I suppose I should ring Greg, let him know that I’m on my way back, but I don’t. He’ll be head down fishing and won’t be interested in where I am or what I’m doing. He might even huff when I ask him to collect me from the station. Hang the expense, I’ll get a taxi. Spend a little more of the money we haven’t got.
I think of Lauren and worry about her going home to an empty flat. But is that any worse than going home to the tail-end of a petty row?
My sister could do with more steadiness in her life and less drama. Whereas I need less of the steadiness and more excitement. It’s like the whole curly hair/straight hair dilemma. Whatever you’re blessed with, you want the opposite. Straight, you have it permed. Curly, you have it straightened. Hair issues, I’m sure you’ve found, are invariably a lot easier to fix than your relationship ones.
It would be fair to say that Lauren and I were more of a disappointment to our dear parents than Chelsea ever was. After our sister’s shining example, believe me, they had high hopes for us. We let them down, badly. No matter how often they compared us to Chelsea – and they did, regularly – we were always found wanting.
Instead of globe-trotting the world with a fabulous modelling career, I was married young at the tender age of nineteen to my first ‘proper’ boyfriend, one Mr Greg Ashton – the man with the all-consuming fishing obsession. It never crossed my mind to question whether this quiet, somewhat staid boy was even suitable for me. Or that his desire to do nothing else but fish would get on my nerves after multiple years of it. And no one else pointed out to me that I should. Perhaps I ought to have wondered if there was more out there, but I didn’t. So, naive and gullible youngsters that we were, we married. A year later, before we’d hardly begun to know each other as man and wife, our first baby was on the way, followed closely by a second.
Ellen is now nearly twenty and our son Bobby has just turned eighteen. I don’t feel old enough to have kids that age and I like to think that I don’t look it either, but I’m not so sure these days.
Even though Lauren and I are twins, my younger sister has always been the more groomed, the more figure-conscious. Lauren has spray tans and regular manicures. I’m lucky if I remember to wear rubber gloves when I’m doing the washing up. My body is always the shade that nature intended. Pasty. Lauren takes after my mother for that side of her, whereas I’m more like my father. So I have nasal hair and holey cardigans to look forward to in a few years. When our parents died, Lauren and I became even closer and Chelsea became even more engrossed in her fundraising and fabulous life.
Forty-five minutes later and I pull into Milton Keynes station. Outside, I hail a cab and it whisks me to Tattenhoe, the pleasant modern estate where our modest house is.
We were all born and bred in a village just outside the new city and I guess I’m the only one who never escaped. Chelsea was off as soon as she could go. Lauren too headed for the bright lights of London, the moment she left school. Not me. I just sort of hung around waiting to see what would happen. And being proposed to by Greg was all that did happen.
There wasn’t much here when Greg and I scrimped and saved to buy our first two-bedroomed terraced home; now, however, Milton Keynes is the fastest-growing city in the country. Every week, a new housing estate appears out of nowhere. And I never questioned whether I wanted to live here or not. Rather like I never questioned whether I should say yes to Greg. Why did I do that? Why didn’t I think about where I would like to spend my days, whether this place would suit me rather than another. I just accepted that this is where we would be. I’ve never considered whether I’m more suited to village or town living, or whether I’d like a house near the beach. We moved here and we stayed here. Probably because Greg likes it.
I’d love to be one of those people who has a dream. One of our neighbours yearns to move to France, run an enormous farm in the middle of nowhere and raise whatever it is they raise on French farms – truffle hunting pigs, peut-être? Another friend has the urge to retire young and move to Suffolk, to finish her days with the tang of salty air in her lungs, days of long walks on the beach and traditional fish and chips for tea. Me? I don’t even know what my dream might be.
Greg and I did progress to a small three-bedroom detached place in the intervening years, but that wasn’t out of a great desire to better ourselves – we just ran out of space for the kids and were forced to upscale. Even so, we’ve been in the same house for over fifteen years.
Surprisingly, my husband’s car is in the drive. Maybe the fishing lost its thrall in the wee small hours – but I doubt it. And, I feel terrible even saying this, but I have a real heartsink moment when my key goes into the lock. I know exactly the words that Greg will say to me.
‘Cup of tea, love?’ His voice comes from the kitchen.
I was right.
It’s not a bad thing to be greeted like that, is it? But would it hurt, for once, for Greg to cast aside his teaspoon and, with unbridled passion, declare, ‘God, I’ve missed you!’
Throwing down my battered overnight bag, I head towards him. I know too that nothing will be said about my outburst last night. We never resolve our arguments – we just pretend that they never happened. Are there couples who talk openly and freely on a regular basis to resolve their petty differences and keep their relationship fresh? Or are the majority like us, simmering along in unspoken resentment until the petty difference reaches crisis point and we can’t discuss anything without it turning into an argument?
Greg is leaning against the back door, gazing out into the garden. ‘Nice day,’ he says. ‘Think I might dig some worms out of the compost heap for tomorrow.’
That is also not a bad thing, but it makes me bristle with irritation nevertheless.
‘Fine.’ I keep my voice neutral and make my own tea and pour one for Greg too. Would it be too much to ask for him to sweep me into his arms and kiss me? What would it be like to be rushed up the stairs, thrown saucily on to the marital bed and ravished?
I know that there are a lot of ravishings that go on in Lauren’s relationship and perhaps that’s what keeps her going back for more and more. But then Greg has never in all our married years been one for impromptu ravishing, so why should he start now?
‘Good party?’ he asks.
Yes, I feel like saying, I shagged a C-list celebrity from Holby City up against the wall. See what he’d make of that. Instead, I sigh and settle for just, ‘Yes. Chelsea sends her love. She looked lovely.’
‘Great.’
That’s the extent of his interest of my wild night out without him. I hand Greg his tea. ‘Good fishing?’
‘Yeah.’ I never have to worry where Greg is or who he’s with. The only thing I have to compete with is the torrid pleasure of tench.
‘Where are the kids?’
‘Out.’ He shrugs to indicate that he isn’t party to their whereabouts. They’re at the age where every single move is top secret. Even when I text them to check up on them, they pretend they’ve been lost in the ether. I still worry about them even though they’re both, supposedly, adults now.
‘Thought I might go fishing again later, if that’s okay with you.’
‘Fine.’ As if Greg would listen if I said I wanted to do something else. What if I suggested a walk instead? An afternoon in bed? Sharing a bath together?
‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘Fancy coming with me? Bring a book?’
I shake my head. Why can’t he read my mind? Why can’t he tell what I’d really like to do? Why can’t he tell that I’m not happy with the way things are?
Besides, I hate sitting by the river for hours gazing into the distance. Gives me too much time to think dark thoughts. And midges love me. I’ll get eaten alive as soon as the sun starts to sink. ‘I’ll probably watch telly.’
Why not? I do it virtually every night. Why break the habit of a lifetime?
But what I don’t tell my husband is that while I’m watching Strictly Come Dancing and Celebrity Come Dine With
Me and Lark Rise to Candleford and whatever other rubbish is on, that I’ll be planning and plotting how I’m going to change my life. And that it may or may not include him.
Chapter 7
Lauren let herself into her apartment. Her sister might not be looking forward to rushing into the arms of her dearly beloved husband with overwhelming lust, but at least there was someone there waiting for her. She’d give her right arm for a bog-standard, boring marriage with a husband you could always rely on, she thought as she threw her overnight bag on the lounge floor.
Perhaps she should think about getting a cat so that there’d be some other living presence here to welcome her home. She did once have a goldfish for a while as someone told her they were a low-maintenance kind of pet, but it hadn’t seemed to quite reach the spot. You couldn’t cuddle a goldfish when you felt alone and miserable. It was unlikely to keep you warm in bed. So when it turned its fishy fins up after a few months she didn’t bother with getting another one. Yes, a cat would be nice – but then it might confirm her status as a mad, sad, single person, and she wasn’t ready for that. And, anyway, she didn’t know whether Jude was a cat person or not. She didn’t want to give him any more reasons to stay away.
In the absence of anyone to fuss over, or anyone to fuss over her, Lauren’s first job was to check the answer-phone messages. The little red light wasn’t blinking to tell her that Jude had called. There was always the chance that she might have missed him on her mobile while she was on the Tube and that he’d called here instead to tell her that he loved her. She pressed the button just in case the red light wasn’t working properly. The machine whirred and thunked before informing her, ‘You have no messages.’ The emphasis, unnecessarily, on ‘no’.
Her stomach twisted. If only she could speak to him, reassure herself that nothing had changed, that he still loved her, then she could get through the rest of the day. Maybe she should text him. Something that couldn’t be misconstrued, something innocuous about business that would give him a valid excuse to ring her. But then Jude hated it when she became so insecure that she risked exposing him. If she did that, then he backed away from her for a few weeks, as if to punish her, and that made things even worse.
Lauren sighed to herself. Another long, empty Sunday stretched ahead of her. It was the day of the week she hated most. Monday to Friday she could virtually guarantee seeing Jude – even if it was just for a few snatched moments. It was difficult working together, since they had to be discreet. But occasionally, when they were sure they were alone, their fingers could linger in places where they couldn’t go in public, and they might steal a kiss in the office kitchen – or Jude might let his hand rest in the small of her back for longer than was considered appropriate for mere colleagues without someone shouting, ‘Sexual harassment!’
Sundays were always more difficult. Sometimes on a Saturday he could call into her flat, having concocted some tale about an errand that needed to be run or some work that urgently needed to be attended to. But on Sundays Jude could rarely get away from family duties. And, as a consequence, that was the day that chewed her up the most.
If she wasn’t very careful, her mind could stray into terrible territory where she could see images of Jude playing Happy Families with his wife and kids. His children – Benjy, ten, and Daisy, eight, – were at that age where he’d be taking them to the cinema, maybe playing football on the Heath near where they lived. Sometimes she had to stop herself from going over there for a walk, just to try to catch a glimpse of him to see her through the day. Lauren knew that it wasn’t what he really wanted from his life – he wanted nothing more than to be with her – but he was a very devoted father and took his responsibilities seriously. She loved him for that too.
He didn’t love his wife Georgia she also knew that. But some days – Sundays – it was hard to see why.
Lauren had met her on several occasions over the years. Work dos, where it was impossible for their paths not to cross. And she had hated her every single time. Georgia was pretty, vivacious and charming company. Everyone in the company was besotted with her. Everyone except Jude, of course. Oh, he put on a good enough show when he needed to, but Lauren knew differently. The attentiveness, the gentle touching, it was all a show, a sham, an illusion. When they were at home alone, things were very different. Georgia wasn’t funny or flirty then. At home she was cold, aloof, unresponsive. Jude had told her often enough while he was lying in Lauren’s bed. Why would he come to her, if things weren’t seriously messed up?
Perhaps she should have gone to the gym today. An hour on the cross-trainer or the Stairmaster was always good for taking out pent-up frustration. But then, it would be Sod’s Law, if the minute she went out of the door, Jude phoned or perhaps called round unexpectedly. She’d never forgive herself if she missed him. Besides, she had a crashing hangover and an hour lying on the sofa watching rubbish on the television might be a better idea.
It was always a difficult balance because what she really wanted to do was slip out of her jeans and shirt and slip on her oldest T-shirt and tracky bottoms, but she never did that just in case Jude popped in. It would never do for him to find her here looking scruffy – not when she had the immaculately groomed Georgia to compete with. The only person she could think of who was better turned out than her lover’s wife was Chelsea.
It was horrible being jealous of her own sister, Lauren thought, but she was – even though Chelsea wasn’t boastful or did anything to rub their noses in her perfect life. It was just a fact that couldn’t be avoided. Chelsea had it all; whereas she and Annie did not. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Chelsea – of course she did! Not as much as Annie did, though. Her twin always managed to see the good in everyone.
Lauren and Annie had always been close. They were twins – wasn’t it natural that they’d stick together? ‘Two peas in a pod,’ everyone said with a chuckle. And there’d always been a distance between the two of them and Chelsea, even as kids. It hadn’t improved as they’d got older. The situation had got worse, if anything, as they were all so busy with their lives and she and Annie had so little in common with Chelsea. Plus the latter was hardly ever in the country these days. She hated to ring her sister and have either Chelsea’s nanny or housekeeper answer the phone. Unreasonable. But it made her bristle nevertheless. The truth was that Lauren found it very difficult to be around Chelsea as she only reminded her of everything that she was missing out on. Annie’s relationship wasn’t perfect and that, in some selfish way, was a comfort to Lauren. Her twin tried very hard to pretend that there wasn’t a division between the sisters, but they all knew in their hearts that there was.
Annie was right though. Out of the three of them, Chelsea was the only one who’d got her life in control. And Lauren knew that she couldn’t carry on indefinitely letting herself be buffeted about by her emotions, waiting on a man who belonged to someone else – if not in his heart, then legally.
Perhaps this year she should issue Jude with some sort of ultimatum. Put a firm date on when he would forsake his family to be with her. The thought of it made her feel sick to her stomach. The children would be distraught, at first, of course. It was only natural. But they would come round in time. They were bound to. Children were very resilient. They’d take it slowly, until they got to know her, but soon they’d be able to stay at weekends and then she’d be like a proper stepmum to them. She’d be the best stepmum in the world – she’d love them as much as she loved Jude – and they’d end up loving her just as much as they did their real mum.
In the middle of her daydream the intercom buzzed and it jolted her back into the real world. As she flew to the door, she checked herself in the mirror. She didn’t look too bad. Not too much the worse for drink. It could be Jude having forgotten his key. Heart pounding, Lauren pressed the intercom.
‘Hey!’
Her heart sank. It wasn’t Jude. But it was a voice she recognised only too well.
‘Zak,’ she said. ‘Come
on up.’ And she buzzed the door open.
Moments later, Zak Reynolds was in her flat. ‘Did I interrupt something?’ he asked, watching her pace around. ‘You look very edgy.’
Lauren made herself relax. ‘I’ve only just got home,’ she explained. ‘From my sister’s fortieth birthday party.’
‘Good time?’
‘A blast.’ She wasn’t going to tell Zak that she’d eschewed the charms of her sister’s rich and well-connected friends to slink off early to bed and lick her emotional wounds. Jude had promised that he would come – and he hadn’t. It was the first time he was going to officially meet her family and he had cried off at the last minute.
‘I got some buckshee tickets for a gig tonight in Camden. Low-key thing. Thought you might like to come along, have a beer.’
‘That’s really kind of you, Zak.’
He started to laugh. ‘“That’s really kind of you, Zak”.’ He flopped down on her sofa. ‘Who do you think you’re talking to? This is your Uncle Zak.’
She ran her hands through her hair and tried a laugh herself. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know that Sundays are usually shitty for you. Thought I might lighten the load, but if you say “That’s really kind of you” in that stupid voice again, I might have to kill you.’
This time Lauren really did laugh. ‘Oh God, Zakary Reynolds, what am I going to do?’ She flopped down next to him.
Zak rested his hand on her thigh and patted. ‘Put your gladrags on, come out, have a beer, forget about what might have been. There’s a particular low-cut top of yours that helps to ease my pain, if you’re interested in a reciprocal arrangement.’
‘Don’t make me laugh.’ She gave him a dig in the ribs. ‘I’m supposed to be miserable.’
‘Life is too short to spend your time pining for someone who isn’t here.’
She and Zak worked together and he was one of the few people who knew about her affair with their boss. He’d found her crying in the kitchen one Friday when she’d realised that it would be two whole days before she could see Jude again. Zak had been caring, sympathetic and, from then on, they’d started up a close friendship that helped to get her through the tough times. Whenever she needed a partner and Jude wasn’t around, Zak stepped up to the plate. Whenever she had an empty weekend ahead of her, Zak could usually be relied on for last-minute pizza and cheap red wine. He lived in a studio flat off the Finchley Road, less than a mile away, and Lauren always felt secure, having him in the neighbourhood.
It’s Now or Never Page 3
