by Tess Stimson
“Come on, Mal,” Trace wheedles, “come to Normandy with me.”
“It would be nice to just drop everything for once,” I say longingly.
“And it is business. We can be there and back in a day. You know it’ll be fun; Evie can play chaperone—oh, shit. Look, I have to go—”
Over the distant thrum of street noise, I hear a girl’s high-pitched voice; I can’t make out the words, but her sentiments are clear. I smile, wondering what hot water Trace has got himself into now. Over the years, I’ve spotted him popping up now and again in the odd gossip column—one of London’s most eligible bachelors, apparently; not that I’m jealous, of course—usually accompanied by one of an interchangeable series of whippet-thin girls with ribs like famished saints. I suppose it was only a matter of time before it all caught up with him—
“See you tomorrow,” Trace says quickly, clicking off the call.
“We’ll see,” I reply to dead air; that favorite parental euphemism for No, but I’m too tired to argue any more, smiling despite myself as I replace the phone.
He could always do this to me. Make me smile, make me believe that whatever insane idea he’d come up with—write a book, run a restaurant, marry me—was the right, the only, thing to do. Which is why I didn’t dare see him again for thirteen years, until I was sure I was quite, quite safe.
I don’t leave Nicholas’s office for a long time, staring at the framed picture of the two of us on his desk. Our wedding day, ten years ago; we look so young, so carefree, so certain.
Kit wasn’t entirely wrong in his assessment. I was a little bit reboundish when I met Nicholas; after what had happened with Trace, who wouldn’t be? But I knew without doubt that he was the right man to marry, in a way that Trace never had been. Not quite as dashing, perhaps, not as knicker-wettingly, stomach-churningly disturbing; but you can’t live on a perpetual knife edge of excitement all your life, can you? If Trace was the ideal lover, I knew instantly that Nicholas was the ideal husband. Men are like shoes: You can have sexy or comfortable, but not both.
Not that Nicholas wasn’t sexy, too. In his own way. There was a depth to him that was shadowed and dark, a carnal, sensual undercurrent of which he seemed totally unaware. All it needed was the right woman to tap into it. And I was so sure then that that woman was me.
“You didn’t tell me Liz gave you a lift back from London last night,” I say, bending to pull off Metheny’s muddy wellies as Nicholas comes down the stairs a little after ten the next morning. “She said it was well past midnight by the time you all got back. I think she could’ve done without taking Chloe to Pony Club this morning, to be honest; she looked done in when I saw her—”
“How could I have told you? I’ve only just woken up.”
I look up in surprise. “No need to bite my head off.”
“Christ. I’m barely downstairs before you’re giving me the bloody third degree. Didn’t realize this had become a police state. Where are we, Lower Guantánamo?”
“Mummy! That’s ow-eee!”
“Sorry, sweetpea. There we are, all done.” I watch Metheny toddle happily toward the sitting room, then follow Nicholas into the kitchen, unwinding my scarf and pulling off my woolen gloves. My nose starts to run in the warmth. “Nicholas? Is something the matter?”
He ignores me, flinging open cupboard doors at random. “I don’t suppose there’s any danger of a decent coffee in this house?”
“There’s a jar in the end cupboard, by the cocoa. Nicholas, is everything at work—”
“Not bloody Nescafé! I meant real coffee! You would have thought I could get a decent cup of proper coffee in my own bloody house! Is that really too much to ask?”
I stare at him in astonishment as he crashes and slams his way around the kitchen. Nicholas has always been a tea drinker; rather a fastidious and demanding tea drinker, actually, a warming-up-the-pot, milk-first, Kashmiri Chai kind of tea drinker, to whom tea bags are anathema and Tetley’s a four-letter word. I cannot recall him ever drinking coffee in his life.
In another life, I might wonder if Nicholas—but no; if nothing else, the disaster with Trace taught me the value of trust.
There’s a knock at the kitchen window, and the window cleaner waves cheerily. I sigh inwardly. I’d forgotten he was coming today, and he only takes cash. Things seem to be a little bit tight this month—we must have spent rather more at Christmas than I’d realized—that wildly extravagant Joseph coat, of course. I can’t wait for a chance to wear it. And Nicholas has been taking rather more cash out than usual recently; expenses, I should think—they’ll be reimbursed eventually, but in the meantime—and I had been hoping to get to the beginning of February without having to dip into the housekeeping money for any extras—
“Nicholas, do you have any cash on you?”
“God, I suppose so. Never bloody ends, does it? In my wallet, should be on my desk. I’m going to have a shower before this place turns into Piccadilly Circus.”
Pausing only to grab his mobile phone charger from the kitchen counter, he stalks up the stairs, his stiff paisley back screaming resentment. I wipe my streaming nose on a wodge of paper towel. Resentment at what I’m not quite sure. He wasn’t the one up at six with three children.
His battered leather wallet is lying on his desk. I pull out a couple of twenty-pound notes, dislodging several till receipts and a photograph of the children as I do so. I stop and pick up the snap, my irritation melting. I love this picture. It was only taken a couple of months ago; Evie has a large purple bump right in the center of her forehead, forcing her fringe to split in two around it like a shallow brook around a rock. She did it running down Stokes Hill with Chloe and Sophie; she was so determined to win the race, she couldn’t stop, she ran full-tilt into the side of a barn at the bottom. Absolutely refused to cry, of course. It took two weeks to go down. And Sophie, just learning to love the camera, her head tilted slightly to one side, looking up from under those dark lashes—oh dear, she’s going to be devastating sometime really rather soon. And Metheny, cuddled in the center. My milk-and-cookies last-chance baby. So plump and sunny, beaming with wide-eyed, damp-lashed brilliance at me. The photograph is a little out of focus and all three of them could have done with a wash-and-brush-up first; but it captures them, the essence of them. This is who they are.
Judging from the creases in the picture, Nicholas loves it, too. I can see marks in the print where he’s traced his thumbnail fondly over their faces, just as I’m doing now.
A childish shriek emanates from the other room, followed by a crash and the sound of running feet. I shove the picture back in the wallet, and pick up the folded till receipts scattered across Nicholas’s desk.
A name on one catches my eye. I pause. La Perla? I didn’t even know he’d even heard of them. I certainly wouldn’t have if Kit didn’t keep me courant. And he spent—I blanch—how much?
Good Lord. How very sweet and generous and romantic of him; and how very, very lovely. Things have been rather—well, quiet, in the bedroom recently. After the sexual feast at Christmastime, it has been very much famine this last month or so. This is clearly his way of putting things right.
Smiling inwardly, I fold the receipt carefully and replace it, so that Nicholas won’t know I’ve seen it and spoiled his Valentine’s Day surprise.
It takes me ten days to find a dress worthy of bedroom naughtiness from La Perla. I used to love shopping, of course, but these days I’m always so conscious of the cost. Sometimes I look at my yummy Gina strappy sandals or the silly pink Chloe bag I just had to have the summer I met Nicholas, languishing at the back of my wardrobe now, pockets filled with coins that are probably out of circulation, it’s been so long since I used it; and I think, that’d pay for the girls’ school uniforms for the entire year. How could I be so wickedly extravagant, what was I thinking?
But Nicholas has obviously gone to such trouble. So I scour Salisbury for something truly special, a miracle of a dress that will
successfully hide the fact that while I may technically be the same size ten I was before I had three children, there’s no denying that everything has shifted a little further—well, south. At what age do you give up on your looks, I wonder. Sixty? Seventy? When do you decide, OK, I’m done, no more mascara, no more highlights, no more diets, I’m just going to get saggy and gray and wrinkled and fat and happy?
You know, I can’t wait to be old. It’s middle age that petrifies the life out of me.
I finally find what I’m looking for in one of those dreadful boutiques where the shop assistants look like Parisienne models and you have to ring a doorbell to get in. I would never have even dared to enter if I hadn’t been desperate. But it really is a lovely dress, I think, as I stand in the middle of the shop floor and wrestle with my conscience. It fits me perfectly. It might be expensive but it’s such good quality, it’ll last for ages. And it’s in the sale; only ten percent off, but still, ten percent is ten percent. I know I wasn’t going to buy black again, but this is totally different from my other black dresses, I haven’t got one that’s above the knee like this, and anyway black is timeless, it’ll never go out of style, and so slimming. And of course I won’t have to buy new shoes, my old black courts will go perfectly, so that’ll save money. It’d be a false economy not to get it.
And then at the till, as one credit card after another is declined, and I pull out the emergency only-if-the-roof-comes-down plastic, only to find that it too is over the limit—though since I haven’t seen a bill for ages, I have no idea by how much—I wonder if I can possibly persuade Nicholas to take back the extravagant La Perla without offending him.
Scarlet with embarrassment, I turn to slink out of the shop, feeling like a criminal. The smart assistant probably thinks I’m a bankrupt, one of those shopaholics you read about, or worse, that I stole the cards—
“I thought it was you.” Trace grins, barring my path.
I’m not quite sure why Nicholas is being so strange. First yesterday, when I called to ask him what time to get Kit over to babysit for Valentine’s Day—
“I don’t know what time,” he said tightly, “I might be working, anyway.”
“But it’s all organized! I’ve booked The Lemon Tree!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, I realize that, but it can’t be helped.”
“Nicholas, we’re talking about Valentine’s Day,” I said, disappointment sharpening my tone. “I’ve barely seen you for weeks, you’re working the most ridiculous hours these days, ever since you made partner—well, ever since Will Fisher retired, really—and I’m sorry to call you on your mobile when you’re clearly in the middle of an important meeting, but frankly, what else am I supposed to do? You miss the children’s special events, you’re shut in your office at weekends, some nights you’re barely home before it’s time to go back to work again; if I didn’t see the sheets crumpled in the spare room I wouldn’t even know you’d been here. I think the least you can do is spend one day—Valentine’s Day—with your wife.”
“Look—”
“I really don’t think it’s too much to ask, do you?”
“Look, Malinche. I said I’m sorry, but the Court doesn’t see February the fourteenth as anything other than the day that happens to fall between February the thirteenth and February the fifteenth—”
It was his tone, really, rather than anything he’d actually said. As if I was a tiresome child, a nagging wife; so unfair, when that isn’t me, has never been me.
“I’ve been so looking forward to it,” I said quietly.
“I know; I know you have, but—”
“Nicholas. Please don’t sigh,” I interrupted, really hurt and angry now. “If you think your work is more important than—”
“Look, we’ll talk about it when I get home.”
“When?” I demanded. “When would that be? Precisely, Nicholas? Because I can’t see exactly how you’re going to fit us into your very busy schedule. Actually.”
When he hung up on me, I couldn’t quite believe it. He’s never hung up on me in all the years we’ve been married. We’ve always talked things through, however difficult and painful that has been—and we’ve been married ten years, of course it’s been difficult and painful at times.
And then after that row, that rather horrid row, when I phoned the office this morning, Emma said he wasn’t working tonight after all, at least there was nothing in his diary—that tricky case must’ve settled. So I thought I’d surprise him by coming up to London and taking him out to his favorite sushi restaurant in Covent Garden (so funny, that Nicholas loves sushi; to people who don’t know him, he always seems more of a school-dinners treacle-pudding kind of man); we haven’t been there for ages.
I’d meant it as an olive branch, my way of saying sorry that we’d argued. But somehow, it’s not going quite as I hoped.
The orange glow from the streetlamps casts strange shadows across his face as he leans against the side of the black cab next to me. It makes him look suddenly old; and very tired.
A cold hand twists my stomach. He looked so shocked when I walked into his office half an hour ago, I thought Banquo’s ghost must be behind me. He still seems—oh, Lord, perhaps he’s ill. What if that’s it? He’s ill and he hasn’t told me? Cancer, even.
“Is everything all right?” I ask anxiously as the cab drops us off in Covent Garden. “Are you sure you feel—”
“I’m fine. Please don’t keep asking.”
I follow him nervously into Yuzo’s, slipping off my coat and wondering if he’ll notice my new dress. Heat rises in my cheeks. So sweet of Trace—totally unnecessary; I’m sure he wasn’t planning to buy all the front-of-house restaurant staff black Max Mara outfits—but after he stepped in and saved the day like that, how could I say no to the sourcing trip in Italy? After turning down France. Especially when he explained that Cora and Ben, his business partners, were coming too; it’s not like I’m going to be alone with him—it’s only five days—I just don’t know if Nicholas is going to see it the same way—
“Isn’t that Sara!” I exclaim.
“I don’t know. Is it?”
“Well, of course it is, darling.” I nudge his elbow. “We can’t just ignore her. Come on, say hello to the poor girl. She looks absolutely terrified of you.”
Which is rather strange, because I thought they got on quite well.
“I’m sure she doesn’t want us to interrupt—”
Men. Sometimes you do wonder.
“How lovely to see you!” I say warmly, to make up for Nicholas’s scowl. “What a funny coincidence! Are you meeting someone—but of course you are, it’s Valentine’s Day, what a silly question. I’m sure you’ve had dozens of exciting cards too, it’s so lovely to be young and single.”
She blushes rather sweetly. “Not really.”
“Malinche, let’s go and sit down.”
I remember how horrible it is to be sitting and waiting at a table on your own, feeling as if everyone is looking at you and wondering if you’ve been stood up. “What a lovely bracelet, Sara. Tiffany, isn’t it? Lucky, lucky you, I’ve always wanted one of those.”
“Malinche—”
“Nicholas, do stop. So, is this your first Valentine’s together, Sara? Or is it wildly indiscreet of me to ask? It’s always so romantic, I think, when—”
Her phone beeps twice; she scans her messages, and then suddenly jumps up and grabs her coat. “Oh, God, I’m a complete idiot, he’s in the sushi bar on the other side of the square, I must have got it wrong. So lovely to meet you again, Mrs. Lyon, have a lovely evening. See you tomorrow, Nick, bye.”
I can’t quite explain the feeling of relief. Sara is a very attractive girl—even dear loyal Nicholas couldn’t help but notice she exudes a sensuality no red-blooded male could ignore; but she is clearly taken, off the market, as it were, which is so wonderful. For her.
“Well, she seems very keen.” I smile. “How lovely.”
“Can we order, please,
Mal?” Nicholas says tiredly.
I’m sure he’s sickening for something. The last time he was like this, he ended up in bed for four days with a temperature of a hundred and two. He’s so distracted he can barely hold up his end of the conversation through dinner, and nearly forgets to give me the glossy paper bag he was putting into his briefcase when I walked into his office. Only when I teasingly remind him does he hand it over to me with a faint smile.
“I’m sorry. I—um—I didn’t get you a card,” he says, not quite meeting my eye.
“Oh, Nicholas. As if that matters.” I open the bag and unwrap a flimsy parcel of pale pink tissue. A slither of plum silk whistles into my lap. “Oh, how beautiful!” Holding the delicate bra-and-knickers set up against my chest, I take care not to let the fragile lace brush against my dirty plate. “Do you like them?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t have bought them otherwise.”
I glance at the labels and laugh. “I can tell it’s been a while. These are two sizes too big; I’ll have to take them back and exchange them. You kept the receipt, didn’t you?” I hesitate, suddenly spotting the tiny duck-egg blue box at the bottom of the bag. “Oh, Nicholas. You didn’t—”
I draw a breath when I see the silver hoop earrings. “Nicholas. They’re exquisite. I don’t know what to say.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. I have the strangest sensation, as if I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, my life hanging in the balance.
Then, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Nicholas says softly.
He smiles at me, a quiet smile that reaches his eyes; and it’s as if a warm Caribbean breeze sweeps gently across our table.
I kiss his cheek. “I don’t know why I deserve all this, but thank you. You really are the most romantic man—and I’m sorry I got so upset yesterday, I didn’t mean—”
“No, I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry about everything.”
