I have written a novella called, Separation. The elevator pitch is rather stark:
Motherhood has stolen something from Kate. Something she desperately wants back. But what will she have to give up in exchange? And will anyone ever forgive her for doing so? Men walk out on their families all the time. Any old reason will do. No harm done. But if a woman does the same, she’s a monster. No exceptions. But Kate isn't a monster... right?
I swear it's not all doom and gloom. Set in and around Lucca and Florence in Italy, big themes are explored beside the pool, in jazz bars, in a Tuscan villa, between the sheets and on the streets of some of the most beautiful towns in the world.
Anyway, here's the opening scene of Separation:
Prologue
-Put the window back up.
-No.
-Cecilia, do as you’re told.
-No.
-It’s cold.
-It isn’t cold.
-Put it up.
-No. I need fresh air. It’s stuffy. It’s awful in here.
I pressed the button to raise her window. But it just came down again when she pressed her button.
-Cecilia!
-Mum!
She sat there in the passenger seat with her feet on the floor. Like a person. I preferred it when the girls had to ride in the back.
-It smells disgusting in here. Like wet dog. Like, I don’t know. Sweat. It’s funky. I’m going to be sick.
I pressed the button again. The window rose. Cecilia turned in her seat to look at me. One foot under her. I kept my eyes on the road. A mile went by. She wasn’t sick.
-I hate you.
-Because I wouldn’t let you have the window down?
-No. Because of everything. I hate you.
She was twelve. I hated my mother at twelve. This wasn’t the first time Cecilia had told me she hated me. I hated her a little bit, too.
The window came down. I let her win. I knew why the car smelt funky.
Twelve. Twelve. She looked like I did when I was that age. My mother saw the same mannerisms. I just saw it starting all over again. My life lived again in different circumstances. She was angry like I was. But my parents were already divorced by the time I was twelve. I lived with my mother in a tiny flat in Bermondsey. Cecilia had nothing to be angry about. Nothing she knew about.
-Can you turn this stupid music off?
-Put your headphones in.
-You confiscated them.
-Then you’ll just have to endure the music. Think of it as penance.
-As what?
-Punishment.
-I haven’t done anything wrong.
-You just told your mother you hate her. That is a sin.
-Who says?
It was cold. I stopped at a traffic light and turned to grab my cardigan from the back seat. It was scrunched up, pillow like, against the door behind Cecilia’s seat. I had to stretch to reach it. I was halfway out of my seat. Bloody Range Rovers. I caught the cardigan with the tips of my fingers and pulled it towards me. While twisting back into my seat, I saw it. On the floor behind Cecilia’s seat.
I placed my cardigan in my lap and drove off as the light changed. I glanced back to make sure it was what I thought it was.
-I saw you smoking outside dance.
-Well, don’t tell your dad.
-Why shouldn’t I?
-Because I will tell him about the messages on your phone.
-Well, I’ll tell him you were talking and laughing with Mr Harris again in the carpark. Jennifer wasn’t even at dance today.
-Then I will slip rat poison into your risotto.
-Well, I’ll throw your hair dryer into the bath while you’re in it.
-I’ll push you out of the car as we’re going along the motorway.
-I’ll push you in front of a bus.
-I’ll sneak into your room while you’re sleeping and put a pillow over your head until you’re dead.
-I hate you.
-I hate you more.
She smiled. The little freak. In anger, she once told me she would creep into my room to stick a needle in my ear while I slept. It was disconcerting to say the least. But since then we’ve made a thing of it. A strange way for mother and daughter to communicate but then, we were still talking.
Her window rose quietly. A minute or so passed.
-It still smells in here.
I pressed the button and the window dropped.
-But it’s cold.
I tossed the cardigan into her lap before thinking it through.
She tried to put it on. Then took it off and pressed it to her nose.
-This smells. It’s disgusting.
She threw it back onto my lap. I put down all of the windows.
-What are you doing?
-You said it smells. I’m airing the car.
The wind was cold and it blew her hair around her face.
-Why are you always so weird? No one else’s mother is like you.
-How do you know?
-I’ve met them. They’re not like you. They’re not...
-Not what?
-I don’t know.
-Yes, you do.
She paused for a breath, pushed her long brown hair back off her face, then pulled it into a ponytail which she held in her right hand and looked out the window. We were almost home.
-What makes me so different?
-I don’t want to talk about it.
I skipped the next two songs on my playlist and settled for George Michael.
-Why are you dressed like that?
-I’ve been to the gym.
-No. I mean why are you dressed like that? You don’t need to dress like that to go to the gym. You’re too old to dress like that. None of the other mothers dress like that. That’s what I mean. And why do you talk to Mr Harris? The other mothers talk among themselves. They go to coffee. You don’t ever go to coffee. You don’t do anything with any of the mothers at school. I’m always hearing about things they have all done that we weren’t invited to. Why are you like that? That’s what I mean.
I was wearing black leggings and sports bra.
-I do have coffee with the other mothers. And wear this because I have looked after myself.
-Gross.
-I don’t see why.
-Don’t talk to Mr Harris. Talk to the other mothers. Okay?
-Mr Harris makes me laugh. The mothers are...
-What?
-Boring. So boring.
-Be bored then. For me.
It was very cold in the wind. I closed the windows in the back.
-Jennifer wasn’t even at dance. Why was Mr Harris there?
-He’s a man.
-What’s that supposed to mean?
-He probably forgot she had a dental appointment, or was home sick, or something. That’s what men are like.
-Dad’s not.
-Well, your dad is a saint.
-What does that make you?
-What do you mean?
-You and Mr Harris were sharing that cigarette. I saw you.
-He only had one.
-He touched your arm.
-What are you saying?
-Why can’t you be like other mothers?
-I don’t want to be like the other fucking mothers!
Apart from a few small differences I was exactly like the other mothers. Just as bored. Just as boring. That was the problem. I turned on the heater. We were on the high street. There was a free space out front of the local Indian. There was no way I was making dinner. I stopped the car. Reversed into the space.
-I’m sorry, beautiful. You’re twelve. You’re a child. You can’t know anything. You just have to put up with being twelve. It’s hard, I know. I was twelve once, too. Now, can you go in and order?
I handed her my card. She got out without saying anything. She knew what she had to do, we always ordered the same thing. I watched her cross the pavement in her leotard, leggings and flats and enter the restaurant. Then I turned and looked on the floor behind the front passenger seat. That fucking idiot. I opened the glove box and took out a handful of tissues. I picked it up in a tissue and then wrapped it tightly in three more tissues. I couldn’t think what to do with it. I didn’t want it in my handbag. I couldn’t put it in the glove box. I stuffed it under my seat. Then I lifted my cardigan to my nose. It smelt like him. Nothing was ever simple.
My phone buzzed. A single emoji from him. Of course he’s smiling.
I scrolled through our recent conversations. There was nothing in them to suggest what just happened was possible. Two happily married people who barely know one another keeping the tone light and friendly. But things were different now, weren’t they? I scrolled through again. Was there anything in them? Any sign of flirtation? Anything improper? I wanted to delete the whole conversation. But our chats were so innocent. They were evidence of platonic relations. Though that last smiling emoji looked different now. It stood out. I deleted that.
I felt absolutely nothing.
Ten minutes in the car with a bolshie pre-teen was all it took to wipe the slate clean.
It hadn’t happened. How easy it was to put behind you. Like a bad meeting with a client. You move on. It hadn’t happened. There was nothing to say it had happened. There won’t be. I reached down and pushed the tissues further under the seat. There was something in the way. Cars weren’t like they used to be. I used to be able to hide half my life under the driver’s seat.
I hadn’t noticed her crossing the pavement. The door opened and my heart skipped a beat. I dropped my phone in my lap and straightened.
-It still stinks in here. I know what it is now. I know exactly what it smells like. It smells like that builder who did our kitchen. Geoffrey. You remember?
He was always so sweaty. It stinks like him. Was Geoffrey in your car?
-All I can smell is dinner. Card?
She handed me my card and I started the car.
-Was Mr Harris in the car?
-Of course not!
-Someone was. A big smelly man.
-No one has been in the car.
-Liar.
-What?
-Liar.
-Don’t you dare call me a liar.
-You’re a liar. I’ve heard you lie to dad. You’ve always lied to me and Gracie. You lied at school to Mrs Gupta when you said you couldn’t help at the charity dance.
-Cecilia, be careful.
-You lie to your work all the time. I hear you. You’re a liar. I don’t believe you. I never believe you. You had a man in this car. I’m not stupid. I can smell him. I’m not a little girl any more. I hate-
-Shut up.
-Liar!
I wanted to slap her. I had never slapped her before. I swore I never would. I wanted so dearly to slap her.
-Get out.
-What?
-Get out. Get out of my car. Get out.
-No!
-I’m not kidding, Cecilia, get out.
-No.
I reached across her and opened her door.
-Get out.
-No!
-Get out!
I pushed her out of the car. It was quite a drop for her. She didn’t resist. She was too confused. There were tears in her eyes. I didn’t care. I was too angry. The kind of anger that overtakes all else. She stepped out of the way as I pulled the door shut. I checked my mirrors and then sped off down the high street towards home.
That was the moment I first considered going away.
I was in the kitchen pulling out plates and opening the tubs Indian before Larry came downstairs. He was closely followed by Gracie who came in from the front lounge. The smell of dinner calling them both forth.
-Where’s Cecilia?
-What?
-Didn’t you pick Cecilia up from dance?
-Of course I did.
-Where is she?
-Can you get the cutlery, Gracie?
Larry walked to the bottom of the stairs.
-Cecilia, come down. Dinner’s ready.
-She’s not up there.
-Then where is she?
-We had a fight. I left her on the high street.
-You what?
-I left her there. She was saying horrible things. I had had enough and I left her there. She can walk home.
Larry was putting on his jacket.
-But it’s late. Have you lost your mind? You don’t leave a twelve year old on the high street at seven thirty at night.
-It’s hardly night. It’s an hour before it gets really dark.
-She’s in her dance gear. What if some man follows her? Or she gets pulled into a car? Christ Kate!
-She’s twelve, she walks to the shops all the time.
-It’s so irresponsible.
-Sorry I’m not as fucking perfect as you are Larry!
Gracie stared at me in disbelief. Larry did, too. There was a likeness there between them. Normally she looked like me. Like Cecilia did. My girls. But her look of surprise was all Larry.
-The cutlery, Gracie.
-Kate! If you won’t get her, I will.
-I’m not stopping you. Off you pop. Go save the day.
-I can’t believe you left her on the high street, it’s-
-What?
-Unconscionable!
-It’s two streets away. My mother once left me at home alone for three days when I was ten. She’ll live.
Larry sighed and then picked up his keys and left. He could never answer any of my childhood sob stories. His childhood had been like that of his kids, perfect.
Five minutes later the front door opened and Larry and Cecilia entered.
-She was running as fast as her legs could take her when I found her. Almost home. But she won’t tell me what the fight was about.
-Mother and daughter stuff. Nothing to worry about. Isn’t that right Cecilia?
Cecilia was white as a ghost. Her eyes filled with tears. She nodded. I’d given her a fright. I had never done anything like that before. She had lived a very sheltered life. We had ensured that nothing ever bad happened. But it hadn’t made a difference. She was my girl. Angry and spiteful and lonely despite our best efforts. I thought I was this way because of my shitty childhood. Turns out, it’s just who I am.
Motherhood has stolen something from Kate. Something she desperately wants back. But what will she have to give up in exchange? And will anyone ever forgive her for doing so? Men walk out on their families all the time. Any old reason will do. No harm done. But if a woman does the same, she’s a monster. No exceptions. But Kate isn't a monster... right?
I swear it's not all doom and gloom. Set in and around Lucca and Florence in Italy, big themes are explored beside the pool, in jazz bars, in a Tuscan villa, between the sheets and on the streets of some of the most beautiful towns in the world.
Anyway, here's the opening scene of Separation:
Prologue
-Put the window back up.
-No.
-Cecilia, do as you’re told.
-No.
-It’s cold.
-It isn’t cold.
-Put it up.
-No. I need fresh air. It’s stuffy. It’s awful in here.
I pressed the button to raise her window. But it just came down again when she pressed her button.
-Cecilia!
-Mum!
She sat there in the passenger seat with her feet on the floor. Like a person. I preferred it when the girls had to ride in the back.
-It smells disgusting in here. Like wet dog. Like, I don’t know. Sweat. It’s funky. I’m going to be sick.
I pressed the button again. The window rose. Cecilia turned in her seat to look at me. One foot under her. I kept my eyes on the road. A mile went by. She wasn’t sick.
-I hate you.
-Because I wouldn’t let you have the window down?
-No. Because of everything. I hate you.
She was twelve. I hated my mother at twelve. This wasn’t the first time Cecilia had told me she hated me. I hated her a little bit, too.
The window came down. I let her win. I knew why the car smelt funky.
Twelve. Twelve. She looked like I did when I was that age. My mother saw the same mannerisms. I just saw it starting all over again. My life lived again in different circumstances. She was angry like I was. But my parents were already divorced by the time I was twelve. I lived with my mother in a tiny flat in Bermondsey. Cecilia had nothing to be angry about. Nothing she knew about.
-Can you turn this stupid music off?
-Put your headphones in.
-You confiscated them.
-Then you’ll just have to endure the music. Think of it as penance.
-As what?
-Punishment.
-I haven’t done anything wrong.
-You just told your mother you hate her. That is a sin.
-Who says?
It was cold. I stopped at a traffic light and turned to grab my cardigan from the back seat. It was scrunched up, pillow like, against the door behind Cecilia’s seat. I had to stretch to reach it. I was halfway out of my seat. Bloody Range Rovers. I caught the cardigan with the tips of my fingers and pulled it towards me. While twisting back into my seat, I saw it. On the floor behind Cecilia’s seat.
I placed my cardigan in my lap and drove off as the light changed. I glanced back to make sure it was what I thought it was.
-I saw you smoking outside dance.
-Well, don’t tell your dad.
-Why shouldn’t I?
-Because I will tell him about the messages on your phone.
-Well, I’ll tell him you were talking and laughing with Mr Harris again in the carpark. Jennifer wasn’t even at dance today.
-Then I will slip rat poison into your risotto.
-Well, I’ll throw your hair dryer into the bath while you’re in it.
-I’ll push you out of the car as we’re going along the motorway.
-I’ll push you in front of a bus.
-I’ll sneak into your room while you’re sleeping and put a pillow over your head until you’re dead.
-I hate you.
-I hate you more.
She smiled. The little freak. In anger, she once told me she would creep into my room to stick a needle in my ear while I slept. It was disconcerting to say the least. But since then we’ve made a thing of it. A strange way for mother and daughter to communicate but then, we were still talking.
Her window rose quietly. A minute or so passed.
-It still smells in here.
I pressed the button and the window dropped.
-But it’s cold.
I tossed the cardigan into her lap before thinking it through.
She tried to put it on. Then took it off and pressed it to her nose.
-This smells. It’s disgusting.
She threw it back onto my lap. I put down all of the windows.
-What are you doing?
-You said it smells. I’m airing the car.
The wind was cold and it blew her hair around her face.
-Why are you always so weird? No one else’s mother is like you.
-How do you know?
-I’ve met them. They’re not like you. They’re not...
-Not what?
-I don’t know.
-Yes, you do.
She paused for a breath, pushed her long brown hair back off her face, then pulled it into a ponytail which she held in her right hand and looked out the window. We were almost home.
-What makes me so different?
-I don’t want to talk about it.
I skipped the next two songs on my playlist and settled for George Michael.
-Why are you dressed like that?
-I’ve been to the gym.
-No. I mean why are you dressed like that? You don’t need to dress like that to go to the gym. You’re too old to dress like that. None of the other mothers dress like that. That’s what I mean. And why do you talk to Mr Harris? The other mothers talk among themselves. They go to coffee. You don’t ever go to coffee. You don’t do anything with any of the mothers at school. I’m always hearing about things they have all done that we weren’t invited to. Why are you like that? That’s what I mean.
I was wearing black leggings and sports bra.
-I do have coffee with the other mothers. And wear this because I have looked after myself.
-Gross.
-I don’t see why.
-Don’t talk to Mr Harris. Talk to the other mothers. Okay?
-Mr Harris makes me laugh. The mothers are...
-What?
-Boring. So boring.
-Be bored then. For me.
It was very cold in the wind. I closed the windows in the back.
-Jennifer wasn’t even at dance. Why was Mr Harris there?
-He’s a man.
-What’s that supposed to mean?
-He probably forgot she had a dental appointment, or was home sick, or something. That’s what men are like.
-Dad’s not.
-Well, your dad is a saint.
-What does that make you?
-What do you mean?
-You and Mr Harris were sharing that cigarette. I saw you.
-He only had one.
-He touched your arm.
-What are you saying?
-Why can’t you be like other mothers?
-I don’t want to be like the other fucking mothers!
Apart from a few small differences I was exactly like the other mothers. Just as bored. Just as boring. That was the problem. I turned on the heater. We were on the high street. There was a free space out front of the local Indian. There was no way I was making dinner. I stopped the car. Reversed into the space.
-I’m sorry, beautiful. You’re twelve. You’re a child. You can’t know anything. You just have to put up with being twelve. It’s hard, I know. I was twelve once, too. Now, can you go in and order?
I handed her my card. She got out without saying anything. She knew what she had to do, we always ordered the same thing. I watched her cross the pavement in her leotard, leggings and flats and enter the restaurant. Then I turned and looked on the floor behind the front passenger seat. That fucking idiot. I opened the glove box and took out a handful of tissues. I picked it up in a tissue and then wrapped it tightly in three more tissues. I couldn’t think what to do with it. I didn’t want it in my handbag. I couldn’t put it in the glove box. I stuffed it under my seat. Then I lifted my cardigan to my nose. It smelt like him. Nothing was ever simple.
My phone buzzed. A single emoji from him. Of course he’s smiling.
I scrolled through our recent conversations. There was nothing in them to suggest what just happened was possible. Two happily married people who barely know one another keeping the tone light and friendly. But things were different now, weren’t they? I scrolled through again. Was there anything in them? Any sign of flirtation? Anything improper? I wanted to delete the whole conversation. But our chats were so innocent. They were evidence of platonic relations. Though that last smiling emoji looked different now. It stood out. I deleted that.
I felt absolutely nothing.
Ten minutes in the car with a bolshie pre-teen was all it took to wipe the slate clean.
It hadn’t happened. How easy it was to put behind you. Like a bad meeting with a client. You move on. It hadn’t happened. There was nothing to say it had happened. There won’t be. I reached down and pushed the tissues further under the seat. There was something in the way. Cars weren’t like they used to be. I used to be able to hide half my life under the driver’s seat.
I hadn’t noticed her crossing the pavement. The door opened and my heart skipped a beat. I dropped my phone in my lap and straightened.
-It still stinks in here. I know what it is now. I know exactly what it smells like. It smells like that builder who did our kitchen. Geoffrey. You remember?
He was always so sweaty. It stinks like him. Was Geoffrey in your car?
-All I can smell is dinner. Card?
She handed me my card and I started the car.
-Was Mr Harris in the car?
-Of course not!
-Someone was. A big smelly man.
-No one has been in the car.
-Liar.
-What?
-Liar.
-Don’t you dare call me a liar.
-You’re a liar. I’ve heard you lie to dad. You’ve always lied to me and Gracie. You lied at school to Mrs Gupta when you said you couldn’t help at the charity dance.
-Cecilia, be careful.
-You lie to your work all the time. I hear you. You’re a liar. I don’t believe you. I never believe you. You had a man in this car. I’m not stupid. I can smell him. I’m not a little girl any more. I hate-
-Shut up.
-Liar!
I wanted to slap her. I had never slapped her before. I swore I never would. I wanted so dearly to slap her.
-Get out.
-What?
-Get out. Get out of my car. Get out.
-No!
-I’m not kidding, Cecilia, get out.
-No.
I reached across her and opened her door.
-Get out.
-No!
-Get out!
I pushed her out of the car. It was quite a drop for her. She didn’t resist. She was too confused. There were tears in her eyes. I didn’t care. I was too angry. The kind of anger that overtakes all else. She stepped out of the way as I pulled the door shut. I checked my mirrors and then sped off down the high street towards home.
That was the moment I first considered going away.
I was in the kitchen pulling out plates and opening the tubs Indian before Larry came downstairs. He was closely followed by Gracie who came in from the front lounge. The smell of dinner calling them both forth.
-Where’s Cecilia?
-What?
-Didn’t you pick Cecilia up from dance?
-Of course I did.
-Where is she?
-Can you get the cutlery, Gracie?
Larry walked to the bottom of the stairs.
-Cecilia, come down. Dinner’s ready.
-She’s not up there.
-Then where is she?
-We had a fight. I left her on the high street.
-You what?
-I left her there. She was saying horrible things. I had had enough and I left her there. She can walk home.
Larry was putting on his jacket.
-But it’s late. Have you lost your mind? You don’t leave a twelve year old on the high street at seven thirty at night.
-It’s hardly night. It’s an hour before it gets really dark.
-She’s in her dance gear. What if some man follows her? Or she gets pulled into a car? Christ Kate!
-She’s twelve, she walks to the shops all the time.
-It’s so irresponsible.
-Sorry I’m not as fucking perfect as you are Larry!
Gracie stared at me in disbelief. Larry did, too. There was a likeness there between them. Normally she looked like me. Like Cecilia did. My girls. But her look of surprise was all Larry.
-The cutlery, Gracie.
-Kate! If you won’t get her, I will.
-I’m not stopping you. Off you pop. Go save the day.
-I can’t believe you left her on the high street, it’s-
-What?
-Unconscionable!
-It’s two streets away. My mother once left me at home alone for three days when I was ten. She’ll live.
Larry sighed and then picked up his keys and left. He could never answer any of my childhood sob stories. His childhood had been like that of his kids, perfect.
Five minutes later the front door opened and Larry and Cecilia entered.
-She was running as fast as her legs could take her when I found her. Almost home. But she won’t tell me what the fight was about.
-Mother and daughter stuff. Nothing to worry about. Isn’t that right Cecilia?
Cecilia was white as a ghost. Her eyes filled with tears. She nodded. I’d given her a fright. I had never done anything like that before. She had lived a very sheltered life. We had ensured that nothing ever bad happened. But it hadn’t made a difference. She was my girl. Angry and spiteful and lonely despite our best efforts. I thought I was this way because of my shitty childhood. Turns out, it’s just who I am.
About the author
John Purcell is a book industry professional with over twenty years experience and the author of five published works of fiction. The Secret Lives of Emma trilogy published by Penguin Random House and The Lessons and The Girl on the Page published by 4th Estate.
