Unravelling Read online

  Unravelling

  Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  About the Author

  Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn was born in London and after studying in Liverpool, became a lecturer in English. She taught in further and higher education, based mainly at Evesham and Malvern Hills College in Worcestershire. However, writing is Lindsay’s real love – she wrote her first short stories as a child – and in 2005, she left full-time teaching to do an MA in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. Since then, her stories have been shortlisted in major competitions, such as the Fish International Short Story Prize and the Asham Award for Women Writers, while Cinnamon Press published The Magic of Stories in September 2009. Lindsay lives in Worcestershire, where she teaches creative writing. Unravelling is her first novel to be published.

  www.lindsaystanberryflynn.co.uk

  Copyright © 2010 Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

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  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Trevor

  One

  There should be a scar. Vanessa’s often imagined it, an ugly, angry weal crawling over his forehead. Her eyes search for it. The wall light above his head creates a pool of shadow, and she can’t see it. His head is cocked at an angle, just as it used to be, as if the rest of the world’s out of kilter with him and he’s trying to make sense of it.

  She steels herself for the moment he’ll look up, but he’s staring into the flickering glow of the candle on the table. The waiter turns to her and raises his eyebrows. He gestures to the table, but she shakes her head.

  She edges away. Retreats. Back through the long room, past tables with their white linen cloths. People. A couple, heads close. His fingers trailing through her blonde hair. Her lips lifting in a smile. A group. The flash of raised glasses. Mouths open … laughter. She can’t hear it. The thrumming in her ears drowns everything out. Her gaze flits over the wood-panelled walls, up to the chandeliers. Like spiders, waiting. The scent of the lilies on the mahogany dresser inside the door catches in her throat.

  At last, the hotel foyer. The grandfather clock next to the reception desk chimes seven. Her heart races against its steady beat.

  The maitre d’ appears at her side. ‘Is everything all right, Madam?’

  ‘It was hot in there.’

  ‘Would you like some water?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Shall I call your guest to come?’

  His questions circle like a persistent bluebottle.

  ‘If you could give me a minute?’

  ‘Of course, Madam. You can sit here.’ He indicates a low leather sofa. ‘I’ll tell your guest you’ll be with him shortly.’

  She perches on the edge of the sofa. Her velvet trousers cling to her thighs and her wooden beads feel tight at her throat. It’s not too late to escape. She glances up at the staircase, imagining the smooth wood of the balustrade cooling her palm. The tranquillity of the hotel room will calm her. With its view over the leafy square, it’s the one she always asks for when she stays in London. Her clothes hang in the wardrobe; her make-up is scattered on the bathroom shelf; her laptop is on the desk. The items are familiar, part of the pattern of her days. She can phone down to reception, ask them to tell him she’s unwell. She imagines his face as he listens to the waiter’s whispered message. He’s bound to be disappointed. ‘I can’t wait to see you again,’ he said in their last phone call. She remembers the deep creases that made his heavy brows merge when he was cross or disappointed, the pouting lower lip, the way he would drag his hand through his already unruly hair.

  His hair. Black, wild, gloriously wild. But not now. She sees again the shorn head, pale and vulnerable, bending towards the candle on the table. Shorn. Shriven. Forgiven. Not now. Not yet.

  The years have left their mark on her too. She fingers her eyes where she knows he’ll see a network of lines that weren’t there when he last saw her. The furrows on her forehead that gathered permanently after the accident. But her hair is still much the same: a golden red that he liked to call titian; curly, always escaping from the comb she tries to tame it with. And her body is slim. True, her breasts have grown heavier and fuller, and the ice-sharp hip bones that he used to complain dug into him in bed are now covered with soft flesh.

  She has almost decided to leave, when she hears the bleat of her mobile. She feels around inside her bag, glances at the name of the caller: her daughter. Her finger hesitates over the accept button. Then she flips the lid shut and drops the phone into her bag. Now is not for Cordelia.

  It’s only a second’s delay but time enough for the maitre d’ to reappear. ‘Is Madam ready now?’

  She stands up. An invisible hand seems to propel her forward, compels her to place one foot in front of the other. Her heels click on the marble tiles. They reach the heavy oak doors, and the maitre d’ looks back, as if he’s checking she’s still there.

  ‘If you’d like to come this way.’

  They pass through the tables with their white linen cloths. They’ll be there in seconds. No time to calm her breathing, reorganise her face into a sleek smile.

  He doesn’t seem to have moved in the time she’s been away. His gaze is still fixed on the flickering candle, as if it might go out if he doesn’t keep watch.

  He glances up and gets to his feet. He’s wearing a tweed jacket. What has happened to him that he wears tweed jackets? He holds out both hands and she notices how bony his wrists are. He smiles. It’s a lop-sided grin with none of his old arrogance. But where’s the scar? There should be a scar. He puts his arms round her and she breathes in, expecting to smell cigars. Instead she gets an aroma of expensive after-shave. He used to hate after-shave.

  ‘Vanessa,’ he says. ‘Beautiful butterfly.’

  She draws back from the embrace. ‘Hello.’

  He laughs. That same billowing laugh. The laugh that makes you want to fling your arms in the air and dance.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she asks.

  He shakes his head. ‘I’ve imagined this so many times. How it would be. What you would say.’ He laughs again, this time a little puff of sound that has a world of hurt in it. ‘And all I get is hello.’

  She finds it then. The scar. It’s absorbed into the wrinkles on his brow, a fine line faded to silver.

  As they sit down, he covers her hand with his, and she sees he’s wearing the signet ring she gave him on their wedding day.

  Two

  The voice announces the train’s imminent arrival at Great Malvern. Vanessa snaps her drawing pad shut and pushes it into her bag. She stands up and reaches for her laptop and cloak in the overhead storage. Her case is wedged in the narrow space
between the seats. The brakes squeal and she clutches the back of the seat as the train slows to a halt.

  Cordelia is waiting on the platform. Her face is pinched into that anxious little frown she’s always had. She catches sight of Vanessa and her expression changes. Ever since she was a little girl, she’s been able to make Vanessa’s heart jump with her sudden leaping grin. Just like her father.

  Vanessa gives her a hug. ‘Hello, darling. Lovely to see you.’

  Cordelia squeezes her tight. ‘It’s great you could come.’

  The welcome is a relief. There have been too many times when it hasn’t been like this. Vanessa leans back, head on one side. ‘Let me look at you properly.’

  Cordelia’s wearing a high-necked cream jumper with green ribbon threaded through the waist and round the cuffs. It’s one of Vanessa’s own designs. ‘I should use you as my model.’ She adjusts the frill around the waist. ‘Very sexy.’

  The colour rushes to Cordelia’s cheeks. It’s one of the physical attributes they share – pale skin that flushes easily, Irish skin.

  Vanessa follows Cordelia to the car. Cordelia’s thick black hair bounces on her shoulders as she walks. From the back, in her skinny jeans, she looks like a girl, her body boyish. It’s hard to believe she has a teenage daughter. It doesn’t seem two minutes since she was young herself: distant, brooding, constantly angry.

  As they drive out of the station, Cordelia hums softly. Vanessa glances across at her. Usually Cordelia wears her hair drawn back. The style emphasises the angular line of her jaw, the pronounced cheekbones. Today, it’s loose and curls round her face. She meets Vanessa’s eyes and smiles. She seems happy.

  A ball of apprehension lodges itself in Vanessa’s chest. ‘You will tell Cordy I’m back?’ he said, his eyes dark with urgency, his hand tightening over hers, and she found herself nodding. Found it impossible to refuse. Now, it seems so unfair. Why has he landed her with this?

  They stop off at The Blue Boar and order wine and plates of pasta.

  The waiter arrives at their table with a basket of rolls. Vanessa reaches for one and breaks off a bit.

  ‘So how’s life?’ Cordelia asks. ‘You haven’t been to stay for ages.’ She settles herself in the chair opposite.

  ‘You know how it is with the business.’

  ‘All work and no play … ’ Cordelia looks up from buttering a roll. ‘Hey, what happened about that man? Have you seen him any more?’

  Vanessa’s stomach lurches. Has she got the word guilty branded across her brow? ‘What man?’

  ‘I can’t remember his name. Charles somebody … ’

  ‘Oh … ’ she laughs, ‘you mean Charles Miller. We’ve had dinner a few times.’

  ‘He seemed really keen.’

  ‘He’s nice, but we’ll see,’ Vanessa says. ‘What about you? What are you up to?’

  ‘It’s busy at the art shop.’

  ‘But your own work? You are still painting?’

  ‘Of course.’ A little wrinkle appears between Cordelia’s brows. She fiddles with the cutlery, setting a knife and fork in front of each of them.

  Vanessa recognises her don’t ask me anything else face. It’s always the same with Cordelia – like a dance, every step towards each other matched by one away.

  ‘And Savannah?’ A different subject might be safer. ‘How’s my beautiful granddaughter?’

  She tries to listen as Cordelia talks about Savannah. How on earth can she bring the subject up? She tunes in again: ‘… and she came home with this dreadful top that cost £40 … ’ Vanessa concentrates on Cordelia’s voice, but other thoughts rush in, like draughts from an open door: I need to talk to you. No, too much like a soap opera. I don’t want you to be upset. Implies she will be. I’ve got a surprise. Nothing seems to strike the right note.

  She forces herself to pay attention.

  ‘… and I’ve been called in to see her teacher.’

  Vanessa fingers one of her rings, the silver snake figure from Venice. She’s always had a passion for rings; some she bought herself, like the gold and onyx one she got in South America, others were gifts, like this Celtic one Jake gave her for her sixtieth birthday. Just the one finger is bare.

  She can feel Cordelia’s eyes on her. She twists the ebony signet ring round and round on her little finger.

  ‘I knew you weren’t listening,’ Cordelia says. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  Cordelia’s always been on the alert for things going wrong. Vanessa can remember getting home after evenings out when she was a little girl. No matter what the time was, she’d be standing at the window, pale face squashed against the glass, waiting. As the front door opened, she’d fling herself into her mother’s arms. ‘I’m sorry,’ the babysitter used to say. ‘She wouldn’t go to bed until you were home.’

  Vanessa takes Cordelia’s hand. It feels cold and she wants to hold it between her palms, willing warmth into it. ‘I’m not sure. You might think so.’

  ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘What then?’

  Now. She’s got to say it now.

  ‘Your father’s back.’ Vanessa stares at the basket of rolls. Blood pounds in her ears as she waits for Cordelia’s reaction. There’s nothing. She looks up. Cordelia’s lips are drawn back: it’s hard to tell if a laugh or a scream might come out. Vanessa focuses on that front tooth, the one that’s slightly discoloured from the bulimia. Usually she hardly notices it; now it taunts her: this is your fault, it seems to shout.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  There’s a burst of laughter from a group of men at the next table.

  Vanessa glances across at them and feels Cordelia’s hand slip from her grasp. She turns back. ‘Are you all right?’

  Cordelia is examining her hand with exaggerated interest. There’s a mark on the side of her palm where the onyx ring has dug into it. ‘It was a surprise. That’s all.’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He is your father.’

  ‘So?’

  The word explodes in Vanessa’s face.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were still in touch.’ Cordelia’s voice sounds breathy.

  ‘We’re not … I mean we weren’t … ’ Vanessa studies a line of Toby jugs on a shelf behind Cordelia’s head. Rotund and grotesque, they leer at her. ‘He found me through the business and emailed. He’s been in Argentina and came back about six months ago.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him, have you?’

  ‘Would you mind if I did?’

  ‘You were the one who wouldn’t have his name mentioned.’

  ‘There are things I’d like to talk about.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Things from the past.’

  ‘You mean you want to drag all that up?’

  Vanessa picks up her glass. How can she explain to her daughter the intense need she has to unpick the past, as she might a garment that hasn’t worked out as planned, rewind the wool, ready to knit it up again in a more pleasing design. She makes a circling movement in the air with the glass, and the liquid slips from side to side. ‘Things it would be good to resolve.’

  Cordelia glances over her shoulder as the waiter approaches with their food. ‘If you don’t want us all to get hurt again,’ she says, ‘you should leave the past where it is.’

  Vanessa and her granddaughter stay awake chatting. Savannah is on a mattress on the floor. In the single bed pushed hard against the wall, Vanessa feels like a child again.

  Savannah tells her a long complicated story about her war with her headmistress, ‘fart-face Wentwitch’ as she calls her. Vanessa can’t help laughing out loud.

  ‘Ssh!’ Savannah warns. ‘Mum’ll hear.’

  ‘We’re only having a chat.’

  ‘You never know what with her hormones and stuff.’

  Vanessa smiles int
o the darkness. Savannah seems fearless in her opinions, her clothes, loud music. Vanessa wishes she could have given Cordelia that sort of belief in herself. Love for her granddaughter is easy and uncomplicated.

  About midnight, they hear the front door slam.

  Vanessa jumps. ‘Who on earth is that?’ Her heart is racing.

  ‘Patrick.’ Savannah’s voice is matter-of-fact.

  ‘Patrick? Who’s he?’

  ‘Mum’s toy boy. He lives here.’

  ‘Her toy boy?’ Vanessa feels something on her face and she sits bolt upright, imagining an insect crawling over her. Her hand brushes against the wall. Savannah’s small room feels suddenly claustrophobic; she longs for Lyme Regis and her own bedroom under the eaves, where the skylight sheds grey shadows on all but the blackest of nights.

  ‘I told her to tell you about him.’

  ‘Why didn’t she?’

  ‘She said something about you meeting him before you jump to conclusions.’

  Vanessa is still conscious of her heartbeat. She lies back on the pillow and covers the place with her hand as if that will calm it. She forces back the grenade of questions poised to explode.

  ‘It’s okay, Granny,’ Savannah’s voice floats up to her. ‘He’s not a perv or anything.’

  ‘You like him?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s dead rich.’

  ‘That’s not everything, Savvy.’

  ‘What? Clothes, gigs, going up to London instead of stuck in this dump. One of his friends has got a model agency.’

  Vanessa thinks of some of the models she’s known, hollow-eyed and gaunt from parties and drugs.

  ‘Patrick says if I want to be a model – ’

  ‘I can give you some modelling work, part-time.’

  Savannah lets out a snort. ‘No offence, Granny, but Lyme Regis isn’t exactly Paris or Milan.’

  ‘Modelling’s not as glamorous as it seems,’ Vanessa says.

  Savannah doesn’t answer and soon after Vanessa hears the soft sigh of her breathing, regular and repetitive. She closes her eyes but an image of Savannah strutting along a catwalk jerks them open again. How on earth can this Patrick suggest such a thing to an impressionable girl?