Bill shook his head. “A cup of tea’d be nice first.”
“I’m not making tea. I’m opening wine.”
“Right, I’ll put the kettle on, then,” he said imperturbably.
Karen poured herself a drink, her mind already running through the list she kept at the front of her thoughts. She had an early start tomorrow, 8:00 a.m. train from Bristol to Birmingham for a conference. Suit hanging in spare room. Sandwiches for train. Presentation locked and loaded on laptop. Rick’s notes typed up—her boss e-mailed her all the time, and you had to transcribe it to make sure you’d got everything he’d said. Rick was exacting, to say the least, but Karen liked order. And she liked a challenge, relished it, in fact. Lisa, her best friend back home in Formby, was always saying Karen was born to have children.
“You’re the most organized person I know,” she’d said, last time Karen was back home. “You’d deal with the—Megan, leave it, okay? You’d deal with not being able to take your eye off them, getting everything ready in the morning, knowing how to get one into the bath and give the other his tea. No! Niall! You stop that, you little monster. I’ve had enough of you, I’m telling you. Honestly, Karen, you’d be great. . . . Any plans?”
Any plans? Any plans? She perfectly recalled Lisa’s intense, slightly cultish expression, the one all mothers assume with childless people, like they have to understand exactly what it’s like because they can have no concept of how wonderful and natural and fulfilling it is. She’d left soon after. But the truth was that what she couldn’t forget, what she found more disturbing, was the warmth created by the mess and haphazardness of Lisa’s life. Her bungalow near the sea, overflowing with broken toys and discarded clothing. Awful childish paintings stuck all over the place. Silly magnets on the fridge, “World’s Best Mum” and all of that. But it was a home, a safe, welcoming place; and as Karen set the little dining table, she looked around at the life she had created with Bill. She couldn’t see how any number of armless dolls and pieces of Lego would make their cottage feel like home.
Karen’s parents had divorced when she was ten. She and her mother were both neat freaks, and enjoyed nothing more than having a really good go at the oven. After her mother had been to Winterfold for the first time, just before Karen and Bill’s marriage, Mrs. Bromidge had grabbed Karen’s arm on the way home.
“That fireplace!” she’d said. “Doesn’t it drive them up the wall? All those ashes? It’s summer, they don’t need to keep it burning—why don’t they get a nice fire effect? Or get gas?”
Her daughter couldn’t help but agree. Karen often thought the difference between her world and the Winters’ was that she believed in gas fires and much of the time at Winterfold seemed to be spent lighting or replenishing the fire in the huge hearth of the sitting room. But she didn’t say that to her mother. She had to be loyal to this strange family she’d chosen to enter. She made sure Bill’s house had a gas fire, though.
New Cottages was a row of four almshouses down from the church, one of which Bill had bought after his divorce. A couple of months before their wedding Karen had, with Bill’s agreement, had the place redecorated so it felt a bit more modern, a bit less like the home of people who wore nylon nighties and smelled of Yardley English Lavender perfume. She’d moved those possessions of hers that weren’t already there over from her single girl’s flat in Bristol. There wasn’t really room for them. It was a tiny house. That first night, over Chinese takeout and some white wine, sitting on a blanket on the new cream carpet because the new sofa hadn’t arrived yet, Bill had said, “If something or someone else comes along, well—we’ll have to think about scaling up, won’t we!”
He’d said it in that Bill way—gently joking, with a puckered brow, so that she could never quite tell how serious he was about it. And when, a year and a half later, she’d mentioned it—“I’ve not been on the Pill for nearly a year, Bill, isn’t it strange nothing’s happening?”—he’d just smiled and said, “It’ll take a while, I think. You’re thirty-three, but I’m old. I’m fifty!” That was what he’d kept on saying. It’ll take a while. Eventually, as with so many things in their marriage, she’d given up. He was so closed-up, like a clam, like his mother. Karen liked Martha, always had. But she didn’t know her. She just knew that behind that cool exterior there was something there, some secret storm. But did Martha ever show it? Course not.
She was getting more and more frustrated, trying anything to get a rise out of him. When, a year ago, Karen had thrown a tea mug at him and the splintering china cut his ankles, Bill had said, “That was a bit dangerous, Karen. Maybe don’t do it again.” Six months ago, she’d stormed out, after a row about something so stupid she couldn’t even remember it now. She hadn’t come back till morning. He hadn’t texted her until lunchtime.
Do you know where the torch is?
Why was he like this? How could he be so passive? It drove Karen mad. At first she’d tried to change him. Lately, she’d simply stopped trying.
• • •
They had dinner in silence, opposite each other at the tiny table. Bill ate methodically, lining up each morsel of food like a balancing act; Karen sometimes found it hypnotic. When the watery garlic butter burst through the meat of the chicken Kiev and landed on his napkin and not his shirt, she was almost disappointed.
She was silent because she’d got used to it. Before, she’d chattered away. Now it was less effort, less disappointing, to just sit there and eat. Like those couples you saw on holiday, sitting there with nothing to say to each other. She’d think things instead. Wonder about this or that, her mind racing, her heart pounding at how bad she could be if she pushed herself. It surprised her, she’d never thought she was the kind to have an overactive imagination; and she was in the middle of a mental conversation with him about their sex life when suddenly she heard Bill say, out of nowhere, “I wonder if Daisy’ll come to this thing.”
Karen blinked. “What thing?”
Bill speared a single pea with one tine of his fork. “Ma’s party. Wonder if she’ll even remember it’s her own mother’s eightieth birthday.”
Karen didn’t know quite what to say. “Course she will, she wouldn’t forget a thing like that. Anyway, your mum’s asked you to all be there, hasn’t she? That odd invitation and everything.”
“I’m not sure. It’s typical Ma. It’s her strange sense of humor.”
Karen wasn’t sure about that. She had the feeling it was more than having a slightly idiosyncratic sense of humor. “Okay, then. Well, I’m sure she’ll be there.”
Bill opened his mouth, then shut it, then said slowly, “You don’t know Daisy.”
He wants to talk about it. “Well, I know what you lot say about her. Or rather don’t say about her. She obviously loves your mum, even if you and Florence don’t like her much.”
“Of course I like her. She’s my sister.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Bill sighed. “I mean . . . there’s something there. Despite everything she’s done, I still love her. We’re family.”
“What exactly did she do, though?”
He shrugged, a classic boy’s slump of the shoulders. “Nothing. She just isn’t very . . .” He mashed a clump of peas against his knife. “She’s mean.”
A bark of laughter escaped Karen. “Mean! What, she used to hide your things and call you Smelly? That’s no excuse, Bill!”
“She called me Lily,” he said, staring at the plate. “Billy Lily. ’Cause she was Daisy Violet and Florence’s middle name’s Rose, and she said I was the biggest girl of all.” He rubbed his eyes. “But you’re right, it’s silly. She didn’t do anything terrible—”
“I thought she stole the Girl Guides’ money from the bring-and-buy stall at the church fête and spent it on pot?”
“Oh, yeah.” Bill was stroking the bridge of his nose. “How d’you know that?”
/>
“Sources.” She tapped her nose. “Lucy told me.”
“How does she know that?”
“Your daughter knows everything,” Karen said. “And she told me Daisy nearly set the barn on fire smoking a joint with some guy from the village when she was back from traveling.”
He stared at her for a second, almost visibly debating whether to have the conversation or not. “Well, I have to say she was a bit of a druggie before she took off. And she did stuff. I’ve often wondered . . .” He stopped.
“Wondered what?”
“It sounds rather hysterical if you say it out loud, I’m afraid. Events beyond my control. Although now she’s turned into this angelic figure who saves orphans and raises all this money, we’re not allowed to criticize her.” He laughed. “Don’t mention that to Ma, will you?”
“You lot are crazy,” Karen said, piling the plates together with a crash and almost throwing them onto the breakfast bar, which connected them with the kitchen. “Why don’t you ever talk about it? I mean, why did she leave in the first place? She never sees Cat. It’s mad.” She could hear the Mersey in her voice, coming out the more she spoke. “And Cat’s mad too, while we’re at it. Over in Paris and won’t let anyone visit her, like she’s a leper or something.”
“That’s not true. Cat comes home.” She knew Bill was very fond of his niece. “She’s just busy, that’s all.”
“She works in a flower market, how’s that busy? She used to be some amazing fashion journalist mixing with all these designers and all sorts, and now she’s selling potted plants, Bill.” She knew she sounded cruel, but just for once she wanted to shake him out of his quiet, repressed complacency. “She hasn’t been home for more than three years. Don’t you have to wonder what that’s about?”
But her husband merely shrugged. “She had that chap, Olivier, he sounded like bad news. He went off to Marseilles. Had a dog, Luke. Left the dog behind, left Cat to look after him, from what Ma said. The whole thing was a bad business, poor old Cat.” Bill poured himself another glass of wine. “He was a nasty piece of work.”
Karen found she wanted to scream. “What does that mean? Was he abusive? What did she need to get over?”
“I don’t know, Karen,” Bill said, and he looked sad. “I feel rotten, that’s the truth. Haven’t been in touch. Things just slide, don’t they?” He rubbed his forehead, staring blankly at the tablecloth. “Did I tell you about Lucy?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “She wants to write some article about it for the paper. ‘David Winter’s Family Secrets,’ something like that.”
Karen took a moment to digest this. “That’s what it’ll be called?”
He hesitated; she saw the sadness in his face and felt a sharp pain in her heart. “You know what these newspapers are like; they’ve learned nothing. They love picking over the bones of . . . things.”
Karen felt herself shivering in the warm room and gave herself a little shake, as Bill leaned forward on his crossed arms. “I don’t want to say no to her, but I’m not sure about it. I don’t think it’s a good idea, raking it all up. It’ll just upset Ma.”
“You say things like that, but I never really know what you mean, Bill,” Karen said. “Raking what up?” She wished she could keep that note of impatience out of her voice. “Daisy’s selfish, if you ask me. So’s Cat. They could come back and they don’t. As for Florence, she’s in another world. And Lucy—it’s about time she got on with her career. She’s always saying she wants to be a writer, make it big and all that, and she does nothing about it.” Bill and Lucy’s closeness annoyed her now, as it always did when she got cross with Bill, and she wanted to hurt him. The way they laughed at the same stuff, the way his eyes lit up at a clipping she’d send him or a postcard or a cartoon from the New Yorker. Lucy had lived with him after the divorce, and their closeness excluded Karen. Lucy was full of life, a breath of fresh air, too big and clumsy for their small house. Karen wasn’t part of their world, and she tried not to let it get to her, but sometimes it crawled out: a nasty, spiteful, childish desire to hurt. “You’re the only one who seems to care about your parents. The way things are at the moment just leaves you shouldering everything down here.”
“I’m not shouldering anything.” He smiled sadly. “I like being here. I like popping in on Ma and Pa. I’m not like the girls. I’m the boring one. I like a quiet life.”
Their eyes met and they stared at each other across the small table. There was a short silence. Karen knew she’d ruined the evening now; perhaps this was the moment to go. She stood up and crossed her arms. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and it’s been a long day. I’m working too hard. Do you mind if I pop out now, drop that card off ?”
Bill stayed in his seat, looking down at the grain of the wood.
“Bill?”
After a moment he said, “It’s Susan, is it?”
Her voice trembled. “Yes, it is.”
He glanced at her. “Give her my love.”
“I will . . . I will.” Karen turned away, putting her coat on.
“I’ve been thinking.” Bill sat back slowly. “Maybe you need a break. After the party. Maybe we should go to Italy. Florence—we could see Florence. Or Venice. A mini-break in December, before Christmas. Karen? What do you think?”
Her heart was thumping so loud in her chest Karen felt sure he must be able to hear it. She rummaged in her pockets, then reached for her keys, buying time.
“Sure.”
He got up and came over to her. “I know things haven’t been—I know things are difficult.” She nodded, slowly raising her chin so she was looking straight into his eyes. Her husband. His brown eyes, so solemn, so sweet and kind. A pang of memory shot through her like a comet streaking through the darkness, reminding her that she hadn’t been wrong, that there had been something there once. “We deserve a break, both of us. We could get some practice making that baby,” he said softly, as if it were a secret.
Karen put her hands up to his and they were both still, forearms touching. She breathed in, then out, slowly, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that threatened to sweep over her. You’re a doctor, she wanted to shout. Haven’t you noticed it’s been more than three years and nothing’s happening in that department?
Instead she shook her head.
“Maybe.”
“Oh.” He gave a small laugh, and his fingers grasped hers. They were warm: Bill was always warm. “Maybe’s better than nothing, I suppose.”
Karen said, “I’d better go. Susan’ll be—”
“I know,” he said. “I think I’ll probably be asleep when you get back. Long day.”
“Sure. Sure . . .”
Karen picked up the card so carefully propped up on the hall table—more post—and opened the door. Bill said softly under his breath, “Night, then.” And as she walked hastily away, shivering in the sharp autumn night, Karen knew she should feel free, but she couldn’t.
Cat
Cat—
I cannot look after Luke that weekend in November. Luke is not my problem anymore. You made that clear when you took him away from me. You can’t now have it both ways.
If you go and see Didier at Bar Georges in the eleventh he will give you the envelope I meant to give you. Something to help you in it. I think you will find it beneficial.
Olivier
CAT READ THE e-mail and slammed the laptop shut so hard the corrugated plastic roofing of the stall rattled in the rain. Water dripped off the roof and onto the edges of the ornamental lavenders, the sunny marigolds and geraniums. Tourists huddled miserably against the birdcages crammed with brightly colored canaries who sang all day, an incessant cheeping that filled the air but which Cat had long ago stopped hearing.
She didn’t have time to go see Didier. But she had to. He’d got her, again. She had to get back to Winterfold, and the price of the train ticket wa
s, these days, beyond her reach. But even the thought of going back to the eleventh arrondissement made her angry and afraid. It was the idea that Olivier still had the power to drag her back to her old life.
Once Cat had lived not far from the eleventh, before she met Olivier, and if she could have seen herself now she’d have been astonished at whom she would become. She had had a year of unemployment sprinkled with gardening jobs after university, until the magical day when she’d heard she’d got the job as editorial assistant on Women’s Wear Daily. It came after months of job applications, which had severely tested Cat, shy at the best of times, violently full of self-doubt and lanky awkwardness at the worst. When the letter arrived at Winterfold (she’d kept that letter, the one that brought her here; it seemed so quaint now, a letter) offering her the position, Cat had jumped up and down in the hallway, then clung to her grandmother, almost hoping Martha might beg her not to go. Even though all Cat had ever wanted to do was live in Paris and this job was more than she could ever dare to hope for, it still seemed too hard, too much to have to leave this place where she felt so safe, where she had been, she thought, so happy. She’d been away, to university in London, though that had been nothing really but extended periods where she always knew she was coming back to Winterfold. This was different. She was twenty-two, and this was the beginning of real life.
“I don’t want to leave you both. I don’t want to . . . do a runner. Like Daisy.” Saying her mother’s name was always strange. The D sang out like a bell, and she felt as though strangers might turn and stare: “Oh . . . it’s that girl. Daisy Winter’s daughter. Wonder how she’ll turn out.”
But her grandmother had been surprisingly firm.
“You’re not your mother, darling. You’re nothing like her. Besides, you’re not some recluse who’s never left home. You’ve spent three years in London, you’ve got a degree, and we’re so proud of you, darling girl. But I think this is the right thing to do. Don’t be afraid of going. Just make sure you come back.”
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