by Alice Ross
‘Ooh, they sound gorgeous,’ said Connie. ‘And we could make some nice salads. Jemima can mix the dressings.’
‘Ooh. She’s going to love it,’ said Kate, beaming at her friends. ‘Let me go and tell her.’
Kate hated to admit it, but it had been a long time since she’d seen Jemima so happy. Her little face had lit up brighter than Blackpool when she’d been informed of the impromptu cookery club to be held in her honour. And while the twins, wedged into armbands and inflatable rings, splashed about in the pool with Amber, their older sibling revelled in the attention in Melody’s kitchen. In her little spotted swimsuit she sprinkled parmesan over golden barbecued corn, and stirred together mayonnaise, vinegar, mustard and salt and pepper for the potato salad dressing. On a part-sliced crusty white baton, she smeared garlic butter mixed with pesto and basil, then wrapped the bread in foil ready for the barbecue. With a pastry brush, she coated hot dogs in a sweet and sour glaze before they were whipped off to be grilled. And she threaded halloumi, yellow peppers, courgettes and cherry tomatoes onto skewers, before chucking some shallots, capers, olive oil, garlic and a handful of herbs into the food processor to make a dressing for the kebabs.
Then, when all the savoury stuff had been devoured, she returned to the kitchen for the pièce de résistance – the crepes.
Jemima mixed mashed bananas with wholewheat flour and water, then greased the griddle pan with butter ready for Trish to cook the pancakes. Once golden brown, she folded them into triangles, drizzled them with melted chocolate and added a few almond slivers.
With the dessert completing a perfect meal, and Milo throwing only one piece of halloumi into the swimming pool, she then joined her siblings in the water with Amber and Melody.
‘She’s thoroughly enjoyed that,’ said Kate, watching her brood from the terrace as they all bobbed about. ‘Thank you so much. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve seen her so happy.’
‘I’ve loved every minute of it,’ said Trish. ‘She’s a great kid. And really good fun.’
‘She is. When I have time to give her some attention. I feel like I’ve neglected her lately, but it’s been really difficult on my own with the three of them.’
‘I can imagine. When are Andrew and Domenique back?’
‘Andrew tonight and Domenique tomorrow. Which, to be honest, is making me jittery.’
‘I’m sure there’s nothing going on,’ soothed Connie. ‘But for your own peace of mind, maybe you should ask Andrew.’
‘You’re right. I should,’ agreed Kate. ‘But if I can’t face ringing the dishwasher repairman, how on earth am I going to pluck up the courage to ask my husband if he’s having an affair?’
Andrew arrived back at six o’clock that evening. Looking shattered. Kate tried not to think that it might be because of all the sex he’d been having with Domenique.
The children were delighted to see him, launching themselves at him with such force that he toppled over onto the rocking horse.
‘How was the course?’ Kate asked when everyone had calmed down, been presented with stuffed Loch Ness monsters and plastic bagpipes, and packaged off to bed.
‘Usual boring crap,’ he replied, flopping onto the sofa. ‘I would’ve been back last night but there was a big dinner and then a team-building thing today.’
‘Uh huh.’ The amount of detail made Kate wonder if it might be a case of he doth protest too much. ‘Anybody there I know?’ she asked, trying not to sound like Miss Marple.
He leaned back, stretched his arms over his head and yawned. ‘What? Oh no. I don’t think so.’
As he picked up the ripped, yoghurt-splattered TV page, Kate noticed how terrible he looked – dark shadows under his eyes, deep lines etching his forehead, and flecks of grey appearing in his dark hair, which also needed a cut. Studying him from across the room, she realised she hadn’t looked at him properly in ages. Perhaps because he was always in such a bad mood. Preoccupied. Stressed. Not at all how he used to be.
She’d first met him when he’d brought in his gran’s old cat for treatment in the Bristol practice where she’d been training. Despite the animal’s failing health, he’d passed on the bleak prognosis to his relative in a caring, sensitive manner which had greatly impressed Kate. She’d bumped into him in a bar in town two days later, where they’d both unintentionally abandoned their friends and ended up spending the evening together, chatting. They’d started going out immediately afterwards, had married as soon as Kate finished her training, then moved to the Cotswolds a few years later. Remembering those heady days – the excitement, the zest for life, moving into their gorgeous new home and setting up her own business – Kate felt like they belonged to a completely different person. Two completely different people. Both she and Andrew had changed beyond recognition since then – and not just physically. They both seemed so weary, so deflated. And she couldn’t imagine either of them demonstrating more than a flicker of excitement about anything. Was this how most couples were once they’d had children? Or just when one of them was shagging the au pair?
‘Did you call about the dishwasher?’ he asked, slicing through her musings.
‘No. I…’
‘Don’t tell me. Didn’t have time,’ he cut in, before thrusting to his feet and striding out of the room, muttering something about going to bed.
It was with some trepidation that Kate followed him an hour later, after making minor inroads into the Himalayan mountain range of washing-up. Too tired to finish it, she undressed on the landing, leaving on her T-shirt – smeared with something yellow – and a greying, baggy pair of knickers. She hoped the combination might dampen any amorous inclinations her husband might have. Because she didn’t want him anywhere near her. Not when she imagined he’d been up to all sorts with Domenique that week. Heart pounding, she crept into the room, bracing herself for confrontation if he did demonstrate any romantic tendencies. But there was no need: he was fast asleep and snoring like a trooper.
Which left Kate wondering if she should be relieved, or offended.
The next morning the children barged into the matrimonial bedroom with all the determination of the crusaders – deftly wiping anything amorous from the agenda. About which Kate definitely was relieved.
Just as everyone was washed, dressed and breakfasted, Domenique arrived – a vision of Gallic gorgeousness with her reed-slim figure, long glossy dark hair and flawless skin. Honestly, Kate mused, greeting the girl with a disingenuous smile, why couldn’t the agency have sent them someone short and fat with hairy armpits? She doubted Domenique’s armpits had seen a hair in their entire twenty-three-year existence.
With eagle eyes, she observed Andrew’s reaction to the au pair’s homecoming. It was impartial, she concluded. Possibly because he was impartial, or because he was too busy wiping Mia’s nose, or because he was playing it cool so as not to arouse suspicion.
‘Did you have a nice holiday?’ Kate enquired, as the children launched into a round of celebratory somersaults and Milo karate-kicked the rocking horse.
‘Oui,’ replied Domenique, in her sickeningly sexy French accent.
‘Where did you go again?’ Kate asked, in her Miss Marple voice.
‘Nice.’
Hmm. Kate narrowed her eyes. Had there been a moment’s hesitation there? ‘With?’
Domenique cocked an unimpressed, perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘A friend.’
Kate pursed her lips. What kind of “friend”?
She didn’t have chance to find out. Cutting short the interrogation, Domenique sashayed across the room.
Kate’s gaze now darted back to Andrew, waiting to see if his eyes followed the girl’s pert derriere in her tight white jeans.
They didn’t.
‘The dishwasher is not fixed?’ Domenique enquired, standing at the entrance to the kitchen and eyeing the towering pile of dirty crockery.
‘No. Kate hasn’t had time to phone the repairman,’ mutt
ered Andrew, still occupied with Mia’s nose.
‘Merde!’ tutted the au pair, with a toss of her glossy hair.
For all she’d been filled with trepidation about her husband and Domenique’s return, Kate much preferred having them under one roof. First, because – at the risk of sounding like Kate Humble – she could observe them in their natural habitat. And second, because as well as being drop-dead gorgeous, fantastic with the children, and really rather nice, Domenique was also startlingly efficient. First thing Monday she phoned the repairman who arrived within the hour, fixed the dishwasher, salivated over her, then shot out of the house at breakneck speed as Milo launched a round of apples at him.
As for Andrew, Kate had scrutinised his every move since his return and had noticed no change: he remained as moody and grumpy as ever.
‘So, do you still think something’s going on?’ Connie asked when Kate pushed the twins’ buggy down to the newsagent’s on Monday afternoon, Domenique having taken Jemima swimming after nursery.
Removing a packet of wine gums from Mia’s vice-like grip, Kate repositioned the buggy so anything grab-able was out of reach. ‘I honestly don’t know. They both seem much the same as usual.’
‘Well, there you go then. You’ve been so shattered, you’ve let your imagination run riot. Now you’re more on top of things, you’re thinking rationally again.’
Kate sucked in a cheek. ‘I don’t know. I just have a feeling. Call it women’s intuition.’
‘You could be intuiting completely the wrong thing.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ she sighed.
‘Bloody hell. Don’t tell me the dishwasher’s fixed,’ Andrew gasped that evening.
‘Yes,’ replied Kate. ‘Domenique arranged it. The man was here within the hour.’
‘Fantastic. Thanks, Domenique.’ He tossed a fleeting smile at the girl, who was folding clean laundry at the kitchen table.
‘Ce n’etait rien,’ she replied, without looking up.
‘I’ll just nip upstairs and get changed,’ Andrew announced, before stalking out of the room.
A few seconds later, Domenique’s mobile buzzed with a text. She tugged the phone from her jeans pocket, her mouth stretching into a satisfied smile as she read the message.
Kate narrowed her eyes, wondering if the missive was from Andrew upstairs, expressing his true appreciation at the fixing of the dishwasher. ‘Everything all right?’ she couldn’t help but ask.
‘Oui,’ replied Domenique, flicking off the phone and stuffing it away again.
Chapter Six
The following morning, Kate adjusted her priorities, relegating her amateur sleuthing to second place and promoting the sorting out of the veterinary practice to the top spot. The locum would be leaving in a couple of weeks and, because of her dithering over the business’s future, she didn’t have a lot of time to find a replacement.
She left the twins with Domenique and dropped Jemima at nursery, deftly avoiding any depressing encounters with Frances, Mrs Allen or the yellow-shirts, before heading straight to work.
The Little Biddington Veterinary Practice sat at the end of the village in a purpose-built building, sympathetically constructed to blend in with its surroundings. Inside it was sleek and modern with state-of-the-art equipment and a glossy desk, manned by receptionist Sarah – a lovely forty-something, with a swingy blonde bob, who’d occupied the role since the business opened.
Kate made them both a coffee and was chatting to her long-serving employee at the desk when in tottered one of her favourite clients: Mrs Dunlop, with her ancient cat, Kitty.
‘Kate. How lovely to see you. Don’t tell me you’re back at work,’ the old lady gushed.
‘I’m afraid not,’ replied Kate, smiling at the woman’s kind, powdered face. She might be in her eighties but she still bore evidence of the beauty she’d once been.
‘That’s a shame.’ Mrs D set down the cat carrier on the desk. ‘Children still keeping you busy?’
Kate nodded. ‘And some. I had no idea how exhausting they could be.’
Mrs D laughed. ‘I bet. You make the most of them, though. Enjoy every minute. Alf and I would’ve loved a family but sadly it wasn’t meant to be. Still, at least we’ve been able to rescue lots of cats.’
‘You have. And what lucky cats they’ve been.’ Kate bent down to the carrier. ‘How’s Kitty doing?’
‘Marvellously. Thanks to you. I know I’ve said it a million times but if you hadn’t saved her life five years ago, I really couldn’t have coped. Not when I’d only just lost Alf.’
‘I was just doing my job,’ said Kate, straightening up as she recalled the horrific state the poor cat had been in. She’d been hit by a car, every part of her little body damaged. Heavily pregnant with Jemima at the time, Kate had operated for six hours – the longest operation she’d ever performed. Months of care and recuperation had followed, but, eventually, the cat had made a full recovery. ‘What’s she in for today?’ she asked.
‘Just a routine jab.’
‘Want me to do it?’
‘We’d be honoured.’
With Kitty fully vaccinated a few minutes later, Kate waved off the cat and its lovely owner, then headed through to the office at the back of the building. Switching on the computer, she discovered an email from the recruitment agency. True to their word, they’d conjured up two possible replacements for the locum: one with nowhere near the experience needed; and one with a name she recognised.
Her stomach tensed as she reread it.
Gregg Swanson.
But surely it couldn’t be the Gregg Swanson. That would just be plain weird.
Opening the attached CV, she ran her eye down the list of impressive credentials – which included a stint in France as a student vet.
Oh. My. God.
It was the Gregg Swanson.
Slumping back against the leather of her chair, Kate’s mind careered back to that fateful summer, when she’d first laid eyes on the man who would turn out to be her first love…
It had been in Nice, the city which, with its fabulous markets, fascinating old town, glorious architecture and amazing restaurants, had enchanted her from the first day she’d arrived. And where she’d been lucky enough to have been offered a summer job as a receptionist in a vet’s practice during her third year at university. She hadn’t, however, been the only Brit working there.
‘And now I will introduce you to Gregg,’ the practice manager had announced, her kitten heels clacking against the gleaming tiled floor as she’d led Kate into one of the consulting rooms. ‘But you must not be speaking the English all day if you are wanting to improve your French,’ the woman had instructed.
Kate had had no intention of speaking the English all day. In fact, so keen was she to improve her French that she’d felt a momentary pang of disappointment at discovering a fellow countryman on the premises. That disappointment had lasted only until Gregg Swanson spun his muscular, six-foot-three form around to her and smiled.
Up until that point, Kate had imagined love at first sight to be a concept conjured up by romantic novelists. But the moment she’d set eyes on Gregg’s handsome face topped with spiky blond hair, and his twinkling blue gaze had fused with hers, her stomach had fluttered, her knees had weakened, and a tiny part of her heart had flitted across the room to him. Where it had remained – in his safekeeping – for the next three years. At the time, Kate had thought that that was it. Job done. That she’d hit lucky first time round; that her first proper boyfriend would morph into her lifelong partner, thereby sparing her all the relationship trauma her friends were subjected to. But things hadn’t worked out quite so neatly. After graduating, Gregg had been offered a job in Australia – originally for a year. They’d agreed their relationship could survive the distance; that twelve months would whizz by; that he’d be back before they knew it. But, at the end of the contract, the position had been made permanent and Gregg had fallen i
n love with Ozzie life. Kate, who’d been out to visit, hadn’t been nearly so enamoured of the place. Plus, she loved her job in Bristol. They reached stalemate: him begging her to move to Australia; her pleading with him to return to the UK. In the end, neither prepared to compromise, they’d done the only thing possible and agreed to part; to make a clean break, with absolutely no contact. An arrangement they’d both stuck to.
Of course, with the wonders of modern technology, Kate hadn’t been able to resist looking him up occasionally, surreptitiously following his career online. But that had been in Life Before Kids. Since having the children, she’d scarcely given him a thought. And now here he was. In the Cotswolds – after nearly twenty years Down Under.
Blimey. As if her life wasn’t complicated enough at the moment.
Panic stirring, she picked up the phone and called the agency: were they absolutely sure there was no one else suitable on their books? No, came back the reply. Followed by – but more eloquently put – she should think herself lucky they’d managed to find two candidates in the ridiculously short timescale she’d given them.
Kate hung up, propped her elbows on the desk, rested her chin in her hands and wondered what to do. Options were limited: hire someone who’d be completely overwhelmed and would only last two minutes, thereby subjecting her to this rigmarole again. Or, hire Gregg – an excellent vet with all the skills necessary to run the practice with minimal input from her.
But could she cope with him being in the same village; being back in her life?
Drawing in a deep breath, she concluded that of course she could. She was a grown woman, for goodness’ sake. A mother of three. A completely different person to the lovestruck young student she’d been two decades ago. And she was far too busy for anything remotely resembling romance in her life. Which was just as well, given she wouldn’t recognise the sentiment if it was delivered to the door in a big red box with Romance stamped all over it.
Arriving home at lunchtime, Kate discovered the twins in their Halloween pumpkin outfits making something weird out of building bricks, and Domenique in the kitchen mashing potato.
