So what if she had some fried chicken? he thinks furiously. What business is it of anyone’s what she does? He checks the time on his phone, figuring that Brenda will have walked the dogs by now and is probably heading back to the shop. He grabs all six copies of that particular paper, slips through the back room past the cracked sink and the tapestry curtain and out to the yard where the wheelie bins are.
He doesn’t go for the recycling bin because then Brenda might see. Instead, he squashes the newspapers into the black bin, the one for general household rubbish. He presses them down as far as they’ll go, then he rearranges the bulging bin bags to cover them completely before shutting the lid.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
JAMES
‘It’s not that bad,’ I tell her. ‘Honestly, Est. It’ll be fine …’
‘Dad, they’re everywhere,’ she cries. ‘Itisthat bad. It’s about as bad as it could possibly be!’
‘Don’t say that. It’ll be forgotten in a day or two and anyway, you weren’t doing anything wrong. You were only eating chicken.’
‘Fried chicken, Dad. Out of a bucket!’
She slumps, head in hands, at my kitchen table. I rest a hand on her shoulder, wishing I had some kind of manual so I’d know how to help her through this. It was so much easier when she was little and had grazed her knee or got a splinter in her finger. I can’t fix things with a plaster or my trusty tweezers now. So, what can I do? Nothing, it seems, because the unflattering pictures are out there in the world. I’m actually shocked that they’ve caused such a stir.
‘You weren’t breaking the law,’ I point out, tipping Esther’s cold, half-eaten spaghetti into the bin.
‘That’s not the point,’ she says with exaggerated patience, as if addressing a child. ‘It’ll still damage me. It’s all about perception and how I come across …’
‘But … you come across really well, don’t you?’ I suggest. ‘All those pictures you’ve done with Lauren … didn’t you say everyone loves them?’
‘Something like this cancels all that out. Like, you make one tiny mistake—’
‘Does it really, though?’ I ask. ‘Does it actually work like that?’
‘Yes!’ she says, head jerking up, eyes flashing.
‘I still can’t understand why it’s such a huge thing.’
‘Yes, because you’re a vet, Dad,’ she declares. ‘No one cares whatyoudo.’
‘Erm, I think they do actually,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood.
‘I don’t mean what you do with theirpets,’ she says quickly. ‘I mean, outside of work, in your private life.’
We fall silent as I start to wash up. It’s not that I’m being unsympathetic. I feel sorry for her, of course I do. But it strikes me that drama follows Esther like a cloud, and although she didn’t mean to belittle what I do, it still stings a bit. Plus, other people have worries and problems and bad days too, if only she’d realise it. Tony Lomax came in today, not even pretending that Bob needed attention but just for a chat as he was ‘passing by’, he said. He had a cup of tea with us and admitted that he’d had a scare the other night. Someone had tried to break into his flat. Bob had started barking in the night, and when Tony had gone through to the living room he’d spotted a man at the window, trying to force it open. Clearly, an elderly collie cross trying to defend his territory wasn’t going to deter him.
‘Call yourself a guard dog?’ Tony said, with mock seriousness. Bob had just gazed up at him and wagged his tail.
Then, after Tony’s visit, I euthanised a beloved nineteen-year-old Persian cat. Her owner – an elderly woman in a smart trouser suit – was brave and stoical with her mouthtrembling as she gave him one final kiss. ‘You’ve been my best friend, Milo,’ she murmured. ‘I’m going to miss you.’ Although I’ve been doing this job for twenty-six years, it still gets me sometimes. And today, spotting this, Casey made us tea and we sat in the tiny staffroom and had some of Tony’s shortbread. Stuff it, we decided. The next client could wait ten minutes. The world wouldn’t end.
And now, even though Esther’s claiming that her lifehasended – or her professional life that’s so image-dependent, at least – all I want is to sit on the sofa and watch some rubbish on TV.
You’ll soon be in Cornwall, I remind myself.Off-grid.I try to shrug off my worry that a bit of distance has crept between Lauren and me lately, because of course that’s normal. It’s been Christmas after all. We’ve been busy. Our lives are full.
‘All the more reason to be going away together,’ Casey remarked this afternoon with a smile. ‘Honestly, James, it’s a wonder you manage to see Lauren at all, the way Esther keeps you on toast. You’ve got to put yourself first sometimes!’ She meant it kindly so I didn’t mind. In her early thirties, Casey is a single mother of three, and is pulled in all kinds of directions. I’m sure she’s way stricter as a parent than I’ve ever been – but it’s a bit late to do things differently now.
‘My career’s completely over,’ Esther announces now.
‘Oh, come on, love,’ I say. ‘What can you do about it? I mean, how can you make things better?’
She throws out her arms. ‘I don’t know!’
‘Could you talk to someone? Get advice, I mean?’
‘There’s no one really,’ she says, sounding hopeless.
