Page 6 of The Lucky Escape

Freddie patiently undid the fifty-three buttons laced down my back, and then I arched myself forwards so she could stand in front of me and inch the sleeves off my arms. Black globs of mascara fell on the silk that was already speckled with sick. I could smell vodka from the shot we’d had less than an hour ago, but the hotel bar was another life. I was half-naked and weeping as my mother banged on the door, her silhouette a murky outline of bright cerise contrasted with even brighter turquoise.

‘What in the name of Des O’Connor is going on?’ she trilled, high-pitched. Only her family and certain dog breeds could hear her, I was sure. ‘Annie. Where’s Alexander? What’s happening? There’s a church full of people!’ She rattled onthe glass with the palm of her hand. I knew she was doing it to avoid ruining the jewels in her rings. ‘Annie!’

I stepped out of the way so Freddie could let her in, holding an arm across my naked chest and letting the sunlight and Mum’s disapproval leak through into the hall. She considered me, jaw dropped. Two dog walkers ambled past, briefly glancing in at the scene: me in a flower crown and pyjama bottoms, Freddie holding a crumpled wedding dress, my mother cooking up a fury that added at least half a foot to her height, which was funny because she was still only barely as tall as Freddie. We’d both inherited Dad’s lanky Norwegian genes over her stumpy Yorkshire ones.

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ she said. ‘What have you done?’

Freddie scowled and stomped her foot. ‘Don’t be mean to her,’ she implored, her soprano voice quivering right alongside her bottom lip. ‘It was HIM!’ She trembled, her little body unable to hold room for all of her feelings. I hated what Alexander had done to me, but I hated that Freddie had to do the complicated mental gymnastics of grown-up emotions even more. ‘He’s a … he’s a BASTARD!’

She dared to look our mother in the eye, to see if her outburst was going to get her into trouble. For a moment I wasn’t sure which way it would go, either. Nobody swears in front of Judy Wiig.

My mother stepped inside decisively and closed the door behind her.

‘I see,’ she settled on. Freddie and I held our breath as we waited on what she would say next. She rearranged her facial features into something approximating comfort. She wasn’t pleased.

‘Right. That’s very unfortunate. I assume your father has already put the kettle on?’

4

‘I spoke to Fernanda. Finally,’ Mum said as I crept towards the breakfast bar, a blanket from the sofa pulled around my head like an elaborate trailing veil. The irony of it.

She was pushing teabags around the pot and warming cups and commenting that I should switch to one per cent milk because you can’t tell the difference between that and semi-skimmed. This was exactly how it had been for the past three days: me, unwashed, sad, largely unable to communicate in full sentences, and my parents, staying even though I hadn’t asked them to, trying to keep busy, organizing things, shouting at people in lieu of being able to shout at the person they most wanted to: Alexander. In another world it might have been a sitcom setting that I’d offer up to Kezza’s production company. It could even be reality TV:Zero Days a Bride.

‘She’s as baffled as anyone, Annie – and mortified. I can understand that, really, because honest to God if the shoe was on the other foot and you’d skipped out with everyone there, I don’t think I could show my face again. I’d be devastated, owning a child who’d be so reckless.’

Freddie peered over at us from the sofa, muting the TV so she could listen in. What a boring, sad way for her to spend the last days of the summer holidays. I wandered over and ruffled her hair. She stood up, balancing on the cushions so we were eye to eye, and opened her arms.

‘I love you, Froogle,’ she said, and I kissed her smooth, soft cheek. As she pulled away to look at me – assess me, really – I stuck out the tip of my tongue. I was trying to be funny, but the way she cocked her head made me realize she felt sorry for me. My tiny baby sister pitied me.

Mum handed over a cup of tea that was too milky, but I didn’t say anything. I’d have preferred a coffee.

‘You two are in role reversal,’ she commented. ‘You act as though Frederica’s the thirty-something and you’re the child, Annie.’

‘Hey!’ Freddie objected. ‘I’m not a child. I’m ateenager,thank you! And my name is FREDDIE.’

Mum gave a vague dismissivehmmmmsound as she returned to the kitchen island for her own mug.

‘Not to sound cold-hearted,’ Mum continued – which meant that she knew she was being a cow, but cutting commentary on somebody else’s shortcomings was her personal passion and she wasn’t about to let up on Judgement Day now – ‘but I’m truly relieved you’re the one left standing and not the one doing a runner. At least you’ve got sympathy on your side. The Mackenzies are going to have to bow out of public life for at least a year. Atleast!’

‘Mum.’ I sighed deeply, the migraine I thought had gone suddenly knocking on my temples with a sledgehammer. I pulled the blanket into a fist at my chin. ‘Alexander’s not some naughty member of the royal family who cast shame on the Queen. He’s not getting a slapped wrist and a lowprofile as his punishment. He’s just a man. The world will keep on turning for him. Nobody is going to have tobow outof public life.’

‘More’s the pity,’ she tutted, wiping down the work surfaces with a soggy cloth from the sink. ‘Flash, darling?’ she added, waving the kitchen spray at me. ‘Try the Dettol next time – it smells better. And anyway, Fernanda was appropriately distraught but still couldn’t fill in any of the blanks. Nobody knows where Alexander is or why he did what he did – only that he’s still off-grid and that his phone goes straight to voicemail.’

The sledgehammer pounded harder.

‘Hmmmm,’ I responded, because what could I say?

‘Or, at least, nobody is admitting to knowing anything. I think that’s the thing when you have a son – you don’t get to know them like a daughter. All the clues were probably there, she just didn’t know how to read them.’

I stood and looked out at the garden. It was only August bank holiday, but autumn was setting in, the leaves starting to change into rusts and ambers.Summer is over,I thought, with an abstract idea of seasons and cycles and the nature of things that probably related to my life, but I couldn’t see how. When Adzo had dropped off my stuff I’d frantically searched out my phone to see what Alexander had had to say for himself, but there wasn’t anything. I’d had no direct communication from him. In shock (humiliation? Disgust? Outrage?) I’d turned it off and left it in a drawer since. The bedsheets on his side still smelt of him. His post was on the counter, notes in his handwriting stuck to the fridge under a magnet. I’d hated Freddie giving me his jersey, but I hadn’t taken it off. I wanted him nowhere near me, and I wanted him all around me – here, back with me, everythingnormal again. I’d forgive him if he did come back. I’d let him in, tell everyone else to go home. I didn’t want any of this to be happening.

‘Annie? Hello? It’s polite to respond to questions.’

Freddie had gone back to watching TV, with Carol snoozing on her lap. Technically Carol had been a gift to me – a tiny King Charles spaniel from a rescue shelter – but Alexander had named her. His sexual awakening was prompted by watchingCountdownafter school and developing a crush on Carol Vorderman, and he said he’d always promised himself that one day he’d have a dog named after her.

‘Huh?’ I mumbled.

‘His clothes. I’ve ordered some boxes that should arrive tomorrow. We can pack up his things.’

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