This was their last day.
Quinn was still asleep; sprawled over the bed, a thin sheet covering his naked body. He always tried to cover himself up after sex, pulling the sheets up over his chest, something that she had never quite understood. It was only now, in the depths of his slumber that his inhibitions seemed to lift. He shifted in his sleep, the sheet slipping down to reveal broad chest and long legs.
Nina didn't want to wake him. Her bags were packed. She could leave for the airport any time she wanted. But it was going to be hard to say goodbye … even for a little while.
One Year Earlier
Depression the doctor told her. It was all Nina could do not to laugh in his face. Of course she was depressed! She had every right to be. Nina left the surgery with a prescription for antidepressants and an appointment to see a counsellor.
'Well?' her mother asked as Nina got into the car.
Nina glanced at Michaela and Rickie in the back seat. They seemed to be playing some incomprehensible game that involved a lot of giggling. The screaming would start soon, she reasoned. It usually did.
'It's nothing,' Nina said.
'You just need to pull yourself together. Find yourself a nice man.'
That seemed to be her mother's answer to everything.
The divorce should have brought some kind of closure, Nina realised but she just felt numb. She had done for what felt like the longest time. Her job should have been going well but it was becoming more and more difficult to drag herself out of bed in the morning. It was hard enough to look after her own children, never mind anyone else's.
Still, she was keeping their heads above water and that was the important thing. They still had the house … even though her mother was contributing heavily to the mortgage. Something else that Nina supposed she should be grateful for but she seemed to be incapable of feeling anything right now.
They picked up her prescription on the way home. Nina had to stand quietly in line at the pharmacy whilst her children ran riot and her mother shouted at them. It wasn't her fault that Michaela suddenly decided to turn into a horse and start galloping. Nina blocked it all out; the sound of her mother's voice, the glares from the other people in the shop. They probably thought she was a bad mother. Maybe they were right?
There was a postcard waiting when she got home. Nina smiled as she picked it up. Somehow a message from Quinn seemed to add a touch of reality to what she felt was becoming an increasingly surreal existence.
Nina, I've met someone. Her name's Christianne…
The card fell from her fingers. She didn't read the rest of it.
'Nina?' she heard her mother ask.
'I'm tired. Would you mind looking after the kids for a while?'
'Are you sure you're alright, love?'
'Yes … yes … I just need some sleep.'
Nina left her mother standing in the hall, ignored her children's disappointed expressions and climbed the stairs to bed. Stripping off her clothes, she climbed between the cool sheets. She slipped two of the pills into her mouth and swallowed. She could only hope that this would all look better in the morning.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Nina stripped the sodden sheets from the bed. Rickie stood by watching her, pulling at his wet pyjamas.
'Sorry Mummy,' he said.
She scooped him up in her arms and carried him through to the bathroom. This wasn't the first time. It wasn't the tenth time. Every night for the past month Nina had been faced with foul smelling sheets and an apologetic child. She'd expected this when Rick had left but not now. Not now. Not when Nina thought her life was finally getting itself back into some kind of order.
The bed was remade. Her son was dressed in clean, warm pyjamas. She'd had to buy him new pairs, just to make sure he had enough. Placing him back in his bed, she fluffed his hair. So like Rick. It tore her heart.
'Story?' he said.
'Mrs. Braithwaite will tell you a story.'
He sighed and his little face fell.
'She's not as good as you, Mummy. She doesn't do the voices.'
So she sat and told him a story. It was a made up one about a guinea pig driving a land rover. Michaela had woken up and was listening intently. She clapped her hands when Nina had finished,
'Again, Mummy.'
'Mummy has to go out, sweetheart.'
'Mrs. Braithwaite smells.' Rickie said.
He had also suddenly developed an aversion to their babysitter.
'If you stay quiet and pretend to be asleep then she won't come up here and you won't have to smell her.'
Rickie seemed to think about that for a moment. He was a very logical child.
'Alright, Mummy.'
Nina tucked her children back into bed and kissed them both. Trudging back down the stairs, she wondered if she could actually be bothered to go out that night. It seemed like too much effort. It would be far easier to stay here, read her children another bedtime story and spend the evening in front of the television with a glass of wine.
James seemed nice or at least as nice as an online profile could be. They had exchanged a few e-mails. A divorced accountant … which was a touch ironic but Nina didn't like to dwell on that fact.
Online dating? She had to be mad, didn't she?
The doorbell rang. Expecting Mrs. Braithwaite Nina went to answer it. Only when she saw James standing outside did she realise that she hadn't changed her clothes. They were damp with her son's urine.
'Oh God… God I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Give me a minute.'
She ran back up the stairs. Her carefully selected outfit was ruined. Nina did her best, but even when she had different clothes on, she could still smell a trace of ammonia. First date and she stunk of wee. She sat on her bed, her hand covering her mouth to stop herself crying. Mrs. Braithwaite had arrived. Nina could hear her talking away downstairs. Resting on her dressing table she caught a glimpse of gold.
Standing, Nina pulled her skirt straight. She scraped her hair back from her face and secured it with an elastic band. Even in the dim light she could see the streaks of grey marring the blonde. Nina knew that she couldn't possibly live up to his expectations. She wasn't the happy, laughing woman from the photos she had submitted.
James was still waiting in the hall, his hand clutched around a barely adequate bunch of flowers. Nina offered him a nervous smile. The one he returned was just as uncertain. Somehow it made her feel a little better.
'Everything alright, dear?' Mrs. Braithwaite asked.
'Fashion crisis,' she said.
/\/\/\/\/\/
Sometimes Nina wished that Quinn would stop sending her cards. Weeks, even months went by but sooner or later another she would find herself staggering down the stairs in the morning to find another one on the doormat. Always the same non-descript picture of paradise; never a postmark that she could recognise.
'I wish you could see this place. It's all we ever spoke of… dreamed of…'
She remembered the nights when they'd done nothing but talk. Childish dreams about running away together. Quinn had lived that dream whilst Nina had stayed behind and married Rick.
It had been over a year since she'd last heard her husband's voice. He hadn't tried to get in touch. At least she didn't think he had. Sometimes the phone rang late at night but when she ran to answer it the only reply she received was the dial tone. Nina couldn't work out whether she cared or not. His betrayal was still too raw. Every time she saw pictures of Lottie's little boy on Facebook, it twisted the knife in her gut a little further. He was the spitting image of his father … and Rick would probably never even know. Somehow that made the whole thing worse.
'I'm worried about my dad. I never told anyone, but I think he's sick. If you can, if you think of it, could you check on him? I know it's a lot to ask but it's killing me not knowing.'
Nina tucked the postcard into her pocket and knocked on the peeling blue paint. It seemed to take forever before the door opened a crack and a pair of suspicious eyes met hers.
When had Mr. Paterson got old, she wondered. The thick, dark, curly hair that she remembered was now thin and grey. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he looked her up and down. He was trying to work out who she was.
'You were my Quinn's girl?' he said, sucking on his roll up.
Nina nodded, wincing at his use of the past tense. She tried to smile.
'That was a long time ago, Mr. Paterson.'
'Do you want to come in and wait? He'll be home soon. He promised to mend my satellite dish.'
Nina glanced at her watch. The kids were with their grandmother but she was supposed to be meeting James for dinner.
She followed Mr. Paterson into the house. Nina could see unopened post piled up behind the door, several of the familiar postcards. What she took to be a pattern on the carpet was actually dust. She followed Mr. Paterson through to the kitchen. There were opened cans on the side but no crockery in sight. Nina had the feeling that he'd been eating his meals straight out of the tin.
'Do you want some tea?' he asked.
He shuffled around the kitchen, his slippers flapping against the cracked linoleum. Painful to watch but Nina didn't offer to help.
'Milk and sugar?'
'Please.'
He loaded up her mug with both and ushered her through to the front room. It was tiny, dark and seemed to be full of furniture; a sofa, two chairs, a low table, a portable television balance precariously on a pile of books. Mr Paterson switched on the electric fire filling the air with burnt dust. Sitting down, he pulled a blanket around his thin, tired shoulders. Perched on the edge of the sofa, Nina took a sip of her drink. It was too strong, too sweet. She didn't really want to finish it but there was nowhere to rest her mug. Every available surface was covered in old newspapers, books, overflowing ashtrays.
Mr. Paterson's hands trembled as he attempted to roll himself another cigarette. Shreds of tobacco already littered the floor around his chair. Nina almost offered to do it for him. Eventually he gave up. He placed his yellow fingered hand over hers.
'He'll be back soon. He promised to mend my satellite dish.'
For a moment his bitten, white spotted nails dug into her flesh. Nina was so damn angry. How could Quinn do this to his dad? To someone that he proclaimed to love? How could any of them? She couldn't seem to escape from it. She didn't know exactly what had happened out in Majorca, or why they had all decided to stay out there but she hated them for it.
'When was the last time you heard from Quinn?' she ventured.
Mr Paterson didn't seem to understand.
'When he said that he'd fix my satellite dish.'
The conversation was going in circles. Nina took a gulp of her tepid tea.
'Maybe I'll come back another time Mr. Paterson?' she suggested.
'Do you want some biscuits? I've got those ones Quinn likes. The jammy ones.'
'No it's fine. I should really …'
'I'll go and get them.'
Nina knew that she couldn't stay. As soon as Mr. Paterson left the room she set her mug down carefully on the most stable pile of books. She felt like a coward but this man's dementia was just one more thing that she couldn't cope with.
'I have to go, Mr. Paterson.'
Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet house. Mr Paterson appeared at the door, a plate of jammy dodgers clutched precariously in his hand.
'Are you sure, love? Quinn won't be long.'
'I'm sorry. I'll be back. Right now I can't… I just… '
The wind was whipping leaves into her face as she ran down the path back to her car. Nina felt like a coward. With all of the problems she had, why was she even here? It was a waste of time, a waste of petrol, a waste... But that was why Quinn has asked her. He knew that she'd never walk away.
'Fuck you, Quinn Paterson,' she whispered as she wiped the tears from her face and started the car.