by Alice Ross
‘I’d, er, better go,’ she’d stammered, whipping up the hat and coat she’d deposited on the chair earlier.
Phil hadn’t replied. He’d been too occupied talking to Rachel – in a tone that sounded a tad overly jolly to Amelia. She hadn’t hung around to listen to their conversation. She’d shot out of the door faster than an ice-pop out of its slippery plastic wrapper. And she’d harboured absolutely no intentions of stepping back through the door. Except now, here was Annie, wanting her to go and pick up Thomas’s Gruffalo. Help! On second thoughts, maybe she should head back to London – and lock herself in her flat. At least then she couldn’t get into any more scrapes.
‘He really won’t sleep without it,’ pressed Annie. ‘And if I leave him now, he’ll probably scream the house down.’
Deciding she had little choice in the matter, Amelia heaved a sigh. ‘Okay. I’ll take the car. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
‘Oh, thanks so much. You’re an absolute angel.’
If only, pondered Amelia. She couldn’t imagine angels – even those wearing Sophie’s tinsel-covered coat hangers over their heads – snogging the face off men they hardly knew.
So packed was the car park at the Duck, that Amelia parked on the grass verge outside. She dragged in a deep breath as she slid out of the Mercedes, the cold gloomy air slicing through her lungs. She could do this. Of course she could. She was a fully grown, mature woman. And anyway, with a bit of luck, it’d be so busy inside, Phil would be occupied elsewhere and she wouldn’t even have to see him.
As if.
‘Oh. A-Amelia,’ he stammered, the minute she marched through the door, and bang into Phil carrying a tray of empty glasses. ‘I, er, didn’t expect to see you today.’
‘I thought I might’ve seen you here last night,’ piped up another familiar voice. Stan! Oh God! Despite her previous positive resolve, Amelia’s cheeks flushed crimson.
‘I take my hat off to you attending the kids’ Christmas party yesterday,’ Stan continued. ‘I had to be practically dragged there, and I have a kid.’
Amelia managed a weak smile – mainly at her naïvety at imagining she could simply scoot in, pick up the toy, and scoot out again. Nothing, she was learning, was ever that straightforward in Buttersley. And now here stood Stan, prolonging her agony. ‘I’ve, er, just popped in to pick up Thomas’s Gruffalo,’ she muttered, shuffling her feet awkwardly.
‘Oh. Right. Yes,’ mumbled Phil. ‘Hang on a minute. I’ll go and find it.’
While he scuttled off, Amelia’s flush deepened under Stan’s enquiring gaze.
‘You all right?’ he asked, the concern in his voice causing her eyes to burn with tears.
‘Er, yes. Fine thanks,’ she lied. ‘You?’
‘Oh, you know.’ He twisted his mouth and shrugged, before plastering the smile back onto his face. ‘The good news is, though, that I don’t think Phil has a clue about his leaving party.’
‘Right. That’s, er, great,’ replied Amelia, wishing Phil not finding out about his party was all she had to worry about. Just then, the man himself reappeared.
‘Here it is,’ he said, proffering the Gruffalo.
‘Thanks,’ muttered Amelia, snatching it from him and haring out of the pub, without even bothering to say goodbye.
*
The following day, Stan was still dwelling on it. He couldn’t be certain, but by the awkward way Phil and Amelia had acted around one another in the pub when she’d called in to pick up Thomas’s toy, he suspected something might have happened between them. Quite what, he had no idea. He’d attempted a bit of gentle probing, but to no avail. If something had happened, Phil evidently had no intention of telling him about it.
‘Amelia seemed a bit off there,’ he’d remarked the minute she’d disappeared.
Across the bar, he noticed colour fly to Phil’s cheeks. ‘Did she? I didn’t notice.’
Yeah right, thought Stan. He was old enough and ugly enough to know when something was up. And something was definitely up there. Which, for some reason, made him jealous. Not an emotion he’d experienced much over his lifetime. And a completely ridiculous one given: a) he hardly knew Amelia, and b) he was a married man – albeit with a pathetic excuse of a marriage. The most pathetic bit being that he didn’t have a clue how to rectify his situation. His resolution to navigate the holiday period without any major upsets was, he knew, merely postponing the inevitable. Sooner or later he and Bea would have to sit down and sort out their mess. For now, he’d concentrate on Maddy’s first Christmas. And, more specifically, the presents he still hadn’t bought. Focused on that goal, he headed into Harrogate.
Stan returned to Pear Tree Cottage three hours later, completely exhausted from battling the scrum of shoppers. The trip had, however, proved successful. He’d purchased a lovely silver bangle for Bea and a gorgeous cashmere sweater in her favourite plum colour. And he’d decided he’d try and talk to her again. Over a nice meal. He’d bought all the ingredients to make her favourite stir-fry, and a couple of the meringue cakes she loved. Things had just spiralled slightly out of control, he’d concluded. They hadn’t even talked properly about her wanting another baby. Not that he harboured any intention of submitting to that whim. If she wasn’t already pregnant – and he hoped beyond hope that she wasn’t – then they could discuss their feelings honestly and openly. At least if she understood his reticence, they might reach some sort of compromise. Like agreeing to have another child in a year or so.
But the minute Stan opened the front door, he knew there’d be no stir-fry or meringues that night. Nor any heart to hearts. A swarm of kids and mothers appeared to have taken up residence.
‘Sorry, Stan,’ apologised Zara, popping up in front of him. ‘It’s my eldest’s fourth birthday. We were supposed to be having the party at my house but we’ve had a burst pipe, so Bea kindly offered for us to have it here instead. She said you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Did she,’ muttered Stan, minding very much indeed.
Chapter Sixteen
Dangling a pair of lace panties from her fingers, a giggling Rachel demanded, ‘Tell me what you want for Christmas, Mr McNally.’
At the kitchen table in the flat, Phil blew out a weary sigh. What he’d really love for Christmas was a complete superbug infestation of Skype, which would render the video-chat app inoperable – for ever. Because, as much as he loved Rachel, and he really did, her omnipresent face on the screen was driving him insane. And he knew precisely why: she was so frighteningly perceptive that he couldn’t slip a single thing past her. She could read him like the proverbial bestseller. Which made him ever so slightly terrified that she’d know he’d been up to something merely by looking at him.
Not that he had been up to something. Not really. The kiss with Amelia had been … well … a moment of madness – on both sides. They’d been vulnerable and a bit tipsy. It had been a monumental mistake and he was only grateful it had stopped when it had. From the horrified expression on Amelia’s face when she’d called in at the pub to pick up Thomas’s toy, she obviously felt the same. Which was good. Or was it? Crikey. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about without adding Amelia bloody Richards to the equation.
‘Have you booked your flight over here yet?’ Rachel enquired, all panty-dangling and giggling abruptly ceasing.
Shit! All thoughts of Amelia catapulted from Phil’s head as he noted the look of steely inquisition on Rachel’s face. He’d been dreading her asking that. And if he hadn’t been so stressed about the look on his own face i.e. “Can you tell I’ve snogged another woman?”, he would’ve had a convincing answer prepared. In the event of no convincing or prepared answer, he blurted out, ‘I’m on it.’ He hoped his casual tone and a reassuring smile would add some credence. It didn’t.
‘What does that mean? Have you booked it or not?’
Crap! He should’ve known you couldn’t flannel your way round her. She was far too sharp for that. ‘Not yet,’ he muttered. ‘I, er,
thought I might spend a few days with my parents before I head over.’
Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly, Phil, if you hadn’t signed the papers for the brewery I’d think you weren’t bothered about coming over. You have signed the papers, haven’t you?’
Bollocks. Bollocks. Bollocks. ‘I, er …’ he muttered, staring not at the screen, but at the kettle on the worktop. He prayed for a flash of inspiration to soar out of the spout. It didn’t.
‘Have you signed them or not?’
‘All but one,’ he mumbled. To the kettle.
At the loud gasp that whooshed out of the laptop. Phil grabbed the edge of the table.
‘You mean it isn’t tied up yet? Oh God, Phil. Why haven’t you signed?’
Ah ha. He had something to say in his defence here. He dragged in a deep breath and met her despairing gaze. ‘I went to sign the final paper the other day. But then, like I told you, old Mr Russell collapsed and I ended up at the hospital.’
It wasn’t good enough. Rachel shook her head. ‘That was the other day. Why haven’t you been back since?’
Why hadn’t he been back since? Because he’d had no inclination to go back, that was why. Not that he dare admit that. She’d go ballistic. He shrugged, weary with defeat. ‘It’s been a bit hectic. What with Christmas and everything and—’
A deep furrow appeared in Rachel’s usually smooth forehead. ‘You are sure about this, aren’t you? Sure about us?’
‘Of course I am,’ bumbled Phil, gaze sliding back to the kettle. But at that moment, he really wasn’t sure of his own name.
*
Bea might have saved the day hosting Zara’s daughter’s birthday party at Pear Tree Cottage, but the effect on her marriage had been significantly less successful.
‘Why the hell didn’t you run it past me first?’ Stan had demanded, the minute Zara had left – which had been nearer his bedtime, than the children’s. Both her girls had crashed out on the living room sofas, while Bea and Zara sat in the kitchen knocking back wine and erupting in raucous laughter. Leaving Stan feeling, yet again, superfluous to requirements.
‘I honestly didn’t think she’d stay that long,’ Bea had insisted, when he’d pointed this out.
‘Oh, really?’ had been his sardonic reply.
And with that rancorous exchange had ended anything remotely resembling conversation in the Suffolk household. The limited verbal interaction that had taken place since had adopted the form of clipped one-word replies, or concise directives concerning Maddy. That morning being a prime example:
‘I’m not feeling too well,’ Bea had sullenly informed him. ‘Could you take her out for a couple of hours while I go back to bed?’
Stan hadn’t needed asking twice. He’d been glad of an excuse to escape the house. The stifling atmosphere gave him the sensation of being slowly buried alive. And, once again, Maddy wasn’t helping matters. Not only had she howled like a banshee when he’d dressed her, but she continued to howl like a banshee in the middle of the park. He tugged her out of her pushchair and jigged her about a bit, which served only to agitate her all the more. And distress any unsuspecting passers-by. At their disapproving glances, Stan affected an apologetic smile, rolling his eyes heavenward in a “what can you do?” kind of way. Inside, though, he battled the urge to join in her wailing.
His gaze strayed to the river. Then to the pushchair. All it would need was one little push … He could say it was an accident. That he’d tripped, or slipped, or blacked out for a second, or—
Oh. My. God. Ice-cold fear zinged down his spine. What the hell was he thinking? That if he somehow disposed of Maddy he could slip back into his old life? That things would return to “normal”? That everything would revert back to how it used to be, and he and Bea would pick up where they’d left off? Bloody hell. That such thoughts had even wheedled their way through to his subconscious was chilling enough. That he’d plummeted to such depths to allow them a moment’s contemplation was utterly terrifying.
He shuddered with self-loathing. Was this how low he’d sunk? Was this how much he resented Maddy’s intrusion into his life? And why, exactly, did he resent her? Because she’d disrupted the nice time he’d been having? Was he really such a selfish git that he’d give her up just to grab back what he once had? Christ. This had to be crisis point. He needed to speak to Bea. And he needed to speak to her urgently.
By the time Stan arrived back at Pear Tree Cottage, every scrap of energy had fled his body, his head throbbed, and his brain ached. None of which had been helped by Maddy screaming the entire way home, or by the gloomy weather. It was one of those depressing winter days with scarcely any differentiation between night and day. Consequently, the lights in the house were on when the cottage came into view. Rolling the pushchair up to the front door, something in the living room caught Stan’s eye. Something that brought him to an abrupt halt.
Through the illuminated glass he could see Bea.
And Zara.
Snogging!
*
Phil knew he was faffing. Stalling for time. Dragging his feet. Which so wasn’t like him. Normally when a job needed doing, he attacked it with gusto, leaped straight onto it, didn’t mess about. But staring at the Buy Ticket button on the laptop screen, after diligently completing all the required boxes for his flight out to Australia, he couldn’t press it. The mouse hovered over the button like a bird of prey circling its next meal. But something held him back. And whatever that something was, it refused to let him click the button.
*
Standing outside his house with a bawling Maddy in the pushchair, watching his wife in a passionate embrace with another woman, Stan had what he could only describe as an out-of-body experience. He had no idea how long he stood there. It was only when Bea moved to the window to close the curtains, that he’d crashed back into the real world. The look of horror on her face as she’d spotted him had, he suspected, been only marginally more pronounced than the look of horror on his.
‘Stan,’ she’d gasped, as she’d flung open the front door and ran out to him. ‘I’m so sorry. You weren’t … I mean I didn’t want …’
She’d grabbed hold of his arm. He’d shaken her off.
Then Zara had appeared, looking suitably shamefaced. ‘I’m so sorry, Stan. We really didn’t mean for you to find out like this.’
Stan couldn’t speak. He’d merely gawped at her. This woman, in her bloody awful Christmas jumper, was his wife’s … what? Lover? Girlfriend? Mistress? Whatever the label, he couldn’t take it in. He felt numb. Like a giant vacuum cleaner had hoovered up every scrap of emotion from his body; his brain freeze-framed with the earth-shattering scene he’d just witnessed.
Abandoning a still screaming Maddy in her pushchair, he’d turned on his heel and marched away from the house, Bea’s wrenching pleas for him to return ringing in his ears. In a daze, he’d headed back to the park and flopped down on a bench. What sparse daylight there had been had totally waned and the temperature had plummeted. Stan scarcely noticed. He couldn’t shift the image of his wife and Zara. Together. Never, in a million years, would he ever have imagined Bea would cheat on him. And certainly not with another woman. If he’d suspected his marriage might be nearing the end before, he now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it had sailed right past the finishing line.
When Stan eventually returned to Pear Tree Cottage, he found Zara comforting a weeping Bea in the kitchen. At the sight of them so close together again, a wave of nausea pulsed through him. Thankfully, they sprung apart the moment he appeared, Zara beating a hasty retreat.
‘You know where I am if you need me,’ she muttered to Bea, before scuttling out of the door.
Still wearing his coat, Stan sank down into the chair opposite his wife, watching her sniffling into a tissue. Maddy was nowhere to be seen. He assumed she must be asleep upstairs, having worn herself out with her histrionics.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Bea whimpered at length, her arm stretching acro
ss the table towards him.
In a flash Stan drew back his hand and dug it into his pocket. As his brain slowly began to function again, a million questions buzzed around his head.
‘How long’s it been going on?’ he asked, the words sounding like they belonged to someone else.
Bea shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I don’t know. A couple of months, I suppose. We just – I just – We started out as friends and then …’
Stan didn’t want to hear any of the finer details. Would he have felt the same if he’d seen her with another man? He honestly didn’t know.
‘Is this the first time you’ve …?’
She blew her nose, before shaking her head. ‘It’s the first time since we’ve been married. But there was a girl at university. It was nothing really. But I guess I’ve always—’ She broke off in another round of tears.
Stan sighed. ‘I wonder what Zara’s husband will make of this.’
Bea gazed across at him through watery eyes. ‘Zara doesn’t have a husband. She’s never had a husband.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘But her kids—’
‘Artificial insemination.’
Stan’s jaw dropped. Bloody hell. He’d thought stuff like this only happened in soap operas.
‘Oh God,’ gasped Bea. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
‘That makes two of us,’ mumbled Stan, glancing out of the window to see flakes of snow falling.
*
Since the startling revelation of Doug’s wedding to Imogen, the days had passed in a complete blur for Amelia. With the exception of the kiss with Phil. That little episode was as clear as the icicles clinging to the outside of The Cedars’s windows. It had, she’d concluded, been a classic case of rebound, suffused with a large dash of confusion. They were both in the midst of serious dilemmas. Although Phil’s exit route seemed infinitely clearer than hers. From what she’d gathered, Rachel really loved him and wanted them to be together. Did Doug, as he claimed, love and want to be with her? Or would he go through with this planned marriage to Imogen? Amelia didn’t have the first idea. But, waking up on Christmas Eve, she knew it wouldn’t be long before she found out.
