Chapter Text
Carla put the stack of freshly laundered towels into the landing airing cupboard and pulled the door closed. She had finally got on top of the mountain of washing that had built up over the very lazy bank holiday she and the Swain’s had just enjoyed.
There had been a day trip to the beach for a bracing and very windy walk with lunch in a cosy pub after. The rest of the days had revolved around binge watching Netflix, orders from Just Eat, and a visit to Roy’s rolls, surreptitiously timed to avoid any familiar faces - Carla still didn’t have the patience or energy to deal with the likes of Sally Metcalfe or, God forbid, Tracy Barlow.
She was about to return downstairs when she noticed that the door to the spare room was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, Carla stood in the doorway with her arms folded and glanced around at the neatly made single bed, the pine wardrobe tucked into one corner and the chest of drawers sitting beneath the window.
She smiled fondly - it looked exactly the same as when she had first arrived at Casa Swain; warm, welcoming and completely spotless. And, these days, almost entirely unused.
As she pondered the duvet cover’s delicate floral pattern, her mind drifted back to a time when this room had more or less been her entire world.
Those first few weeks after leaving prison, when she'd tried to spend as little time in the house as humanly possible - mostly because she hadn't wanted to get under Lisa's feet, but also partly because she'd been terrified of getting too comfortable.
Back then she'd still been waiting for the catch, or for Lisa to decide she'd made a mistake. She spent the first few days expecting to be told she'd overstayed her welcome, so she'd made herself scarce in a bid to avoid anything approaching an imposition.
There had been long afternoons spent wandering aimlessly around Manchester with no particular destination in mind. Hours hidden away in libraries reading books she barely absorbed or long days mooching around the Trafford Centre simply because it was warm and busy and gave her somewhere to exist without having to think too hard.
With money being particularly tight she'd sit in cafés nursing a single cup of tea for an embarrassingly long time. Very occasionally she’d treat herself to a cheap cinema ticket and spend two hours staring at a screen while pretending her life wasn't an absolute disaster.
Then each evening she'd return here, to this room and its freshly washed sheets and borrowed library books stacked on the bedside table. To the strange and unfamiliar sensation of feeling safe.
As the weeks passed, though, she'd found herself spending less time upstairs. At some point she'd stopped retreating after dinner and started lingering downstairs instead - hovering by the kettle for one more cup of tea. Or perched in the armchair watching all manner of documentaries or reality TV shows depending on who was still up.
Before she realised she was actively looking for any excuse to remain in Lisa Swain's orbit for a little longer each day.
Looking back now, Carla suspected she'd been hopelessly in love long before she'd actually realised and admitted it to herself. The signs had all been there - she'd just been spectacularly thick. A fond smile tugged at her lips as she rolled her eyes at herself..
Now, several wonderful months after moving into Lisa's room permanently, the spare room had reverted to its original purpose. Or at least, it should have done - the problem was they never really had guests.
What they did have was Betsy.
Betsy, who possessed enough textbooks, sketchbooks, fabric samples, sewing patterns and half-finished university projects to comfortably occupy several shipping containers. In lieu of said containers, they were instead spread over nearly every available surface in the house.
The kitchen table was rarely visible beneath the chaos and the coffee table didn’t fare much better. Nor did Lisa’s little desk, or the armchair. Or, on one especially memorable occasion (aka Tie-Dye-gate), the bathtub. Carla still wasn't entirely sure how Betsy had gotten away with that one.
Whenever Lisa complained, Betsy would immediately insist she simply didn't have enough room in her bedroom. Whenever Betsy complained, Lisa would point out that if she tidied her bedroom more than once every leap year she'd discover she did, in fact, have plenty of room. The argument had become so routine that Carla could practically recite both sides by heart.
The final straw came one Thursday afternoon.
Carla had been making tea when Lisa arrived home from work and immediately caught her foot on Betsy's laptop charger.
The cable had stretched from one of the empty far kitchen sockets all the way across the floor to where the laptop sat on the table like some sort of highly specialised tripwire. Lisa windmilled spectacularly and would have hit the deck had it not been for Carla’s self proclaimed lightening (normal) reflexes.
It had taken every ounce of Carla’s willpower not to laugh as Lisa yanked the plug from the outlet, grabbed the laptop off the table and stomped upstairs to reprimand her daughter.
Her brainwave had happened a few hours later after dinner, when Betsy had disappeared upstairs to work on an assignment, leaving Carla and Lisa curled together on the sofa watching an episode of Vera.
Well, Lisa was watching Vera - Carla was mostly watching Lisa.
A well timed advert break gave her an opening and Carla shifted slightly, tucking herself more comfortably beneath Lisa's arm.
"Can I make a suggestion?" she asked lightly as snuggled closer.
Lisa narrowed her eyes, immediately suspicious. "That depends," she drawled slowly.
Carla ignored her and ploughed on.
"What if we turned the spare room into a study for Bets?"
"A study?" Lisa blinked, confused.
"Yeah." Carla sat up slightly, warming to the idea now she was saying it aloud. "We never use the room."
"We use it when Michelle visits." Lisa countered.
"Michelle has visited once in eight months for a total of two nights." Carla pointed out before continuing. "We could get rid of the wardrobe and drawers and replace the bed with one of those little sofa beds."
"Carla…" Lisa tried, and failed to interrupt her girlfriend, who was now on a roll.
"Then there'd be room for a desk and some proper storage shelving…what else? Maybe one of those pinboard things she can stick designs on? Oooh we could get her a mannequin!"
"Carla Connor!!" Lisa tried again, successfully this time.
Carla finally stopped. "Yes my love?" She asked sweetly, her face the picture of innocence.
Lisa sighed and ran a hand through her hair, but the fact she wasn't objecting to the idea itself told Carla everything she needed to know.
"What would all that cost?" She asked wearily.
"Ah. There she is." Carla grinned knowingly
"There who is?" Lisa was thoroughly confused.
"My little miser." Carla tickled her side gently.
A long-suffering sigh escaped the blonde as she realised they were about to embark on an increasingly familiar argument. Well…not an argument, more a disagreement really.
"You don't need to keep buying things for us." She huffed.
Carla rolled her eyes so hard she was surprised they didn't fall out. Lisa was like this when it came to anything with a price tag over the cost of a loaf of bread.
"Lisa..."
"I'm serious." The blonde warned.
"So am I!" Carla insisted.
"You've already paid for the trip over Christmas." She tried to reason.
"Yeah - which was brilliant!" Carla nudged her and waggled her eyebrows suggestively
Lisa pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation but Carla could tell she was trying not to smile.
"You're supposed to use your money on yourself"
"I am."
Lisa stared, somewhat confused.
"This makes me happy." Carla smiled sweetly.
"That's not…"
"It does."
Lisa groaned and Carla took the opportunity to shift even closer, which was some feat considering she was already more or less fused to her girlfriend’s side.
"I have more money than I know what to do with." She played idly with the hem of Lisa’s jumper.
"Still…"
"And I like treating my two favourite girls." Carla decided it was time for the big guns and deployed ‘The Pout’. Lisa's expression almost immediately softened despite herself.
It worked every single time.
"You’re bloody shameless you are." Lisa pointed a warning finger at her.
Carla widened her eyes, batted her eyelashes and smiled coyly. Lisa stared at her for a long moment before dropping her head back against the sofa cushions, utterly defeated.
"I hate when you do that." She groused.
Carla brightened instantly. “Is that a ‘yes’ then?”
Lisa laughed despite herself and shrugged helplessly.
“I s’pose it is.” She rolled her eyes when Carla beamed, delighting in her victory.
Because beneath all the teasing and the flirting and the ongoing disagreement about money, the truth was remarkably simple.
For most of her life Carla had never had the ability to make things easier for the people she loved.
Now she did.
And if she could give Betsy somewhere to spread out her projects without taking over the entire ground floor…
If she could save Lisa from being strangled by rogue laptop chargers…
Well.
That sounded like money very well spent.
_______________________________
Five weeks later, Carla stood in the middle of her old room and slowly turned in a full circle.
It was nearly finished and for a moment she simply took it all in. Eight months ago this had been her bedroom, now it barely resembled that space at all.
The walls had been re-painted a soft warm cream. Shelving stretched along one side, already half-filled with textbooks, sketchbooks and storage boxes. A large desk holding a sewing machine sat beneath the window, positioned to catch the afternoon light. Fabric samples, drawing equipment and neatly labelled folders waited to be arranged exactly where Carla wanted them.
The whole space looked warm, bright, and perfectly poised to foster creativity. Most notably it was tidy and organised - absolutely nothing like Betsy's actual working habits. Carla smiled to herself as she nudged the outrageously expensive ergonmic office chair more snugly under the desk.
The timing had worked perfectly - Betsy was currently in Paris on a week-long trip with several classmates. A trip which Carla had, very discreetly, funded.
Or so she liked to believe.
Lisa, meanwhile, hadn't been fooled for a single second.
Three weeks earlier Betsy had spent two days moping around the house after discovering she was six hundred pounds short of what she needed for her hotel.
Then, quite miraculously, she'd announced one day that she'd somehow found the money - apparently she'd been "saving assiduously."
Lisa had looked at her daughter, then at Carla.
Nobody had said a word but the expression on Lisa's face had clearly communicated that she believed this explanation roughly as much as she believed in flat earth conspiracies.
Still, she'd let it go. Mostly because she knew Carla would simply do it again regardless.
'Operation Betsy's Study' project followed shortly afterwards.
And if secretly funding city breaks irritated Lisa slightly, what came next had nearly finished her off entirely; three separate trips to IKEA, an Argos run, two separate B&Q’s (the first didn’t have the right colour cream paint in stock), and most traumatically of all, an expedition to John Lewis for some final “bits and bobs”.
Carla still remembered Lisa staring in horror at the price tag on the sofa bed she had finally decided on.
"Eighteen hundred pounds?!" She’d choked out incredulously.
"It has memory foam Lisa."
"Carla..."
"And it fits my aesthetic vision for the room." She made a vague sweeping hand gesture before marching off to find a sales assistant.
Lisa had looked heavenward as though appealing directly to God for patience. God, apparently, had declined to get involved and thus the furniture had duly been purchased and added to the pile of flatpacks already accumulated in the back of the small van Lisa had rented for the day.
All that had remained was assembly, which was where Lisa came in. Or rather, where Lisa was voluntold.
The existing bedroom furniture was earmarked for charity and a removal van from Oxfam arrived on the Tuesday morning, driven by a man called Desmond who looked approximately ninety-seven years old. Carla had watched nervously as he and Lisa manoeuvred the various items down stairs.
Poor Desmoand spent most of the morning wheezing dramatically and by lunchtime Carla was genuinely considering calling him an ambulance.
Although to be fair to the poor man Lisa wasn't exactly helping matters.
For reasons Carla still couldn't adequately explain, her girlfriend had chosen to undertake the entire operation wearing a sports bra and grey sweatpants. The view of her flexing muscles was so impressive that Desmond had nearly walked directly into a hedge at one point.
Carla understood completely.
She herself had spent most of the morning finding excuses to stand very still and just admire Lisa carrying heavy objects. She was, after all, only human.
As was poor Desmond.
Once the room had been cleared and Desmond had been resuscitated by three full cups of tea, (Carla had put her foot down when he’d asked for a fourth and literally shooed him out of the house) the actual construction had begun.
It lasted two whole days. Forty-eight long hours of flat-pack furniture, allen keys and missing screws.
Through it all Lisa had worked tirelessly, building desks, bookshelves, storage units - you name it. At one point she'd rage-assembled an entire filing cabinet without speaking for nearly forty minutes.
Carla had wisely left her alone for that one.
At the end of day two the results had been spectacular and a weary Lisa had been spectacularly rewarded with a bubble bath followed by a full body massage and no less than four orgasms.
Now on the last day of the project only the finishing touches remained - the styling and “zhuzh-ing”, as Carla delighted in calling it.
"You can watch," She had informed Lisa firmly that morning. "But I won't be taking any design suggestions."
"But I…." Lisa’s protests were silenced by a single raised eyebrow.
Thankfully fate had intervened and Lisa had been summoned into work at short notice, leaving Carla free to complete the room exactly as she pleased. Which was a blessing for everyone as Lisa's decorating instincts largely consisted of putting things where they fit and declaring victory.
Carla adjusted a framed fashion illustration slightly to the left, then another millimetre.
Stepping back, she nodded approvingly.
Perfect.
Betsy was going to lose her mind when she saw it all - the thought of it had her grinning happily.
She was reaching for the final decorative cushion when the doorbell rang.
Carla frowned. They weren’t expecting anyone and for a moment she considered ignoring it.
But then the bell rang again more insistently this time.
Deciding it was probably one of Bety’s numerous weekly online shopping deliveries, she headed downstairs. Reaching the front door she pulled it open without much thought.
_______________________________
The woman standing on the doorstep wasn't anyone she immediately recognised.
She was around the same height as Carla and looked to be somewhere in her early or mid-forties. Her brunette hair was styled in a stylish pixie cut and she was casually dressed in jeans, a cream jumper and grey wool coat.
“Hello” the woman greeted, a slight undercurrent of confusion to her otherwise neutral tone.
“Can I help you?” Carla smiled politely.
The woman's eyes immediately flicked past her into the house.
“Is Lisa home?” The stranger asked. Something about the question prickled instantly at the back of Carla's neck.
“I’m afraid she’s at work” She replied cautiously.
The woman frowned, and for a moment she simply stared at Carla, assessing. Her gaze lingering just a fraction too long.
Carla didn't like it one bit.
“Right,” the woman said eventually. An uneasy silence settled between them.
“Can I tell her who called?” Carla asked, the politeness forced this time around.
The woman hesitated a moment before answering.
“Tell her Becky called.” The woman replied, the barest hint of a smirk on her lips.
Carla froze, every muscle in her body seeming to lock solid. She felt her stomach plummet to her feet as she blinked dazedly at the woman in front of her.
Becky.
The woman she'd heard about dozens of times but never met.
The woman who'd blown Lisa and Betsy's lives apart then disappeared to the other side of the world and never looked back.
Carla looked at her a little closer now - every photograph she'd ever seen had shown longer hair and a younger face. But now that she knew who she was, she couldn't unsee it.
Her stomach turned.
Meanwhile Becky was staring at her with growing suspicion.
“And you are?” There was something sharp and probing beneath the question. Carla recognised it immediately - she'd spent years dealing with people trying to establish their territory.
“I’m Carla.” She replied, tilting her chin in a silent challenge.
Becky's expression changed almost imperceptibly, a tiny tightening around the mouth. She was smart enough to draw the obvious conclusion and Carla saw the moment it dawned on Becky that the stranger standing in the doorway of her former house probably wasn’t the cleaner.
The atmosphere cooled significantly.
Carla folded her arms. “What do you want, Becky?” She all but snapped.
The woman visibly bristled at her tone.
“I'd like to speak to Lisa.”
“Well. Like I said. She's at work.” Carla took a step back and reached towards the door.
A muscle jumped in Becky's jaw.
“Fine.” She adjusted her grip on the suitcase handle. “What about Betsy?”
That was all it took - something snapped inside Carla so rapidly and violently that she didn't even feel it happen.
One second she was standing there trying to remain civil, the next she was furious.
“Excuse me?” She scoffed.
Becky frowned.
'I said-'
‘I heard what you said.” The temperature in Carla's voice could have frozen boiling water. For the first time Becky looked genuinely surprised.
“You have some bloody nerve.” Carla all but snarled.
'I beg your pard…”
“Turning up here after everything you put them through.”
Becky stiffened immediately and Carla watched her face as she recalculated her approach. She seemed to finally settle on defensive, as though she were somehow the injured party.
'You don't know anything about the situation.'
Carla barked out a short disbelieving laugh.
“Don't I?”
“No!”
“I've watched Lisa have nightmares.”
Becky's expression flickered.
'I've watched Betsy break down over a miserable fifty dollar note.'
Another flinch.
“I've watched both of them spend years picking up the pieces.”
“That's not-”
“And now you just show up?” Carla stepped forward. “With a suitcase?”
The woman's chin lifted, arrogance and entitlement pouring off her in waves, not an ounce of shame in sight. It made Carla even more furious, if that were possible.
“You know what?” She stepped back inside the house. “Do one!”
Becky stared at her. “Excuse me?” She had the gall to sound affronted.
“You heard me.”
“I'm Betsy's mother.” Becky protested.
“Funny that.” Carla smiled without humour. “Mothers generally stick around.'
The silence that followed was explosive. Becky went to take a step forward but before she could move Carla slammed the door in her face. Hard.
The sound echoed through the hallway.
For several seconds she simply stood there breathing heavily, her heart hammering and hands shaking as white hot fury coursed through her veins.
How dare she?
How dare she just turn up and ask for Betsy like she'd only popped out for milk? And how dare she look at Carla as though she were the intruder?
Slowly though, another feeling crept in beneath the anger, colder and far less welcome - fear.
Carla stared unblinkingly at the closed front door.
Becky was back in Manchester.
And for the first time since she'd moved into this house, an ugly thought slithered into the corner of her mind.
Where exactly did that leave her?