‘This isn’t the place to discuss private family matters,’ she’s sharply informing me, wagging a scolding finger as she used to do when I’d arrived home late as a teenager, or not done my homework on time. ‘I can see that Oliver was right to be concerned about you. You’re making a big fuss over nothing. Your dad and I thought that letter was pure mischief-making. Oliver is a nice looking lad. It’s only natural other women should fancy him. Anyway, if you want to know, without even mentioning the letter we did casually speak to him about a rumour we’d heard that he’d been seen with another girl. Apparently, it was nothing more than a misunderstanding which he explained to our complete satisfaction, and reiterated how much he loved you, which was very plain to us both.’
My jaw falls open and my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment and annoyance. ‘You questioned him, without even mentioning the matter to me?’
She doesn’t answer my question but embarks on a lecture about trust in marriage, how she and dad may have had their ups and downs over the years but always trusted each other. I begin to feel distinctly uncomfortable for seeming to doubt my own lovely husband. It doesn’t occur to me to wonder exactly what Oliver told them about Shirley or Sandra or whatever her name was, that he might have lied to my parents, giving his version of events rather than the truth. Not for a moment do I imagine that he might not have admitted to actually kissing the girl. Snogging, as we call it. My mother, who has never looked at another man since she started going out with Dad in her teens, can be very naïve. But then so can I, I suppose. The fact is, I want to believe Oliver is innocent.
I make one last effort to sort out my troubled thoughts. ‘So you and Dad were always loves young dream, were you? Viv and Ken, Mr and Mrs Perfect. Never a cross word and neither of you ever doubting you’d done the right thing by getting together. No problems at all, eh?’
Mum doesn’t look at me as she pins my receipt into the account book, so that she’ll have a record for the monthly bill she’ll send. ‘Oh, there were quarrels all right, and plenty of problems, but only for the first twenty-five years. It gets easier after that.’ She looks up at me and smiles, her brown eyes warm with affection.
I smile too at her dry humour, knowing she and Dad adore each other, and hoping that Oliver and I will be half as happy.
‘Don’t worry, love. You’ve got a good man there, and you’ll be fine once you get the hang of sharing your life with someone.’ She puts her arms about me and gives me a hug. ‘Just remember to tell him how much you love him, every single day. I still tell your dad, and he tells me.’
‘I do, I do. But I never realised what hard work marriage is. All that emotional stuff, and jealousy can be very draining. And I never seem to stop working from morning till night, what with getting the new house organised and coping with a load of new tasks, as well as keeping on top of things at the agency. So yes, I suppose I am a bit overtired.’
‘Marriage is certainly not all red roses and champagne,’ she dryly remarks, and I chuckle, feeling foolishly naïve and adolescent.
‘I’m not quite such a hopeless romantic, Mum, but with summer almost upon us, we’re coming up to our busiest time, and today is no exception.’ I’m fervently wishing I’d never started on this conversation, should have kept my lips firmly buttoned. But I can see she’s no longer listening, her mind having moved on to other things as she bustles back to the counter, me trailing disconsolately behind.
‘Speaking of being busy,’ she’s saying, as she packs my goods into a cardboard box, ‘could you find time to take Gran to the doctor for her check-up this afternoon? I’ll be helping your dad in the shop all day today as Friday is one of our busiest days.’
My heart sinks. This could well be the straw that breaks this particular camel’s back. The day ahead seems horrendous enough as it is, and I’ve made it worse by lingering here and making myself late. Yet I’m instantly washed with guilt at these selfish thoughts. There’s me dreaming of a time when Perfect Cottages will be making sufficient profit for me to employ someone to help while Mum copes marvellously with twice my work load. Most days she does a ten or twelve hour shift in the shop, including dashing home to make a meal and care for two frail old people at midday.
Gran hasn’t been well for some time, and Grandpa can be very difficult at times as he’s becoming increasingly senile. He has been known to wander off in his dressing gown and slippers and get lost. Last time the police found him down at the timber yard, where he’d worked for forty-odd years, at five in the morning.
I try to politely point out that I’m pretty busy myself. ‘It’s changeover day for three apartments and two cottages. Can’t you get Pat to stand in for you for an hour or two?’ Pat is a friend who comes to help in the shop occasionally, but Mum is shaking her head.
‘She’s on holiday. I’ve tried everyone and I’m really stuck.’ Again she turns all huffy. ‘I thought you might be prepared to help, but if it’s too much trouble . . .’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ I interrupt, feeling somehow weary at the way she always manages to twist my most innocent remarks. ‘I’ve got a long day myself, that’s all, with clients arriving at all hours, some quite late.’
She huffs a bit more, puffing out her chest in that martyred way she has. ‘There are times when I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels. I run myself ragged round those two old dears on top of a full time job. How your father expects me to manage, I really can’t imagine. He seems to think I’m superwoman while he never lifts a finger to help. And they are his parents, after all.’
I can’t help but smile, having heard a version of this complaint a thousand and one times. ‘What about Jo-Jo, can’t she drop Gran off at the doctor’s on her way to picking up the kids?’
My mother stiffens and starts to stack cans of soup, slapping one on top of the other with a clang. ‘Jo-Jo may only have a part-time job, and you may not consider her work to be half so important as yours, but she does have three lively children which makes her far busier than you, dear. Nor does her husband earn what Oliver does, so no, I didn’t even ask her. I wouldn’t ask you, only Gran’s blood pressure has been up quite a bit lately.’
I sigh. I could remind Mum that I’m wrestling with a new business, a new husband and a new life myself but I know when I’m beaten. Besides, I love my gran so I buckle under the emotional pressure, nod and agree to take the old lady to the doctor, even though it will throw the day’s routine into chaos. ‘I’m always happy to help, you know that.’
I do some rapid rearranging in my head. Fortunately, the people for two of the properties aren’t due to arrive until seven this evening, so, with luck, I can get everything done and still be home by eight at the latest. I’m sure Oliver won’t mind, for once.
I drive to the Gateway Inn and Emma and I down our coffee at rapid speed while quickly running through the chores lined up for the day. No two are ever the same, which is what I love about the job, cleaning aside that is.
Sometimes I worry that I might have bitten off more than I can chew. Starting a business of my own seemed like a great idea a couple of years ago when I was still single and without any commitments. Now, on top of a full day’s work for Perfect Cottages, for the first time in my life I’m entirely responsible for the running of a home, for dealing with the laundry, cooking delicious meals, and keeping everything just so, as Oliver likes it. In addition, I feel it’s important that somehow I manage to get home in time to make myself look beautiful for my new husband, no matter how tired I am.
There are days when I feel overwhelmed by it all, and long to slip back to the carefree freedom of my youth. I love my family and miss coming home at the end of a tiring day to find my tea ready, my clothes all washed and ironed, a home baked cake in the tin. Now I’m responsible for providing these things for myself, which is proving quite a shock to the system.
I miss lazy Sunday mornings reading in bed, which seem to be very much a thing of the past. Oliver insists upon a cooked br
eakfast every single morning, including weekends. And he doesn’t at all approve of my reading in bed. It even irritates him if I curl up in a chair with a good book, claiming there are far more exciting ways of spending our time together. But then, we are just married.
I’m thankful that Mum and Dad don’t live far away and are very supportive, despite occasional differences and disagreements. But I’m a married woman not a teenager, so I can’t keep running to them every five minutes to ask advice. I do enjoy being able to pop into the shop for a chat now and then, although the one this morning didn’t exactly solve anything. I welcome the fact that Mum can pop round to my house whenever she feels like it, even if it is only to sound off about Gran and Grandpa. I’m very fortunate in my family, so tell myself not to worry too much about a bit of tiredness and overwork. If Mum can cope, so can I.
My sister has always been something of a favourite of hers, but she makes a valid point nonetheless. Jo-Jo has enough on her plate. She always seems harassed these days, and I make a mental note not to start a family too soon. Not that Oliver would welcome one. He’s made it very clear that we should enjoy a few years on our own before taking on such a responsibility, and I agree with him.
I mention to Emma about having to take Gran to the doctor’s surgery later for a check-up. She smiles sympathetically despite the fact that my absence, even for an hour, will add to her own work-load considerably. She’s such a warm, easy-going sort of person. Immensely loyal, and very understanding.
‘She’s lovely, your gran, take as long as you need. But we’d best get on our way right this minute if we’re going to get five properties ready in time.’ She pays the bill and we each climb into our separate cars and I follow her to the first cottage, which should be vacated by now, since it’s already ten forty-five. We find it generally quicker for us to work together, and within an hour we’re done and moving on to cottage number two. But by four o’clock it’s a different story.
Despite having made an appointment, Gran has a long wait at the surgery before finally being seen. She’s in a bit of a state so I stay with her, holding her hand till the doctor has reassured her all is well. I drive her safely home again, and pop on the kettle for us to enjoy a quick cup of tea together. I’m relieved to see Grandpa is happily watching the racing on TV, and hasn’t wandered off again.
While we’re chatting, Emma sends me a text to say the Williams’ family rang to explain they are running late as traffic is dreadful on the M6. I kiss my grandparents bye-bye and dash off to finish getting Jasmine cottage ready for them.
On the way I remind myself of the quiche in the fridge, which I had the foresight to make this morning. Admittedly in something of a rush, and I suspect it will have sunk as it seemed a bit soggy in the middle. Mum’s always rise and look all fluffy and appetising and I wonder if I can ever hope to make as good a wife as she has been to Dad. Oh, I do hope so. More than anything I want to make Oliver happy. I again make a mental note to get home this evening just as soon as I can. But if I am held up for any reason, all Oliver has to do is pop a slice of the quiche into the microwave.
It’s ten past nine when I slot my key in the door. The kitchen is in darkness and it’s quite clear Oliver hasn’t given a thought to supper. I sigh and wonder why I’m not surprised. But I haven’t seen him since first thing this morning so I call out his name as I pull off my coat, drop it on a chair and rush into the lounge, eager for my usual kiss and a cuddle.
Chapter Three
The fridge door is open and Oliver has my arm pinned half way up my back. The pain is horrendous and I’m quite certain my shoulder is going to slip out of its socket at any moment.
‘What the hell do you call that?’ he roars at me. ‘What sort of meal is this for a man to come home to after a long day’s work?’
I can hardly see the quiche for the tears of agony welling up in my eyes, nor can I think of anything to say in its defence. It does indeed look thin and pathetic, sunk in the middle with a rim of hard crust, a pale imitation of my Mum’s deliciously plump offerings. I try to whimper an apology but his grip on my arm tightens still further and I don’t know how much more I can take. My heart is racing and a pink haze seems to be blocking my vision.
‘More importantly, where the hell were you?’ He has his mouth against my ear and he hisses these furious words into it.
My teeth are starting to chatter, which must be because of the cold from the fridge chilling me through. It surely can’t be fear. This is my husband, for God’s sake! Oliver, who adores me. I ache to be held in his warm embrace and loved. What is happening here?
‘Oliver, please darling, stop this! You’re hurting me.’ I can’t think why he’s so angry. What is causing him to behave like some sort of lunatic? ‘Please let go of my arm, Oliver.’
Instead, he gives me a furious shake which bangs my head against the top shelf, bringing a sting of tears to my eyes. Then, to my intense relief, his hold on me eases and my arm drops to my side. A pain grips my shoulder and I wince in agony. Worried it might be broken or dislocated, I gently flex my fingers to check. I wonder what on earth can have upset him. This whole silly tantrum can’t really be about something as stupid as a failed quiche, can it? I turn to face him, all concern. ‘What is it? What’s wrong, darling? Has something happened?’
‘Yes! My incompetent wife expects me to eat cold quiche.
I manage a shaky laugh. ‘Okay, it may not be up to Nigella’s standard, or even Mum’s, but you didn’t marry me for my cooking, right?’ I give him one of my sexy smiles, which usually melt away his black moods. Sadly, it doesn’t have the effect I hope for.
He glares at me coldly through the eyes of a stranger. ‘I married you because I love you, which means I expect to come first in your life. Not too much to ask of a wife, is it? I certainly deserve more consideration than this. In future you’ll make sure you’re home in good time to cook me a decent meal.’
There’s a short pause while I absorb the implications of what he has just said, too startled for a moment to speak. I may not be quite so aggressively feminist as Emma, but I’m no doormat. I can’t believe what I’m hearing, that we’re standing here in our beautiful kitchen engaged in yet another terrible row. ‘I did warn you that I might be late home tonight.’ I try to sound calm and reasonable although even to my own ears there’s a tremor in my voice. ‘I do my best but I work too, darling, and I don’t always have time to cook a big meal. I’m sorry I’m late, but heavens, what a fuss about nothing. Why didn’t you set the oven to warm, or at least put the lamps on?'
I’d found him sitting in complete darkness when I’d entered the lounge, presumably waiting for me. No lights on, and the room felt cold and damp as the log-effect gas fire hadn’t been lit. He wasn’t even watching TV, simply sitting on the sofa in his camel coat and business suit, his briefcase on the floor where he’d presumably dropped it when he came in. It’s as if he was incapable, or unwilling, to lift a finger to do anything, simply because I wasn’t there to welcome him home. Making the point I was neglecting him, presumably.
His next words confirm this. ‘Being married means that you do things for each other. What do you ever do for me? You’re always far too busy to find the time to make your husband happy.’
I’m appalled that he should think such a thing. ‘That’s absolutely untrue. I cook your breakfast every single morning and . . .’
‘Is that too much trouble as well?’
I answer him with measured patience. ‘No, I’m only saying we need a bit of old fashioned give and take here.‘
‘Don’t push me too far, Carly.’
‘What? You’re the one doing the pushing. I wasn’t aware when I said those immortal words - I do - that I was agreeing to be your slave. Women have shaken off the shackles in today’s modern world, remember. They’re even allowed to vote.’ I laugh, hoping to tease him into a better humour. It’s a bad mistake.
This time he grasps me by the hair and thrusts me back so hard ag
ainst the open fridge that the bottles and jars inside rattle and fall about every which way. I can feel cold milk running down the back of my leg as he spits his fury in my face. ‘Don’t you dare to lecture me. Am I supposed to do everything? I’ve had a shit of a day and I come home to an empty house. No wife, no lights on, no fire going, not even any fucking dinner. Nothing!’
I start to cry, quite unable to control my emotions any longer, which seems to annoy him even more.
‘Don’t think weeping and wailing will get you off the hook. I’ve been waiting hours for you to come home. It’s half-past nine, for God’s sake!’
I struggle to swallow my tears, try to speak on a half-choked sob. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry, but I’ve had one hell of a day too. Gran isn’t well and . . .’
‘I don’t want to know. This is where you should be, in our home, being a good wife to me. Not running round after your stupid family, or playing housemaid for holiday makers. I’m what matters in your life now. You and me. This house, and our life together!’
I stare at him in shocked dismay. ‘What’s got into you? Why are you shouting?’
He instantly drops his voice and becomes strangely calm and controlled. ‘I wouldn’t have to shout if you started listening for once.’ Yet there’s a wildness in his eyes still. It feels as if he’s turned into a complete stranger, as if he’s possessed. I can’t think what could possibly have this effect upon him. What would make him so angry? Certainly not a simple quiche, no matter how badly cooked it might be, or even my being late. I’ve been late before, although that was before we were married, admittedly. Even so, his reaction seems completely over the top. ‘You haven’t lost your job have you, because if so . . .
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