Dear Mona Lisa... Read online

  Dear Mona Lisa…

  Claire Davis

  and

  Al Stewart

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dear Mona Lisa...

  Copyright 2017 by Claire Davis and Al Stewart

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced any way whatsoever without written permission of the authors.

  The moral right of the authors has been asserted.

  Cover Design: Noah Homes

  Tom, shy office clerk by day and drawer of foxes by night wakes up one Monday knowing the most extraordinary week of his life is about to begin. In five days time a lifelong ‘secret’ will be made gloriously public—but will it mean losing the person he loves most?

  …Getting married…

  It seems like only yesterday Tom changed nappies and sang nursery rhymes to a laughing baby. He relishes the demands of being a daddy; especially teaching his little girl to draw and paint as she grows up.

  But the years tick by and times change. Long-buried secrets must come to the surface which may test even the strongest ties.

  …Tom and Lawrence…

  He writes a list of all the things he has to do before the weekend and sticks it in the middle of his wall. The names and goals hang like threads of a spider’s web, inevitably leading to the centre, and all to the same place.

  Dear Mona Lisa…

  How to explain?

  Each morning he notes the colours of dawn, listens to the birds and waits for the perfect moment. In one hand rests the balance of life and a terrible responsibility, in the other a wedding ring. Difficult days and the past loom, but his friends rally round and one by one the words come to life.

  Everyone waits as Tom finds the strength to open up and set free the secrets of his heart in a celebration of family, friendship and love.

  A quirky story of modern life, set within the breathtaking landscape of Bradford.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  About the Authors

  By the Authors

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Ofelia, Amy, Dez, Noah Homes.

  Yasmin, Ruksana, Ali, Amy L, Tom Fox.

  Thank you always to Noah Homes, cover artist.

  Chapter one

  On Monday morning the dawn was dark navy, ascending into light apricot yellows. Such complicated layers could indicate opportunities.

  Please let it be today.

  Behind the computer hung a drawing of rabbits on a bus. “Help me,” I whispered. “I need to do it now!” Past lunch was never a good time to contact HR, but I should have done the deed months ago. The meeting would begin even if I couldn’t find the right form in the next few minutes.

  In twenty years, I’d never missed the start of a meeting. “Heck, bunny.”

  Somewhere hiding on G-drive were all the policies anyone could need: expenses forms, well-being, sickness, but no annual leave. I could ask Jenny, but she’d want to know everything and I wasn’t ready, no.

  No, no.

  A sideways glance revealed my friend tapping her watch. “You’re late.”

  “How do I find the leave request form?”

  “Come over here and I’ll show you.”

  That meant entering the lair of Jenny’s pungent feet.

  “Righto.”

  Underneath her desk resided a fine array of shoes—bright things with straps, black leather, and even a pair of wellington boots. They lay festering, a no-enter zone more than sufficient for any disease control laboratory searching for a revolutionary new barrier. Jenny maintained it kept the manager away, and I could appreciate that sentiment even if the aroma did occasionally put me off my lunch. Gluten free, of course.

  “Scoot over. I’ve fecking showed you before.”

  “Not until you give me some protection.”

  “Cheeky bastard.” She reached grandly for the fan to wave under my nose. “Only the best treatment for you.”

  “I’ve looked and looked but it’s not there, Jen.”

  She tapped ferociously. “Is. And make sure you use the new one, or they’ll send it back. I’ve emailed it to you.”

  “Thanks!” Maybe I’d escaped further interrogations after all. “I’ve just about time to fill it in before the meeting.”

  “If yer quick.” She nodded grudgingly. “Large meeting-room-of-delightfulness today. Small one’s still being painted.”

  “Mm. Don’t want to be in trouble and give them a chance to give me any warnings. You get yourself there, love. No need to wait.”

  We always sat at the back of meetings together, with the other employees too old and cynical to join in obligatory cheerfulness. I’d worked at the courts more than twenty years dealing with accounts, but lately, the trend was getting rid of us a few at a time, hiring youngsters straight out of college instead.

  She waited as I manically tapped the dates required on the leave request form and banged the email off to the boss, easy peasy lemon squeezy. If he said no, I would…almost certainly…probably—

  “When’s it for?”

  “Next two weeks.”

  “Next week! You book your holidays months before.” She squinted.

  “Okay, I’m done. We can still make it in time.”

  We shot out the door towards the large meeting-room-of-delightfulness. I would be able to sit and doze, happy because number two on my essential tick list was complete. The annual leave slip had been sent off no questions asked.

  It was a relief, to be honest, because that list should have been done months ago before it evolved into a dirty great mass of acid reflux and took on a life of its own as The Listerminator.

  I hadn’t done number one yet, no. No, I hadn’t. Hopefully, the booking of the leave was a green flag to go ahead and do the others.

  That familiar burning sensation started in my lower stomach.

  “What’s going on?” Jenny whispered as we trod gingerly past the rows of bright faces, hoping not to be noticed by those sitting at the front. Rumour had it faces were monitored for signs of subversive sarcasm or momentary occurrences of nodding off. Not that I’d ever, but my good friend Hikmat was notorious.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’re you booking next week for, ah? Summat you haven’t told me?”

  For the first time in years, this dreadful room of falseness seemed almost safe and dependable.

  My stomach lurched, and that bloody flutter started up. The IBS was setting in for the day.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  ****

  Phone Louise.

  As soon as I got home, the other items on the list ebbed and flowed like the edges of a dream. I drew a fox sitting on the toilet, making sure to include a pencil behind one furry ear in case he needed it.

  Phone Lou.

  My baby daughter. First time I’d held the bundle in my arms, I knew her. It sounded crazy—how could I know a tiny red baby with dimples on her feet and long lashes curling like precious silk?

  But I did.

  “I’m your daddy,” I had whispered. “Hello, Lou-Lou.” Eyes the colour of bluebells blinked up, and I could have stayed like that forever. Babies can’t focus for weeks and weeks, yet she saw and heard my voice—the same tones happily reading stories and playing enriching music to Kathy’s tummy. I’d even kept a chart of
which songs caused the bump to move the most. Kathy said it was Pink Floyd, but no. What my little girl loved was Chopin’s Polonaises, much like her old man.

  “Lisa Louise. She looks like you,” Kathy had said, still full of drugs, as the swarm of white coats carried on doing snipping things between her legs. “Blondie blue-eyes. Don’t you think?”

  “Let’s hope not,” I joked, voice not steady. Years of parks and future family outings stretched out in waves of warm completeness. Or so I’d thought. “She’s beautiful.” I cracked, as it all slipped out down my cheeks. Too much to explain.

  “Aw, Tom.” Even lying there covered in blood and two days of horror, still she had something left for me. “All over now.”

  Number one on my list was to phone Lou and explain. Even if I didn’t do any of the other things, I owed it to her and Loz. The fox in my drawing had trousers round his ankles and chin in his fluffy paw. Did foxes get IBS?

  There wasn’t much left in the flat. Over the last year or so, most of my stuff had migrated to his, cardboard boxes leaving like ships for a new world. Lou’s stuff had gone into the cottage's spare room ages ago, though of course it’s a trek from Paris where she moved after graduation. It was the last few days of the lease. Nothing left but clothes hanging from the door and an inflatable bed threatening to play havoc with my back.

  The creeping of insects tickled up and down my arms. Lou still called it pins-and-needles fever, but after seven years of therapy, I knew it was intense anxiety.

  My therapist said I must break down problems and put them into manageable chunks, like the veg I cut up when Lou-Lou was small.

  “What do you think?” I asked the fox, whose pointed nose aimed at the telephone. “How can we break this one down, eh?”

  I followed his gaze to the phone. I'd stolen it from a furniture bin they'd had at work ten years ago, and now it sat grandly like a relic from another time, surrounded by notebooks and scraps of paper. Inanimate objects did not have the ability to look po-faced because they didn’t have faces, no.

  “Stop it,” I told Foxy.

  I could phone; it wasn’t too late. I began the second doodle of Mister Fox skiing over the page. “Weeee.” Onto a new square. “Thank you, Foxy.”

  Everyone knew issues and tissues could be resolved with a helpful pile of paper squares stuck together at the top and a pencil. At the very least, it would stop the finger tremors; not conducive to the naming of difficult things I should have explained years ago. Single words suddenly appeared on the page. It was surprisingly easy to fit so much chaos into a small square.

  Soon, the paper was full, but I averted my eyes from their meanings. “Oh, god,” I told the fox. He stared unrelentingly up at the list on the wall. Nothing left to do except look at the one remaining focal point. I decided to leave the cork board because it hid an unpleasant patch of fungus. It didn’t seem reasonable the landlord would deduct my deposit after twenty years, but people could be tricky.

  Phone Louise—item number one on my list of essential things to do this week—stuck on the wall as if I was likely to forget. “I see it,” I told Foxy. “No need to glare.”

  Most of the photos I liked to look at when drawing were boxed up, ready for the new board in Loz’s house—our house—except three I left to keep me company. One was me and Lou as a laughing baby. Kathy had taken it out by the garden gate. Lou full of glee, watching the cat scaling the wall. I’d cradled her close, our faces touching. That baby had the sweetest laugh!

  Next was my Loz, looking much more serious than normal, leaning on one hand, gazing into the camera and my soul. “Hey.” I kissed it softly. “See what I’m doing now?” Those green-blue eyes looked right back, past the blank stick-its and still trembling hands. “I’m making notes, and then I’ll do it. I’m going to call her.” He had the biggest smile, all about orange light coming through skin from within. If I were a painter like my Lou, this was what I’d try to capture. He was funny and kind, all beaming out, too much to be contained. It took my breath away, especially on those days.

  The last picture is when Louise graduated and I had bawled like a baby. She was laughing again, her future to come and so much happiness. I hoped my little girl would never know rotting from inside, hoped with all my heart.

  And that’s why I wasn’t going to call her, not that day. Because the list of things finally scribbled on the paper—explanations—are not things she ever needed to know. What kid wanted to be burdened by their parent’s baggage? Her memories of Granddaddy merely a kindly old fella who slipped her money and called her princess.

  No.

  Best place for it was right in the bin; only no bin left, so I crumpled it up and tossed it on the floor.

  I’d start again later, and then tomorrow make that call.

  “I will.” Loz’s eyes looked back at me. “I will!”

  ****

  “Tom?” Sudden banging split my head into a million pieces of relief. I couldn’t get to the door quick enough. The bolts and locks seemed rustier than ever, stuck spitefully on the old metal.

  “I’m coming! Just—the door. Don’t go!” Of course he wouldn’t go.

  “Pull the handle up an extra notch.”

  “Yeah, I’m trying, but it’s stuck.” Bloody thing just wouldn’t budge. It was broken—he’d go back home leaving me on my own all night.

  “Tom, calm down. Stop rattling and just force the handle. Right up.”

  The handle responded well to my final almighty yank upwards. Relief and joy exploded, because there he was, My Loz. Lawrence Thompson, standing with eyes twinkling and apricot warmth reaching deep into my chilly bones.

  “Hello, hello.”

  “Mff,” I mumbled into his neck. “Thought you were in Doncaster?”

  “Just about to check into a hotel, and then I thought what I’d much rather be doing is coming here to pester you.” He paused to kiss me vigorously, holding me close. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I could lose myself in kissing this man, rubbing my face against his hand like a cat. Green eyes studied me.

  “What are you up to then?”

  “Oh, nothing. Everything’s packed up. I’ve cleaned the bathroom and kitchen.”

  “You already cleaned it at the weekend after the removal men took the furniture.” He raised his eyebrows but carried on holding my face. “You’re not good, are you?”

  “No, I am.” Now he was in my arms, I was. “You want a cuppa? We’ve still got a kettle and milk.”

  “Toast too? I’m starving.” When Loz spoke, it was the fizzy orange of cold pop on a summer’s day. The visage started at the mouth, then the corners of his eyes and up to his hair. This effect enthralled me from the first time we spoke. I was swept along by effervescence and loveliness. Never looked back. His eyes were still narrowed, though.

  “Yup. Toast. No butter, but I can do you a nice line of marmalade. Didn’t you have any tea?”

  He shook his head, no. “Toast and marmalade! I knew I was right to come here instead of that hotel.”

  The flat looked ridiculous with nothing except that inflatable bed like I’d already moved out. It had become a place in waiting, not quite over and not yet begun for someone else. There were reasons why I’d decided to stay another week…now faded away into the wall stains. It looked like a prison cell. “Good day?” Loz followed me into the kitchen, hitching himself up onto the built-in ledge that served as a table. His hair was slightly awry, like always. It didn’t matter how hard he tried to flatten the curls, their strength bounced back. I couldn’t resist touching one.

  “Yeah, fine. Much better now I’ve seen you.” He watched me twirling his hair then suddenly kissed my hand. “It’s horrible here with nothing left. Isn’t it?”

  Oddly, I felt like sticking up for the flat. “Ah, it’s not too bad. I’ve got a few things to sort out.” But truthfully, I hadn’t lived here for more than a year. His cottage—ours—was home now.

  “But what things? It’s all r
eady. We can have a look again at the buffet pictures on my phone if you like. Going to be enough food and drink for a small town.” He wriggled his shoulders enthusiastically.

  “Well, I’ve done a list.” The marmalade-amber was striking against walls bare of paintings and sketches. “Here you go.”

  “Oh, a list, have you? Does it have foxes?” He took a massive bite, then a second in the same movement. The first time I'd noticed this trait, I'd outright stared. He winked. “Aren’t you having any?”

  “No. Oh, go on then, just a slice.”

  He wandered back into the living room and called through. “I didn’t realise how old the carpet is. Suppose you couldn’t tell when there was a sofa and table.”

  I never cared about the furniture, but as the charity shop people loaded it all onto their van, it hurt to lose the table where Lou did her first paintings and the old sofa where I’d taken my first tentative kisses with Loz. It had been safe, this flat. Got me through too many drink binges and what my therapist called the coming to terms years.

  “Oh my God.” Hah, he’d noticed the bed. “How are we both going to fit on that thing? Oh, Tom.”

  “Now you wish you’d stayed at that hotel.”

  He stood looking at the cork board and list, holding something I couldn’t quite see. “Nah, I’d still rather be here with you. Know why?” He took the plate off me.

  “No?” We could flirt for hours. After all, we'd done it for ages before I realised that’s what it was and by then it was much too late for going back—sideways—any way except head over heels. “Is it because of the political talk?”

  His soft laugh made me tingle through and through. “Yeah, that’s it. The politics and games of chess.”

  “Monopoly, surely?”

  Four years now since we met—same time Lou went to college, leaving a gaping hole the size of Blackpool. His firm took over the IT changes at work, and for a while, he was based in the same office. That old grey building became a palace, filled with the liquor of attraction and love. For the first time in my life, I’d started getting there at eight AM, to catch him before the others wandered in. I hadn’t known how to do anything except watch for a while—more than a while—before moving slowly on to ‘good morning’, and finally, one golden day which should be inscribed into the annals of the earth forever, he noticed me.