Read by Linda Shannon (second story in podcast here, at 16:50)
It’s Sean’s sister, Jackie, who tells me he’s back. She drops it casually into the conversation when I bump into her at the market.
‘Just until Monday,’ she says. ‘It’s Mum’s seventy-fifth.’
She looks at me funny when she says it, waiting to see how I react. I nod, purse my lips as if I’m not that interested. I’ve always liked Jackie, she’s a good laugh, but she’s got a streak of something in her that gets a kick out of seeing people squirm, so I’ve never asked her anything about Sean, never let her know I want to know.
‘We’ll be down The Dog on Saturday night,’ Jackie says. ‘You should come. Sean would love to see you.’
My stomach lurches. I want to ask if he’s said so, but I just shrug.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘I’ll see what Dan’s doing.’
I walk home thinking it over, thinking what to wear, what I’ll say to him when I see him again. I wish I’d kept up with the exercise; I’ve let myself go a bit. And I’ve got old too, all dried-up and brittle, like those starfish they sell to the tourists. My hair still looks good though. It’s my one vanity, my one indulgence. I have it cut and coloured every six weeks at a posh salon in the city. It’s always been long and thick. ‘Like a mermaid’s,’ Sean said once. He always loved my hair. Dan likes it too. Mum regularly asks when I’m going to cut it off. ‘You’re not getting any younger,’ she says. ‘You don’t want to look like mutton dressed as lamb.’ I nod and say I’ll think about it, but I have no intention of cutting it.
At home, I tidy up, then go and look through my wardrobe. Everything looks so drab. I look drab too, I think. It’s this place that does it. The sea air ruins everything it touches, eats away at it, hollows it out. The clock on the church tower stopped last year, corroded by the salt. Sometimes I feel like it’s corroded me too, aged me by degrees, gradually brought me to a grinding halt, welded here forever.
Tom’s at football practice and Jack’s at his mate’s, so I open my laptop and look Sean up again. He’s barely changed. Still in good shape, tanned now from all that sun. He lives by the sea too, but in Valencia. ‘Valencia,’ I say, trying it out. It sounds like a beautiful flower, but it feels sneering, spiteful in my mouth. His photos are all taken on the beach there, in dizzying sunlight, all in shades of blue, yellow and orange, so different to our beach, where there are only gradations of grey and brown and dirty white. In them, he’s always laughing.
From downstairs, I hear the front door open.
‘Mich?’ Dan calls. ‘You home?’
‘Up here,’ I shout, and I close the laptop.
He appears in the doorway, smiling. ‘All right?’ he says. Even after twenty-one years he still always seems pleased to see me when he gets in.
I smile back. ‘Yeah.’
He kisses me and we stand with our arms round each other. I feel bad for thinking about Sean.
‘Jackie asked if I want to go for a drink on Saturday night,’ I say.
‘Yeah, you should go,’ Dan says, smiling.
‘But it’s Valentine’s Day.’
He shrugs. ‘That’s okay,’ and I feel bad again.
‘Well, I might,’ I say.
*
It’s ages since I’ve been back. Must be … twenty-five years. Christ. It’s weird being here again, seeing all the old haunts. Nothing much changes, and yet, it feels totally different. Maybe it’s me that’s changed. I didn’t want to come back. It was only because Mum begged me to, said she wasn’t getting any younger and she’d like one last birthday with all her children round her. I could hardly refuse her, could I?
Jackie’s insisting on taking me out. I’d rather stay in to be honest, but she’s never been one to take no for an answer.
‘I could ask Michelle to come down?’ she says.
My stomach flips over, but I shrug, ‘Whatever.’ It’s best to seem non-committal with Jackie; she likes a bit of drama, always has.
‘Okay, I will then,’ she says, eyeing me.
We walk into town together so I can get Mum a present while Jackie heads off to the market. I leave her at the steps on the front and meander round the row of arty shops that sell touristy stuff with seagulls and lighthouses on. I pick up a dried starfish, its arms all curled up. I feel sad for the poor thing, ending up here like this, and I put it down again. I can’t imagine Mum wanting any of this tat, so I walk up to the high street where the chain stores are. There are hearts and flowers in all the windows. Inside, rows of men stand, anxiously fingering Valentine cards. I eventually find a box of chocolates without a heart on it for Mum, then head back to the house.
As I cross the road, I look towards the marketplace, and I see Jackie talking to someone. My heart nearly stops. It’s Michelle, I’m sure of it. She’s got her back to me, and she’s bundled up in a long, padded coat and hat, but her hair, her beautiful hair, falls down her back like it always did. I stand watching, willing her to turn around so I can see her face, but she pats Jackie’s shoulder and walks away, straight ahead, until she’s lost in the crowd of shoppers. I think about going after her but decide against it. Instead, I turn and walk slowly back to Mum’s.
When I get in, I go up to the guestroom and look at Facebook again, flick through the old pictures of Michelle smiling on her wedding day, Michelle beaming down at her new-born son, Michelle standing at the top of a mountain with her husband’s arm round her shoulders. I should stop looking, I know I should. I should move on, but how can I, when she’s all I ever wanted?
I wonder if she ever thinks about me, ever searches me up on Facebook. Probably not. I don’t put much on there anyway, just a few photos of me and the dog on the beach, a few of the women I’ve seen over the years, though they’re more for Mum’s benefit than anything. I know she worries about me finding someone I want to be with. But then, I already have. It’s just that she doesn’t want me.
*
I’ve bought a new top. It looked great in the changing room, but now, in the harsh light of the bathroom, I’m not so sure. It looks tacky, but also mumsy, like something a desperate older woman might wear. Mutton dressed as lamb, you might say. Thanks, Mum, I think. I peel it off and pull on an old jumper. There’s no point in pretending. He might as well see me for what I am: a fat old frump in a dead-end life. I could cry.
I go downstairs. ‘You look gorgeous!’ Dan says, taking me in his arms.
‘Right.’
'You do!’ he insists, ‘you’re beautiful, Mich.’
I bury my face in his chest and try to swallow back the tears.
‘You know I love you, don’t you?’ he says, stroking my hair.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘Is everything all right, babe? You seem a bit sad.’
I try to laugh. ‘No, I’m fine. I’m just tired, that’s all.’
‘Can I do anything to help? Washing up or hoovering or something?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s fine, don’t worry.’
He stands looking down at me for a minute. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Just go and enjoy yourself tonight, and I’ll have a nice cup of tea ready for you when you get back.’
‘Rock and roll,’ I say.
He laughs and kisses me, and I feel a sudden surge of love for him. What’s wrong with me? I’m so lucky to have Dan, to be so loved. I look around at our messy, cosy little house, at the photos of us and the boys on the walls, at all the things we’ve bought together to make it ours. Sean’s just a dream, a fantasy; he’d never be interested in someone like me, not any more. But Dan’s here and he’s real and he loves me, really loves me.
‘Tell you what, I think I’ll give it a miss,’ I say.
Dan frowns. ‘Huh?’
‘I’d rather stay in with you.’
‘Really? Great! I’ll get the kettle on, shall I? The boys are playing Fortnite so we could watch that new romcom on Netflix, it’s supposed to be shit!’
I pretend to laugh, and he goes off to the kitchen. I turn away in case he comes back in and catches me crying, then tap a message to Jackie into my phone:
‘Sorry, can’t make it tonight after all.’
(c) Donna Tracy, 2023
Donna Tracy lives in Norwich. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Mslexia, Litro, Ellipsis Zine, Dear Damsels and After Dinner Conversation. This is her second story for Liars' League.
Linda Shannon taught drama and Theatre Studies, having an MA in Text and Performance from RADA/King’s. She’s performed at the Minack in Cornwall & appeared on the main house’s stage at the RSC in Stratford on Avon. She coordinates a Shakespeare Study group for the U3A. Recently, Linda was Mrs Rooney, the main character in a little-known Beckett radio play called All That Fall for Tower Theatre.
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