One Step Closer to You E-Book

Alice Peterson

• Herausgeber: Bedford Square Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 443

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

After Polly ends her relationship with the father of her young son, Louis, she is determined to move on. All she wants is to focus on her job, her friends and to be a good mum. No more looking over her shoulder. No more complications… Then Polly meets Ben. Ben is guardian to his niece, Emily. They become close, with Polly teaching Ben how to plait Emily's hair and Ben playing football with Louis. Their friendship is unexpected. Polly has never been happier. But just as Polly thinks her life may be turning around, the unthinkable happens. When her new life balances on a knife edge, will she be able to stay strong for one more time? And give herself, as well as her son, a chance at a new life?

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Praise for One Step Closer to You

‘A lovely example of realistic fiction that many women will be able to relate to’ Sun

Praise for Alice Peterson

‘If You Were Here is a moving and emotional story about facing a life-altering dilemma’ Jill Mansell, bestselling author of Rumour Has It

‘A lovely read, tackling both light and dark material with real assurance. I love the idea of a love triangle where one of the characters has died, which actually makes him more of an obstacle than if he were still alive. Also, the thought that you can find true love twice feels a strong romantic notion – and quite true, I’m sure’ Tom Williams, Chalet Girl screenwriter on Ten Years On

‘It’s not often that I fall in love with a book within the first few pages, but it happened to me with this one’ The Bookbag on You, Me and Him

‘Compelling and beautifully written’ Daisy Buchanan, journalist and author on If You Were Here

‘As it was the favourite book of the year to date for my reader in this field, I had to read it too… I loved it. It’s character-led, warm and sensitive’ Sarah Broadhurst, The Bookseller on Letters From My Sister

‘This is a wonderful portrait of the different dynamics within an unusual family’ Sara Lawrence, Daily Mail on The Things We Do for Love

‘Echoes of Jane Austen, A Room With a View and Bridget Jones’s Diary’ Robert O’Rourke on Monday to Friday Man

1

2010

‘Polly, can you tell me when you’ve felt most happy?’ my counsellor, Stephanie, asks towards the end of our session. I’ve been seeing her for over six months now. She’s sitting opposite me, dead straight hair framing her pale freckled face, pen poised in her slender hand.

‘Happy?’ I say, as if it’s an alien emotion.

‘It could be anything. Being happy doesn’t have to be the result of a momentous occasion.’

I take a sip of water. ‘I loved Dad taking Hugo and me out on the lake when we were little.’ Hugo is my younger brother. ‘We’d go out every Sunday. I liked the routine,’ I reflect. ‘School was OK too, when I wasn’t getting into trouble.’

Stephanie waits for more, her neutral expression giving nothing away. She’s always digging around in the vain hope that something will emerge from somewhere deep inside me.

‘That’s a hard question,’ I mutter. Happiness, a sense of calm, it’s always been over there, never with me. In the past I’ve always searched for excitement; thrived on thrillseeking.

‘Take your time,’ Stephanie says, the clock behind her desk ticking.

Many people might say that their happiest moment was when they gave birth to a healthy son or daughter, or when they fell in love. I have a one-year-old son, Louis, but I’m not with Louis’s father, Matthew, anymore. I think about the first time I met Matt. Did he make me happy? Looking back, no. But he made my pulse race, especially in the early months of our relationship. I can still feel his penetrating gaze from the other side of the bar that very first night we laid eyes on one another. He had the gift of making me feel like I was the only person in the room. I see us dancing, our hot bodies pressed against one another. Then I picture us sitting side by side in the taxi later on that evening, heading back to my flat, Matt’s hand creeping up my skirt, that flirtatious look in his eye. I shiver when I see that smile, that smile that wanted to own me. I was flattered at first, intoxicated by his attention: how could any woman not be? I shift in my seat, wanting to blot him out of my mind. I wish I could stop looking over my shoulder; that his face would stop haunting me.

Go back to the question, Polly. When have I felt most happy? ‘Having Louis,’ I pretend, when I can’t think of anything else. Truthfully the birth of my son and the first year were far from how I’d imagined. I wonder if that’s the same for other mothers. I don’t regret him for a single second, but what would Stephanie think of me if I told her I’d almost walked away from him? Left him defenceless in the park? I close my eyes, not wanting to cry.

‘Polly?’ Stephanie says, ‘Don’t worry, we…’

I raise a hand to stop her, seeing myself as an eight-year-old back at my childhood home in Norfolk, in the kitchen, wearing a rosebud apron and matching chef’s hat. I see myself mixing sultanas into a creamy cookie dough with a wooden spoon. When Mum’s not looking I dip my finger into the bowl. It tastes of sweet buttery heaven. I can’t resist plunging my finger in again. ‘Polly, there won’t be any left,’ Mum ticks me off, before creeping up behind me and dipping her finger into the mixture too, laughing with me. Mum rarely laughed so when she did it felt like a prize. I loved cooking with her because it was just the two of us, no Hugo stealing the limelight, no Dad, only Mum and me. Next I see us dropping small spoonfuls of batter onto baking sheets. Mum sets the oven timer, but I can’t stop peeping through the glass door to see the biscuits rising, the edges turning a delicious golden brown.

‘Cooking,’ I mutter, still dressed in my rosebud apron, my mother by my side.

‘Cooking? You mean your job?’

Since breaking up with Matt, I now work in a café baking cakes and serving soup to the locals in Belsize Park.

I shake my head. ‘With my mother, when I was little.’ I particularly remember the weeks leading up to Christmas, making mince pies while listening to carols on the radio. I hear Mum singing along to ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ as she greased the baking tray. I inhale the comforting smell of cloves, grated nutmeg and cinnamon. I see myself carefully cutting the pastry with my silver star-shaped cutter to give the mince pies little hats. Little hats. That’s what Mum and I called them.

‘I wish my entire childhood had been spent in the kitchen cooking,’ I say to Stephanie. ‘Mum didn’t worry or frown; I stopped being naughty for a while. I think it’s why I enjoy my job so much now, it reminds me of those times.’ I take another sip of water. ‘I loved the build-up to Christmas, wrapping presents and decorating the tree with Hugo. It was all so perfect until the family actually arrived.’

Stephanie looks at me as if she can almost relate to that: the build-up to the party is often better than the party itself.

‘I remember one year… it was the year when I began to realise things at home weren’t quite as they seemed. In fact, things were a mess, our family was one big lie.’ I stop, glance at the time. My hour is up.

‘Tell me more, Polly. We’ve still got a little time left,’ she says, ignoring the sound of the ticking clock.

2

1989

My name is Polly and I’m nine years old. It’s Christmas Eve and Mum is frantically searching my wardrobe. ‘I don’t know what you do with your things, Polly!’ She’s looking for my red velvet dress. I know exactly where it is. It’s hidden under my bed, torn and caked in dry mud.

In the end we agree that I wear my silver star-patterned skirt for the family party tonight, and I breathe a sigh of relief when finally she leaves my bedroom. Quietly I shut my door and crouch down beside my bed to pull out my dress. I’d forgotten all about it being there until now. On the last day of term it was non-school-uniform day and I’d had a fight in the sports field, close to the girls’ loos, with one of the girls in my class. Imogen loves to mimic my younger brother Hugo, calling him ‘Cyclops’, because he’s blind. She had two friends with her, laughing as she pulled cross-eyed faces, imitating Hugo squinting. I charged towards her, like a bull, before both of us went into the mud. We wrestled and fought to lots of cheering until I heard my dress rip and felt a hand trying to pull me up. It was Janey, my best friend, begging me not to get into trouble again.

‘Anyway, Cyclops is a superhero,’ she said to Imogen, ‘and Hugo has two eyes, not one, stupid.’

I put on my skirt and blouse, wondering how I can get the dress clean and fix it without Mum noticing.

I hear footsteps approaching my bedroom. I shove the dress back underneath the bed. I’m relieved when Hugo pokes his head round the door. He’s two years younger than me, but already taller.

‘Are you coming?’ he asks. He’s dressed in a dark purple waistcoat, smart trousers and Dad has polished his shoes.

I take Hugo’s chubby hand and together we walk downstairs. Mum and Dad explained why my brother is partially sighted. When he was born, he couldn’t breathe so was put onto an oxygen machine. The doctor said the rods and cones in his eyes were killed at birth.

‘Cones?’ I’d said to Dad. All I could see was Mr Whippy ice cream with chocolate flakes.

Dad tried to explain. ‘Hugo has… how can I put it? Faulty wiring. Sometimes there can be problems at birth, but it doesn’t mean we don’t love him just the way he is.’

‘So my birth wasn’t difficult?’

There was a long pause. I don’t think he answered. He was probably still thinking about Hugo’s rods and cones.

As Hugo and I almost reach the bottom of the stairs, ‘No more steps,’ I say, with one to go. He steps forward and I grab him before he can fall. ‘Not funny, Polly!’ But we both giggle because Christmas Day and opening presents is only one day away now.

Granny Sue and Granddad Arthur, Mum’s parents, always come round on Christmas Eve. They live in Devon, in a cottage by the sea. Dad’s sister, Lyn, is also coming. Auntie Lyn is widowed and lives on her own in London. Tonight, for the first time ever, Mum is allowing me to stay up until at least nine. Normally Hugo and I are packed off to bed before they even sit down to dinner.

The doorbell rings, three times. That’ll be Granddad.

‘Now the party has begun!’ he says as I open the door and throw my arms around him. He’s wearing a navy spotted tie and smells of bonfires and aftershave. Granny Sue pushes past us in a long stylish coat, scarlet lipstick and high heels, carrying a plate of food. Granny Sue used to be blonde and glamorous, I’ve seen pictures of her when she was young. Dad says she still is good-looking. She used to be a professional cook. Granny Sue’s hands are famous because she’s been on adverts carving turkey. Dad says they were a handsome couple in their day, Granddad Arthur and Granny Sue. People wanted to be like them.

Hugo and I follow Granddad into the sitting room, eyeing the bulging bag that clinks by his side. Granddad remarks on the twinkling lights in our Christmas tree and all those presents stacked in piles underneath it. ‘All for me!’ he beams at us, before slipping off his coat and telling us nothing beats a real log fire. I watch as he sits down and takes a couple of bottles out of his bag. Aware of my gaze he winks at me. ‘No presents for you, Polly! I hear you’ve been a very naughty girl this year.’

He roars with laughter, before presenting me with a small box wrapped in silver paper that immediately I shake before adding to my pile.

Mum’s right. Granddad can’t talk; he shouts. He can’t laugh; he roars. He can’t ring the doorbell once; he has to ring it three times. He’s like a giant ray of sunshine appearing on our doorstep.

Auntie Lyn arrives next, and Granddad almost crushes her in his embrace. She’s wearing a spotty red dress with her famous beige tights. Since she lost her husband she doesn’t smile that much, not even at Christmas.

Soon we’re all in the sitting room chatting about school and stuff. I’m telling Auntie Lyn about my nativity play, but Mum interrupts me, ‘Hugo sang a wonderful solo too. He played the Mad Hatter.’

‘How about a little music now to get the party going?’ suggests Granddad. Dejected, I follow him into the hallway, towards our music machine on a shelf stacked with CDs. I help Granddad find some music and soon my good mood returns as he twirls me round the room to Johnny Cash’s ‘Ring of Fire’. Hugo dances with Mum, in between pretending to play the guitar. My father takes a couple of photographs. ‘Come on, Lynny, it’s Christmas! Let your hair down!’

‘Best not,’ she says, shrinking further away from him. Sometimes I think she’s scared of Granddad. I don’t know why when he’s so much fun.

I sit at the table, next to Granny Sue and opposite Granddad Arthur. Dad lights the candles and Granny Sue compliments the table that Mum and I decorated earlier this afternoon, after we’d made the mince pies listening to the carols on the radio. Hugo and Dad were busy watching It’s a Wonderful Life while Mum and I were opening boxes filled with beautiful glass candlesticks, gold candles, ivy, berry and ribbon decorations and our special red star-patterned tablecloth with matching napkins. I made some place names using my gold marker pen. Mum also bought some crackers, but we’re saving those for tomorrow.

As Mum dishes out piping-hot fish pie, she talks about going to church tomorrow. ‘It’s hard timing it with the turkey,’ she says, her brow furrowed. ‘Maybe we should eat in the evening, but the children are exhausted by then.’ Mum is always worrying about something. Granddad Arthur says she’ll be flapping and worrying in her grave.

I notice her watching as Granddad pours the last of the wine into his glass. ‘Why do we eat turkey every year? Makes you windy.’ He winks at me and I giggle as he helps himself to another drink from a new bottle and offers some to Auntie Lyn. ‘Same goes for stinky sprouts!’

Auntie Lyn places a hand over her glass, pursing her lips.

Granddad frowns. ‘Oh come on, Lynny, it’s Christmas! Get legless!’

‘Dad!’ Mum says, but I find it very funny.

‘I’m driving,’ she replies, refusing to look at him.

There’s a strange silence. Mum’s face reddens.

‘Anyway, this fish pie is delicious.’ Dad raises his glass. ‘Three cheers for the chef.’

‘Be careful of the bones,’ Mum warns in her worried little voice.

‘Behave,’ I hear Granny Sue muttering to Granddad.

I feel sorry for Granddad. He’s always being told off.

‘I am very very proud of our family,’ Granddad repeats over pudding, his eyes watering. ‘We’ve had some tough times but Hugo is an inspiration. That little boy…’ Granddad takes a deep breath, ‘he’ll have one heck of a life ahead of him and it won’t be easy.’ He wags a finger. ‘But he’s a strong little lad and… well… I can see great things…’ He stumbles on his words, takes another gulp of wine. ‘He’s got balls.’ Granddad hiccups. ‘You know, it’s a big bad world out there, but he’s a brave boy. And then there’s beautiful you, Polly. You’ll have the boys eating out of your hand, I bet, bees round a honey pot.’

Shy, I play with my spoon, not sure exactly what he means.

‘Polly, you have such a happy future ahead of you… oh boy, if I could have my life again…’

‘What would you do differently, Arthur?’ asks my dad.

‘Oh… everything, right, Sue? Wifey here thinks I’m a failure.’ He nudges Auntie Lyn, who smiles at him awkwardly.

‘I do not,’ Granny Sue tuts. ‘When have I said that?’

‘You don’t have to.’ He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

Dad has told me Granddad Arthur hasn’t worked much in his life. He lost jobs as quickly as he found them.

‘Why?’ I’d asked.

‘It’s complicated,’ Dad replied.

‘I am a failure,’ Granddad says, pushing his food to one side, ‘and it’s all my fault.’

I sit up. ‘What’s your fault?’

‘Can we change the subject?’ suggests Granny Sue. ‘It’s Christmas.’

Why does everyone keep on saying, ‘It’s Christmas’?

‘We’ve always been very good at changing the subject, Lynny,’ Granddad says. She squiggles in her chair. He leans closer. ‘They never want to talk about the truth.’

‘You’re drunk,’ she says, edging away again. ‘Very drunk, Arthur.’

He edges towards her once more. ‘Well, as Churchill said, “You’re ugly, you’re very ugly. But I shall be sober in the morning!”’ He leans back in his chair and roars with laughter, but no one else does. I’m not sure what’s so funny. Mum and Dad look angry and Granny Sue furious, as if she might explode.

‘Dad, please,’ Mum says, gesturing to me. ‘You promised.’

‘All right, all right, loosen up everyone.’ He finishes off his wine and reaches for another bottle.

‘Arthur, you’ve had enough.’ Dad swipes the bottle from him.

‘Says who?’ he snaps, before knocking over the pot of salt. He takes a large pinch in his fingers and throws it over his shoulder. ‘Bad luck spilling salt, Polly.’

‘You need some black coffee,’ Mum says, manically tidying up the salt.

‘She should be here,’ Granddad Arthur says as he fishes out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘We go to church, get preached to about forgiveness…’

Mum stops dead. ‘Dad!’

Granddad shakes his head. ‘But we can’t even do it in our own family. We pretend like everything is normal, here we are on Christmas Eve, blah blah blah.’ He’s waving his arm in the air.

‘Dad! Now is not the right time…’

‘It’s never the right time. She should be here.’

I frown. ‘Who should be here, Granddad?’

‘No one.’ Mum stares at him.

‘Secrets,’ Granddad says. ‘The thing about life, Polly, is…’

‘I think it’s time you left.’ Dad walks over to Granddad.

Granddad shakes his head with regret. ‘You can bury your head in the sand, but the thing about life is it will always bite you back, it’ll come back to haunt you when you least expect it.’

‘Polly, come,’ Mum demands, taking me firmly by the arm. ‘Say goodbye and up to bed. We need to put some sherry and biscuits out for Father Christmas.’

‘I’ll take her up,’ says Auntie Lyn, relieved to get up from the table.

I kiss him goodnight. His cheek is sweaty; his lips and hair sticky. Granddad barely looks up at me. Reluctantly I follow Auntie Lyn out of the room, before glancing at him, shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed to the floor. He looks sad, as if Christmas is over.

With brushed teeth and an empty stocking at the end of the bed, I can’t sleep. I hear muffled voices outside and footsteps on our gravel drive. Something makes me walk over to my window. Carefully I lift the curtain and see figures walking towards Granny Sue’s car. Granny Sue doesn’t like staying here. She always books a hotel close by.

Dad is holding Granddad by the arm. Granddad stumbles, crashes into the side of the car and falls. Dad tries to help him up but Granddad pushes him away. Mum opens the passenger door and they shove him inside. As the car drives away Dad puts an arm around Mum.

I get back into bed. What did Granddad mean by secrets? She should be here. I pull the blankets around me, feeling something uncertain, something I don’t understand, and I don’t like it. Surely I’m not supposed to feel like this, not when it’s Christmas.

3

2013

My name is Polly. I’m thirty-three years old, a single mother to my five-year-old son, Louis, and I live in north London. Each morning I pray for a sober day and before bedtime Louis and I tell each other all the things in life we are grateful for: my brother, Hugo, comes top of the list, custard tarts a close second. I work in a café in Belsize Village, run by a Frenchman called Jean. Half the café sells cookery books from across the world; the other half is the kitchen and eating area, where I cook soup and bake cakes for the locals. I attempt to go jogging as much as I can to run off licking the wooden spoon. I’ve been seeing an addiction counsellor called Stephanie for the past four years, and finally, every Friday lunchtime I go to my AA meeting. Sometimes I go to a couple of meetings a week, I squeeze them in when I need to, but Friday is always my regular slot. AA is my oxygen. It doesn’t matter how busy I am or what else is going on around me, my recovery comes first.

As I make my way towards the church, close to Louis’s school in Primrose Hill, I think about the friends I have made in AA. Firstly, Harry. Harry is in his late seventies, grey-haired and slight in build. He’s always dressed in a tweed jacket one size too big for him and occasionally a matching cap that he models at a jaunty angle. Harry loves to be in charge of the kitchen, serving hot drinks and biscuits. The first time I came to a meeting, all snotty-nosed and red-eyed, Harry plied me with sweet tea and gave me his cotton handkerchief with an embroidered ‘H’ in the corner. He hasn’t had it easy. He suffered abuse in his childhood and became addicted to alcohol in his twenties, drinking heavily into his fifties, until his doctor told him he had the choice either to carry on drinking or die in six months. He has been clean now for over twenty years and to celebrate each anniversary he takes his wife Betsy out for a slap-up meal. Next is Ryan, a music producer in his late twenties, sleepy brown eyes, who always looks as if he’s just rolled out of bed and shoved on a pair of jeans and sneakers. Over the past four years he’s sported orange, pink, black and blond hair, but currently it’s his natural brown, which suits him. He plays the guitar and has a rescue bulldog called Kip. Louis and I once met Ryan and Kip in the park and Louis had an instant crush; Ryan is impossibly cool. If I were a little younger, or the old Polly…

There’s also Neve, two children, just turned forty, divorced, but now in a happy relationship with a former addict. She left the corporate world and has since become a yoga teacher. Neve has an open, angelic face, which makes it hard to imagine that by the age of fifteen she was addicted to cocaine, drink and sex. Basically, she wanted the largest piece of whatever was put in front of her. She chaired the first meeting I went to. Everything she said echoed my life. She was also funny, describing how she’d been pulled over and breathalysed on her way to the meeting. ‘When the policeman asked me the last time I’d had a drink I replied, smugly, let me tell you,’ she’d added with a wink, ‘“Twenty-ninth September 2005, 5 p.m., Phoenix Airport, Arizona, sir!”’ I was in awe of how she’d turned her life around, so much so that I plucked up the courage to ask her to be my sponsor – a person who helps you to stay sober through the AA programme. ‘I’d love to, Polly,’ she’d said at the end of the meeting, before adding, ‘but you’ve got to promise me one thing. You swear you’ll never ever lie to me.’

And finally there’s Denise, in her late fifties, dark roots and dyed blonde hair. She’s had many jobs, mainly in retail and now works part-time for Sainsbury’s, behind the cheese counter. Denise’s mother was an alcoholic who didn’t make it to fifty. Her father chucked her out on the streets when she turned sixteen. She has a mustard tinge to her skin and the crumpled lines on her face give away her forty-a-day habit. She lives in a council flat with a ginger cat called Felix, and since giving up smoking, has taken up knitting instead.

I enter the church hall, waving to Harry behind the tea and biscuits table, before taking a seat on the back row, next to Denise, who’s knitting something in pale blue today. She tells me it’s a cardigan for her grandson Larry. ‘He was called Larry, ’cos my daughter always used to say when she was preggers, “He’s as happy as Larry.”’ She chuckles as she carries on, giving me a flash of her nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Didn’t see you last week, sweetheart?’

I tell her Louis and I spent Christmas and New Year with my parents in Norfolk.

Neve enters shortly after me, dressed in yoga pants that show off annoyingly toned legs and a sheepskin coat. Her short brown hair is pulled back at both sides in a couple of clips, accentuating her high cheekbones and deep-blue eyes. Out of breath, she sits down next to me and says, ‘So blooming glad Christmas is over.’

Ryan strolls in next, wearing headphones. Just behind him is a tall man with thick dark hair and a beard, his shoulders hunched awkwardly as he looks for a space to sit down. ‘What is it?’ Neve asks when she sees me shrinking into my seat.

‘I know him.’

Her eyes light up as she says, ‘He’s handsome in a beardy kind of way. Who is he?’

He turns round, as if sensing someone is talking about him.

‘An ex?’ Neve whispers.

I shake my head.

‘Your gynaecologist?’ There’s that flash of mischief in her eyes.

‘Shh! I don’t have one, luckily.’

‘Your Botox man?’

‘Bog off.’

‘Your doc who tells you not to drink and smoke,’ chips in Denise with a husky chuckle, her knitting needles clicketyclicking.

Neve turns to me, the colour in her cheeks fading. ‘It’s not Louis’s dad, is it? Matthew?’

‘Whoa, Matthew’s here?’ says Ryan, catching half the conversation as he approaches us with a mug of tea, laces undone and headphones now round his neck. I still get a knot in my stomach whenever someone mentions Matthew’s name.

‘Everyone calm down,’ I say, feeling far from calm myself. ‘He’s a dad from school, that’s all.’

‘Oh, right.’ Neve seems disappointed.

Ryan scratches his head in confusion. ‘Who’s a dad from school?’

Neve gestures to the back of a man wearing a navy jumper. ‘Do you think he saw you, Polly?’

‘Don’t think so.’

I explain to Denise, Ryan and Neve that his name is Ben and his niece, Emily, is in Louis’s class. Emily started school during the second half of the Christmas term last year. When I’d asked Louis about Emily’s father, he’d said, ‘Emily doesn’t have a mum. Her heart was attacked. Her uncle Ben looks after her instead.’ Part of me is pleased to see him here. I have an ally, someone I can be sober with at school fundraising events, a kindred spirit at the school gates. I’ve wanted to talk to him and now I have an excuse. The other side of me likes to hold on to my privacy. I like being new Polly at the school gates, unscarred, the mother who has left her past behind.

*

‘Hi. My name’s Colin, and I’m an alcoholic.’

‘Hi Colin,’ everyone replies. Colin is chairing the meeting, sitting at a table in the front of the room, next to the secretary, dressed in a grey cable knit jumper. ‘It took me a long time to admit I was an addict. I pictured old men in mouldy clothes with rotting teeth, clutching a whisky bottle in a brown paper bag and sleeping in skips.’

There are smiles and mutters of agreement in the room. Harry, sitting a few chairs away from me, wipes his forehead with a handkerchief, before finishing off his slab of Battenberg cake.

‘We’re good at fooling ourselves, but in reality my sofa was my park bench.’

As Colin continues, my mind drifts to Ben. How is he managing with Emily? What happened to Emily’s father? Is this his first AA meeting?

‘I started drinking heavily when my divorce papers came through.’ Colin shakes his head. ‘I used to dream about lie-ins and freedom, no child jumping on the bed at six in the morning. Truth is when the kids were with my ex suddenly I had all this time on my own. I was also still in love with my wife, which didn’t help, and in complete denial that it was over. I didn’t drink to be social. I’d drink to get plastered. One time I vandalised public property, another time I went round to my ex-wife’s house and thought it was a great idea to hit the new boyfriend. “Don’t blame me! I was drunk!” That was the excuse. Addicts need an excuse to drink, never want to accept responsibility. “It’s Friday,” or “I’ve had a bad day at work.”’ Colin smiles wryly. ‘“It’s Christmas!” That’s a great excuse to drink even more because everyone gets wasted at Christmas. Looking back now, I reckon all my cherry-faced cousins were pissed on whisky and mulled wine.’

I think of Granddad, that very first time when I was allowed to stay up for supper on Christmas Eve. On Christmas Day, he had fallen backwards into our tree and blamed it on Hugo getting in his way, when in fact Hugo was nowhere near him. In my teenage years I saw a darker side to Granddad. His jokes weren’t so funny anymore. He became a sad and lonely figure. I understood why Mum talked to him as if he were a child and why he and Granny Sue had slept in separate bedrooms for years. It had nothing to do with Granddad ‘snoring’. Granny Sue didn’t want to be woken up by Granddad staggering home from the pub.

‘Then something made me sit up,’ Colin continues. ‘My six-year-old daughter became ill. I had a choice now. It was a case of “Do I run?” or “Do I face life and be there for her?” Basically, I had to sober up and be a proper man, be a dad.’

I watch as Ben heads abruptly out of the room. Neve glances at me. Should I follow him?

When Colin finishes his talk, the secretary opens the meeting to anyone who wants to share. A woman raises her arm. Colin nods.

‘Hi. I’m Pam and I’m an alcoholic.’

‘Hi, Pam,’ everyone says.

Will Ben come back?

‘Thanks, Colin,’ she begins. ‘I haven’t touched a drink for nearly five years now.’

There’s clapping. Maybe he’s outside having a cigarette? Neve encourages me to go.

I tiptoe out of the room and head outside to a small group of people smoking. I see Ben in the distance. Unsure if I should go after him, I see him glancing over his shoulder. Caught off balance, I take a step back before waving tentatively. But it’s too late. He’s turned round, hands back in pockets as he walks away.

4

After the meeting, I jog back home. I live in a tiny rented two-bedroom flat in Primrose Gardens, off England’s Lane, in Belsize Park. I had no idea how beautiful and green this part of north London was until I moved here. Hampstead Heath is only a ten-minute walk away from my flat. Primrose Hill and Regent’s Park are equally close.

Inside the block of flats, before heading upstairs I glance in my cubbyhole to see if I have any interesting mail. It’s all junk except for a credit card bill, which I decide can stay there.

The moment I walk through the front door, Louis charges towards me in his pilot’s costume. ‘Have you been a good monkey for Uncle H?’ I ruffle his bushy brown hair.

He nods. ‘We played pirates.’

‘Thanks, Hugo.’ I touch his shoulder. ‘I really needed to go today.’

‘How were your breakdown friends, Mum?’ asks Louis.

Recently, Louis overheard Hugo and me talking about AA and my breakdown friends, as Hugo calls them. He’d walked into the kitchen in his pyjamas and said, ‘What’s an alcoholic?’

Hugo and I exchanged glances. ‘It’s someone who drinks a little bit too much,’ I replied.

‘So if I drink too much Ribena, am I an alcoholic?’

‘No, sweetheart.’

He waited, clearly not understanding.

‘It’s if you have too much wine or beer, grown-up drinks.’

‘Uncle Hugo drinks beer and wine. Are you an alcoholic too?’

I can’t remember how we poured water over this heated conversation. I think it had something to do with having a biscuit before going back to bed.

Hugo, Louis and I head into the sitting room that now resembles a bombsite.

Louis grabs his play sword and swishes it in my direction, exclaiming, ‘You’re dead!’

I stagger to the floor, clutching my chest in defeat. ‘Right.’ I spring back to life and look at my watch. It’s early afternoon. ‘Let’s tidy this mess up, go for a walk and then do you fancy something to eat?’ I ask Hugo. ‘My treat.’

‘Pizza Express!’ shouts Louis, jumping up and down.

Hugo sticks close to me in the dark. Every now and then I take his arm to steer him along the road and make sure he doesn’t headbutt a lamppost or trip over a toddler. Hugo is six foot four with thick dark hair like mine, and a soft plump tummy held in by a wide leather belt. He makes me, an average five foot six, look like a midget beside him. We often wonder how we came out of the same person, me joking that I need a stepladder to kiss him hello. Though on the podgy side, he’s fit and always challenging himself to climb mountains and ski down black runs. His latest feat was climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. He promises Louis that when’s he older he will take him trekking up a mountain. It’ll be a strictly boys’ holiday, a time to bond.

Uncle Hugo and Louis are close. When I left Matthew, Hugo became a father figure to his nephew. He doesn’t spoil or indulge Louis to make up for the fact his dad is out of the picture. If Louis believes he can get away with eating a second chocolate marshmallow biscuit, he can think again. ‘I can see more than you realise,’ Uncle Hugo says, wagging a finger.

‘Careful. Step here,’ I say.

‘Up or down would be helpful.’

‘Sorry. Down.’

Pizza Express is in Belsize Park, close to the cinema with the comfy leather seats. When inside the restaurant, I slow down to allow Hugo to adjust to the darkness. A waiter leads us to a table by the window. It’s packed since it’s still the Christmas holidays. I notice Louis glancing at the next table, watching a dad going through the menu with his son. One of the waitresses comes over with a small pot of pens and crayons and a paper place mat for Louis to colour in.

‘Well, I’m guessing they’re not for me,’ Hugo says, already charming her.

I order apple juice and dough balls for Louis before reading the menu out for Hugo. Hugo can’t read in a dark restaurant. At work he reads from a computer screen, the typeface blown up. It’s clear he’s partially sighted since his eyes are inverted and he has a strong squint. His sight is in the corner of his eyes, so it’s hard for him to look directly at someone sitting opposite him. He tells me that when he is lost in a strange place with no one to guide him he finds it easier to walk in sidesteps. He calls it his sexy crab walk.

‘Lasagne,’ Hugo says, stopping me mid-sentence. ‘That’ll do.’

When we order our food the waitress asks if we would like to see the wine list.

‘No,’ says Louis, looking up from his place mat, pen in hand. ‘My mummy is an alcoholic.’

Oh, Louis!

‘Oh right,’ she says, blushing, before she flees from our table as fast as she can.

*

As we wait for our food, Louis is zooming his toy police cars around the floor, playing good cop, bad cop. ‘Don’t go too far,’ I call out to him.

‘So how was the meeting?’ Hugo asks.

Without mentioning names I tell Hugo that I saw someone from school there, adding that they didn’t stay for long.

‘Maybe he or she didn’t feel comfortable?’ Hugo suggests. ‘Hugs not drugs isn’t for everyone.’

‘Excuse me, we’re not all raving hippies.’

‘Did this person see you?’

‘Think so. Apparently his sister had a heart attack. She died, Hugo. She would have been around our age.’ I chew my nail. ‘He must be going through hell.’

‘When you next see him, talk to him.’

I nod. ‘By the way, how did your date go last night?’

‘I don’t think we’ll be heading down the aisle any time soon.’

‘No snap, crackle and pop?’

‘None.’

‘Oh bollocks. This one sounded so promising, too.’

Hugo has joined an online dating agency. He tried to persuade me to join a single-parent dating website too, but right now I’m happy being on my own. The idea of meeting strangers in pubs doesn’t appeal anymore. Besides, there’s a lot to be said for being on your own. I feel in control when it’s just me; I can do what I like, see who I like, wear my yoga pants most of the time and eat ice cream out of a tub in front of the new series of Strictly Come Dancing. My last relationship, with a lawyer called David, ended nine months ago. He was six years older than me and on paper every woman’s dream: good-looking in that male model catalogue way, old-fashioned in that he liked to pick up the tab in restaurants, he didn’t like football (hurray), was a good listener (rare) and was refreshingly honest about how much he wanted to marry and settle down, when most blokes can’t even commit to a second date. I met David in an art gallery. I was gazing at a sculpture of a man’s head by Picasso when I became aware of a tall dark stranger watching me. ‘I’m glad I don’t have such a large nose,’ he said, guessing why I was smiling, before introducing himself. We went out for dinner that night and to my surprise Louis and a recovering alcoholic didn’t put him off. As our relationship progressed he was positively supportive, suggesting he gave up booze too. David could not have been more different from Matthew. I told myself that it didn’t matter that my pulse didn’t race when we were together or that my head wasn’t intoxicated by thoughts of him when we were apart. Those kind of relationships spelt trouble. And for a time I did enjoy feeling safe and part of a couple. Our relationship lasted a year. Mum only met him twice but was bitterly disappointed when we broke up. Janey was infuriated when I kept on saying he was too perfect, especially when her last date had quibbled over the bill, saying he hadn’t eaten any garlic bread. Hugo liked him, but knew there wasn’t enough spark. Another factor against us was that David wasn’t a natural with kids. He and Louis didn’t hit it off as I’d hoped. I could tell David was irritated if Louis cut into his weekend paper time or spilt juice over his paperwork. When David began to talk about holidays and us moving in together I knew, from my reaction, that I had to break up with him. The pressure of more commitment was keeping me awake at night. I knew I was lying to myself and to David, pretending my caution was Louis. I wasn’t ready because I wasn’t in love with him.

‘She kept on saying “poor you”,’ Hugo says, bringing me back to his date. ‘She didn’t get the fact that when you’re born blind it’s all I have ever known so there is no need to feel sorry for me. I only wish I’d been able to see the price of the wine she was merrily ordering. It was literally poor me by the end of the night.’

Hugo tells all his stories on air. He’s a journalist and radio presenter. When he left university he did work experience for the BBC, longing to break into broadcasting or journalism and began working for them on the production side soon afterwards. He moved to the other side of the microphone five years ago, when he began writing a blog about being partially sighted and it received so many hits that he was given his own midweek show on Radio 2 called How I See It. Hugo is honest about everything, from the barbecue fluid left in the fridge that he almost mistook for fruit juice to how he gets around on the tube and buses, to films and books, political views and most popular of all, the single scene in London.

My mind drifts to Ben again. I wonder if he takes Emily out for meals. I’ve never seen him out and about, or bumped into him at the supermarket. I’d say he’s about forty, but then again beards can age people.

‘Polly?’

‘Sorry.’

‘You’re still thinking about that guy from school, aren’t you?’

I’m wondering why he left so abruptly.

‘Maybe he’ll go to another meeting,’ Hugo says. ‘It can be pretty daunting first time.’

Back at home, later that evening, I say goodnight to Louis. He’s been unusually quiet since we left Pizza Express. His pilot costume now hangs on one side of his wardrobe, next to his clown suit. Fido the toy dog is under the duvet covers with him. It was one of Uncle Hugo’s toys, so ancient now that Fido’s fur is threadbare and he’s missing an eye. ‘He’s half blind,’ Hugo had said. ‘Rather apt, don’t you think?’

‘We thank our lucky stars for Uncle Hugo, don’t we?’ I say. ‘What was the best thing you did today?’

‘Mum?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why doesn’t Dad visit me?’

I take a deep breath. Understandably, Louis is beginning to ask more questions, especially when we go out and see families together in parks and restaurants. ‘Daddy has to work out his problems,’ I say. ‘He has many problems, it has nothing…’

He pushes my hand away from his cheek and for a second the angry look in his eyes reminds me of his father.

‘What problems? Where is he?’

‘He had to go away…’

‘Where?’

I have no idea. ‘Louis, he…’

‘Doesn’t he want to see me in my pilot costume?’

‘No, I mean yes…’ I wish I knew the right thing to say. How much should you tell a five-year-old? ‘He can’t come home, Louis.’

‘Where is his house? We can go and see him.’

I shake my head.

‘Louis, your dad has problems,’ I repeat, adding before he can interrupt, ‘things I can’t explain to you, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.’

Later that night, I sit down on my rocking chair in the corner of my bedroom. It’s my favourite spot in the house, my thinking spot. From the window I can see the communal gardens and the larger neighbouring houses with their bay windows. Often I try to imagine what each family is like behind closed doors.

As I rock back and forth, I vow that one day, when Louis is old enough, I will tell him the truth about his father. I feel guilty that I’m raising him as a single mum, but at the same time, if Matthew never showed up again I’d be relieved. Finally I’ve reached the stage where I don’t look over my shoulder all the time; I feel safe at night. I’m lonely, but then everyone gets lonely, right? But at last I sleep without worrying about creaks and night-time noises. I don’t have nightmares that he might be outside, watching us.

I don’t blame anyone for the choices I made. I had to fix myself. I’ve made a start, and want nothing and no one to threaten the life Louis and I now have.

But I can’t stop Louis from asking questions.

My parents kept too many secrets. I can see my mother now, buttoning up her lips whenever I asked anything personal. She kept my Aunt Vivienne a secret for years.

When the right time comes, I will tell Louis about my past and what has led us here.

5

1991

It’s Sunday, the day before Hugo goes to a special boarding school for the blind. Hugo is seven. I’m nearly eleven years old.

Hugo and I walk down to the boathouse with Dad, dressed in our bright yellow life jackets. Dad is going to take us out in the boat before lunch. Mum is cooking a special good luck meal: roast chicken with oven chips, Hugo’s favourite.

We live in Norfolk, in a house by a river and lake. We moved here six months ago, to be close to his school. I was sad to leave London, but Mum and Dad reassured me that London isn’t going anywhere and that I can always visit my old friends. ‘Dad has a new job in Norwich,’ Mum explained. He works in an insurance company. ‘It’s a fresh start for all of us.’

When Mum and Dad drove Hugo and me to our new home for the first time I felt carsick as we bumped along a narrow winding road. ‘Are we nearly there?’ I kept on asking. Our house was in the middle of nowhere! Granny Sue wondered why we’d wanted to live so far out in the sticks, but Mum and Dad fell in love with the house and were keen for us to have a garden to play in and room to explore.

Except Mum is always worried when we go outside to play. ‘Don’t play in the woods, there might be adders,’ she says. Or it’s, ‘Don’t go too near the water, you might fall in and drown.’

As we approach the old boathouse I breathe in the smell of bracken and seaweedy water. Dad helps Hugo onto the boat. It’s old, wooden and rocks gently from side to side when Hugo clambers in. I follow and Dad asks me to be a good girl and fix one of the oars into the rowlock. When we’re ready, Dad uses one oar to push us out of the boathouse and into the open space.

Hugo always looks so happy when he’s out on the water. He stretches his podgy arms, the sun beating down on his round dimpled face. I lean over the boat, trail my fingers in the water. Hugo copies me.

‘You know what Mum says, Hugo,’ I tease. ‘There might be huge pike and we all know pike have very sharp teeth.’ Hugo sits up straight, puts his hands on his lap.

‘We’re nearly at the sunken boat now,’ I tell him.

‘How did it sink, Papa?’ he asks.

It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve heard this story, Hugo and I still love it.

‘Well, it all happened about a hundred years ago. Two lovers…’

‘Kissy kissy,’ says Hugo, nudging me.

‘Behave, or I won’t finish the story,’ says Dad. ‘Two lovers weren’t allowed to be together. Their families hated one another.’

‘Why?’ we ask.

‘They just did, OK! Otherwise we’ll never finish the story. They couldn’t see one another in daylight so they decided to meet every night in the boat, when the clock struck twelve and their parents were in bed, fast asleep. So they’d meet down at the boathouse. It was very romantic, the lake was beautiful in the moonlight, but one evening there was a terrible storm. The girl was anxious, said maybe they should go back inside. “Where is your sense of adventure?” the boy asked, encouraging her into the boat. There was thunder and lightning, it was a wild night, the small wooden boat rocking from side to side. She begged him to stop, but he was determined to prove he was brave, that nothing could stand in the way of their being together. Well, of course they lost an oar and hit a submerged tree trunk, just here,’ Dad says, as we row up to the sunken boat and look down into the murky water. It’s spooky. Even the seats are still there. I imagine the girl with long red hair, splayed out in the water, weeds coming out of her mouth.

‘And they drowned,’ Dad says. ‘And that was the end of them.’

I shiver each time I hear the story.

‘They haunt the lake, but in a good way,’ Dad continues, ‘reminding us never to take foolish risks.’

I stare at the murky water, wondering what other secrets lie beneath it.

The following morning, Dad, Mum, Hugo and I eat breakfast. Dad has taken the day off to drive Hugo to his new school. He knows Mum will be too upset to travel home alone. Besides, he wants to say goodbye too. ‘Please can I come,’ I try again, pushing my porridge away, lumps sticking in my throat.

Mum butters her toast. ‘You have school.’

I hold back the tears and look beseechingly at Dad.

‘No, Polly,’ she snaps. ‘We’ve talked about this.’

‘Dad?’

I try one last time.

‘Best do as your mum says.’

Why doesn’t he ever stand up to her?

‘Please can she come,’ says a small voice from across the table.

Later that morning we’re on our way to Hugo’s school in Dad’s old bottle-green BMW. We play car games and Dad sings his favourite song, ‘Meet me in St Louis’. It always makes Hugo and me laugh, especially when he sings the words, ‘hoochee koochee’ and ‘tootsie-wootsie’.

When we reach the gates of Hugo’s school, Mum orders Dad to stop the car. I hold Hugo’s hand until Mum unbuckles his seatbelt and sits him on her knee in the front, stroking and hugging him.

Slowly we approach a tall grey stone building with wide, open green space on either side of the driveway. The school looks like a castle with turrets and lots of narrow windows. We approach a courtyard with a fountain, cupids spraying water. Dad turns off the engine. I notice a tall wiry man with a moustache and dressed in a suit walking down some steep stone steps and approaching our car. ‘Wait,’ Mum says. Hugo’s hands are clasped around her neck.

Nervously I step outside and look up at the imposing building, already feeling scared for my brother. I can’t imagine living here. I bet this place is haunted. Dad opens the boot and lifts out Hugo’s trunk, packed with all his new clothes to start his new life. He shakes the tall man’s hand. Dad tells me this is Mr Barry, the headmaster.

Mr Barry shakes my hand too, welcoming me to the school. He smells of cigar smoke. ‘Hello, Hugo,’ he says. Hugo rushes back to Mum. ‘I don’t want to go,’ he says, suddenly tiny and fragile, lost in her arms.

When Mr Barry tries to prise them apart, Hugo lashes out at him, hitting his arm.

‘Hugo,’ my father says tearfully, taking him to one side, ‘you’re going to be fine. You’ll be so happy here, and it’s only a few days until we’ll see you at the weekend.’

Tears are streaming down Hugo’s face; his eyes are red and crumpled. I rush to the backseat of the car and pick up Fido, Hugo’s favourite toy dog. I thrust it into his hands, ‘Whenever you feel sad, think of us in the boat,’ I say, before Dad tells me to give my brother one last hug and then we must go.

‘Matron will help him settle in,’ assures Mr Barry. ‘We’ll take great care of him.’

As we pull away, back down the long school drive, we hear Hugo wailing. Dad says, ‘Don’t turn round.’ But it’s too late. Mum and I see Mr Barry restraining Hugo from running after us. Fido is tossed on to the ground.

‘What have we done?’ Mum says.

That night, I can’t sleep. On my way to the bathroom I hear Mum and Dad talking in the kitchen. I creep downstairs and sit on the bottom step. My heart lifts. Maybe they’re saying they might collect Hugo tomorrow?