‘Cheeky sod.’
He took a last bite of toast, and pushed his chair back from the table before he’d finished chewing. Which didn’t stop him planting a quick kiss on the top of her head as he left. She brushed her hair, checking for egg, and went back to her sheaf of house details, smiling to herself.
71
Nick shut the front door behind him, and breathed in the frosty air, the quiet stillness of the early morning. Winter mornings like this – the infrequent fiercely cold and dazzlingly bright kind – were his favourite. Carrie had always been a summer woman. His golden girl, a glorious thing of freckles and coconut oil and stargazing. He was a winter man. Log fires, Irish whiskey, white trees.
Behind him, inside, his three children were laughing, happy and secure. The arrival of Susie, the young, giggly Australian nanny, in September, had revolutionized his life: he couldn’t have made a luckier choice. She had swept in on a tide of optimism and energy and ‘no worries’ enthusiasm for life, and all three of the children had fallen hard for her almost at once. It had been nothing short of transformative. It was better. Better for him, better for them. She lived in from Monday to Friday, and at her boyfriend Mike’s at the weekends. During Nick’s working week, she was there for breakfast and tea. When he came home, it wasn’t to dried-on cereal in bowls still not stacked in the dishwasher. Bags were packed for school. The laundry was folded. He didn’t miss the sock-pairing, or the lunchbox packing. Or, at least, he didn’t miss trying to get all of that done in the tiny periods of time he had to do them in. When he came home now, it was just him and them, not a to-do list a mile long. He could slip off his shoes, and perch on a bean bag in Bea’s room, and listen properly to Delilah telling him about her day, or hear Bea’s reading, or just submit to Arthur’s embraces without watching the clock.
When he’d settled them down, his evening was his own. Free from domestic drudgery, he was sometimes sadder than he had been – there was space and time to feel all the things he hadn’t had time for before. When you flopped onto the sofa with a glass of wine and you weren’t knackered, you missed the person who was supposed to be flopped beside you. But he knew it was healthy. He let it happen. He knew he was healing.
Weeks were for working, weekends for them.
Now that he was less exhausted by the end of the week, less strung out by trying to do and be everything, he was more imaginative about Saturday and Sunday. They’d seen more of Charlie, more of Ed and Maureen, more of old university friends with children of similar ages in pub gardens, National Trust houses and adventure playgrounds. They’d drive down to Scott’s, Bea and Delilah ecstatic to see their beloved Meredith. Even Ethan was around more.
Life was bigger than it had been since Carrie had died. And happier.
He saw a lot less of Fran. He wasn’t at the school gates. They had gently stopped being each other’s person. And it was okay. He didn’t want to stop being friends, but he did want to stop being each other’s crutch. It could never have worked. He’d seen her husband a couple of times, and wondered whether they were trying to make it work, but he was wary of asking.
This morning, he had a meeting north-east of Shoreditch. It wasn’t a part of London he knew well, so he left wriggle room and found himself there early. With a few minutes to spare before he was due, he stopped at a tiny café for a coffee to go. It was one of those hipster places, with a blend of the day and healthy snacks. There was a longish queue of blokes with beards, and young mums with babies in slings and pugs on leashes. The pug was definitely the dog of choice in this neighbourhood. The girl working the big chrome coffee machine looked a bit like Audrey Tautou, with a heavy fringe, and a nose stud.
She smiled as she handed him his coffee. Her front teeth overlapped slightly.
‘Nice glasses.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I like your style in general,’ she added.
Nick laughed nervously. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome!’
Turning, he stepped out into the street, and headed left, towards the office he was visiting. Carrie would have teased him mercilessly at being so pleased with the compliment. Then she’d have winked and said the girl was right, and that he was a catch. And she’d never do that again. And he was going to be okay.
72
Heather was reading a copy of Country Life from April 2016 and sipping water from a small plastic cup when Scott strode into the waiting room.
‘Sorry. Damn train. Sat for ages just outside Woking. Why is it always bloody Woking? As if people are queuing up, desperate to get to … Woking?’
She patted him reassuringly to quell the Woking rant. ‘Don’t worry. You’re here in time.’
Scott put his overcoat and briefcase on the chair next to him, and loosened his tie. ‘Are you okay? I haven’t missed anything, have I?’
She smiled. ‘Absolutely fine. And no, no. Relax. Actually, I’m desperate to pee.’
He gestured towards the Ladies, fifteen metres or so down the corridor on the left. Heather patted her belly. ‘Gotta have a full bladder.’
He nodded vigorously. So much to know, so much to learn. He’d been to Foyles the day after she’d taken the test, the positive test that had changed everything, and bought no fewer than eight books on pregnancy and childbirth. He had one that explained the development of the foetus in extraordinary detail, one that explored how you kept your relationship healthy through the process, one on hypnobirthing. What to Expect When You’re Expecting obviously. Another called How to Grow a Baby and Push it Out of You. Heather had laughed at him when he’d unpacked them that evening onto his bedside table.
‘Seriously?’
‘I’ve got an analytical mind. Logical. Numerical. I need to understand it all.’
‘Jeez. It’s in, it’s coming out. There. That’s what you need to know. The rest is up to the doctors.’
‘Midwives.’
She wrinkled her nose at the correction. ‘Sorry. Midwives.’
He was reading his way through the pile each night. Occasionally he read something out to her, but mostly not. If Heather found herself thinking that she had actually done this before, and more or less knew what was coming, she was kind enough not to say so. She found him rather charming like this.
And now she was twelve weeks and four days (he kept a tally in his phone) and this was the first scan. He was terrified. Heather, by contrast, seemed extraordinarily calm. She beamed at him, and he took her hand.
And then they were called in, and Heather was on the bed, and the gel was being squeezed onto the small mound of her stomach, and the strange wand was being manoeuvred across the gel, and then the screen flickered for an agonizing moment. And there he was. Or she was. He didn’t think he honestly cared which. A grainy grey blob with an oversized head and a tiny pulsating heart. Their baby.
And he couldn’t speak.
73
Heather hosted. Of course. There was never any question, really, that she would. Her house was made for it. Charlie couldn’t possibly – everyone agreed on that. Laura and Nick were grateful that the mess and fuss and organization could be someone else’s problem. And, of course, it wasn’t a problem to Heather. It was an Instagram wet dream, certain to garner a shedload of new followers.
There was a small herd – no kidding – of wicker reindeer, lit up with fairy lights, in the front garden, and a massive lit star, which suggested the Messiah Himself might be found beneath it and the Three Kings would be along any minute, adorned the side of the barn carport. By the massive front door, a tableau of ancient sledges and vintage ice skates sat on the York stone steps, and the wreath above the brass bee knocker (idea stolen from the Cotswolds house in the summer) was three-quarters of a metre wide, all white roses and pinky hellebores and trailing ivy. It smelt Christmassy. Heavy on the cinnamon, maybe, but allowances could be made. It was Heather’s national scent, after all.
In the hall there was a tree that had to be twelve feet tall, all decked out in silver and green
, and another, wide and fragrant, in the kitchen, dressed all in white, a collection of gifts in matching paper, with tasteful ribbons, arranged around the bottom. Easily twenty perfect white poinsettias in zinc pots ran down the middle of the long table. Each chair was tied with a hessian and lace ribbon and sprigs of winter herbs. Names were written in Heather’s calligraphic writing on die-cut place cards. It was like walking into a magazine. It certainly urged you to go home and change into something that might make you worthy of such a setting. Jeans and a jumper that proclaimed you’d been more nice than naughty didn’t really do it justice.
Except that they knew now that Heather liked things to look perfect, but didn’t necessarily expect them to be so. And that knowledge was tremendously liberating. Making things look lovely was her pleasure, not her test for her guests. And, crucially, that she’d already taken about a thousand photographs before they’d arrived and started messing everything up.
In the end, they were a bit more like a Christmas advert than any of them might have thought they’d be. Or a feel-good Richard Curtis movie that warmed your heart even as it curled your toes. Starring Joe as the handsome stranger in the Fair Isle sweater, his arm slung possessively around Laura’s shoulders while he chatted easily to Scott and Charlie. Featuring Hayley and Ethan, huddled together in a corner, watching something evidently hilarious on an iPad, and Meredith, dancing with an overexcited Bea and Delilah in a froth of tulle and sequined ballet pumps, as Arthur toddled behind them, grumbling at not being able to keep up. With a guest appearance from Heather’s small bump, barely visible beneath a retro kitchen apron with a prancing reindeer pattern, and a platter of carrots roasted with thyme sprigs.
At the long, exquisitely dressed table, wine was poured, turkey was carved, crackers were pulled by crossed hands and hats worn rakishly. Jokes were told and groaned at, mottoes read with nods, gravy boats passed and pigs in blankets fought over.
And at some point during the proceedings, each one took a moment to look around the cacophonous room, at the dysfunctional, disparate, blended, broken family gathered at the heaving, Instagrammable table, and to be glad, almost to the point of a lump in the throat, that they were all there.
74
Later, at home, in the silence, Charlie closed the curtains, and switched on the two lamps at either end of the sofa, and then, despite having illuminated the space, wandered into the kitchen and went through the same ritual there, lowering the two roman blinds behind the work surface, and pulling the large curtains that covered the French windows that led out onto the patio. As he did so, he saw his neighbour’s mulberry tree, resplendent in its Christmas fairy lights, and thought of all the families in all the houses, eating chocolates and drinking Baileys in front of the TV, and was suddenly very glad he’d been with his own family today. Turning back into the room, he opened the fridge for no apparent reason. He wasn’t at all hungry. He might never be hungry again after the lunch he’d eaten.
Just as well. There wasn’t an awful lot of what might constitute a meal within its white walls. Eggs. Some questionable bacon. Half an onion, a tub of butter, and most of a two-pint container of milk. He knew what Daphne would do. An omelette. In five minutes flat. Which would taste delicious. He could make an omelette – of course he could. He’d been feeding himself since she’d gone, and he wasn’t exactly wasting away. His cholesterol and sugar readings would tell you that. But hers would have tasted far nicer. She’d have done it whether they were hungry or not, because in the world according to Daphne it was supper time and you had to eat something, regardless of the size or timing of your lunch. He’d probably have poured them a glass of wine while she busied herself adding a pinch of salt and pepper and a handful of herbs to a bowl of vigorously whisked eggs.
All the while she’d talk about the day. He would listen and he might add some of his own thoughts, but mostly his pleasure would be to listen to her opinions about their children and grandchildren. She’d have seen and heard so many things that had passed him by. Nuances and glances and stuff he never had noticed and never would. When she’d slid the omelette effortlessly out of the pan and onto warm plates, he’d take knives and forks from the drawer under the microwave, and they’d sit facing each other at the kitchen table, him pointing at the garden, her towards the hall, like always. They’d clink glasses and drink to their family, and to each other, and there would be a lingering glance of pride and love before they turned their attention to the food. And the omelette would be delicious, and he would finish it, even though he’d declared himself not hungry just twenty minutes earlier, and she’d make two mugs of tea while he stacked the plates, cutlery and wine glasses in the dishwasher.
They might watch a bit of telly with their tea. The news, perhaps. She liked to listen to the Queen’s Speech, and she wouldn’t have heard it earlier, because who the hell had heard anything much earlier, with all the kids running around? Nothing past the headlines, because Daphne never wanted to hear sad news on Christmas Day and the weather forecast was largely irrelevant. Later, in bed, he’d watch her put cream on her hands, her elbows and her neck, sitting up in bed, the sight and the smell so utterly familiar to him that he could play it like a film in his mind, and then he’d hold her for a while, kiss her goodnight on the mouth, hear her say, ‘Sleep tight, darling’, and they would separate to sleep.
My ordinary, everyday, extraordinary life. My ordinary, everyday, extraordinary wife.
Tonight there would be no omelette with wine. No cuddle in bed. No ‘Sleep tight, darling.’ She wasn’t there. Except she was. He didn’t feel as sad, now, as he felt grateful. He felt very calm, and peaceful. He had been the luckiest of men. Nothing in the present, or even in the future, mattered to him now as much as the past did, and tonight the past seemed gloriously close at hand.
He could hear her voice.
He thought about the day. About Laura and Scott and Nick. About all of their babies. He remembered Candlewood, in the Cotswolds, and how everything had changed there. They were all right. Everyone was okay, or they were going to be.
Upstairs, Charlie climbed into bed, and lay on his pillows, his face turned to where Daphne’s own precious face had lain for so long. He could hear her voice. And what she was saying was ‘Well done, my love. Well done.’
Acknowledgements
I am so very lucky to be supported in what I do by some very fine people. My grateful thanks go to Jonathan Lloyd, Lucy Morris, Hannah Beer and everyone else at Curtis Brown. At Penguin, I feel very grateful to be published by Maxine Hitchcock and Louise Moore, whose expert advice and kindness is matchless. Thank you to the incomparable Hazel Orme, who improves every page, to the brilliantly efficient (and patient!) Beatrix McIntyre, who shepherds manuscript to finished book so very well, to Ella Watkins and to all the other wonderful Penguins.
And to David, Tallulah and Ottilie: I love you.
Read more
Other People’s Husbands
COMING SUMMER 2021
Read on for a sneak peek …
May Bank Holiday weekend, 2002
Perfect, golden days. How many of them did you truly live in a year? Or a lifetime?
This had been one.
Georgie pulled her sweater around her, and leant her head back on the cushion, reflecting that she felt so happy she could cry. After everything she and Phil had been through, to be here, now, with these people, feeling this way … it seemed absolutely miraculous to her. She looked around the firepit at the others, determined to remember every detail.
She was tipsy, of course. Georgie felt delightfully woozy. And woozily delighted. Someone had pulled a CD player to the open kitchen window behind them, and there was music now. ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’. And they were.
The weather had been spectacular – the May Bank Holiday showing off, staying warm into the evening. There’d been rounders on the beach, sandy sandwiches and fizzy drinks kept cool Enid Blyton-style in rockpools, crabbing and sandcastles in the afternoon, adults sn
oozing in turn. And then a straggling, sun-kissed parade to the ice-cream van halfway up the hill towards home. Splashy baths for the kids, and enormous gins for the parents, before the men got serious about the business of grilling sausages and burgers. And then, sated, and pink-nosed, the kids had sprawled in front of a Disney film, and were eventually marshalled into various beds and settled top and toe onto sofas.
And so now the grown-ups were sat around the firepit, sharing scratchy blankets that smelled of mildew and mothballs. In the absence of light pollution, someone who knew about stars was pointing out the constellations, and a few people pretended, good-naturedly, to listen.
It felt, to her, like she’d been initiated into this club. If she was honest with herself, even though this was May, and she’d known these people since the previous September, she’d had imposter syndrome until this weekend. She wasn’t, couldn’t be, entirely sure she and Phil belonged with this gilded group. They were very ordinary people. She’d always thought so. It wasn’t a pejorative. Not dull or boring, she’d hoped, but ordinary nonetheless. She’d had what were almost crushes on these women she’d met at the school gates, and slowly and carefully got to know over the last few months.
Glossy Sarah, so in control, but then she had taught at the school for years, and she knew everybody and everything. She was the leader, the planner. She seemed so perpetually sussed. Her husband Dom was equally together and organized. Even the man’s hairline was exquisitely neat, and his blue linen shirt didn’t seem to have wrinkled all day. Phil, also in linen, looked like an unmade bed: it was the way she liked him, but still …
The Family Holiday Page 32
