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  CHOICES

  An exclusive short story for members of

  The AJ Campbell Readers Club

  Copyright © AJ Campbell

  The author asserts her moral rights to this work.

  No reproduction in any form without the express permission of the author.

  Warning signs presented themselves from the start. Flashing like the neon displays in Piccadilly Circus, they couldn’t have advertised things more clearly.

  Anthony Sharpe stood tall, well over six feet, with ginger hair poking out of a tweed flat cap. Abbie, a mere waif, noticed him clock her as soon as she trudged into the draughty church basement.

  ‘Welcome, everyone. My name is Paul, and I’ll be taking tonight’s session,’ the meeting’s facilitator began, stroking his long grey goatee. He nodded at each attendee to ensure he had their attention. ‘There’re twelve of us here this evening.’ He bounced a bundle of leaflets about self-help and recovery in his lap. ‘Which one of you wants to start for me?’

  Abbie scratched her wrists, listening to everyone exchange stories of journeys on and off their unsteady wagons. Throughout the evening they all drank endless amounts of lukewarm coffee. She found herself mesmerised by the scrapes and clunks of the cups and saucers, as though the participants were trying to compose a tune: an ‘Everybody Hurts’ kind of tune. The day had been so bloody long, and they all appeared to have had enough of life.

  When Paul signalled to Abbie that it was her turn, she shook her head and nudged the scraggy-looking man hunched beside her who smelled like he needed a good wash.

  She’d pledged her attendance to her sister. She’d never promised her participation.

  Abbie listened instead, wondering what the hell she was doing wasting time amongst this bleak group of no-hopers.

  ‘My name’s Clare. This is my second time here…’

  ‘Bob’s the name, and I’ve been sober for twenty days…’

  ‘I was vomiting blood. The doctor said, “I’m sorry to tell you, Cyril, that it’s not good news.” Even being diagnosed with liver disease didn’t stop me…’

  She didn’t belong here.

  Did she?

  She should’ve known, should’ve ignored the fleeting glimpses Anthony Sharpe persistently directed her way throughout the two-hour ordeal as the circle of broken souls stammered and twitched, fidgeted and bit fingernails raw. On the way out, he trapped her exit with an extended arm. ‘Hey, Abbie, isn’t it?’ he asked cheerfully.

  She blew her fringe off her face. ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Tony. Tony Sharpe. Fancy a bite to eat?’ His face brimmed with schoolboy innocence: eyebrows raised, cheeky grin and eyes twinkling with the confidence that she would say yes.

  ‘I need to get home. My sister’s babysitting. I said I’d go straight back after the meeting.’

  ‘No worries. I adore kids. What you got?’

  ‘Two. A boy and a girl.’

  ‘Awesome, I’d love to meet them. What’re they called?’

  ‘Sam and Jess.’

  ‘Cute. Cute.’

  He flirted with her every step to the station, luring her with promises of dinner at some not-to-be-missed restaurant he knew uptown. It didn’t take him long to persuade her to accompany him on the Victoria line north instead of taking her one stop south. A trip during which he wooed her with comical chat-up lines and funny jokes as he prodded her arm and intermittently caressed her knee. At Green Park, they changed for the dash to Piccadilly Circus. ‘One quick drink,’ she said as he pulled her up the stairs into the bustle of the masses.

  They joined the buzzing crowds which swept them along like they were still on the underground escalator. ‘What about dinner?’ he asked.

  ‘Another time. Let’s stick to a drink today.’

  ‘Whatever you say. A drink it is, then.’

  ‘And it’d better be somewhere nice.’

  He flipped off his cap and gave a bow. ‘Only the best for the best.’

  Clutching her arm, he guided her through the sensory overload of the Circus. Should she be here? She glanced up as his pale face splattered with freckles and told herself not to be so stupid. One drink couldn’t hurt, could it?

  They ended up in a narrow side street, flanked by bars and pubs, punters spilling out onto the cobbled pavement. Glasses clinked, and conversation buzzed with the yah-it’s-nearly-the-weekend spirit of a typical Thursday night. He extended his arm around her. A frisson of excitement flipped her stomach as his hand massaged her shoulder. ‘Come meet my mates,’ he said, nodding towards an alleyway. It led down the side of a pub which appeared more upmarket than the type of place she pictured friends of his to frequent. Sweat trickled down her back. She removed her coat, her excitement fading to apprehension. Should she be scared? She tied her coat around the strap of her canvas bag and sank her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

  ‘Come, come, they don’t bite. I promise.’ He prised a stubborn hand from her pocket and pulled her down the dark alley. Loud music and animated chatter mitigated her unease as they wove their way through a crowded pub garden to a group of men and women huddled under outdoor heaters. Tony introduced her, and the group nodded their hellos through smoke from cigarettes and dubious smelling roll-ups.

  ‘What you having?’ a pin-striped suited man asked, smirking at Tony. Abbie concentrated on trying to ask for a coke. But despite her valiant efforts, ‘A gin and tonic, please,’ slipped from her mouth as easy as if she were ordering a bag of Walkers Salt & Vinegar.

  ‘Where did you two meet, then?’ Suited Man asked Abbie as he lowered a tray of drinks onto the slatted table.

  Abbie opened her mouth, but Tony dived in first. ‘On the Tube. How romantic is that?’ He kissed her cheek, and Suited Man winked at Tony.

  Several more subtle blinks and winks were exchanged as one G&T increased to seven. Or was it eight? She couldn’t be sure. He likes me, and so do his friends, she thought; and with every sip, she inched deeper into the comforting folds of Tony’s flannel shirt.

  What seemed like an hour or so later but was in fact four, Abbie staggered into her lounge, clinging to Tony’s arm like a desperate girlfriend. ‘Soz I’m late.’

  Nat was perched cross-armed on the edge of the sofa, bouncing her legs and clenching her jaw. The smell of warm butter and sugar lingered from earlier. The kids loved it when Aunty made them popcorn. Like they did when she played their games and watched their TV

  programmes with them and everything else she did with them.

  ‘Only by three hours. Where the–?’

  ‘Meet my friend Tony.’ Abbie hiccupped. She turned to the man on her arm. ‘It is Tony, isn’t it?’

  Nat snatched her bag from the floor. ‘What a complete waste of time. Shall I take the kids home with me?’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Damn you, Abbie Saunders,’ Nat spat and stormed out of the flat.

  ‘Your friend’s not too welcoming, eh?’ Tony threw a paper bag containing two portions of saveloy and chips onto the table. ‘I’m not hungry anymore.’ He folded her into his arms. ‘Not for food, anyway.’

  She smiled up at him as he stroked her cheek. ‘Come on, let’s not waste time.’ He scooped her up. ‘Show us your bedroom. Please say your kid’s not a light sleeper. What’s its name again?’

  Tears smeared her face when she woke to find an empty space instead of the Tony her dreams had teased her with all night long.

  Why, oh, why did she do this to herself, time and time again?

  Her downhill passage had spiralled out of control of late, her days spent in a daze of blackness in which she could find no light. Why hadn’t she already learned from the countless men who had darkened her existence over the last few years? Ray-Ban Ray, with the slicked-back hair and extensive collection of designer sunglasses. Scrawny Simon, a bricklayer from Denmark Hill, forever with a cigarette bobbing from the corner of his mouth.

  And another Tony, who, at every opportune moment, paraded the angel of death tattooed across his pecs. A herd of disturbed individuals unique in their different ways, but with one distinct attribute in common – the disparaging manner in which they treated Abbie.

  Sam often asked, ‘Why’re you crying again?’ or said, ‘I promise to be a bigger, better boy for you tomorrow, Mummy.’

  Jess displayed less tolerance than her older brother. As Abbie staggered through the hours, she often found herself shrouded in shame after receiving yet another of her daughter’s demands for better behaviour. ‘Grown-up girls don’t cry, Mummy. You must stop.’

  Damn him. Abbie discarded the covers and crawled out of bed, humiliation spasming her stomach as she searched for her dressing gown. Eventually she found it, buried under a mound of clothes awaiting a trip to the launderette. She shivered into the hallway muttering to herself. The bloody heating must be on the blink… again. She must call the landlord…

  again. Ever since moving in, something was always wrong with something.

  In the lounge, she found Jess under a blanket on the sofa with the remote control dangling from her skinny fingers. She was wearing the faded Minnie Mouse pyjamas Nat had brought her last Christmas – the cuffs so chewed they had more holes than material. Cartoons shrieked from the TV, and a bowl of Sugar Puffs remained untouched on the floor.

  ‘Where’s Sam?’ Abbie asked.

  ‘School; he left ages ago,’ Jess said, her voice croaky.

  ‘Why didn’t you go with him?’ br />
  ‘Don’t feel well.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My body hurts.’

  ‘You need food.’ Abbie picked up the bowl of cereal. ‘Here, eat this.’

  ‘There isn’t any milk.’

  ‘I’ll get some this afternoon.’

  Jess shivered. ‘The heater isn’t working again. Sam tried it before school.’

  ‘I’ll sort it later.’

  ‘You said that last time, Mummy. And the time before.’

  Abbie lowered herself onto the sofa and stroked her daughter’s hair. ‘I will today. I really promise, my darling.’ She leaned forward and kissed the smooth skin of Jess’s washed-out cheeks.

  ‘Your breath smells funny, Mummy.’

  Abbie drifted over to the kitchen area and propped herself up against the sink. She gazed out of the window. Threatening clouds scattered the midday sky, and raindrops splattered across the glass – another dark and dismal day. Sighing heavily, she began opening each cupboard and searching, before bitterly slamming each door in turn. Kneeling on the cold tiled floor, she tore the plinth from under the cabinets and stretched her arm towards the

  back. She knew it. There it was. She grabbed the bottle and slid it towards her, only to find the damn thing empty. It wasn’t her day. She opened the bin and dropped it in. A cup of tea would have to do. Black, too, because there was no milk. Full of remorse, she took her sad, dark cuppa back to bed.

  And there she saw it on the floor.

  Why hadn’t she noticed it before? A handwritten note, on silky paper. Her stomach flipped as she unfolded it.

  What a great night. Fancy doing it again sometime? I’ll call you. Tx It was a thriller ride like something out of an amusement park. A Spinball Whizzer of ups and downs and twists and turns that thrilled her nights. Hot dates in and out of the bedroom underpinned by flowers and chocolates and small gifts which made her crave him even more.

  ‘You want to be careful,’ Nat said one morning when she arrived to take the children to school – as she did most days.

  ‘Of what?’ Abbie asked. Tony had only just left, and she wouldn’t see him until tomorrow. He would text and call, of course, but he worked a shift pattern, he’d told her, so they had to keep their dates to alternate days.

  Nat ushered Sam and Jess out of the front door and spun around, wagging a finger like a nagging mother. ‘You’re going to have the Social round here again if you’re not careful.’ She nodded towards the kids. ‘They deserve better than this. Much better.’

  Those words sang in Abbie’s head all day like an annoying earworm. Nat was right, as usual. Her kids did deserve more. Today, after school, she would take them to the park – a promise she had every intention of keeping until an unexpected call around three. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you. Meet me in town tonight. Our special place. Seven o’clock.’

  ‘Please, please, please,’ Abbie begged Nat, her hands held together below her chin, as if she were praying. The sisters were standing outside the school gates, drizzle frizzing their hair.

  ‘Not tonight, I’m busy.’

  ‘Please, I beg you.’

  ‘Abbs, you still don’t know what this man does for a living.’

  ‘He’s a businessman. I told you that.’

  ‘What kind of a businessman?’

  ‘Despatch. Something to do with parcels. Anyway, you can’t talk. Ted’s no saint.’

  ‘Ted’s sorted himself out now. Like you need to. This Tony’s too old for you.’

  ‘Ten years is nothing. Anyway, he treats me well.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Better than any other guy ever has.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Nat shrugged. ‘There’s something about him.’

  ‘Please be happy for me.’

  Nat sighed heavily. ‘What about the church? When’re you going back there?’

  ‘I don’t need to. I’m fine. Tony’s helping me.’

  Nat arched her eyebrow and stared at Abbie. The killer Nat stare. One her sister rarely used, but when she did, Abbie knew to change the subject quickly. Otherwise, she was dead.

  ‘Look, can you sit the kids tonight or not?’ Abbie asked, her tone pleading.

  ‘What time will you be back?’

  ‘By ten. I promise. I won’t let you down.’

  Ever since they were young, where Abbie was concerned, Nat’s arm had invariably behaved as if it were double-jointed. Always so easy to twist in whatever direction she wanted. ‘If you’re later than that, I’ll never babysit again. I mean it this time.’

  Abbie stepped over and gave her sister a big hug.

  Their special place was an old-school Italian where the portions were generous and the house red decent enough. The tables could have done with being more spaced out, but Abbie wasn’t complaining. Tony was already waiting when she arrived, on his third bottle of Bud and munching breadsticks like a squirrel. He stood to pull out her chair, his lips brushing the skin of her neck as he gently pushed her chair under the table.

  ‘How’s my beauty today, then?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I’ve booked us a holiday,’ he said, his eyes as wide as his confident grin.

  ‘A holiday?’

  He nodded. ‘You need it. Paris. Only three days but it’ll be fun. You’ll have to get your kids looked after.’

  After she rescued it from the shock of his unexpected invitation, her voice emerged hoarse and shaky. ‘I’ll have to ask Nat.’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘But I don’t have a passport. I’ve never been abroad.’

  ‘Pas de problème. I’ll sort it. I have something else for you.’

  ‘Something else?’

  Tony clicked his fingers. The waitress faked a smile, muttering something about the minimum wage as she approached their table. ‘Bottle of Prosecco and two glasses,’ Tony ordered.

  Abbie straightened her spine and giggled nervously. ‘Prosecco? I’ve never seen you drink Prosecco before.’

  ‘You will tonight. We’re celebrating.’

  She felt like a child on Christmas Eve. ‘I’ve not been on holiday for seventeen years.

  When I was a kid, my parents took Nat and me to Devon.’

  The waitress returned, armed with the bottle he’d requested. He removed the cork and poured two glasses, sliding one across the table to Abbie. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a small white box and reached for Abbie’s hand. With his little finger wrapped around hers, he lifted the lid of the velvet box.

  She gasped.

  It was real, wasn’t it? It must be. It sparkled like the real deal.

  Only once had she ever seen a real diamond. Three months after she had turned thirteen. Four months after they had buried her mother. When her father had presented their next door neighbour with a ring which had glistened like a dying star.

  ‘It’s only cubic zirconia, but I’m saving up for a kosher one. I promise you, Abbs. I’m going to get some money soon. Let’s keep it between ourselves to start with, shall we? Just you and me. Until I can get you a proper one. It’ll be soon, I promise.’ He slipped the ring on her finger, which fitted as perfectly as his love in her heart.

  The three days in paradise weren’t the utopia Abbie had eagerly anticipated. She arrived with a suitcase of clothes and bags of excitement at St Pancras one Tuesday afternoon, but with the outbound train cancelled, it was ill-fated from the start. Operational issues, the voice over the tannoy informed them. ‘Serves you right for booking us cheap shitty seats. It never pays,’

  she heard the lady in the queue snarl to her partner. Four hours passed before they could

  board another train. Their first evening in Paris, actually spent in London, wasted in the local Wetherspoons where Abbie watched Tony knock back pints while she nursed a coke.