The Darlings E-Book

Angela Jackson

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

THE DARING NEW NOVEL FROM THE AUTHOR OF THE EMERGENCE OF JUDY TAYLOR When Mark Darling is fifteen years old, he is the golden boy, captain of the school football team, admired by all who know him. Until he kills his best friend in a freak accident. He spends the next decade drifting between the therapy couch and dead-end pursuits. Then along comes Sadie. A mender by nature, she tries her best to fix him, and has enough energy to carry them both through the next few years. One evening, Mark bumps into an old schoolfriend, Ruby. She saw the accident first hand. He is pulled towards her by a force stronger than logic: the universal need to reconcile one's childhood wounds. This is his chance to, once again, feel the enveloping warmth of unconditional love. But can he leave behind the woman who rescued him from the pit of despair, the wife he loves? His unborn child? This is a story about how childhood experience can profoundly impact how we behave as adults. It's a story about betrayal, infidelity and how we often blinker ourselves to see a version of the truth that is more palatable to us.

Leseprobe

Praise for Angela Jackson

WINNER OF EDINBURGH INTERNATIONAL BOOK FESTIVAL FIRST BOOK AWARD

WATERSTONES SCOTTISH BOOK OF THE YEAR

AMAZON RISING STAR FINALIST

A wonderful, home-grown success

Nick Barley, Director of Edinburgh International Book Festival

Reviews of The Emergence of Judy Taylor

The Emergence of Judy Taylor is a heart-wrenching yet dryly funny tale of relationships and second chances

Grazia

I couldn’t put this book down. It was funny, witty, heartbreaking and wise, and never once cloying or sentimental. It is steely-eyed and sympathetic at the same time. Angela Jackson is a generous writer, and her warm and captivating prose engages and enfolds the reader

Angela Newton

An enriching read. A brilliantly observed, original take on universal themes of love, life and relationships.

Matt Cain, author of The Madonna of Bolton

Think a northern Nora Ephron with a smattering of Edinburgh magic

Kristin Pedroja

This book is beautifully written and paced, alive with rhythmic and true dialogue; like Anne Tyler to a Miles Davis soundtrack. Does what all good fiction should do, forces you to stop and think and to question the choices you make as you sleepwalk through life

Tim Court

Reviews of The Darling Monologues

With all of these women’s stories, there’s a humour, hope and big hearts at the core of even the darkest aspects of their tales. This is where Jackson’s genius for revealing character through apparently simple stories shines. She is a brilliant storyteller, and has a natural, human warmth which shines through in all of her characters

edinburghfestival.org

Meet Lily, Sadie and Ruby, acutely observed characters brought to life by their creator, award-winning writer Angela Jackson. Fresh from the pages of her novels, these women and their relationships are fully revealed in three frank and darkly funny monologues. Sex, secrets, birth, death, infidelity and Russian Red lipstick – no subject is out of bounds. Compelling, with a northern nod to unsentimental compassion and wry wit

The List

Published in 2021

by Lightning Books Ltd

Imprint of Eye Books Ltd

29A Barrow Street

Much Wenlock

Shropshire

TF13 6EN

www.lightning-books.com

ISBN: 9781785631337

Copyright © Angela Jackson 2021

Cover by Nell Wood

Typeset in Book Antiqua and Bauer Bodoni Std

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

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

Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

For David and TomAnd for Scott, as it turns out

The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change

Carl R. Rogers

It’s about acceptance, isn’t it?

Jeremy Hardy

Contents

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Chapter 1

When Mark Darling was fifteen years old, he killed his best friend. 


In an attempt to score a perfect six, he swung a cricket bat with such force that his young hands lost their grip on it. He laughed as the bat zoomed through the air, until it hit Fergus Banks on the head with a firm thwack.


Mark’s body clock shifted. He shut out the daylight, slept sun up to sun down. At night, fuelled almost solely by junk food, he lurked online, clicking and scrolling his way around, while documentaries buzzed at low volume from the television. His parents tried to help, via a conveyor belt of therapists, but each time he described the accident, it served only to burn the sounds and images more deeply into his brain. 


One icy winter’s night, his parents took a bend too fast, and two police officers delivered the news that he was now truly alone in the world. So, from that point, he learned how to toke and drink himself to oblivion. It was easy to pass a decade or so that way.

Then came Sadie. Slowly, carefully, mercifully, she rescued him, patched up the parts she could mend, and lived with the rest.

Mark is a comedian.

Chapter 2

‘I was perfect. We all were, once.’

Mark looked out into the darkness. Someone sneezed.

‘My parents never missed an opportunity to tell me how wonderful I was. And now, the world never misses an opportunity to put me straight.’

A mild ripple of laughter.

‘That’s the way it is. If only my parents had said: Look Mark — we’re gonna be honest with you, and it’s for your own good. Your drawing of the house and our family? It’s shit. You’ve drawn our arms coming out of our heads. It’s anatomically unfeasible. Your little story about the fluffy kitten who got lost? It’s mawkish. It’s woefully punctuated. Some of your letters are the wrong way round!’

Laughter.

‘Sports Day? Son, we were mortified.’

More laughter.

‘Nativity play? We think you dropped baby Jesus on purpose. Attention seeking.’

He was on a roll. He paced the stage.

‘Truth! You know? I just needed them to be honest. But parents are liars! They put the terrible drawings on the fridge, or — worse — they frame them! They actually hang them on the same walls as real art. They even get them made into little drinks coasters now. Who wants to see that kind of crap every time you pick up your coffee?’

He shielded his eyes from the glare of the spotlight, and spotted a friendly face.

‘This woman here is looking very guilty.’

He haunched down, despite his knees. ‘You have kids?’

The woman shouted something. He didn’t quite catch it. He cupped his hand to his ear. He could feel the momentum slip. She held up four fingers.

‘Four? Jesus, what, you have no telly?’

A laugh. A potential seam. As the laughter died down, before he had the chance to riff on it, she shouted her response.

‘Quads.’

Quads. He didn’t know what to do with it. Nothing would come. He felt beads of sweat on his upper lip. He could hear chattering.

‘And is your fridge covered in crap drawings?’

Her response was lengthy and inaudible. The sound of breaking glass from behind the bar distracted him; he looked across, ran his fingers through his hair and attempted to hold onto his thread.

‘Course it is. That’s the law. They draw a picture, you crack out the Blu-tack.’

Laughter. Low level but sustained.

‘You’re ruining their lives, you know that, right? They’ll get into the real world and their teachers, the other kids, Twitter — everybody will make it their business to put them straight on the many ways in which they’re not perfect. And it’s all. Your. Fault.’

He picked up his beer and just before he took a swig, he muttered close into the microphone:

‘Mummy.’

Big laugh.

He splashed his face with cold water then ran a green paper towel across it. He was covered in sweat; his shirt clung to him. Someone banged on the door. He opened it. A man in a wheelchair tried to get past him.

‘Oi!’ said Mark, rubbing his shin.

‘This is the disabled toilet, you prick.’

‘I know what it is,’ said Mark.

‘Well, get out!’

Mark started to gather up his stuff.

‘I don’t know if you know, but this is the only place we comedians can–’

‘You’re not disabled. And you’re not a comedian. Fuck off.’

Mark strode through to the bar. Another comic was on stage now, getting bigger laughs. She was doing a bit about trying to send a parcel and being sold a mortgage at the post office. The warm laughter of recognition filled the room. She laughed along, shaking her head. She picked up a ukulele and started to sing about the decline of the high street. The audience joined in on the second chorus. Mark ordered a beer and leaned back against the bar. As she strummed the final note and shouted her thanks, the club manager, Eddie, appeared from the shadows, handed him a couple of folded twenties, and patted him on the shoulder.

‘Better.’

‘Cheers. I’ve been working on it.’

‘You should’ve done something with the quads.’

Mark winced and took a swig of his beer.

‘Don’t bring ’em in if you’re not ready.’

‘How will I know when I’m ready if I don’t have a go?’

‘You’re a late starter. Some of the best were on stage at eighteen. What are you, thirty-five?’

‘Thirty-eight.’

‘Exactly. You need to cram to catch up. Go to gigs, watch YouTube, Instagram, make notes. If you want to make this your life, you have to throw your life into it.’

‘He said if I want to make it, I need to shift up a gear.’ Mark was sitting on the arm of the sofa, gently rubbing Sadie’s feet.

‘What, like, be funnier?’

He stopped rubbing. ‘No. I’m already funny.’

She started laughing. ‘You are. Go on.’ She put her hand on his to encourage him to keep rubbing.

‘Shift a gear, as in, maybe look at it as more of a full-time job.’

‘A full-time job?’

‘I got a lot of laughs.’

‘You have a full-time job.’

‘I was absolutely storming at one point.’

‘You can’t have two full-time jobs.’

‘I have the chops, Sade. You know? People don’t laugh if you’re not funny. I’m funny.’

‘There’s only one of you, though.’

‘Exactly. I was like: Mate, that’s mad. I’ve got responsibilities. An IVF loan, a baby on the way—’

‘The kitchen ceiling’s falling in.’

‘Yeah. That’s what I said. We live in a money pit, I said. I’m just gonna keep it part-time for now, until it’s more profitable than the day job.’

Sadie’s chest started to rise and fall again. ‘No rush.’

‘No rush.’

A clunk followed by a series of clicks signalled the ancient central heating turning off for the night. It would be too cold for them to stay unblanketed for much longer. She changed position, kissed him. ‘Once the baby’s here, I’ll come along again, see how the act’s developing.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You could do a bit now. Some of the new stuff.’

He scratched his head, sent his hair skew-whiff. ‘I think it only works on stage. It’s like a magical thing that happens up there, you know? I can’t just switch it on.’

She made space for him on the sofa. ‘Hey, some good news. Dad knows someone who can look at the kitchen ceiling. Art.’

‘Art?’

‘That’s his name. Art. He says it might be nothing, but it might be dry rot. You need to catch it early because it can spread. And then things start crumbling. Literally, the house could fall down.’

“Why does none of that sound like good news?’

‘Apparently, Art knows his stuff and might catch it early. And it might not even be dry rot.’

Mark let out a long sigh. He switched on the television, and they eased themselves into mutually comfortable positions, loosely intertwined under a chenille throw. A documentary was on, and they let it play, watching a man carefully repair a broken vase. The narrator had a soporific tone.

Rather than discard it, there is an opportunity for the fault to make the original stronger. Done well, using gold foil and resin, the final vase will be more valuable.

‘How can a broken vase be worth more than the original?’ said Mark.

Sadie shifted slightly, folded closer into him.

The television mumbled on. Kitsugi is the art of precious scars. The gold renders the fault lines stronger than before.

‘Until you drop it again,’ said Mark. He stroked Sadie’s head and she made a soft, grunting sound.

He looked up at the ceiling, and willed it to stay right where it was.

Chapter 3

It was the mildest and brightest of Saturday afternoons. Cloudless. Convertible car hoods were still fastened tight shut — it was March in Edinburgh, after all — but windows were cracked open, jackets unbuttoned.

Mark was inching along in city-centre traffic, looking forward to relaxing with an afternoon bill of Sky Sports. In the car boot, there was a paper bag containing seventy-two twenty milligram Citalopram tablets, and three bulging supermarket bags: two that Sadie would approve of, and one she would not. He would stash the contents of the latter — M&Ms, liquorice wheels, jelly beans and the like — in the hold-all at the back of his wardrobe as soon as he arrived home, and would consume the supply incrementally, secretly, over the course of the week. It gave him a kick to buck the nutritional system, to have a secret source of comfort.

He stopped at a red light, and undid the top button of his jeans, allowing his soft belly to spill out more freely. He ran his hand over weekend stubble, and wondered if that faint pinprick on his earlobe might still be receptive to an earring. Sadie had not been a fan, so it had gone the way of his days-of-the-week socks and novelty t-shirts. He massaged the lobe between his finger and thumb, and angled it towards the mirror to check for a hole. It was then he caught sight of a grey hair, blatantly sprouting from his temple. He tilted his head and the hair stayed grey. Not blond, not bleached, not sunkissed. Grey.

Once indoors, he located Sadie’s tweezers, and started to pluck at what turned out to be a small crop, only stopping once he heard her arrive home. She always managed to close the front door with a solid thunk and click, whereas he could only get it to shut with a slam or, at best, a struggle. He ditched the tweezers and emerged into the living room as she breezed in, post-massage. She hugged and kissed him. She tasted of spring, of loose limbs and ungreyed hair.

‘I’m just going to take a quick shower.’ She started to raise her voice as she walked away. ‘My orange dress needs a quick iron before Mum’s party. Can you just…’

Shit. The party.

Mark followed her. She was holding her hand under the heavy spray, waiting for the perfect temperature. She playfully flicked a splash of water at him. Her bump was distinct now, and he noticed little red veins across her chest.

‘I found a grey hair. Well, a few, really – all scattered.’

She stepped under the shower. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen them. They’re sweet.’ She arched back slightly and turned her face upwards so the stream hit her neck and breasts.

‘You’ve seen them? The greys? Why didn’t you say?’

‘Could you just pass me that shower gel please…’ She stretched out her hand.

‘How long have I had them?’

She squirted a generous blob of gel into her hand. ‘If you’re not ironing my dress, do you want to come in?’

‘I’m too young for grey hairs, and now you’re telling me they’ve been there for a while!’

‘You’re not too young! It’ll be ear hair next!’

He joined her because he’d never, ever refused before, because saying no might mean the start of something else, and because, at some point, there would be ear hair, which he couldn’t face thinking about.

Later, after ironing the dress, he dug out a pair of linen trousers he’d bought on holiday in Italy a couple of years ago. As he fastened them, he noticed they’d shrunk slightly. He pulled at the fabric, wondering if it might give a little. He decided to wear them with his edgiest t-shirt — he’d bought it at Stockbridge Market a couple of years ago, from a designer who sourced the best biodynamically-grown cotton, and used organic fabric paints to apply her artwork onto each t-shirt in a darkroom while listening to music. Each garment was a unique work of art. This particular design had been painted to a traditional Chinese folk tune, using chopsticks instead of a paintbrush. That’s what she’d told him, anyway, and he’d been more than happy to hand over seventy quid for the t-shirt and the story.

* * *

Sadie jostled the large gift bag she was carrying.

‘Can you ring the doorbell? I’m a bit constrained here.’

Mark had offered to carry it — he’d offered to carry it twice, in fact — but he knew Sadie had wanted the drama of handing it over.

The approaching figure of Sadie’s brother, Nick, appeared through the stained glass. Anyone could see he was no stranger to the gym, the climbing wall, the marathon route, the fast lane at the pool, the army assault course and kickboxing classes, even through heavily pitted opaque glass and molten leading.

‘Welcome to what I’m calling the pre-party drinks reception,’ said Nick, waving a glass of champagne. ‘An opportunity for the non-pregnant to pre-load before the hoi polloi arrives. You look gorgeous, Sade.’ Kiss, hug. ‘Shall I take that?’ Sadie frowned and held tightly onto the bag. ‘OK. Come on in, and Mark can tell us all about his bold choice of outfit.’

Mark flipped his middle finger. Nick grabbed him in a bear hug and rubbed his head with his knuckles, causing Mark to grunt and struggle.

Sadie edged past them along the hall, and deposited the bag onto the kitchen table, where her sister, Ava, the baby of the family at fifteen, was scrolling through her phone and nursing a smoothie. She kissed Ava’s head.

‘Your hair smells weird.’

‘I’ve stopped using shampoo. I’ve cut out all parabens. You should do the same. What’s in the bag?’ said Ava.

‘Mum’s birthday present. Where is she?’

‘Upstairs with Dad, getting ready. I got her a smoothie maker. What did you get her?’

‘It’s a surprise. What are parabens?’

‘Endocrine-disrupting preservatives.’

Ava slurped the green concoction and returned to consulting her phone. Mark walked in and winced.

‘Jesus, Ava, what are you drinking?’ he asked.

‘Smoothie. What d’you get Mum?’

‘Oh, Sadie made her a dressing gown–’

‘It’s not a dressing gown! And it’s a surprise, so wait and see.’

Ava took another sip of her smoothie. ’Nick’s winning so far. Platinum bracelet. She said it was too much, but then she put it on, and kept holding it up to the light.’

Sadie cleared industrial quantities of apple cores and fruit peel from the work surface. ‘There is no winning, Ava. It’s Mum’s birthday, not Wimbledon.’

Ava rolled her eyes. Mark sat down next to her.

‘We’ve not seen you for a while. How’s school?’ he asked.

‘You saw me five days ago.’ She spoke without looking up from her phone.

‘Did you finish the art project?’

She looked up, surveyed him. ‘What’s that t-shirt all about? It looks weird on you.’

‘Says the girl drinking swamp water.’

Ava stirred the smoothie slowly. She drew the teaspoon out and examined it.

‘Bryony Jones has been hassling me. Don’t you play football with her dad?’

Mark made a terrified face.

‘Exactly,’ said Ava.

‘So what have you done to upset her?’

‘Wasn’t me. Mum put something bad on her term report.’ She turned her attention back to the swamp juice.

‘If you ignore her, she’ll probably stop. Or you could report her.’

Ava wiped her forearm across her mouth. ‘She’s not stupid. There’s nothing I can report.’

‘Right,’ said Mark. ‘What does your mum say?’

Ava gave him a withering look. Mark picked up her smoothie and downed it in one before plonking the glass on the table, wiping his mouth and making a baulking face.

‘I was drinking that!’

‘Well, I’ve saved you the bother.’

He took the glass to the sink and squirted plenty of washing up liquid into it before filling it to the brim with hot water. He tried to pick up the conversation with his back to her; she always seemed more comfortable talking without having the added pressure of eye contact.

‘So. Boyfriend.’

Silence.

‘Michael, is it?’

‘You’re talking about Michael Deluna. He’s not my boyfriend.’

‘Crush. He’s your crush.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Deluna. Deeeluuuuna. Hmm. What’s he like?’

Sadie wiped down the cupboards, so Mark returned to the table and started to flick through a magazine, as though he was only vaguely interested in her response.

‘He’s clever. He’s going to study astronomy at university.’ A beat. ‘That’s your cue to make a lame joke about star signs.’

He looked up from the magazine: ‘Are you still a Virgo?’

‘Lame.’

Violet appeared at the kitchen door. She was birthdayed up — indigo dress and heels — and her make-up was slightly smudged. Sadie waylaid her with hugs and kisses.

‘Happy birthday, Violet,’ said Mark, pointing to the gift.

She opened it gently, and pulled out a floor-length midnight-blue kimono, hand-embroidered with sixty white gardenias.

‘One for each year,’ said Sadie.

‘It must have taken you…’

‘It took her a year,’ said Mark, fully aware that Sadie would very much want her mother to know how much time and effort she’d put into it, without having to tell her herself.

Violet wrapped herself in the robe, twirled around.

‘It’s not silk is it?’ said Ava, squinting at it suspiciously.

Violet stroked the fabric.

‘Because you know how silk is made, right?’ said Ava.

‘It’s lotus silk,’ said Sadie.

‘No carbon footprint,’ said Mark, giving a thumbs-up to Ava.

‘Where’s Dad?’ said Sadie.

Tony walked in, on cue. ‘Nice dressing gown.’ Violet unfastened it, and he stepped forward to help her out of it.

‘Sadie embroidered an average of one-point-two gardenias on it every week for a year,’ said Ava, without looking up.

They all looked at her. The doorbell rang, and she pushed her earbuds in.

Over the next hour, almost everyone from the length of the street arrived, and a few from further afield. The house babbled with catch-up and gossip, punctuated by loud exclamations and bursts of laughter. As the evening wore on, every time a group of people left, more turned up. There were enthusiastic attempts at dancing, but the majority of those who felt sufficiently moved by the music displayed all the allure and rhythm of eggs on a rolling boil. Mark circulated, keen to allow everyone the opportunity to hear his best material.

Tony tapped him on the shoulder just as he was in the throes of trying out a new bit on a squiffy group of teachers. The intrinsic authority of the tap caused him to stumble slightly.

‘Can you help me bring in more wine from the garage?’ It sounded like a question, but it was really an instruction.

He followed Tony through the door under the stairs along to another door that led into the garage, and made an involuntary sound as a sticky spider cobweb attached itself to his face. Tony turned back to give him a withering look.

Mark wiped the dust off a wine bottle.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ said Tony.

He wiped his hand on his trousers, then stood still, waiting for instructions.

‘Sadie’s looking tired,’ said Tony.

It felt like an accusation. He stayed silent.

‘She needs her rest now. Enough sleep.’ He picked up two cases of wine and tilted his head for Mark to do the same.

‘You get the red.’

Mark scanned the boxes for clues.

‘Right. Erm, now, what’s this, Chenin…’

‘That’s white,’ said Tony, before kicking two cases. ‘Those. Take those.’

Laden to capacity, Mark followed his father-in-law through the garage side-door back into the house. Tony put down his cases to wedge the kitchen door open for Mark, and held his arms out to take a case from him. Unable to see this, Mark tripped over the cases on the floor, and lurched forwards. Tony put his body up against the cases, stopping Mark and the wine from falling to the ground.

‘Get the first half breathing,’ said Tony.

Mark looked at him, nonplussed.

‘Open one of the boxes. Uncork all of the wines in that box.’

‘Right. And what shall I do with the corks?’ asked Mark, rubbing his hair, trying to remove all traces of cobweb.

Tony sighed in response. Mark had never understood why he had always elicited such irritation from Sadie’s dad. There was something about not being good enough, of course, but it ran deeper than that.

‘Put the white wine in the fridge,’ said Tony.

‘The whole lot?’

‘As many as will fit.’

Tony effortlessly uncorked two bottles of red wine, looking at Mark’s t-shirt as he did so.

‘Oh, there’s a story to this.’ He stretched his arms out to give Tony a better view. ‘I got it done by an artist at Stockbri–’

‘And fill up the bowls when you’ve finished.’

‘Bowls?’ Mark looked around the room.

‘Crisps, nuts, olives – that kind of thing. They’re all over the house.’ He strode out of the room, holding two bottles of red between the meaty fingers of one hand, and several wine glasses in the other.

Once Mark had carried out the instructions, before rejoining the party, he treated himself to a very large glass of dark ruby Grand Cru Bordeaux.

Chapter 4

Mark rolled towards Sadie and placed his hand gently on her belly. She pressed his fingers more firmly over her womb.

‘I read an article online that said it’s like water ballet in there now. It’ll be throwing all kinds of shapes. A bit like you last night,’ she said.

He turned over onto his back and laughed.

‘The attempt at Northern Soul was impressive. All that kicking. A shame about your trousers.’

‘They’d shrunk.’

She laughed and pulled his hand back onto her belly, placing her own over it.

‘It’s the size of an avocado now.’ Her voice was bed-whispery.

‘Wow,’ said Mark. ‘An avocado.’

They lay in silence for a few moments. Mark’s hand slowly made its way up to Sadie’s swollen breasts.

‘I keep thinking about what it’ll be like, you know, after the baby’s born,’ said Sadie. ‘Can you imagine?’

Mark let out a little exhalation, not quite a laugh, and repositioned his hand back down to her belly.

‘What if I turn out to be a rubbish dad?’

She nuzzled into him.

‘Not gonna happen.’

‘You say that now, but...’

She kissed his good heart. ‘Not. Gonna. Happen.’ She wouldn’t let it happen. Not after all they’d gone through to get here. Years of gut-wrenching anguish, as period after period arrived dead on time, or, crueller, a day or so late. Walking on eggshells through forty grand’s worth of IVF, cycle after cycle. Fixing a baby monitor to the wall of a carefully decorated nursery, in the hope that it would, one day, be switched on. The maybe-gravity-will-do-the-trick headstands after sex. The maybe-a-change-of-diet-will-do-the-trick glut of chicken, lentils, liver and caviar. The endless temperature checks. The boxer shorts. The silent prayers and bouts of retching tears.

‘You’re a natural. You’re brilliant with Ava; she loves you. Everyone’s kids love you.’

‘That’s different from being a dad, though.’

‘I know that,’ she kissed him. ‘Come on,’ she said, patting him out of bed.

They did the breakfast dance. He put bread in the toaster and set to making the coffee, she semi-circled past him to the fridge for butter, marmalade and milk. He reached over her head for two cups. She picked out two knives, two teaspoons, and passed them to him. He placed them on the table, moved the fruit bowl to one side. They took their seats simultaneously. Mark troughed straight into breakfast, as Sadie surveyed the bundle of wires hanging from the kitchen ceiling.

‘Did you chase up Vince?’

Mouth full: ‘Vince?’

That was a no. She knew that was a no. ‘The electrician. His number’s on the list.’

Mouth half full: ‘The list?’

Every week, she’d draw up a weekend list, adding to it most days: 1. Meter reading; 2. New shower head (square?); 3. Present — Sarah; 4. Tiles — take discount code; 5. Low-odour washable paint. And so on. And every Saturday morning, Mark seemed surprised at its existence.

Mouth empty: ‘You know when I fell over the dog last night?’

‘You didn’t chase him?’

‘The dog?’

‘Vince.’

‘I’ll do it later. So, last night. I go flying over your dad’s stupid dog, and everyone — everyone — rushes to make sure the dog’s OK. What’s that about?’

Sadie was already dialling Vince’s number.

‘Nobody — nobody — asks me if I’m OK. And then I hear you laughing in the kitchen.’

‘Hello Vince. This is Sadie Darling. Just wanted to know if you’d managed to get the fitting for the kitchen light. The painter’s saying it’s dangerous with the wires just hanging out, so I hope we’ll see you this weekend. Bye.’

‘What painter?’

‘We need to look at cot bumpers this weekend. We can swing by that new baby place after we’ve picked up the missing bracket fitting from Ikea. Then you have a haircut at two.’

He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve been thinking of a change. I’ve become that “same again” guy. I was thinking of–’

‘Then we need to pop in to see Mum and Dad. Make sure the dog’s OK.’

Chapter 5

As the days lengthened, new ranges of soft furnishings started to roll off factory production lines fast. It was Mark’s job to tempt young professionals and other credit-worthy individuals into Re:Klein to feel the comfort of the Hamptons, Provence and Tuscany ranges, to consider the inadequacies of their own cat-plucked, weirdly stained five-year-old sofas compared to the bouncy new specimens on offer. Once he’d lured them in, it was the salesforce’s job to flatter and do whatever else it took to close the deal. An afternoon of copywriting stretched ahead.

‘Is sumptuousness a word?’ asked Mark, addressing the office at large.

‘It means squashy, doesn’t it?’ said the intern, Nisha, who had eschewed her undemanding general role and now worked mainly as Mark’s assistant.

‘So, which is the squashiest of this new lot, does anybody know?’

There was some shrugging and shaking of heads. The sales director, Don West, crawled from under his stone, and scowled in Mark’s direction.

‘Why don’t you bloody well go and find out, Lardarse? And get yourself a dictionary while you’re at it. If I’ve added this line up once I’ve done it half a dozen times.’

‘Yeah, Don. I’ll leave you to your big sums. And, by the way, nobody buys dictionaries any more. That’s what the internet’s for,’ said Mark, pushing his tongue under his bottom lip.

‘That’s not what I use the internet for,’ said Don, a lecherous grin cracking open his pockmarked face. He guffawed, stood up, adjusted his stirring tackle, and headed for the toilet as Nisha summarised the lot on Twitter.

The Tuscany range was the most sumptuous, Mark could see that at a glance, even though it was covered in plastic and tucked away in a dark corner of the stockroom. Overstuffed and overdesigned, it came in two fabrics and ten colourways, and included a double reclining option for an extra couple of hundred pounds. It would fly out in droves as long as he could get people to come in and sit on it. The Hamptons was this season’s safe bet; unassuming design in three tasteful shades, none darker than a buff envelope, perfect for any child-free couples who happened to be wandering around the retail park looking to be tempted. The Provence was the season’s wildcard. Retina-blasting colours on a chrome frame, this was a range for the heavily medicated or the visually impaired.

Mark weaved through the sofas, and eventually found a dark nook. He curled onto a Tuscany and closed his eyes. Inevitably, the dry sound of the thwack of a cricket bat came. He silently chanted: I’m OK, I’m OK, I’m OK.

When he got back to the office, a lively discussion was mid-flow, bouncing across cubicles. Those with headsets had them half-off or around their necks, some were standing and almost everyone was grinning.

‘Can someone google it?’ asked Don.

‘Don has blood in his piss,’ said Nisha, excitedly, as Mark passed her desk.

‘You’ve got haematuria, Don!’ shouted someone.

‘What’s that, then?’

‘It’s blood in the urine.’

‘I know that, you stupid arse! I’ve just sodding well told you that! I want to know what it is. Why have I got blood?’

‘It might be your prostate!’ shouted someone else, rather too gleefully.

‘Bladder stones!’

‘Infection!’

‘Renal disease!’

‘Urinary tract disorder!’

‘Have you been eating beetroot?’

The Finance Director sidled in and signalled to Don that she wanted a word. Now. Don gave her a thumbs-up and waved for everyone to shut up.

‘All right, all right!’ he said, gathering up a sheaf of papers. ‘I bet there was beetroot in that sodding kebab last night,’ he added, as he trailed out.

A few took the opportunity to pause for speculation and to make up jokes. Others quickly returned to what they’d been doing before the blood.

‘Nish, can you find out how much a door drop for an A4 flyer would be for EH3, 4 and 5, please?’ said Mark.

Nisha nodded.

‘Get a couple of quotes, if you can.’

‘Shall I draw up some comparisons on prices and reach – that kind of thing?’

‘Yeah, great. Can you look at some tightly targeted online stuff, too?’

‘I’ve got an idea for an Insta campaign.’

‘Go for it,’ he said.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a photo of a yoga class on a beach, sent from his old friend, Dean, who was now living the dream in California.

Finally been persuaded to start my day with these guys. #hardlife

He shoved the phone back into his pocket.

‘Fancy having a crack at some copy writing later?’ asked Mark.

‘Sure. What is it?’ said Nisha.

Mark lowered his voice. ‘I need a few paragraphs that’ll tempt all those bored couples to come in and buy two sofas, one of which they’ll eventually shove on Gumtree because it gets in the way of the telly. Are you with me, Nish?’

‘You know consumerism is wrecking the planet?’

‘It’s also paying my mortgage and your equally hefty student loan.’

‘Don’t you ever feel guilty?’

‘It’s my default state,’ he said.

Chapter 6

Mark and Sadie’s wedding anniversary fell on a Tuesday, and they had tickets for that evening’s preview of an exhibition of silica-preserved body parts. It wasn’t a traditional way to spend an anniversary, but it was also the final day of a Scottish fashion retrospective that Sadie hadn’t yet seen.

‘We can zip in, then go on somewhere nice for something to eat,’ she said.

She had developed a habit of speaking with her right hand splayed across her bump. Sometimes, usually when contemplating, she would rhythmically rub the bump in such a way that made him think she might, at any moment, start patting her head with her other hand. It wouldn’t have surprised Mark in the least to discover that Sadie was, in addition to everything else, effortlessly ambidextrous.

They arrived early enough to avoid the preview throng. ‘OK, you can go and look around the body parts while I check out the Jean Muirs,’ she said, hand on bump. ‘Meet you back here at quarter past?’ Mark kissed her cheek before walking towards the signs that warned visitors they may experience distress at the contents of the next room.

It was silent in there. He crouched in the half-light, drawn to the tiny fingernails of a sixteen-week-old miscarried foetus. He read the blurb but it offered no clue as to why this particular exhibit came to be here, and he suddenly felt sorry for the poor sod who would have been charged with the task of asking the grieving mother if she would give permission for her child to be drained of blood and injected with silica gel before being sealed in a tube and put on display. A flat, uniform nap of down covered its almost transparent skin. He peered at the perfect pink fingernails again. Smaller than shirt buttons, thin as rose petals.

It was then he caught sight of someone familiar. He stared at her: Ruby Suddula. He skidded back two decades. Thwack. She adjusted her skirt, and his mouth remembered a snog at the end-of-term school disco, when she had twirled his hair and his heart around her forefinger. He could almost feel acne re-pustulating his chin and brace wires threading around his teeth.

Ruby murmured to a couple standing next to one of the large exhibits. She moved around, pointing out various bones, joints and muscles of interest. Eventually, the couple moved on, and Mark walked towards her. She smiled at him, ready to answer his questions.

‘Ruby.’

She looked intently at the face of the man who knew her name.

‘Mark,’ he said.

‘Darling,’ she said. She stifled a wow and half-hugged him. As they separated from the awkward tangle, Ruby held onto his arms and leaned back, as if to take in the full Mark Darlingness of him.

‘I didn’t recognise you without your rugby kit.’

‘Football,’ he corrected her. ‘Captain.’

‘Oh, yeah, football.’ A smile.

No mention of cricket. But he heard it. The thwack, the scream, the sirens.

‘You still play?’

‘Sometimes.’

She arched a brow.