Click. The phone went dead.
Ben had goose pimples developing on his arms as he replayed the last sentence in his mind.
7
Edward and Mary
‘Don’t fret, Mary. Everything’s organised. God, I wish you wouldn’t worry so much. It’s not the Queen coming for dinner, you know.’
‘I wish it were. I wouldn’t feel as wound up.’
Classical music played from a small stereo in the corner of the living room. The table was set, elegant, oozing sophistication: tall crystal wine glasses, red paper napkins, fine bone china plates, coffee cups, saucers, knives and forks laid, wiped and laid again.
Edward wore a black suit; his thick grey hair was slicked back and held with wax. This particular product smelled like strawberries and gave a slightly wet appearance, but his wife preferred the natural look. He had a thin moustache, which he shaped weekly, running the length of his top lip.
Mary gleamed in a simple but elegant green dress and matching shoes. Her brown hair was down, hanging loosely on her shoulders. Her thin-framed glasses rested on the end of her nose, and her face was flushed with the heat coming from the kitchen.
The doorbell rang.
‘Oh God, here we go,’ Mary said.
Edward stood beside her. ‘Look, they’ve had their problems. God knows I wish he had not taken her back, but it’s done now. Nigel knows his own mind. Let him be happy. He obviously loves her.’
‘After what she did! How can he go on like nothing happened? That ghastly woman.’
The bell rang again. Edward glanced in the hallway mirror, wiping a speck of dust from his shoulders and straightening his tie. ‘Right, are you coming? It’s courtesy to greet visitors at the door with a smile. Try, darling, if only for your son.’
‘I’m in two minds to greet her with a bat,’ Mary answered.
‘Must you, Mary?’ Edward placed his right eye to the peephole before he pulled the door open. ‘Nigel. Abigail. Welcome.’
Edward looked towards the flowers in Abigail’s hands. His son clutched a bottle of wine. They smiled as if pleased to be there, although their expressions gave a hint of edginess.
Nigel was dressed casually, a brown suit jacket, blue shirt and jeans. His hair was too long at the sides, possibly making up for the receding hairline on top. He was clean-shaven and had a tired, troubled face with heavy bags under his eyes.
His wife wore a plain white blouse and a knee-length black skirt. Her long blonde hair was curled, and it bounced as she made her way into the house.
Mary reached a hand towards her guests; a casual, limp shake offered to both.
Once settled at the table in the living room, Edward moved to the kitchen, leaving Mary with her son and his wife.
‘So, how have things been with you two?’ Mary ran the question over in her head, not intending to be so direct.
Nigel looked at Abigail. ‘We’ve been good. Work’s busy. Oh, I must tell you, you remember our neighbours, Tom and Michelle?’
Mary pondered the question. She recalled a short introduction at the front door of her son’s house while they made their way to the car. ‘Yes. A nice couple.’
‘He hanged himself a few days ago,’ Nigel said.
‘Oh, good heavens. That’s awful.’
‘Something to do with debt. Isn’t it often the case? His poor wife, I saw her yesterday. I mean, what do you say?’ Nigel looked at his mum as if he hoped she knew the answer. ‘He was such a good bloke. I was gutted when I heard the terrible news.’
‘Right. Who’s for wine? Nigel? Abigail?’ Edward placed the chilled bottle of white onto the middle of the table. Abigail grabbed her glass and pushed it forward. She received a critical look from her husband.
‘Abigail,’ Nigel said, hoping to divert her from the alcohol.
She ignored him as Edward fought with the cork. He placed the bottle between his legs, his face contorted and his cheeks going a weird purple colour. Abigail jumped as the cork shot from the top, and the wine overflowed slightly and spilled onto the table.
Edward poured, waiting for Abigail to lift her hand and declare when the glass was filled enough. The signal didn’t come.
‘Nigel, wine?’ his father asked.
‘I’m obviously the designated driver. Again.’
Edward returned to the kitchen where he opened the oven. The smell of garlic wafted into the living room.
Nigel turned to his mother, who was sat across from him. ‘How are you, Mum?’
Mary longed to blurt out criticisms about Abigail. To ask how she could be so cruel to her son. To sleep with another man and think everything could be rosy. To ask how she could pretend the baby was her son’s. He’d taken her back, working things out. She wanted to know how Abigail could watch him decorate the box room and buy a cot, clothes and nappies.
Nigel and Abigail had tried for years; they’d had tests. He was unable to have children. A problem with his sperm. It doesn’t make him a lesser man, she thought. If anything, he was brave, finding out and admitting it. Mary had seen hope in her son’s eyes when he’d told them, ‘Abigail is pregnant. We’re having a baby.’
Mary recalled the delight, a small celebration, just the three of them. Abigail had stayed home: she had to rest.
Then one day Nigel had called his mother, explaining that Abigail had walked out on him. She was staying with a friend and had fallen for another man. Nigel told his mother everything, confided in her.
Then, Abigail called him, begging to come back. She told Nigel she was pregnant and that the baby was his. Mary knew it was impossible, but she’d keep the secret for her son’s well-being. He took her back, and now, they were having a baby. Mary knew it wasn’t her son’s, but she had to keep it quiet from her husband. He knew nothing of the beast Abigail had become.
Mary smiled, answering her son’s question with a grin. ‘I’m simply fine.’
Edward walked into the living room, balancing a roast chicken in his left hand and a baking tray full of roast potatoes in the other.
‘Wow, Dad, this looks great.’ Nigel found himself envying his parents’ relationship, how they behaved together. He was determined to make things work with Abigail.
‘Just something I rustled up.’ Edward placed the plates on the table. ‘Tuck in, don’t wait for me.’ Edward moved back to the kitchen for more food.
As Mary sat watching Abigail shovel her food away, gulping wine, she wondered if she was pregnant at all. Her stomach was flat; she wore a tight blouse, and according to conversations with her son, there was no morning sickness.
She had to say something. ‘Don’t you think you should go easy?’
Edward heard the question as he sat. He reached forward, placing his hand on his wife’s arm. ‘Let’s not start anything, Mary. This is a simply joyous occasion.’ He turned to his son. ‘So, how’s work going?’
‘Oh, you know, working all the hours, never seeing the benefits. The usual.’ He placed a roast potato in his mouth but found himself uncomfortable with the sudden heat, wishing he could remove it and set it back on his fork but knowing it wasn’t good manners.
‘Oh yes, they’ve just come out of the oven,’ Edward commented. ‘Well, you’ll have to work all the hours now the baby’s on its way.’