took her by the hand and led her upstairs to bed for the second time that day.

  Once Victoria had tucked Lulu up in Jake’s room, she popped her head round the door to check on Izzy. She crept into her room and stood by her bed looking at her sleeping daughter. Her breathing was steady and there were smudges of black on her pillowcase. Then she bent down, and stroked her forehead for a while before kissing her on the cheek and whispering, ‘Love you.’

  Just as she was closing the door she heard Izzy turn over and murmur, ‘Love you too, Mum.’

  When she got back downstairs, she heard a noise in the kitchen. James was standing by the leather chairs with a bag perched on one of them. She stared at the holdall as if it were a bomb.

  ‘James, you’re—’

  ‘Leaving,’ he said, zipping the bag shut. ‘For a bit. I think we need some space.’

  ‘OK.’ She was using her Calm Mummy voice, like when Izzy sliced her finger and they had to go to A&E when she was seven, and when Jake told her he’d put the hamster in the microwave. She had to remain calm, but see if she could persuade him otherwise. All she wanted to do was scream, ‘No!’

  She went to the fridge and opened a bottle of wine, placed two glasses on the kitchen island in front of him and looked at him expectantly. ‘Why don’t we talk?’ she said, sitting down and pouring out two glasses, a tiny life-raft in the choppy waters of acrimony.

  ‘No thanks, Victoria.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘My Uber’s here in ten minutes.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What were you doing?’ A look of pain flashed across his face.

  This bit she knew. This bit she could explain. ‘It was just a game, James. It was Zoe’s idea. To make you jealous.’

  ‘A game? You expect me to believe you?’

  ‘But it was!’ She took a huge gulp of wine.

  ‘Even if you’re telling the truth – did you really think it would be a good idea now?’

  She looked down at the red wine in her glass and swilled it around. ‘No. I don’t really think so, not now. But I just couldn’t reach you, I wanted to – I don’t know, make you realise what you had, what you could lose.’ But as she said it, it sounded hollow, fake to her. ‘I just want to go back to the old Vicky, for you and me to go back to how it was.’ Victoria took a deep breath and continued. ‘I am the old Vicky. The one who loves you.’

  Victoria studied her husband. Although fragments of her memory were patchy, she could remember how it would often take just one look, one smile and they’d both know what the other was thinking. She used to love that about her relationship. They used to finish each other’s sentences, struggle to keep a straight face if someone said something funny. Not now. She had no idea what was going through his head. She waited for her husband to answer, for his voice to soften, for him to come over and wrap his arms around her, tell her that they would talk it through in the morning. But there was a beat until he said anything. ‘But it’s not as easy as that, is it?’ he said softly.

  And when she looked at him waiting by the window for his taxi out of their home, with his tired eyes and beginning of a five o’clock shadow, she willed him to say something. She would have preferred shouting. Throwing wine. Anything but the silence.

  35 Victoria

  Victoria slumped down on the sofa and pulled a cushion towards her. The sound of the door slamming was still echoing in her mind. She could just imagine James now in the taxi, his mouth set in a firm line, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose like he always did when he was stressed. Where would he go? To Simon’s, where they would both burn effigies of her and Lulu?

  She wanted to take away his quiet anger, she wanted him to understand, but hell, even she didn’t understand. She felt so messed up. There was so much that had led to this point. All of it twisting and turning into a ball of confusion. She remembered something her mother said to her once, that harrowing events can have a habit of putting more strain on a family, not bringing them together. The demons of blame and hurt would join forces producing a lethal cocktail that would seep into any little fissures already there. Rather like ice forming in the cracks of a pavement and bursting it apart. That’s what she felt had happened to her and James. The miscarriage had sent them scurrying back inside themselves, rather than reaching out to each other; it seemed that she had taken solace in the routines of home, the control that that brought her, while he’d hidden at work, surrounded himself with new projects and busy schedules and pushed out any emotion and feeling. Feelings that hurt. She wished now that he’d only opened up to her. Imagine if he had, and the two of them could have coaxed each other out of their mutual pain rather than make the suffering worse?

  Her face was wet from crying, the cushion was damp as she looked around the room – at the baby photos on the mantelpiece, at the crooked ‘sculpture’ Izzy had made in primary school of four little pigs in a sty. See, Mummy, that’s you, the mummy pig, there’s Daddy the daddy pig, and here are me and Jake the twinny piglets! She had pointed at each one with her chubby little fingers. It was painted brown and was hideous, yet Victoria had proudly displayed it on her mantelpiece for seven years because Izzy had made it with love, had made it for her parents. If the house ever caught fire, she’d challenge any burly fireman and run into the lounge and grab it.

  Victoria threw the cushi
on to the other side of the room. Enough was enough. She needed to sort things out. She stood up, took a look at the woman in the mirror hanging over the fireplace. Her hair was all over the place, her carefully constructed ‘wedding face’ was now a mess of smudged lipstick and smeared mascara. She stared at her, as if willing her to challenge her. Then she swept her dress up and marched into the kitchen. She found an old cardboard box in the storeroom, hauled it out and then pulled the Italian coffee machine from its home next to the hob, and threw it in the box. Next was the expensive mixer and then she grabbed all the flavoured herbal teas from the cupboard and, packet by packet, threw them into the box, quite satisfied with her aim.

  Then she stomped upstairs. When she got into her room, she yanked her wardrobe doors open. Out came dresses, out came cashmere sweaters and out came designer handbags. She looked at the scissors gleaming in her hand. There was no doubt in her mind what she needed to do. Holding up the navy leather bag – the one she’d first seen at the hospital, she snipped off the handle, then she cut off the Godawful metal clasp; next she picked up a cashmere jumper embellished with silver threads running through it. Snip, snip, snip. That would do. She carried on, smiling to herself, pulling another outfit from her wardrobe and cutting it into tiny pieces. She carried on like this for about half an hour until there was a little heap of clothing strips at the bottom of her bed, on the floor. That’s the New Victoria, in pieces, right where she should be.

  Next, she stood in front of the mirror and started to chop at her hair. Little tufts fell to the floor. She kept cutting until her tresses had been tamed into a shorter cut. A very uneven cut, but it sat at shoulder length now and she felt satisfied. There, that would do. She put the scissors down on the dressing table with a thump. Bollocks to poncy hairdressers, she said in her head and stifled a smile.

  ‘Vicky?’ Lulu was standing in the doorway staring at her.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Sorting out a few things.’

  Lulu let out a whistle. ‘But your hair?’ Lulu wandered over to her and put her hands on her shoulders. ‘Vicky?’ Lulu was shaking her head. Her blonde curls were tumbling down her shoulders and her make-up had vanished. She looked as if the fight had left her.

  ‘That’s right, the old Vicky.’ Victoria turned around and looked at Lulu. ‘You alright?’

  ‘No. Couldn’t sleep,’ Lulu shrugged. ‘I heard cupboard doors bang and James’s voice?’ Lulu turned around and sat on the bed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’s left.’

  ‘For how long?’

  Victoria lifted her shoulder up. ‘I don’t know. He’s confused, I need to let him go.’

  ‘I didn’t help though, did I? Your phone – sorry.’

  Victoria looked at her. ‘Look, I created the mess. It was a silly prank. It could have happened anywhere. I wanted it to happen but it backfired on me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She sat down next to Lulu on the bed and explained.

  ‘Whoa.’ Lulu fixed her eyes on her and they widened. ‘Does James realise it was fake?’ It was the question that Victoria had been turning around in her head all night.

  She shrugged, reaching a hand up to pull at her hair, then realising it wasn’t there. ‘I hope so. But what I do know is that I wouldn’t threaten my marriage for anything, and that’s what James needs to know. I can’t talk to him right now, but when he’s ready to listen, I will. Far from making him jealous and running into my arms, he’s just run the other way.’

  Lulu was staring at the floor. She was twisting her nightdress between her fingers. Victoria watched a tear drop onto the fabric and soak in. ‘I just want to say sorry again. I just kept remembering me pulling the wheel of the—’

  ‘Hey, Lulu, stop,’ she said putting her hand on her knee. ‘You were drunk. In fact, you’re probably harder on yourself than I could ever be.’ Victoria stood up and stepped over the pile of clothes, then turned around. ‘I know this isn’t the time or the place, but you need to think – you need to ask yourself why you were so drunk on the night of the Wedding Fayre, why you turn to drink when things get tough, why you nearly walked down that aisle to another life with someone you don’t love?’ Lulu glanced at her sideways. Victoria came back and sat next to her and said softly, ‘And I’m not expecting you to say anything, it will take time to figure stuff out. But why don’t you go home, I mean home-home and spend time with Dad? Take some time out?’ She placed a hand on Lulu’s knee and gave it a squeeze.

  Lulu nodded, and looked down at the floor; mascara was still smudged under her eye. Victoria reached out and gently rubbed some off with her thumb. ‘Right, I’m going to bed. And so are you,’ she said, pulling her sister up off the bed and leading her to the door. ‘Night sweetheart.’ She held onto the top of Lulu’s shoulders. ‘Look at me,’ Victoria said gently. Lulu looked straight at her with red-rimmed eyes. ‘I love you,’ Victoria whispered, touching her cheek, ‘and what you’ve got to do is love yourself. This is your big sister talking.’

  Lulu smiled wanly. ‘Easier said than done, sis, damaged goods here,’ she muttered, turning away from her. Victoria watched her wander back to Jake’s room, then close the door. Damaged goods? But her brain ached from today. She didn’t have any more energy left to solve it tonight. She swept the clothes from one side of the bed to the other – the empty side – carefully took off her dress and threw it over a chair, then fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep.

  She was being smothered, she was in a dress shop, naked, trying on new clothes and the assistant was telling her how marvellous she looked. When she looked in the mirror, she had no hair. The assistant grinned. ‘Nice to have the old Vicky back,’ she said and then she was crying, being pulled, she was drowning, in the sea, but it was like quicksand; she was so, so heavy, but she had to swim. She couldn’t breathe. But she had to get to Lulu, to Izzy, there was a light, the light of an ambulance—

  ‘Mummy, Mum! Wake up! What’s going on? What’s happened to your hair?’ It was Izzy by the side of the bed, pulling her arm. She had turned on the bedside light.

  ‘I had a nightmare, sweetheart.’

  ‘More than a nightmare. What have you done? Why are there clothes all over the floor, and—’ Izzy said, rubbing her eyes. She nudged the pile with her big toe, ‘they’re in shreds? And there’s hair everywhere,’ she whispered, blinking at Vicky. ‘Have you been, like, drinking, Mum?’

  Vicky sat up in her bed and wiped her damp forehead and laughed. Then she glanced at the mound of cut up clothes. ‘No, I’ve been clearing out.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not, you know, a bit, um, because of the accident?’ Izzy screwed up her eyes and peered at her.

  ‘No darling, I have never felt more sane in my life. Listen, come here.’ And as her daughter leant into her, she realised this was the first proper embrace she’d had from Izzy since she’d been back from hospital. She took in the smell of her hair, the essence of Izzy, pulled up the soft duvet and switched off the light.

  But despite being exhausted she couldn’t sleep. Thoughts tumbled around her brain, from the day’s events, to the look in James’s eyes as he left, the state Lulu was in earlier, Izzy in a foil blanket by the side of the road. Her husband had just walked out, her sister had partly caused her dreadful accident and was having some sort of crisis, and her daughter got in the car with a drunk driver. She lay awake for what seemed like half the night, worrying how on earth it would all be resolved. And yet, as she listened to Izzy’s soft breathing beside her, one thing she was certain of: despite the tangled web of confusion, her family meant more to her than anything in the world.

  36 Lulu

  Pickle scampers ahead of me, his little white tail wagging in the breeze. His paws make a kind of clip-clip noise on the road as he trots ahead, pulling on the lead, then he turns back to look at me as if to say, ‘hurry up’. He meanders into the verge of the road sniffing the grass. We’re at the back of the village where Dad lives, N
idder Bridge, a small cluster of houses, a pub and small shop to the north of Harrogate, on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. We’re following a dry-stone wall around a bend, then there’s a small bridge over a tinkly stream where Pickle usually stands up on his hind legs and barks at the water. Fluttery ferns line the edge of the road and I breathe in the sweet smell of wild honeysuckle as Pickle yanks the lead again. Up ahead the road peters out and becomes a path, taking us up towards the small foothills. As you get nearer, the ground gets boggy, then there’s a steep climb towards the viewpoint. I’ve been walking him here for the last two weeks while I stay with Dad, every morning up at 8 a.m., then out and about with him, even if it’s raining, by 9 a.m. I’ve come to love our little walks. Occasionally I’ve met another dog walker, but mostly I’m on my own, lost in thought – which is really where I need to be, both physically and mentally.

  I’ve been thinking about my kaleidoscope again, those dark fragments along with the light, and I know that I need to reset myself in many ways. I’ve come to realise that I’m using drink to stop me feeling sometimes, and yet that’s exactly what I need to do. Except some of the feelings I have are more than I can bear – they hurt too much. But I can’t hide inside a bottle. I need to cut down and face some of the music on my own. Pickle’s off the lead now and he barks and I call him. He comes bounding back to me, eager for a treat. I fish one out of my pocket and give it to him. He scampers ahead. His love is so simple, isn’t it? And so unconditional. Markie’s words weave in and out of my mind. Love yourself. Only it’s not quite as simple as that, is it?

  Pretty stone cottages dot the road on either side, and there’s a bright red post box attached to a wooden post. The lambs are all huddled next to their mothers in the field by the fence. Pickle and I carry on, following a dry-stone wall, one that I know leads to the path up the hill. I call him towards me and then crouch down and give him another treat.