‘Why did they do that? When I’d agreed to drop? What did you do?’ asked Dom, suspicious.
‘Just my job.’
He had sent her a huge bunch of flowers to thank her.
She handled all of his sales and purchases from then on.
When he was about to buy Wellington Buildings, he asked her to come and look at it, to flag up anything she saw as a potential conveyancing issue. They had spent three hours together on site as she listened to his vision of the building. She was smart and eagle-eyed. Hundreds of deals went through her hands. She kept up to speed on every sale, every planning application. She knew all the surveyors, architects, planning officers and every estate agent.
‘I’d make it three apartments, not four,’ she told him. ‘As high a spec as you can make them. So each one has the sense of being a proper house, rather than just a slice of a house. If you’re buying in a prestige building in Bath, you want grandeur.’
‘But I’ll make more money on four.’
She shook her head. ‘No you won’t. Look. You can get much more exponentially for each apartment if they’re big. A higher price per square metre.’
She did the maths in the dust on an old table. He looked at her in awe.
‘You’re in the wrong job.’
‘Maybe. I’ve thought about it more than once. But I don’t have the capital to go into property development yet. I need my salary to pay my mortgage.’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You think out of the box, though. That’s smart.’
‘I can assure you I don’t. I think into the balance sheet.’ Antonia laughed. ‘I get an inside view of so many property deals. It’s mostly common sense. And spotting trends and patterns. What people want from their property and how they like to spend their money.’
‘Well, I value your advice hugely. It’s good to have someone to talk it through with. I hate worrying Laura. She has enough on her plate with Willow. And you know what the property business is like in Bath – everyone’s after the golden project. If I talk about things, I worry people will go behind my back.’
‘I’ve seen that happen more than once. It’s ruthless.’
‘Yes, and sadly I’m not.’ Dom made a self-deprecating face. ‘I don’t know how I’ve survived.’
‘Sometimes being sharky can backfire. Slow and steady wins the race.’ She gave him a mock punch to the arm and he jumped back in alarm.
‘Sorry,’ she said, but their gazes locked. She cleared her throat, wanting to step away from him, scared of the way the atmosphere had changed. But he had reached out and taken each of her hands in his, and instead of stepping away, she had stepped closer.
That had been the first time, and it was history now.
8
Number 11 Lark Hill was tall, slender and elegant, in Bath stone the colour of crumbly, sugary fudge, with deep sash windows that glowed pewter in the lamplight. On the first floor two sets of French doors led out from the drawing room onto a delicate wrought-iron balcony with a leaded roof. Above that were the shuttered windows of the master bedroom. Above those, the tiny attic windows of what must have been the servants’ bedrooms. Laura always imagined a Frances Hodgson Burnett heroine peering out onto new arrivals. It was a house of stories. Some of which she knew; one of which was yet to unfold.
An ethereal late-afternoon mist had fallen as Laura opened the gate to the front garden. The house loomed through the silver wisps, looking down at her sternly. She shivered, her hands shaking as she wrestled with the latch. It had never seemed forbidding before, but she could sense disapproval, which felt odd, as she was hardly the transgressor.
Though perhaps, on second thoughts, the house was empathising, but didn’t know how to express itself. It often happened, when you went away somewhere. That your home felt different when you got back. Because wherever you had been, you had come back a slightly different person. And it had to adjust to your new aura. You had to get to know each other again.
And she was entirely different from the person who had left the morning before. Then, she had been squaring her shoulders in an effort to be brave. Now, she thought she was probably in shock. She felt sick and shaky. All she wanted was to get inside and hide away. It had taken all her efforts not to fall apart on the drive back, but as soon as she saw the familiarity of home, the impact of what had happened started to close in.
She stumbled slightly over the pale chippings that led between the low box hedges, planted in neat squares. Inside them were drifts of eryngium and alliums, now past their best since the tail end of summer had passed. They had kept the long, narrow front garden simple and formal, to save mowing. Her favourite thing of all was the twisted wisteria that insinuated its way up the wall by the porch. The heavy purple blooms were splendid in early summer, with a narcotic scent. Now, she could smell the peaty sharpness of dying leaves. It wasn’t unpleasant, just a reminder that the nights were drawing in and the temperature was dropping, for as soon as the sun vanished from the sky any heat it had provided dissipated straight away.
She fumbled for her keys and unlocked the front door. As she stepped into the house, a chill settled on her shoulders. Almost a reproach, as if the house knew she was the bearer of bad tidings and was reluctant to let her over the threshold. It was that gloomy time of day when the light starts to fade and everything looks dreary and grey.
The hall echoed with emptiness, the rattle of her keys sounding unnaturally loud. She had been in such a hurry to get everyone on the road yesterday that she hadn’t noticed the evidence of the girls’ absence. More than half of their paraphernalia had gone: Converse, Nikes, Hunters, Uggs, Crocs, Havaianas had all been cleared from the floor. Coats and hoodies and beanies and scarves were missing from hooks that hadn’t seen the light of day for years. Once Laura had fought for hanging space – now there were several hooks to choose from. She saw Dom’s wax coat, the one he wore to work.
On impulse, she went to search through the pockets. She would never have done that before today. She found a tape measure, the stub of a yellow pencil, a half-eaten pack of Polo mints … She almost laughed at herself. What had she been expecting? A lacy handkerchief with an initial in the corner? Scanty knickers? A lipstick? Condoms? People didn’t carry evidence around with them. They just didn’t.
A lawyer. His lawyer. What did a lawyer have that she didn’t?
Brains, she supposed. Money? Power? Influence? Inside knowledge? Lots of things Laura certainly didn’t have. She imagined a tall, forbidding creature in a tailored suit and black stilettos, with glasses and red lipstick. Predatory. Although that wasn’t really Dom’s type.
Or was it? She had no idea about him any more.
She took her coat off and hung it up. There was no noise in the house at all, and it added to her disquiet. She longed to hear a voice or footsteps on the stairs or a door bang. She put her face in her hands and stifled a sob. It was too much. The awfulness was too much.
She went into the kitchen. There was an unfamiliar chill. She frowned. The kitchen was never cold. She put a hand on the Aga and realised it had gone out, a trick it played every now and again. It had been in the house for generations and was very demanding and capricious. She would have to phone Sam Budge. He and his dad before him had looked after it for years, lovingly servicing it to keep it alive despite its grand old age. It had been Sam who’d suggested re-enamelling it in bright pink and she had clapped with delight when she had seen his handiwork.
It seemed symbolic, somehow, that the beating heart of her home had gone out just when she needed it the most. She shivered. What was she supposed to do now? She felt a surge of anger towards the girl at the service station. Did she know what she had done to Laura’s life?
Yet would she have preferred to carry on living in blissful ignorance? To unknowingly live a lie? Was this affair just a phase or was it the tip of an iceberg? The beginning of the end of her marriage? She didn’t want to know, any of it. She sat down at the table and put her head in h
er hands. It was throbbing, and she couldn’t marshal her thoughts. She still wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. Perhaps in a moment she would wake up in the hotel bed and the day would start properly, with a different story.
She stood and went to the other end of the kitchen, and looked out at the back garden. She could see the glowing orange lights coming from the little house they’d built for Kanga. Acorn Cottage was tiny, as they had only been able to get planning permission for just under a thousand square feet on the corner of the orchard, but Kanga had insisted, when she’d handed the main house over to Laura and Dom, that it was big enough. Lots of her things were still in the attic or the basement. Kanga thought she had cleared everything out, but there were masses of her things left. Laura didn’t mind being the custodian. It was a small price to pay for being given the house of her dreams. The only house she had known since she was four, when her own mother had died and she’d come to live here with her grandparents. They’d been so wonderful, and Kanga still was. She was gracious and generous and always so dignified.
Her stomach curdled at the thought of Kanga knowing what had happened. She couldn’t even begin to imagine telling her that Dom had been unfaithful. That he was having an affair. Had she been a complete fool not to notice? And to think that on the drive home she’d thought that there was an adventure for her around the corner. Had he been laughing at her? Hoping she’d find something to fill her time so he could carry on carrying on behind her back?
Instead, she was left with nothing. On Friday night this kitchen had contained everything she wanted. Friends and family; music and laughter. Now it was echoing with emptiness. It had been the last time her life had been perfect and she hadn’t realised. It would never be the same again.
Despair swirled up inside her, dark and overwhelming. And underlying the despair was fear. Fear of the future, but also fear of finding out what had been wrong with the past. What if the past wasn’t what she’d thought it was? Had Dom been unhappy? If so, why on earth hadn’t he said?
She picked up a mug from the dresser. She was going to make a cup of tea. Tea: that was normal, wasn’t it? That would make her feel safe and secure. She gazed down at the mug in her hand, pink and pretty and as perfect as the life she thought they’d had. Suddenly rage replaced the despair. She drew her arm back and threw the mug at the wall. The smash made her jump: it was louder than she thought it would be. And the fragments of china flew everywhere.
She picked up another and threw it. Then another. Until every single mug on the dresser was lying on the floor. Not even the most dedicated archaeologist could piece them back together.
She never knew she had so much rage inside her. She’d never thrown anything like that in her life before. She wasn’t sure if it made her feel better or worse. Either way, it had made a terrible mess. Her former instinct would have been to get down on her knees straight away and clear it up. She’d had a lifetime of clearing things up and making things better again.
Then she looked at all the shattered fragments and thought: this is my life. Everything has been smashed into tiny pieces. Her face crumpled as all the events of the weekend swirled around: the image of Magic Rabbit on Willow’s pillow, the face of the girl at the service station, the fridge in the student kitchen with the Tupperware boxes she had so lovingly filled for her daughter, the incriminating text with its treacherous kisses …
The charm bracelet that had touched her so deeply. The charm bracelet that had clearly been bought out of guilt, not love.
She couldn’t bear it. No amount of controlled breathing could keep her feelings at bay. She sank into a chair at the kitchen table, put her head in her arms and let out a low, keening wail of despair.
‘Laura?’ Kanga appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh, my darling.’ Kanga moved towards her. ‘Of course you’re upset. It’s been such a strain, and I know how much you’ve been dreading Willow going … It’s horrid. I know.’
She slid her arm round Laura’s shoulders. Laura tried to pull herself together, but now she’d started it was impossible.
‘It’s not Willow,’ she sobbed.
‘What’s happened?’
Laura couldn’t say it. It was sordid and terrifying and totally bloody unfair and she couldn’t bear the thought of her grandmother knowing.
She composed herself while she thought about what to say. She wiped away her tears with the heel of her hand.
‘Dom’s been …’ She had to choose her words carefully. Nothing too crude for Kanga. ‘I don’t know what to call it. Having an affair? With his solicitor.’
‘His solicitor?’ Kanga looked startled, as if this was the shocking part of the revelation. ‘James Kettle?’ James was the family lawyer.
Laura managed a strangled laugh.
‘No. Not James. Someone else from the practice. His conveyancing solicitor. She’s a girl. Woman. Female. Antonia.’ Laura spat out the name like a mouldy cherry.
‘Are you absolutely sure? That doesn’t seem like Dom.’
‘Oh yes. They were texting each other. Arranging to meet.’
‘But that doesn’t mean anything, does it? Perhaps it was business?’
‘She sent him four kisses.’ Laura gave Kanga a look to cement how much that signified. She held up four fingers. ‘Four!’
‘That’s hardly in flagrante, darling. Are you sure you’re not jumping to conclusions?’
‘His face said everything.’ Laura covered her own with her hands. ‘He as good as admitted it. He certainly didn’t deny it.’ She could see Dom’s expression now. Horrified guilt. He had never been any good at poker. She was surprised he’d managed to keep it quiet this long.
‘It just doesn’t seem like Dom. There must be an explanation.’ Kanga shivered. ‘It’s freezing in here. Has the Aga gone out?’
Laura sighed. ‘It’s a portent.’
‘No, it’s not.’ Kanga had her no-nonsense voice on. ‘The wicks need replacing, that’s all. Now come on.’ She held out her hand to help Laura up. ‘You need to clear all this mess up, then find Dom and get him to come home so you can talk to him.’
‘Talk to him?’ Laura shook her head. ‘Oh no. I’m not talking to him. I’ve got nothing to say. There’s nothing I want to hear.’ She shook her head again. ‘I can’t face him, Kanga. I just can’t.’
‘Well, then you must go to bed. You’ve had a long and tiring weekend. If you’re tired, everything will seem worse.’
Kanga found the electric kettle in the larder, made Laura a cup of tea and sent her up to bed.
As Kanga swept up the last of the china she looked around the kitchen, the scene of such a warm and happy family occasion only two nights before.
Oh, Dom, she thought sadly. You absolute fool.
She hadn’t mentioned Ivy’s fall to Laura. There was no point in adding to her worry. She had stayed at the hospital with Beverley until about three yesterday morning, and they’d met at the hospital again that afternoon, while Ivy had her hip operated on.
Ivy had come round after the operation, but had been very confused. The nurse had told them not to worry: she was bound to be fuddled, a combination of shock and the anaesthetic and the painkillers, and they still couldn’t be sure how hard she had hit her head, although a scan had shown no sign of injury. Ivy needed to sleep.
Kanga cursed herself for not intervening sooner, for not insisting that Ivy should get some help at home. She phoned her regularly and they met up once every couple of months for lunch. The last time she’d seen her Ivy had been done up to the nines and full of verve, so it had been easy for Kanga to reassure herself that her friend was back on form.
But hindsight, as ever, was a wonderful thing. And they were of that generation that put up and shut up. They were stoic. They were copers. They didn’t ask for help.
They had, after all, been through more than most people in their lifetime.
9
1942
Jilly slept and slept: a deep and dreamless sleep that took her ri
ght down. When she woke she was puzzled. Something didn’t feel right. The clock told her it was early afternoon. Ivy was sitting on the bed looking at her. She seemed strangely subdued. Usually Ivy would be dancing around the place, making a plan, luring her into something she probably wouldn’t want to do.
Then the memory hit her hard in the chest.
‘There’s been people calling all morning, to pay their respects,’ Ivy told her. ‘I’ve sent them all away.’
Jilly nodded.
‘Come on. You’ve been in bed long enough. Get up and get dressed.’ Ivy pulled back the covers. ‘We’re going into town. See if we can help.’
‘Help?’
‘It’s what your mum and dad would be doing, isn’t it? No point in lolling about in bed.’
Ivy looked at her, defiant, but Jilly could see her fists were bunched and she was trembling with emotion, trying to hold in her feelings. She was right, though. Her mother and father would have been first on the scene, not giving a thought for their own safety.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘They would.’
She pulled on her clothes and looked for her shoes. She remembered: scrambling up the hill like diddle-diddle-dumpling before discarding the remaining shoe. She searched for another pair more suited to a rescue mission than a night-time rendezvous.
For a fleeting second she wondered about Harry Swann. Where had he gone, in the midst of the bombing? Had he stayed in the bandstand until it was over? A memory of his silver body, lean and perfect, flashed into her mind. But now was not the time to think of Harry Swann and what he had done to her. Or what she had done to him.
In the kitchen, Ivy scraped a thin swipe of margarine over some bread, topped with raspberry jam.
‘You need to eat,’ she told Jilly.
‘I’m not hungry.’ Jilly shook her head. Her stomach was too full of feelings to accommodate food.
‘An army marches on its stomach.’ Ivy forced the bread into her hand. Jilly nibbled at it, swallowing it down. Perhaps Ivy was right. She did feel a little stronger: like the cocoa earlier, the sweetness of the jam lifted her spirits.
A Family Recipe Page 9
