CHAPTER FOUR
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I mutter ironically as I let Hmyself back into the house. It’s even colder than when I left it, just half an hour ago. Or perhaps it’s the dark, bottomless silence in the high-ceilinged hallway that makes it feel as though the temperature has plummeted even further. Briskly, I turn on all the lights and head for the kitchen, switching on the radio and peering halfheartedly into the fridge.
“Excellent. Half a loaf and two wrinkly tomatoes. Dinner for one, madam?” Maybe I should follow Beth’s lead and let the local pizza company take care of dinner, I think, eyeing the meager end-of-week supplies. Unpinning a menu from the bulletin board, I remember how Craig always used to like family meals around the kitchen table, whereas Nick and I have become far more informal since it’s been just the two of us, eating with our feet up in the living room as we chat about our day.
We haven’t even done that lately, I realize: Nick has taken to disappearing to his room, plate in hand and Marzipan at his side, leaving me to enjoy a solitary meal in front of whatever happens to be on TV. I’m not in the mood for banal talent shows or cooking programs this evening, though. Or a film, as Beth suggested. I feel restless and edgy, and even though I know it’s because I’m wondering how Nick’s doing, I project my worry on to the faulty boiler. I need it fixed before Nick comes home; his asthma flares up in the cold.
Returning to the bulletin board, I grab the list of Very Useful People, as Nick, in a spiky scrawl, has titled the mini directory I’ve been compiling since Craig left and I took over sole responsibility for house maintenance. Before we married, I’d been single for eight years and became pretty handy with a screwdriver. But Craig loved DIY, saying it made a nice change from sitting behind a desk. Besides, no one ever devoted the same care and attention to detail as he did, he used to complain. I was happy to leave him to it, mostly spending any free evenings with Katie, either at her house or at mine, or occasionally at the cinema.
The memory draws a sigh. Over the last year, I may have topped up my list of useful household contacts, but my social diary remains empty. I glare at the sheet of numbers in my hand. “I wonder if Arthur would be up for dinner and a movie,” I tease myself, thinking of the dour, fifty-something plumber as I wander back to the living room.
Keeping my coat on, I curl up on the sofa with my phone, setting the pizza menu down on the coffee table, laughing out loud as my eye is caught by the ecstatic cartoon face Nick has doodled next to his favorite, all-the-toppings extravaganza. “I like what I like,” he always says when I roll my eyes at the clashing flavors. “Why choose, when you can have it all?” I remember Craig agreeing with him. And suddenly the cold, empty room fills with the ghosts of a happy family life that died a year ago.
* * *
“How did rehearsals go?” I looked up from my laptop as Nick bounded into the living room. “Sorry I couldn’t be there tonight, love. Laura asked me to do the late shift. She’s driving up to her parents in Shropshire with Bessie for the weekend.”
“Doesn’t matter. We just practiced the same bit you saw yesterday.”
“Ah, the death scene.” I felt a little shiver; Nick was far too convincing in the role of a tortured lover flinging himself tragically over the edge of a cliff. “Everything go OK?”
“Yeah. Except I whacked my cheek on Imogen’s shoulder when I landed.”
“Oh dear.” I smiled at his indignant frown. “Was she all right?”
“She laughed her head off, Mum! Said I’m supposed to act like a swan, not a dead duck. I only fell funny because she refused to hold my hand,” Nick protested.
“Really? That doesn’t sound like Immy.” She was older than Nick, and a kind girl.
Nick shrugged, then grinned. “I had cheese and onion chips during the break. She said they smelled rank. Worse than my sneakers.”
I laughed. “Well, that’ll teach you to snack before dinner. Which I see you two pizza junkies have taken care of. Very healthy after a two-hour dance class. Not.” I raised my eyebrows at the greasy takeaway box in Craig’s hands as he entered the room, still dressed in his suit, having left work early to collect Nick and take him to his dance class.
“It’s Friday,” he said. “It’s traditional.” He gave me one of those long, direct looks that I was never quite sure was serious or teasing, until he smiled.
“I’m starving,” Nick declared. “Can we eat now?” He didn’t wait for a response, grabbing the box from Craig and carrying it triumphantly aloft into the kitchen. “I put my clothes in the washing machine, Mum!” he called out over his shoulder.
“By that he means it’s tangled up in a pile on the utility-room floor,” Craig huffed, but he was still smiling as he came to sit next to me on the sofa.
“Naturally.” I smiled back. “How was your day?”
“Ended better than it began. I love watching Nick dance. I should do it more often.”
“I’m sure he’d like that. And it would give me a chance to pick up with my book club again,” I suggested eagerly, only realizing how much I’d missed it as I saw a glimmer of possibility to rejoin the group of mainly single parents I’d known since Nick was in nursery. It had been a wrench when I’d had to give up our get-togethers, albeit for a good reason: the extra dance tuition Craig set up for Nick after we were married. The daily lifts to and from his classes mostly fell to me, as Craig worked longer hours and had to commute into the city.
“Retail therapy with Katie not quite as stimulating, hey?” he deadpanned.
“I love hanging out with her. But, yes, she’s not a reader.” I laughed, thinking of my energetic friend, who was never happier than when blitzing an antiques fair or shopping mall.
“You don’t seem to be getting very far with that.” Craig nodded at the report I’d been typing, which still hadn’t progressed much beyond the first paragraph. “Need any help?”
I sighed. “Thanks, but it can wait till Monday. I’m too tired to think straight now.” I yawned and then stretched as Craig closed the laptop, gently taking it from me and setting it on the coffee table. “Thank God it’s the weekend.” I rested my head on his shoulder as he sat back against the cushions, hooking his arm comfortably around me.
“You need more time out, love. In fact, I was going to suggest—how about I take over taxi duties for a while? Kill two birds with one stone. Give you a break and me more time with Nick. I could switch things round at work so I can leave a bit earlier.”
“Really?” I looked at him in surprise. Craig was rigorously dedicated to his career—he was conscientious about everything he did, but especially his work.
“Yes, I . . . I think I’ve finally had a breakthrough with Nick. I want to build on it.”
“A breakthrough?” I watched Craig take off his glasses and reach into his pocket for a handkerchief. After two years of marriage, I was getting used to his quiet, understated ways. He didn’t like to show his emotions, but I could see plenty flitting across his face now.
“Yes. He called me Dad for the first time tonight. Instead of Craig, I mean.” His hands covered his face as he put his glasses back on, but not before I noticed the glint in his eyes.
“He . . . what? Wow.” I’d never insisted Nick call Craig by anything other than his first name, hoping that gradually, in his own time, he would feel comfortable thinking of his stepfather as Dad. Likewise, I knew he alternated between our two surnames, sticking with Blake at school, but sometimes using Craig’s name: Brookes. We’d talked about changing it officially, but Nick had said he wouldn’t feel like himself if he did that.
“I know. It knocked me for six, too.”
“I bet.” I smiled, deliberately hiding a sudden pang of something that was not quite jealousy, but almost. I was happy for Craig—for Nick, too. It was a good thing that the initially tentative bond between them was growing stronger. But at some deep, primeval level I also wondered if each step Nick took closer to his stepdad carried him a tiny bit further away fr
om me. “That’s great. Honestly. I couldn’t be happier,” I said, pulling myself together.
“Me too. I closed the Arkwright deal yesterday. The buzz didn’t even come close.”
“And he said it just like that? Out of the blue?” It was Craig’s moment; instinctively I felt I shouldn’t pry. But I couldn’t help myself; I was eager to hear details, wishing I’d been there to witness what felt like a huge turning point in our little family.
“Yeah. While we were waiting for the pizza. He came over and gave me this big hug and said, ‘Thanks, Dad.’”
“Ah, right.” Pre-Craig, money had been tight, and Nick still got ridiculously excited about treats like takeout. Perhaps that explained his affectionate impulse.
“Awesome, hey?” Craig said, then laughed as he caught my eye, both of us recognizing how comical Nick’s favorite word sounded on adult lips—especially Craig’s.
“It’s wonderful,” I said sincerely. “And so are you.”
I leaned over to kiss his smooth cheek, feeling butterflies in my stomach as he turned to kiss me back with surprising passion. Bonding with Nick had obviously put him in a good mood, and I loved that he cared about him so much. I loved Craig. Life was good. I was confident it was only going to get better.
* * *
“Hi, darling. How’s it going?” I can hear the breathlessness in my own voice. I’ve been staring at the phone for the last ten minutes, waiting to call Nick, feeling rather flat after spending the evening alone with my memories. Thinking about the past completely erased my appetite, too; in the end, I made do with toast rather than ordering pizza, zoning out in front of a box set after arranging for Arthur to come and fix the boiler tomorrow afternoon.
“Fine,” he says. That word again.
“Good. That’s great, darling. I, um, just wanted to say goodnight, really.” Suddenly I feel like I need to give a reason for calling him. “Are you having fun?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure? Everything’s OK?” He sounds different—not unhappy, but . . . subdued. Or is it just that I’m not used to speaking to him on the phone? The intensity of only being able to hear and not see him makes me acutely aware of every tiny inflection in his voice.
“Totally. Sorry, Mum. Gotta go.”
“Hang on, love.” I start to panic, wondering if there’s something he’s not telling me—if something has happened to upset him. “What have you boys been up to, then? Have you—”
The call disconnects. I press redial, but it goes straight to voice mail. Hesitating for a moment, I decide to text Beth, apologizing for disturbing her but just wanting to check in. Her reassuring reply comes through immediately. Too quickly?
I’m being paranoid, I tell myself. She’s probably been waiting for me to contact her, knowing I was a little anxious about leaving Nick. And he obviously doesn’t want to chat with his mum in front of his friends. It’s all completely normal. I send Nick a text: Sweet dreams, love you. He doesn’t reply, and I sink back against the pillows, waiting for sleep to anesthetize worry.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Izzy! You’re early.” Beth tightens the belt of her dressing gown, hugging herself against the cold. Her curly hair is disheveled, her cheeks are flushed; she looks tired and flustered.
“Sorry, I can come back.” I half turn away, feeling embarrassed.
“No, I’m sorry.” She pushes back her hair and smiles. “Come on in. Please. Ignore the mess, though. I haven’t had a chance to tidy up yet.” Opening the door wider, she steps forward and pokes her head out, glancing quickly all around the quiet cul-de-sac.
“Everything OK?” I say, watching her.
“Of course.” She smiles, moving aside to let me squeeze past her into the hall.
After hooking my coat over a pile of other jackets on an old-fashioned wooden stand, I tuck my ankle boots next to a sprawling shoe mountain by the front door. “Ah, your husband’s back. Mike, isn’t it?” I say, spotting muddy Timberlands.
“Sorry? Oh. No, I put those there myself. Just a little hint. Mike’s big enough and ugly enough to clean his own boots. Once he’s fixed this wonky latch.” She tuts as she closes the front door. “And the leaky shower. In fact, I’ve got a whole list of jobs for the useless sod. When he finally deigns to show his face.” Beth smiles again, but her laugh sounds a little forced as she leads the way into the living room.
“He doesn’t know anything about boilers, does he?” I say, tactfully ignoring the hint of marital strife. “I’ve got a plumber coming later who wants an arm and a leg to fix mine.”
“Don’t they all? I’ll ask Mike. If I manage to get hold of him, that is. He’s actually working away, and I’m not sure when . . .” She seems to hesitate, then sighs as she surveys the living room. “God, would you look at the mess.”
“You have a lovely home,” I tell her, glancing around at the piles of books and framed family photos competing for space on every surface. The room is cozily cluttered, with a scattering of antique furniture, squashy sofas, and jewel-colored walls. It’s vibrant and welcoming, just like Beth, even if she does seem unusually edgy this morning. If her husband wasn’t away, I’d guess I’ve inadvertently walked into the aftermath of a blazing argument she’s politely trying to pretend hasn’t happened.
“When it’s tidy. Sorry, I’m not usually this grumpy. Tough night. Not with the boys,” she adds quickly. “Teething tantrums.” She nods at Molly, asleep under a fleece on the sofa. “Or maybe it’s her way of hogging the spotlight. Even bad attention is attention, right?”
I offer a sympathetic wince, wondering whether Nick managed to sleep through the noise. “Shall I make you a coffee? And I am sorry for being early. I know we said eleven.” I don’t need to look at my watch to know it’s closer to ten.
“Don’t be silly. You’re welcome any time. Coffee would be great, though. But I’ll make it. You’re a guest.” Beth pats an armchair invitingly. “Come on. Make yourself comfy.”
It occurs to me that I should maybe have brought something as a thank-you. Katie and I were friends for so long that we never stood on ceremony: we didn’t keep a tally of who bought coffee last; we each knew where the other kept their spare keys. But I’m conscious of being out of the loop in terms of sleepover etiquette. I don’t want to lose Nick brownie points for having a rude mum, not when he’s finally found a couple of genuine friends.
“Thanks again for including Nick,” I say, settling into the armchair.
“My pleasure.” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “He’s incredibly like you, isn’t he? Same slim build, blue eyes. That blond hair. Those cheekbones. Lucky boy. Lucky you.” She smiles. “He obviously takes more after his mum than his dad, bless him.”
“Craig is his stepdad,” I tell her, obligingly picking up on the leading comments.
“Ah. That explains . . .” Her head tilts. “Sorry, I just thought I heard Nick say . . .”
“Say what?” Nick has said next to nothing about Craig moving out; I’m eager to hear even secondhand information about what he’s thinking.
“Nothing, really. The two of them get along OK, then?”
“Yes. They’re pretty close. Or at least they were. Before we separated.” I pause for a moment, thinking of Craig’s letter. “Nick doesn’t see so much of his stepdad these days.”
Beth doesn’t look surprised, and I wonder if she knew that already. I feel a pang of awkwardness at her knowing more about me than I do about her. I know she gave up teaching to be a full-time mum, and that her husband Mike is some kind of sales rep. But I don’t know them as a family—as people. Beth doesn’t strike me as gossipy or judgmental. Then again, I never thought Katie would turn her back on me as she did.
“Well, anyway. It’s great to see the boys getting on so well. They must have had fun—they’re still out cold. Which means we get to drink our coffee in peace. Hallelujah!” She yawns widely before finally disappearing into the adjoining kitchen. “How do you like it?”
“M
ilk and no sugar. Thanks.” I check my watch. “Nick’s usually up by now. I hope he didn’t disturb anyone, by the way. He sleepwalks occasionally, and in a strange house . . .”
“Really?” Beth reappears, coffee in hand. “Well, don’t worry, Adrian sleeps like a log. And it would have taken a jumbo jet to wake me. I know I fell asleep at some point. The night is just a blur. As are most days, to be honest. I’d forgotten how exhausting toddlers are.”
“I remember not knowing what year it was some days when Nick was little. And teething. Oh my God. The fifth circle of hell.” I groan. “But I’m glad the boys had fun.”
“They really did. They overdosed on pizza. Watched spooky movies. Nothing too scary,” she adds quickly. “Then once Jason arrived they—”
“Jason?”
“Jason Baxter? Year Nine? He’s in the book group, too. They all seem to be huge fans of Mr. Newton. Which is fine by me. Anyone who can convince Ade to put down his phone and pick up a book gets my vote. And Jason is—”
“Yes. I know who he is.” I dry swallow. “I just didn’t know he was coming.”
“Nor did I, to tell you the truth.” Beth props a hand on one hip, frowning. “It was a last-minute thing. He said his mum had a late meeting or something. Is that a problem?”
“Nick’s had a few issues with Jason, that’s all.” I downplay it so as not to worry her, but I can feel a familiar tension stiffen my shoulders.
“He has? Oh God. Sorry, Izzy.” Beth’s forehead creases. “I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, not feeling cross so much as anxious. And strictly speaking, Nick isn’t the one who has a problem with Jason: I am. He’s always been a little bossy with Nick, but toward the end of their friendship I’m sure he started picking on him; I recognized the signs, even if Nick tried to hide them.
“I’ll go wake the boys.” Thankfully, Beth picks up on my anxiety, setting down the coffee jar and sweeping through the living room, silky dressing gown swishing.
“Shall I come?” I’m already following her.
The Sleepover Page 3
