by Karen Swan
Except that today didn’t feel like usual. It was as though her world had changed, shifted slightly off its axis. It was two days after her conversation with Jinty and she was still rattled. She’d picked up on the subtext – who could have missed it, frankly? – and couldn’t quite dismiss it out of hand.
Tor watched Kate sauté the onions. She liked the way Kate had combed her thick auburn hair into a loose French plait, with wispy tendrils falling forwards, framing her face in a soft-focus haze. Her striped blue and white linen smock fanned out gently over her teeny pot belly (the nearest she was going to get to a baby bump, she would joke, self-consciously) and in her boy-cut jeans and battered plimsolls she looked like a young Charlotte Rampling.
‘Oh, Kate. I’m probably just overreacting. You know what she’s like. Not happy till she’s ruined someone else’s day.’
‘Well, imagine how bitter you’d be if you had to live with those thighs. Ooh, the chafing.’ The women chuckled. ‘Honestly though, I can’t bear the cow. Who does she think she is, spreading malicious rumours like that? Doesn’t she know who she’s messing with? Tu problema, mi problema, amiga. Just give me the word and I’ll put together a case against her for crimes against fashion. You could easily have her for emotional distress – I mean really, horizontal stripes on her bum? There’s not a jury in the world would find against you.’ Pause. ‘Except maybe in Fiji.’
Tor laughed.
‘Seriously, Tor. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Hugh’s crazy about you. Everyone can see it. So he works crazy hours? He’s got his own business. It’s part of the job, unfortunately. Just wait till they get bought out by Fosters. Then you’ll be laughing.’
Tor nodded appreciatively. She understood why Kate thought everything was rosy. She and Hugh never argued, he helped with the kids . . . But privately? When it was just the two of them? What would Kate think if she knew they’d only had sex three times so far this year?
Her head hurt just thinking about it. ‘Have you spoken to Cress?’ she asked, changing the subject. Tor had been avoiding Cress’s calls all week, knowing her best friend’s antennae would pick up her anxieties immediately. ‘Has she signed him yet?’
‘Oh my God, yes! I cannot believe she’s got Harry Hunter on her books. God only knows what she must have done to get him.’
‘Knowing Cress, sold her granny – or one of the children. Where’s the party going to be, do you know?’
‘Eight o’clock at Kensington Roof Gardens next Saturday. Paparazzi central. She wants to get maximum exposure of her new purchase,’ she said.
Kate leaned back against the worktop and dropped her head back, closing her eyes.
‘What are you doing?’ Tor asked suspiciously.
‘Imagining him – exposed.’
Tor guffawed. ‘You’re trying to get pregnant with your husband! You’re supposed to be having filthy thoughts about him, not strange men.’
Tor straightened up and grabbed her tea. ‘Having said that, it goes without saying we need to encourage him to have filthy thoughts about us. I definitely need to get a new dress. Do you think Hugh would leave me if I added another zero to the Visa bill?’
‘Yes,’ Kate chastised. And then reconsidered. ‘Although if it means you get to pull Harry Hunter, I personally think it would be worth it.’
And they burst out laughing, just as the children came charging into the kitchen, thinking that this looked as good a time as any to ask for ice cream cornets.
Chapter Four
The post landed on the mat with a thwack, startling Cress so that she jogged black coffee over her milk-coloured cashmere dressing-gown. Tch. Not a good start.
Mark picked up the bundle of mail from the hall and, kissing her affectionately on the forehead, dropped it on the worktop.
‘Looking forward to today?’ he smiled, pouring a cup of strong builder’s.
She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a glorious day and my four beautiful children are mine, all mine. What’s not to like?’
‘Mummy, I hate butter on my croissant,’ Lucy whined. ‘You know I hate butter. Greta never gives me butter.’
Cress rolled her eyes. She couldn’t keep up with her children’s dietary preferences, which – thanks to Greta’s indulgence on the matter – appeared to change on a weekly basis.
‘You’ll have a great time,’ he grinned, seeing her nervousness and annoyance merge into a fidgety irritation. He ran a hand through her hair, and let it fall through his fingers. He kissed the tip of her nose. She had smudges of mascara around her eyes – last night’s lovemaking had left her exhausted and for once not giving a damn about going to sleep with a full face of make-up. And he loved her for it. The less she cared about perfection, the sexier he found her.
Since signing Harry Hunter to Sapphire Books – all of twelve days ago – she had actually relaxed. Just let go. After eight long years of what felt like almost total absence as she got Sapphire off the ground – reappearing only for the conceptions, births and birthdays of the children – he’d finally got his wife back.
Of course, the children were used to their mother’s limited presence in their lives – they didn’t know any different – and Cress had always ‘made it up to them’ (as she saw it) by insisting on paying above the odds to get the very best nannies on the market. But even with Norland trainings and Montessori certificates, they never seemed to last very long. Cress was a demanding taskmaster, and in seven years they’d had eleven nannies. One was sacked for taking the children to McDonalds; another for letting Jago whiz around the block on his bicycle without a helmet; another for buying Lucy the acrylic, and not the wool, school jumper.
After that one, Mark had determinedly made a stand about not sacking the latest nanny on some flim-flam excuse. He didn’t want a constant stream of strangers filing through their home and populating their children’s lives, he’d said. If a nanny was to be sacked, it had to be for a properly sack-able offence, and not from a fit of pique.
And so far, Mark had his fingers crossed that things appeared to be going well with Greta. She’d lasted nine months already, which was far longer than most, and she seemed very settled. If Cress was sniping, it was running straight off Greta’s back – one of the advantages of a language barrier – and the children adored her. He just hoped not too much. Privately, Mark had observed that the sackings usually came when the children bonded with the new nanny and called for her over their mother.
So when Greta had asked, at the last minute, for the Wednesday off, to see her boyfriend who was coming over from Sweden, Mark had been delighted. He knew Cress was frantic with Harry Hunter’s big welcome party in a few days’ time, but this was a plum opportunity for them all to spend some quality time together. At Mark’s prompt, Cress was taking them up to the Science Museum and then to Kensington Gardens for a picnic, and he hoped he might be able to get away from the office early and join them as a surprise.
He patted his suit jacket, feeling for his BlackBerry, before remembering it was in the bedroom. He bounded up the stairs two at a time, eager to make the 7.48 a.m. He had a big meeting with the head of Equities at nine, and he had to do some emails on the train.
He was two strides across the landing when the bathroom door opened in front of him and, from a mist of hot steam, Greta’s tanned and lissom legs emerged. In spite of his rush to get to work, his eyes dragged his feet to a stop and travelled lingeringly up from her ankles, past her taut knees, stopping at the pale blue sea-island cotton shirt that fluttered at the tops of her smooth thighs. The shirt swamped Greta’s frame. Only two buttons had been done up, and as she jumped back in surprise, the shirt billowed open to flash a pair of daisy-print knickers.
Mark swallowed but couldn’t wipe the surprise from his face.
‘That’s my shirt,’ he managed finally. Cress had bought it for him for Christmas a few years ago. It had been one of his favourites.
Greta blushed a becoming pink and nodded, staring at the floor. ‘I’
m sorry,’ she whispered.
He stared at her, incredulous.
‘Why are you wearing my shirt?’ he whispered, hurriedly, casting a glance down the stairs. If Cress came up and found Greta standing in his shirt, there’d be blood.
Greta shrugged, flashing her pants again. Mark’s eyes darted down, before he could catch himself.
‘Mrs Pelling, she threw it in the bin,’ she whispered, looking at him beseechingly. ‘She says you not want it any more. She says the collar all frayed. Look,’ she said, going to reach up to show him.
‘No! No! It’s fine, Greta, I believe you,’ he whispered again, trying to minimize her movements. She was wearing his shirt, but only just. The sweep of her neck down to her shoulders was exposed, and her skin looked so silky he half thought it might just slip off her altogether. ‘But I don’t understand – why did you take it out of the bin? Why are you wearing it?’
Greta blushed harder but she kept his gaze. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, with a look that said she did. She shrugged again, the shirt shifting.
Mark looked away quickly. He wished she’d stop doing that.
‘I just always liked it,’ she continued, feeling braver. ‘It always looked so nice on you. It matched your eyes.’
Mark looked back at her and was astonished to find her staring at him, a small fire in her eyes. Holy crap – was she giving him the come-on? No! What would she see in him? At thirty-nine, he was nearly twenty years older than her. And anyway, he loved his wife. After years of playing second fiddle to Cress’s career, he had her back again. Things were the best they’d been in years. He’d be a fool to risk it all for . . . for . . . for a stunning . . . He’d be a fool. Besides, it was such a bloody cliché, fancying the nanny. He had more about him than that.
He coughed, nervous his voice was preparing to flee, along with his principles. ‘Well, I don’t think it’s, uh, appropriate, Greta, for you to, uh, wear my garments.’ Garments? He’d never used that word in his life! ‘If Cress put it in the bin, I think it had better go back in the bin. And stay there.’
Greta bit her lip and looked at the floor. ‘Of course, Mr Pelling. I am sorry.’
Mark nodded. ‘Right. Well, I’d better go,’ he said brusquely, turning and striding back down the stairs more casually than he felt. It wasn’t until he got to the office forty minutes later that he remembered his BlackBerry was still in the bedroom. Nor did he remember a word of what was said in the meeting. Nor did he remember to surprise Cress and the children in the park. All he could remember was Greta standing in front of him, in his own, favourite, shirt.
Chapter Five
Tor bustled about the kitchen, wiping ketchup off the walls and nearly breaking her neck slipping on a rogue grape underfoot, as she tried to restore it to its usual gleaming perfection before Hugh came downstairs. He’d come home early tonight – for once – and she peered into the fridge, wondering what to cook. Not expecting him home, she’d had some of the children’s pasta, but that was several hours ago now, and it wasn’t really enough to qualify as a meal. She settled on fillet steaks, mushrooms and a salad, and having put the oil on a high heat, began chopping spring onions and tomatoes. The oil began to smoke and spit, and she was swearing under her breath when Hugh sauntered in.
‘It’s your own fault for standing within spitting distance,’ he smiled, taking her reddened wrist and gently sucking on it. He’d changed into his running kit – ancient faded blue jersey shorts which practically stood up on their own and a university rugby shirt. He dropped her wrist and walked over to the dresser for a water glass. ‘I’m off for a run.’
She took the oil off the heat. She clearly wouldn’t need that for another forty minutes then. ‘So how was your day?’ she asked, pouring herself a glass of white instead. She hadn’t had a chance to speak to him alone yet. He’d come in and gone straight up to put the children to bed, but she’d seen instantly that there was a charge about him this evening. Something had happened.
‘Bloody fantastic actually.’ He turned to face her, beaming. ‘We’ve been invited to tender for the new council offices contract – two-year job, thirteen million pounds!’ He couldn’t have grinned any harder.
‘No!’ Tor gasped and put down her drink. She squealed with delight and ran across the room, throwing her arms around his neck and covering his face in tiny kisses. So it had all paid off then. The lonely evenings spent on the sofa had been worth it.
She pulled back and looked at him. ‘Why didn’t you mention anything about this before? I didn’t even know it was a possibility.’
‘I didn’t want to get your hopes up. You know what it’s like. It can get depressing.’ He squeezed her around the waist. ‘I wanted to come home with some good news for a change.’
‘It’s nice enough that you’re just home for a change,’ Tor teased, then instantly regretted it.
Hugh had set up his architect’s firm, Planed Spaces, with Peter Golding, a friend from McCarthy Willis, where they’d both done their apprenticeship. They’d been going now for six years and it had been a long, hard slog. The corporate and commercial contracts were elusive and they’d had to concentrate on a density of smaller-scale domestic projects. Sure, there was no shortage of redevelopment projects in Wandsworth – everyone puts their money in their property and their children – but it was a piecemeal existence. Even the most extravagant home was small change to a commercial project, and although on paper the Summershills were far from paupers, the day-to-day reality was they often lived hand-to-mouth: their car was second-hand, with over 80,000 miles on the clock, most of Tor’s new ‘school run’ clothes came from Topshop, and she’d started buying her branded products at Morrisons.
This council contract could change everything and herald the next chapter for Planed Spaces. She felt a surge of excitement. Perhaps this would be a new chapter for them too.
‘So do you think . . .’ She hesitated. ‘How about you and I go away for a weekend somewhere?’ She winked.
‘Hey, hold your horses,’ he chuckled. ‘We haven’t won the contract yet. We’re merely invited to tender. We’re up against three others. We’re submitting plans end of this month, so we’ll hear after that.’ He kissed her on the forehead and wriggled out of her hug.
‘Well then, let’s celebrate the invitation,’ she persevered. ‘Don’t go for a run. Stay here with me. I’ll find something with bubbles for us to drink . . . a scrap of chiffon for me to wear . . .’ She giggled.
Hugh began jogging on the spot. ‘It’s tempting,’ he smiled. ‘But I’ve got to start thinking about the brief. And you know I always come up with my best ideas when I run.’
Oh! She felt exasperated. Even on a good day like today, he seemed out of reach.
He threw his leg up on the kitchen table and pushed his head down on to his knee, doing some hamstring stretches.
‘Right,’ she said flatly, as she watched him. Tor cradled her glass, feeling the chill in her palm. ‘How’s the McIntyre job coming along?’
‘Oh. Um, OK, I think.’ His voice sounded strange, Tor thought, although he was upside down. He switched legs and his face was obscured. ‘I’m not really involved with that job.’
‘Really? Jinty Adams told me she sees your car parked outside all the time.’
Hugh stood up and frowned at her, as he began jogging on the spot again.
‘She lives opposite,’ she explained.
‘Right. Well, anyway.’ He turned to go, eager to drop the conversation.
‘It’s funny. I hadn’t realized she was that Julia who monopolized you at Kate and Monty’s the other week.’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘She – she did not monopolize me,’ Hugh blustered. ‘I spoke to plenty of people that evening. Anyway, I was networking. What does it matter?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t. I just would have thought you’d have introduced me to one of your clients, that’s all.’
‘I just told you. I’m not really involved on that job.’
&
nbsp; ‘So why’s your car parked outside the whole time then?’
‘It’s a company car, Tor. Anyone in the team can use it. Look, what’s going on?’ His eyes narrowed and he shifted his weight. ‘I hope you’re not trying to suggest anything – it’s beneath you.’
‘Well, so long as she’s not beneath you,’ Tor shot back.
Hugh froze.
‘I can’t believe you just said that! . . . For God’s sake, Tor. What’s wrong with you? Do you really think I’d . . .’ His voice trailed away.
Tor stared at him, trying to find the truth. She knew that Julia was a threat. There had been an easiness between them at the dinner party, an intimacy, which didn’t seem appropriate for a business relationship. And she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that the flames of Hugh’s passion that night had been fanned by his dinner companion’s magnificent décolletage, and not by Tor’s admirably you’d-never-guess-she-had-three-children flat tummy.
But she couldn’t deny that Hugh looked sick. His pallor was grey and he sagged forward, like she’d shot him with an anaesthetic dart. He turned away from her and leant on the worktop.
Tor relented. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean anything by it, really I didn’t. I don’t know why on earth I said it. Just forget it. I let paranoia get the better of me. I’m an idiot.’
She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back.
‘Come,’ she said softly, trying to turn him round to face her. ‘Please don’t go for that run. You can go in the morning. Stay with me.’
