‘Well, that’s a weird thing, isn’t it? Couldn’t have been James, surely,’ Tom said, when Grace told him what she thought she had seen in the night. He wasn’t sure if he should mention the stranger that James had been talking to at the bar. He didn’t want to arouse her suspicions any further, and after all, both events might have a perfectly rational explanation.
‘Well, that’s what I thought. I mean, what would he be doing in the middle of the night, delivering stuff to Henri? Must have just been someone who looked a bit like him.’ She paused. ‘Do you think I should ask him if it was him?’
‘Oh, you silly thing, of course you shouldn’t. What you should be doing is coming over here, to my side of this enormous great bed, and snuggling up. Hang on a sec, I’ll just shut the twins’ door.’ He came back to bed, pulling off his boxers as he went, and slipped back under the duvet, beside Grace. She giggled as he pulled her closer.
‘Mmmm, do that again, Grace laughed, as Tom stroked her back, from the base of her spine, right to her hairline. ‘Mmmm, that’s so nice…’
‘Mummy, is it morning yet?’ The door opened and a little blond head appeared. ‘Only Jack just parped in his sleep and woke me up.’
‘To be continued,’ Tom whispered into his wife’s ear with a good-humoured sigh, shuffling away from Grace a little and pulling back the duvet to allow his daughter to hop in between them. ‘Chapter two tonight.’ She smiled at the twinkle in his eye. ‘Or more like Chapter One, that wasn’t even a prologue just now.’
‘Mummy, Daddy’s willy is all bare. Look!’ their daughter exclaimed as she climbed into the bed. Tom self-consciously covered himself tightly with the bedding.
‘Oh, so it is!’ Grace laughed, feigning ignorance.
‘Well, it was a bit of a warm night, you know, my nosy little lady,’ Tom explained, reaching for his discarded boxers, and hoping his daughter would settle for that as an excuse.
‘Daddy, I have a really important question to ask you,’ Lily went on, her little face very serious. ‘Well, it’s this. Why do you wear square pants? Why aren’t your pants proper pants-shaped, like mine and Jack’s?’
Grace giggled as her husband launched into an explanation of the different sorts of undergarments that men and women could wear, as serious an expression on his own face as that on his daughter’s. The little girl sat listening carefully, taking it all in. She was hilarious, Grace thought, and her husband was brilliant. He always took the time to explain the twins’ unfathomable questions, with very logical, very sensible answers. Sometimes she wished she had the same levels of patience as him.
‘So, what are we going to do today?’ Grace asked, attempting to steer the conversation away from its underwear-related theme. ‘Climb a hill, visit some caves, go shopping? Or… are we just going to sit by the pool all day and do lots of swimming?’
‘Pool, pool, pool, we want the pool,’ chimed Jack, bounding into the room, fully recharged and ready to face another day.
‘OK, looks like morning has officially come,’ said Tom, grabbing his son as he sped past the bed, arms out to the sides in an aeroplane impersonation. He scooped him up and pulled him into the bed with the rest of them, where he wriggled and protested, but then joined the rest of the family under the duvet.
Grace loved times like this. Sheer, unadulterated happiness, and the feeling that she should pinch herself, just in case it was all a dream. It didn’t matter at all that she and Tom had very little time together on their own now; the balance was soon redressed on a holiday like this. There was no better feeling of contentment than the four of them together, all snuggled up, having a giggle before the day began.
Family life was the best.
Nine - Evie
August 2015
Evie picked up her book. She’d woken much earlier than James, and opening the curtains just a little gave her enough light to get back into her reading without disturbing him. He seemed unperturbed by the shaft of daylight breaking into the room and was still snoring beside her. She had heard him get up in the night, in fact he’d been really restless, so it was no wonder he was still fast asleep.
Evie was in romantic novel overload; currently she was on her fourth this holiday. An avid bookworm, usually her reading habits were quite varied and she would intersperse light-hearted fiction with the odd crime novel or dark and brooding thriller. But it was all for a reason – Evie wanted to write her own novel, and she’d decided that romantic fiction was the genre she would try first, after all it was what she had read most of in her adult life. For years she had harboured the thought that she could do just as well as – if not better than – some of these writers that adorned her bookshelves, and so, when the girls started back at school in September, she was going to give it a go in earnest.
It wasn’t like she didn’t have the time, but even though the girls needed her less now, she was reluctant to go back to a job which required her to be away from the family home. As James travelled so much, it was important that one parent was there, and the idea of being able to work when it suited her, and from her own home, held huge appeal. She thought it would give her back a sense of ‘herself’, something that in the past few years had been lacking. She hadn’t felt that way when the children were small, and had been happy simply to be Mummy. Now the girls were older, the time for them to leave home was looming fast, and Evie didn’t want to feel she would have nothing else in her life, when the nest became empty of children. There was a realisation that she had hit a point in her life when, if she didn’t branch out and do something different, she probably never would. She didn’t want to get to retirement age and feel that life had passed her by. The idea of writing wasn’t just some idle fancy, though; she really genuinely did want to write a book.
She had read plenty of ‘How to write a novel’ books, and had been on a very successful creative writing course a couple of months ago. The tutor thought she actually showed some promise, and so spurred on by this, she was taking it very seriously and had already begun writing. She’d made a reasonable start, although it was a weird moment when she’d sat down in front of her laptop for the first time. How exactly does someone start writing a book? What was it going to be about? Do you start at the beginning and wait for the story and characters to appear, or just scribble down some thoughts and use those later down the line? It was a totally new – but very exciting – concept, albeit a little scary. But then all doubts that she could do it were quashed when she found her imagination taking over. Before she knew it, the first few pages of a chapter had appeared in front of her, almost as though the writing fairies had come along whilst she wasn’t looking and taken over her keyboard. She looked at the word count and was amazed at how quickly this stuff produced itself.
These days Evie was forever scribbling in her notebook, jotting down ideas as they came into her head, observing people in public places and eavesdropping on conversations, listening out for interesting snippets which could provide some material for a scene. Even at this stage, when she’d only just officially started ‘The Novel’, she was amazed at the buzz it gave her, and was determined to see it through. Her commitment to whatever she took on had always meant she was a high achiever in her working life. But that was a long time ago, and writing was a whole new world to her. Plus there was a huge unknown factor – could she produce an end product which was good enough for other people to want to spend their hard-earned cash on, and then actually read? But in this age of digital publishing, surely the world was her oyster, wasn’t it?
Reverting to ambitious businesswoman mode, Evie was already setting herself deadlines. The first book was to be finished in draft form by Easter, and edited and published by the time the girls broke up from school next summer. It wasn’t just going to be one flash-in-the-pan book, but a novel a year. That was her target, and she couldn’t wait to get started properly. She’d missed having a project to focus on, outside of family life and marriage.
When that strange man had kissed her
at the service station, Evie knew she had to transpose the feelings it had kindled into her writing. So she had put pen to paper – or rather fingers to keyboard – almost as soon as they touched down at the chateau. She wasn’t sure just yet how it would fit into her story, but it opened up all sorts of character traits to do with the female lead and she was certain she could incorporate it somewhere. Re-reading it afterwards, two things amazed Evie; firstly that her writing seemed to convey exactly how she felt at the time, and secondly, just how strange that kiss had made her feel. She touched her cheek after reading the passage, as though she could feel the imprint of the stranger’s kiss all over again.
It had definitely made her feel good, she thought, a bit like the strangely uncomfortable satisfaction you felt if a builder whistled at you. No woman in this age of enlightenment would actually admit to being pleased they had been whistled at, but nor did they want to be ignored either. It was one of those strange moral dilemmas of the twenty-first century; we were supposed to be too feminist to approve of whistling, but by the time you reached your forties, weren’t you actually, secretly, quite pleased to still be able to turn heads? Despite her indignation, Evie was immensely flattered that it was her he had chosen to kiss.
An idea popped into her head. She lay her book on the duvet and reached to the bedside cabinet for her notebook. James stirred beside her and rolled over.
‘Morning, babe,’ he yawned. ‘Hey, what you up to?’
‘Oh, just putting down some ideas and stuff,’ she replied, not wanting to have to show him her random scribblings. The first time anyone read something she had written, she wanted it to be just right, and she knew that her husband wouldn’t necessarily be her best ‘first reader’. She would prefer someone more impartial. A first novel was a very personal thing, she thought. Her heart and soul was going into this book, and James could be quite blunt sometimes.
But to her horror, James whipped the notebook from her hand and read aloud from Evie’s list of scribbled ideas:
● ‘How does she feel once she’s walked out?
● Tyres leaving tracks in the melting snow, like the furrows in her heart.
● Expand on The Kiss moment.
● Remember to show, not tell.’
Evie squirmed with embarrassment and snatched the notebook from her husband.
‘You don’t need to do this, you know, there’s no need for you to earn money, we’ll be OK. Let’s face it, we haven’t exactly had to compromise our lifestyle, have we?’
‘None of it’s about earning money, James. I probably won’t ever make much from all this, anyway. It’s about doing something for me, outside of you and the kids and all that family life brings with it. I love you all dearly, but I have to do something for me, now. And I’m using my brain again, too. Remember, I do have one. A pretty good one, at that.’
She could feel herself getting worked up; she’d had this argument with James before, and failed to understand why he wasn’t more supportive of her wanting to write. It wasn’t like she was going back into the workplace, and it wouldn’t detract from any of her commitments at home and with the children. She could work or not work when she wanted or needed to, and there need be no noticeable change to his or the girls’ standards of living. James needed to understand that. This wasn’t the 1950’s, it was 2015 for goodness sake. Women were quite capable of juggling career and family and being successful at a lot more than just keeping house and sitting at home looking pretty.
‘Sorry, Evie, I just love knowing you’re at home, you know?’ James said, rolling towards her and putting his arm across her waist and stroking her side. She knew where this was heading – James wasn’t really into physical contact that didn’t end up in full-scale sex. She just wanted to talk to him, didn’t want him to try and wriggle out of a satisfactory end to a conversation by seducing her.
‘Well, I still will be at home. It’s not like I’m going back out to work, is it?’ She edged away from him and picked up her paperback again, hoping he would get the message. But he didn’t.
‘Don’t, the kids might come in,’ she said, pushing his hand away. But she knew it was highly unlikely that either of their daughters would surface for at least another two hours yet. And even if they did, invading their parents’ bedroom in the morning was long in the past.
‘Oh come on Evie, don’t be shy, you know you want me really,’ James moaned sleepily.
But it was a two-way thing; Evie had never been the sort of woman to acquiesce just because he was her husband. She needed to be in the right mood, too, and since last year, she still struggled with the physical side of their relationship. Her mind would wander too much during their lovemaking and the fun would go out of it instantly. The brain had to be willing as well as the body; she was unable to detach the two.
‘I’m going for a run before it gets too hot.’ She pushed the duvet aside. There was only one way to get out of this and that was to go.
‘You’re just boring,’ James replied sleepily. Evie watched as he rolled over and instantly fell asleep again. Clearly her rejection hadn’t cut too deep.
June 2014
Evie and James were in full swing dinner party mode, a business dinner occasion, for which the stakes were higher than just having a few friends around for an evening of wine and chat. The pair of them always went to a lot of trouble with client dinners. James was a great believer that the business was more likely to come his way if they had struck up something of a personal relationship with the client and their husband or wife beforehand.
For Evie that meant several hours of afternoon preparation, with three or four cookery books propped open at various pages, the work surfaces covered in a mêlée of ingredients. She was a methodical chef; she’d chop ingredients and put them into little bowls, just like on the cooking programmes on TV, so that when the recipe said ‘add three finely chopped chillies’, then that was exactly what she could do. It was a method that worked for her, and if she were a few years younger, it would have got her a job as a Blue Peter presenter, but there was no doubt that it was a washer-upper’s nightmare. By about five in the evening, the kitchen looked like the aftermath of World War Three, and there was barely a clean dish left in the cupboards.
It was usually around that sort of time that James would pop his head round the door to see if he could help. His afternoon thus far had generally consisted of lawn mowing, table setting, alcohol purchasing and general tidying up, so Evie never minded that he wasn’t available to help on the culinary side of things. He hadn’t exactly been sitting around twiddling his thumbs, and sometimes she was better left to her own devices in the kitchen. His arrival was usually too late to be of much use on the cooking front, but that was fine as she needed him for part two of her cunning plan.
In despair James would glance around him at what looked like, to the untrained eye, utter chaos, and declare that things would never be ready in time for the arrival of their guests. But they always were, thanks to The Plan. A small amount of flapping (pretend), running her greasy hands through her hair, (she would wash it before they arrived) plus reaching for the wine in mock-desperation and pouring a large slug, (which she would knock back in one shot) was a failsafe method for getting James to take pity on his frazzled wife, roll up his sleeves and get going with the Fairy Liquid. Then being the starter/finisher type that he was, he wouldn’t leave the kitchen until it was spotless. Somehow, in all the years they’d been doing this, he had never realised he was being ‘had’ It was such a cunning plan that, while James was toiling away at the washing up, Evie could slip quietly upstairs, have a relaxing bath and change into something glamorous for the evening. She’d come back downstairs looking as cool as a cucumber, to a clean kitchen and all the fruits of her earlier labours warming in the oven. It worked a treat every time.
It was a balmy evening and the forecast was set fair, so they had decided to at least start the meal outside. They could always move inside later, if the temperature dropped t
oo much for the patio heaters to be effective. James had set the dining room table too, just in case. There was no point in making a potential client freeze; James wanted them to feel the warmth of his welcome.
Tonight’s guests were Naomi and Jason. In this case, Naomi Bransford was the one with the wealth to invest. The daughter of a retired Conservative politician, she had worked hard to make a name for herself in the business world. With the funds her father had endowed on her in her twenties, her high-end clothing company had flourished. In her thirties she had invested wisely and now, just into her forties, she had floated the company and was looking to make her money work for her, rather than the other way round.
Since the recession had hit, so few clients had this much wealth to invest and James was keen to get her on his books. Compared to the majority of his clients she was young, and her money might well be under his control for a long time, if he played his cards right tonight.
Evie usually loved it when it got to the point in the evening when James would start to ‘court’ his potential new client. She would look for the signs that he was getting ready to move in for the hard sell. Generally enough alcohol had flowed by then for the target barely to notice when James’ body language shifted from jovial to slightly more predatory. Evie thought she was usually the only one to notice. Tonight, though, things seemed different. James hadn’t moved in for the kill, but instead seemed to be hanging on Naomi’s every word, barely taking his eyes off her as he refilled her glass.
She decided to barge in herself, to break the mysterious spell this woman clearly had over her husband.
Hand On Heart: Sequel to Head Over Heels Page 11
