by Joy Richards
Tim, gratifyingly, seemed oblivious to all this. It was not uncommon for him to go a whole week without seeing his father, who left before he rose and often came back after he’d gone to bed. A few times a month John even stayed in the office overnight, finishing up urgent client work. Oh shit, she thought. He was definitely just with her, wasn’t he? She had not yet connected the dots in her mind: her husband’s devotion to his work had merely been dedication to his mistress. Also, this explained why it had taken him such a long time to become a partner at the firm. He had been the last of his intake to make it, and at the celebration dinner there had been many jokes from his colleagues about him joshing off at any possible opportunity. If he’d been as dedicated as she thought, there was no explaining those. At any rate, Tim was all right.
Spencer the dog, on the other hand, seemed to really miss his master. He would sit by the door, wagging his tail, and sometimes he would let out a long depressed sigh. He didn’t eat as much and was not interested in his toys. Florence took him out for a few minutes every day, but she did not have the time to run around with him for hours like John used to. It occurred to her the two probably slept together most nights, John on the tiny sofa in the snug, Spencer curled up at his feet. They had had a whole independent dynamic going on, which she knew nothing about. She thought about shipping the dog to John, but she couldn’t do that to Tim. Spencer was a beam of light in Tim’s life, his only friend. His furry brother, in a way. That made Florence love the dog more, as an extension of her love for her son.
The other thing was, now she lived alone, she was in love with the house again. Over the two days since John had left, she had barely slept trying to fashion it into the sort of place a single woman and a child might call home. She’d had a big sort-out: weeded out John’s things, old keepsakes of their life together she wanted to forget, cool city-girl clothes she could not even stand looking at. There was a green silk dress she’d almost thrown out a few months prior that had made it back into her closet. She used to wear it to go wine-tasting with John when they’d first moved in together. It slipped off her thin shoulders, becoming more and more revealing throughout the night. It was John’s favourite. She’d stuffed it in a rubbish bag as hard as she could and resolved to never think of it again.
After the clear-out, she’d felt much happier. She’d turned the snug into a mini playroom, which freed up the rest of the house from stray toys. She’d thrown out the toddler bed, where Tim had only slept once since he preferred sharing the bed with her and her growing belly. Now, sitting in the hallway with that last framed memento of her married life in her hands, Florence mostly felt relieved. It was her home again, her nest where she felt cosy and safe. Where Tim could feel safe, and grow up surrounded by love.
The irony was, now that the house was actually pleasant to live in she probably would not be able to stay in it. Based on the internet research that she had done, she knew that she had very little chance of keeping the house unless John was willing to go above and beyond. She wasn’t even sure she wanted his charity. In fact, she was pretty sure that she did not. One way or the other, her life would have to change. She felt her baby girl kicking, right below her ribs.
“Yes, baby,” she said out loud. “Life will have to change.”
11
Claire
They sat in silence, in the darkness, drinking hot cocoa. The estate agent had called right before dinner. There was a problem. The buyers had pulled out. Claire had actually let out a short burst of laughter. Of course they had. All of their possessions were packed, neat stacks of cardboard boxes lining the hallways. They had rid themselves of a literal truckload of stuff. All the children had come back to salvage what they wished to retain from their childhood rooms. They had all intended to keep a box at most, but had made it back home with full cars. Elijah had taken a few days off work and had helped them take dozens of packed plastic bags and cardboard boxes to charity shops, filling up his eco-friendly SUV and spreading out his trips to as many different charity shops as possible.
Most of the furniture was gone, and they were only moving with a couple dozen boxes. They were both currently living out of suitcases, ready for the move. They were eating takeaway pizzas and cold salads a lot, as they had already packed all their cookware and crockery. It was not comfortable, and Claire had realised they were getting too old for discomfort. They were due to move in three days. And yet, there they were. They’d had dinner in silence, and then Claire had unpacked their saucepans and mugs to make them hot chocolate. She couldn’t live with the thought of having to re-pack them. They sat in the kitchen, with all the lights off, and drank their cocoa and took turns petting Marmalade. If they’d had any cigarettes in the house, Claire would have smoked one but Michael had thrown them all out as they were clearing the house and she had not yet gotten round to replenishing her secret stash.
Their first thought had been for Aaron. He needed the money in his account by the following week, or the whole project would fall through. No house, no refuge. The vulnerable small children would remain in whatever precarious situation they currently were. They thought about not telling him for a couple of days, try to see if they could figure out a solution. But they quickly agreed that would not work. Aaron wasn’t a child who would be disappointed, he was a grown man who had to decide what to do with his future. People’s livelihoods were at stake.
Claire had called him while holding Michael’s hand; it had been a hard phone call, one of the hardest she had ever had to make. Aaron had cried. Michael had cried. She’d swallowed the tears that were burning a hole in her throat, because she knew she had to be strong for them. Almost immediately, she’d switched to her old reactive mode. They would try to fix this. There had to be a way to fix this. She’d shipped Aaron off with a list of things to do: get in touch with the government. Ask for an extension. Reach out to the people he’d already hired, see if they could start later. Aaron relished having things to do, it gave him something to focus on and calmed him down. Claire knew her son. When Michael was shot, Aaron was only seven. In the long months after Michael had come back from the hospital, Claire had kept Aaron sane with an endless list of made-up tasks.
While Jacob and Elijah spent hours sat on their father’s bed, reading him books and newspapers, Aaron needed to work. Claire asked him to dig holes in the garden, then had him fill them back up. She had him fold hundreds of paper squares into quarters, then unfold them. She even had him do laundry, a task most seven-year-old boys would not enjoy but to which Aaron took like a fish to water. Every day, as his father groaned through his gruelling physical therapy regime, he would sit on the floor and fold clothes. Neatly, steadily, his eyes wet with tears and his hands shaking.
After giving Aaron tasks, Claire had turned her attention to the matter of the house. She’d called the estate agent and explained the situation. They had to find another buyer as soon as possible. The agent had seemed genuinely sorry for them, but had also been honest. It would be difficult, she’d said. With the market being where it was, there were not many people wanting to take on a house like theirs. Claire knew what she’d meant was a project, a lovely home in sore need of renovation. Plus, their house was expensive. Not many people were looking for a five-bedroom home, and even fewer people could afford it. The agent seemed willing to try, but Claire knew that there wasn’t much hope. They had been such idiots, Michael had said. Banking their son’s dreams on a sale that could fall through at any moment. That was Michael, blaming himself for situations entirely out of his control.
When Claire’s first book had come out, her publisher had thrown her a small dinner party at a fancy restaurant in central London. They had left the children home with a sitter, one of their friends, and had gone up on the train. They’d had a wonderful time: Claire was ecstatic and Michael was ecstatic for her. By the time they’d come home, they had both been rather tipsy. They had quickly sobered at the sight of cold blue ambulance lights in front of their house. They had run
in, their hearts full of panic and their minds full of worst-case scenarios. It was not a big deal: Jacob and Aaron had been wrestling and Aaron had slipped and broken his arm. The babysitter had panicked and called an ambulance. She was in floods of tears; she’d been giving Gideon his bath upstairs and had not thought to separate the other boys.
Jacob was equally heartbroken, sobbing on the stairs like the world was ending. He had rushed towards Claire and had burrowed his face in the soft silk of her evening dress, smearing snot all over it. On their way to the hospital, Michael had been furious with himself. They shouldn’t have gone to London. They should have taken the boys with them, or at least the eldest two. He could have stayed behind to watch the boys. It wasn’t just Aaron who was hurt; he was devastated Claire’s big day had been ruined. She had needed a fresh start, a new career. This was the beginning of it, and it had now been tarnished. And, at least the way he saw it, it had all been his fault.
So Claire had spent the rest of the evening trying to make Michael feel better about himself. She had reasoned with him: Aaron was a grown man, a doctor, he knew how house sales worked. He had taken that risk, they had merely offered to help. She’d made him a hot cocoa, and they were now sitting in the darkness. Marmalade’s soft purr was the only sound throughout the house.
“Honestly, Claire, do you think we will get a new buyer?” Michael’s slurring was worse now he had been crying.
“We will, my love. I promise. I’ll not let this fail.” She felt a strong surge of determination in her chest. She would not allow herself to be beaten down.
“We can have an open house,” she continued. “Invite everyone we know. We can ask for help from the boys, they must know loads of people looking to move to the country.”
“That’s a good idea.” Michael stroked her hair.
“The estate agent said the sellers of our flat will probably wait a couple of weeks before looking for another buyer,” Claire carried on, mostly talking to herself. “This can still all work.”
“Worst-case scenario,” said Michael. “We can just rent somewhere for a bit and find a new place to go.”
“Are you sad at the idea of missing out on the flat?”
“Not really, no. I guess maybe that’s something I should think about.” He frowned. “Are you?”
“Do you know – I was just thinking about that.” Claire scratched a spot behind Marmalade’s ear. “I was not half sad about it. I mean, I don’t really care. And I’ve always cared about our house before.”
“Maybe this is a different stage of life. It will be more about what we do than where we do it.” Michael did not sound too sure.
“Yeah, maybe.”
They sat in silence, until Marmalade had enough and jumped off Claire’s lap. He scuttled towards his litter box, his full tail gently swaying like a flag in the wind.
“Claire,” said Michael, slowly, “if it wasn’t for Aaron, would you be upset about the buyers pulling out?”
She thought about it. She cocked her head to the side and took one sip of cocoa. It was almost cold and reminded her of chocolate milk. Her boys had loved chocolate milk when they were small. In the summer, she would make a great big batch and keep it in the fridge in a glass jug. It would always be gone by morning, and her children would sport a cheeky chocolate moustache as they denied all involvement in the milk’s disappearance.
“No,” she said softly. Michael didn’t respond, but he reached out and held her hand. He squeezed it in his, her long and delicate fingers disappearing in his large palm. He got up and kissed her on the top of her forehead.
“Let’s go to bed, dear,” he whispered. “Tomorrow will be better.”
The next day started off well. The estate agent called: they were putting the house straight back on the market.
“I’ll put a picture in the shop window, Claire,” she said. She was a sweet girl, and Claire had learned she was even a fan of her books. She was eternally baffled at the existence of people who not only read, but appreciated her books and wanted to talk to her about them. The first time her agent had asked her to do a reading in a bookshop, Claire had been more than prepared to sit in an empty room. Instead, it had been quickly filled by people who called themselves her fans. Mostly women, and younger men. They had listened to her read, and one or two of them had even cried. They’d queued up neatly, waiting for her to sign their copies of her book. As she had looked at their faces, Claire had suddenly realised that she was, to some extent, famous. Although it had been over thirty-five years since that first signing, she still struggled with the idea.
She had never reached the level of fame where people recognised you on the street or at the supermarket, but whenever she ran into somebody who enjoyed her books, Claire was perennially surprised. The estate agent, to make matters worse, seemed to be a genuine fan. She had given them what Claire suspected was preferential treatment. And now she was doing it again, giving them a prime spot in the office window and offering to call around her clients, trying to entice as many people as possible to come see the house.
Around lunchtime, Claire unpacked a few of their kitchen things and made lunch. She had recently been on an Italian cookery course, and she was feeling inspired. She was making gnocchi with a creamy mushroom sauce, and a crisp salad. They deserved a good lunch. Plus, Aaron was coming down and she wanted to treat him. She was glad she had cooked something special when he came through the door, looking almost cartoonishly deflated. He didn’t even take his shoes off, and plodded towards the kitchen. He sat down at the table, his eyes red from the lack of sleep and possibly tears, and accepted the glass of water his mother was offering him.
“We have three weeks, Mum,” he said, in a hoarse voice.
“Who did you speak to?” Michael asked, as he came in from the garden. He had cut down a great big cluster of pink hellebores and Claire could not help but smile. He knew they would cheer her up.
“I spoke with the grants officer in charge of our project,” Aaron replied, as Claire put the flowers in a cut-crystal vase she fished out from one of the open cardboard boxes.
“What’s his name?” Michael asked. He knew people, even though more and more of the people he knew were retired, or dead.
“Peter Bottani,” Aaron replied curtly. He was annoyed, Claire thought. She probably would be too.
“We have three weeks,” Aaron continued. “After which they need to see either another offer on your house, or the money. If not, well, it’s over.” He pounded a fist on the kitchen table, which rattled. Michael raised his eyebrows. Claire just stood there, clutching her vase. She was not prepared for an outburst.
Aaron looked at both of them and shook his head, his expression blank. “I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice.
“That’s all right, darling,” Claire said with excess cheerfulness as she sat down. “We are doing everything we can. Just in case, is there anywhere else you could get the money?”
He shook his head. He looked about ten years older than the last time she’d seen him. “Nowhere, Mum. It’s far too much money. We have already been through everyone we know who might help, and there’s nothing anyone can do.”
Michael smiled as he put his hands on her shoulder. “Well, son,” he said with pride. “Your mum is doing things about it. She’s all over it. Have faith.”
They both smiled. Michael and Aaron had such blind faith in her, in her ability to magic things out of thin air. Claire used to relish it, her family name as a problem-solver, a magician of impossible tasks, but this was a bit too much pressure. She sought to distract them.
“I thought we could do an open house this weekend,” she said. “Invite everyone. The estate agent was quite positive, she said she would send us some good prospects. I think the key problem is, nobody your age would want to live in this house without doing some serious work to it.” She made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the dated kitchen, the brightly coloured walls and the tiny hallway. “So we need to make it look more
modern.”
“We could paint the kitchen white,” Michael suggested. He’d listened to every couple coming through their home and knew that a kitchen that wasn’t white, dark blue or green appeared to be unacceptable.
“Calm down, Dad.” Aaron looked up. He seemed irritated. “There’s no need to go painting things. It won’t dry in time and the colour of the cabinets is the least of your problems.”
Claire sensed a clash coming. The mother of four boys and the wife of one, she knew how to redirect. “Lunch anyone?”
They ate at the kitchen table, helping themselves to gnocchi from the large round casserole dish she placed in the middle. She had a big bowl of salad, and a basket with small bread rolls studded in sunflower seeds. Carbs made everyone calmer.
After lunch, she magicked some Cornettos from the freezer.
“Hey, Mum. Do you remember the Italian ice cream story?” Aaron asked, a white moustache forming over his upper lip.
She smiled. On their way back from Egypt, they had once been forced to go home by land. No plane seats available. They had taken a ship to Italy, and then sat for long, exhausting hours on the clanking trains that run from the sole of the boot all the way up to the Alps. The children had eaten nothing but gelato, which had eventually made them sick. Once they’d got home, their grandmother who had come to greet them at the station had offered to take them for ice cream when she met them from the train. She had been baffled by their emphatic distaste for that idea. It was still an old family joke they all shared every time gelato was mentioned. Elijah and Tom had even had a gelato stand at their wedding, and the gelato story had been told during Michael’s speech. Michael, Claire and Aaron all smiled silently, eating away at their cones.
