‘I’m not here if he asks,’ she told Sam, who looked puzzled, but it was too late. Dom was standing at the kitchen door. Laura didn’t know what to do. She looked towards the French windows as if to make her escape, then pushed past Dom into the front hall. He followed her.
‘What are you doing here?’ She turned at the bottom of the stairs to face him, resting her arm on the curve of the newel post. On the wall behind, she could see rows of photos she had put in matching frames: the story of their life, her and Dom and Jaz and Willow, black-and-white photos in frames she had carefully painted in hot pink and burnt orange and acid yellow, pops of colour on a fashionably grey wall.
‘What do you think?’
‘I said to tell me when you were coming so I could be out.’
‘We have to talk. Please.’
‘I don’t want to listen to the clichés.’ She put on a pretend whine. ‘It’s not like that. It just happened. It didn’t mean anything.’
‘But that’s all true. It didn’t—’
‘Great. So you sacrifice our twenty-something-year marriage for something that didn’t mean anything. That makes it worse, not better.’
Dom scratched his head, despairing. He was laying traps for himself. ‘Laura—’
She pointed at him.
‘This is the deal. You stay away from this house. You can get your stuff now and if you need anything else, let me know and I’ll leave it in the garage for you.’
‘Where am I supposed to go?’
Laura shrugged. ‘I don’t care.’
He sighed and went to head up the stairs. ‘I’ll get my stuff then.’
She stood in front of him, blocking his way.
‘And this is the most important thing. No one can find out about this. You better not tell anyone. Because I don’t want the girls finding out. I especially don’t want Willow to find out.’
‘Of course not—’
Laura could feel hysteria rising up inside her. She fought it down. Hysteria was no good at all, because then she’d be in a position of weakness and irrationality. She breathed right down into her diaphragm and kept the panic at bay. Her voice trembled slightly but it was firm.
‘I don’t want Willow upset. I don’t want her to have an attack because she’s distressed. You know how fragile she is. Something like this could …’
She didn’t want to think about it. It was her dread, her fear, that Willow would have a setback. She knew most of the triggers were physical – cats, colds, calla lilies – but stress could be a factor. Willow would be devastated if she knew what her dad had done. She relied heavily on both of her parents. Laura when she was properly poorly, because Laura did all the practical stuff, but she turned to Dom when she was on the mend, for encouragement and reassurance.
Jaz was more pragmatic and independent. She would be shocked, but she wouldn’t miss a beat. Jaz was solid and focused and matter-of-fact. Laura had always been in awe of Jaz’s commitment. She didn’t think Jaz had ever missed a practice or a match; had never tried to slide out of something because she didn’t feel like it; never pulled a sickie. She would take it in her stride.
But Willow …
‘I won’t tell anyone,’ said Dom. ‘Who would I tell? It’s not something I want to broadcast.’
‘I’m guessing Antonia knows that I know?’ She gave her name heavy italics.
He gave an awkward half-nod.
‘Well, tell her to keep it to herself. Tell her not to blab to her friends.’
‘She’s not like that,’ said Dom quickly, then realised his mistake. Laura wouldn’t want to hear him defending Antonia.
She looked at him coldly.
‘Tell her from me this is not to be common gossip.’
Dom nodded. He was scared of this icy Laura. He had seen her before, when she was fighting for Willow, confronting the consultant who had dared to belittle her asthma and implied it was ‘one of those things’ and ‘they’d have to live with it’. Icy Laura had come out then, an immoveable force, kicking up a fuss until they had found a consultant prepared to work with them to manage the asthma better. It was easy to think of Laura as warm and easy-going and a pushover, because mostly she was. But Dom had seen the warrior, the woman you wouldn’t want to mess with. And that was who he was dealing with now.
‘You have my word. She won’t say anything.’
‘Ha.’
He closed his eyes. Whatever he said, even if he just breathed, it would be wrong.
‘Can I get my things now?’
‘Sure.’ Laura stood to one side.
He went to walk past her, then stopped. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He reached out to touch her but she pushed him away. ‘Don’t.’
The door to the kitchen popped open and Sam stood there, hands covered in black oil.
‘Have you got any—’ He stopped mid-sentence, frowning, as he saw their body language. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Fine.’ Laura stepped aside and nodded to Dom to carry on up the staircase, then followed Sam back into the kitchen. ‘Have I got any what?’
‘Liquid soap. My hands are covered.’
She found a bottle under the sink. ‘Here. Hold your hands out.’
She pumped a few dollops into Sam’s open palms then turned the tap on for him.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘No.’ She swallowed. ‘Not really.’ She shut her eyes. ‘I’ve just kicked him out.’
‘Mr Griffin?’ Sam looked shocked. ‘What the hell? Why?’
‘Usual cliché.’ Laura realised she sounded bitter. And that she had broken the very commandment she had just made. ‘Some bimbo half my age.’
Sam looked at Laura in utter disbelief. ‘Who in their right mind would cheat on you?’
She almost laughed. Sam was so sweet and genuine and baffled and concerned. He seemed almost more upset than she was. She felt numb, still nowhere near processing what had happened or what was going to happen. She was on automatic pilot. It was a mode she was used to. It was the mode she went into when Willow was ill, not letting anything else penetrate her, just freezing so she could get through the trauma.
It was afterwards she would fall apart, once Willow was back at home, breathing easily and sleeping soundly, the colour back in her cheeks. Then Laura would cry with relief, letting out all the bottled fears.
The door opened and Dom stood there.
‘I’m off, then.’
‘OK.’
They stared at each other. Laura turned away, handing Sam a towel to wipe his wet hands on.
Dom shut the kitchen door quietly and a few moments later they heard the front door go.
Sam looked awkward. ‘The Aga’s back on, anyway. Should be running as sweet as a nut.’
Laura cleared her throat.
‘Sam – I’d be really grateful if you didn’t tell anyone. About me and Dom.’
Sam knew a lot of people she knew in Bath. Apart from anything, he spent a lot of time in the kitchens of the great and the good, tending their Agas, and he loved a chat while he worked. This piece of gossip could be around the city in no time. She had to appeal to his better nature. He was quick to reassure her.
‘Listen, people tell me their stuff but I never repeat it. I’ve got dirt that would shock you to the core.’ He grinned. ‘You’d be amazed how many women try it on with me, for a start.’
Laura giggled. ‘That’s outrageous.’
‘And then there’s the women that are still in bed at two o’clock in the afternoon. The ones that are pissed by ten o’clock in the morning. And the men are no better. I’ve seen them snorting coke off their worktops with their coffee. They think I don’t notice.’
‘Stop.’ Laura couldn’t help laughing.
‘Anyway, I keep everyone’s secrets. I’m like a priest. One day I’ll write a book. When I retire. Confessions of an Aga Repair Man. But until then …’ He indicated pulling a zip across his mouth. ‘And if you need anything, I know peop
le.’
‘People?’
‘You know. If you want …’ He gave a knife-slashing motion. ‘You know, tyres. That kind of thing.’
‘Oh!’ She wondered what kind of car Antonia drove. And just for one moment imagined her coming out of her house in the morning and seeing her tyres all slashed. It was, she had to admit, quite tempting. But what would that change? Nothing. ‘No. No, I don’t think so. That’s not really my style.’
‘Fair enough. But anything you want. Anything. Around the house, even. I can give you a hand.’
His round face was earnest and concerned.
‘Thanks, Sam. I’ll be fine. I think.’
Why did kindness make you want to cry more than cruelty?
When Sam had gone, the house felt incredibly quiet. It wasn’t an ‘everyone’s at work and school’ quiet. It was a mocking quiet, a ‘you’re all on your own now’ quiet that made her feel deeply uncomfortable. If only she had a job, she’d be at work now, distracted by the minutiae of an environment where people had better things to do than discuss your private life. What a luxury that would be.
She picked up her phone. A voice in her head told her not to do what she was about to do. But when did a voice in your head ever stop you from doing something? She called up her browser and typed into the search bar: Antonia Briggs solicitor Bath.
Her heart thumped as she waited a few seconds for the results to come up, then clicked on Images. There she was, staring back at her. Antonia Briggs, conveyancing solicitor at Kettle and Sons, smiling at the camera as if it was something she was being forced into (and she probably was; no one liked a compulsory work photo). She had a narrow, bony face, a brown shoulder-length bob parted in the middle, glasses, a navy-blue blouse with white birds on it. She looked very straight, very sensible and very dull. A bit mousy, if anything. Not like a predatory husband stealer. Just … ordinary. Not someone you could hate. Laura felt flummoxed. She’d been expecting someone more high-flying and confident. Glossy and corporate and pleased with herself. At least then she would have understood the attraction.
She put the phone down, utterly at a loss as to what to think.
Then she called up Antonia’s image again. ‘You might be half my age,’ she told her, ‘and you might be a solicitor with letters after your name, but I’m not taking this lying down. So watch out.’
13
Dom stood in front of Wellington Buildings. The root of all his problems. In his hand he held a bag with as many of his clothes as he had been able to stuff in, given Laura’s hostility and the fact he couldn’t really think straight, as well as his wash stuff and some paperwork.
The house stretched up in front of him towards a blue September sky. Seven floors of Georgian elegance, it oozed confidence, brimful as it was of history and heritage and perfect proportions. It had a side view over the lawns that fronted the Royal Crescent, where a sprinkling of sheep were contentedly grazing, the ultimate in rus in urbe – country in the town. The Georgians had always wanted the best of both worlds, and that legacy lived on.
He remembered the first time he had set eyes on the house, and how he had fallen head over heels in love with it and done everything in his power to claim it as his. That had been his mistake. It was like the most toxic love affair. The building he had seen as perfect was hiding a multitude of cracks and flaws, like a beautiful woman masking her neuroses and insecurities. The deeper he dug, the more flawed the building turned out to be. It almost seemed to be laughing at him as defect after defect became apparent. A vast proportion of his money had gone into rectifying these faults, rather than investing in improvements. He never seemed to be able to move the project on.
He had turned a corner recently and progress was being made. But time was running out. His development loan ran for just eighteen months: a non-negotiable deadline after which the bank would call the money in. Which meant the apartments had to go on the market the minute Christmas was over, and they would have to sell like hot cakes if he was to repay his loan by the deadline.
He felt sick when he thought of the consequences if they didn’t sell straight away. He would be in massive trouble. Sometimes he couldn’t believe he’d done it, but it had seemed so logical and easy at the time – using Number 11 as collateral for the loan.
Now, as he stood in the street and looked up at the building, the realisation hit him hard. If he didn’t pull it off, then their family home would have to be sold.
He’d been in no doubt when he took out the loan that he would be able to repay it. The project had made perfect sense. He had experience, a great team, a vision – and luxury apartments in Bath were hugely sought after. While he knew it would be a challenge, it had seemed like a logical step up for him.
Now, he realised he’d been a deluded fool. It was far too ambitious for him to manage on his own. He was wrangling up to twenty different tradesmen at any one time, some of whom were great – conscientious and professional – others of whom were slapdash and delivered late, but still wanted paying on time. There’d been the new interior staircase that had been out by a few crucial centimetres; the scaffolder who’d smashed through an original Georgian window; the stonemason who’d destroyed the steps into the garden with a jet washer. No one took the blame or apologised or wanted to put things right at their own expense when they’d cocked up. He took up the slack every time.
He was exhausted. He never switched off for a moment. Everything whirled around in his head from the minute he woke up – if he had actually managed to sleep at all.
And underneath was the sick guilt of what he had done to Laura. While she refused to speak to him or see him he couldn’t atone or explain. He was trapped. And the worst of it was it was all of his own making. He’d been greedy, overambitious, weak … Ugh, he thought. He couldn’t afford himself an ounce of sympathy.
Worse than that was the thought of what she would say if she knew Number 11 was in jeopardy. They owned the house jointly, as officially they’d had to buy it from Kanga when she gave it over to them to avoid complicated tax issues, and it was Dom’s income that had secured them the original mortgage – a pittance now by today’s standards. And over the years he’d extended that mortgage to raise development money. That was how you made money, after all – by borrowing on what you already had; your assets. And he’d been transparent with Laura. She had to sign the paperwork, after all. But she never really paid attention to the figures, she signed on the dotted line without querying the amount. So when he’d borrowed more money than usual for Wellington Buildings, he hadn’t been dishonest – she could see the numbers. But if she knew the truth, she would be horrified.
And on top of his current transgression, he was hardly going to get any support or sympathy. He couldn’t tell her.
Of course, the easiest thing to do would be to ditch Wellington Buildings right now. There were several people waiting in the wings who would take it off him. A quick trip to the Wellington Arms on a Saturday lunchtime and he would have a deal by the end of the week, he knew that. It was stuffed with estate agents and property developers and entrepreneurs who would take it off his hands.
But if he did that he would lose a huge amount of money. By the time he had paid back his loan, he would be down a quarter of a million. He’d lose the stamp duty he’d paid on the original purchase, the structural survey fees, the architect’s plans, the listed building schedule: none of these came cheap.
And he would lose his pride. His professional integrity. His reputation.
He pushed open the door of the house. He needed to get upstairs and get his bag hidden away before any of the workmen clocked it. He ran up the wide stone staircase that had so beguiled him on first viewing. Normally he would stop to chat on each floor, to see how things were progressing, but today he ran all the way to the top of the house, to the room where he had a makeshift office. He could barely breathe by the time he got there. Shit, he was really unfit. He’d stopped going to the gym while this project was on. He did
n’t have time. Jaz had bugged him about it over the summer. Tried to get him to come for a run. But he was knackered by the time he got home and a glass of wine seemed infinitely more enticing than putting on his running gear.
Oh God. He couldn’t think about the girls. It made his skin crawl with shame. How could he even begin to explain? How Antonia had gradually moved from someone he took advice from to someone much more than that. How the physicality of their relationship gave him something he needed. How he had been so sure he could ring-fence his relationship with her because he knew she didn’t want more than he was prepared to offer. Of course he would never have done it if he’d thought Antonia was expecting some kind of commitment.
They’d been in this very room when he’d stepped over the mark. They had stood by the window, looking out at the view, and something had changed. Something he couldn’t ignore or resist. He was pretty certain she had made the first move. Reached out her hand—
Dom gave a tut of impatience and told himself to stop trying to justify what he had done. He was a fool and a cliché and selfish. A sorry excuse of a husband and a dreadful father and an appalling role model. He’d let everyone down. Himself, Laura, Jaz, Willow, Kanga, Antonia … The list was endless.
He sat down in the orange plastic office chair to recover his breath. He looked around at the charts and timetables and plans and drawings that surrounded him. He’d pinned them all neatly to the wall, so he could double-check measurements or regulations or costings. Once upon a time they had made perfect sense but now they seemed to mock him. They all blurred into one, swimming in and out of his line of vision. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He needed some water. He felt like death.
Get a grip, he told himself. If he took his eye off the ball now, he would lose everything. Wellington Buildings, Number 11, Laura … The whole bloody lot.
14
Ivy lifted the custard cream as if it was a house brick and nibbled the edge.
After her operation, she’d been moved onto a general ward. She was out of danger, but the worrying thing was her lack of fight. Kanga would have had money on Ivy badgering the nurses to be discharged, giving them hell, flirting with the consultant, calling for the tea trolley, asking for the channel to be changed on the telly. But seeing her lying there, her eyes milky, her skin papery, with none of her usual spirit, made Kanga anxious.
A Family Recipe Page 13
