On TV there were always two parties—the villains and the victims—but real life was more complicated than that. In real life husbands became depressed. Men invested and lost large amounts of money. Men shut out their wives. In real life wives buried themselves in work—and workmates—for comfort. Wives told themselves it was innocent—a text message with a colleague here, a coffee date there—when they knew exactly where it was headed. But no one ever explained that things weren’t clear-cut like they were on TV.
There was never an excuse, but there usually was an explanation. Fran had waited until she was in her thirties to get married to make sure she was ready. She’d made sure she found someone that she loved, someone who shared her values and morals. She wasn’t the kind of person who had affairs. Her parents were still married, after all, and so were her in-laws, at least they were until Nigel’s father died. Growing up, the only person Fran knew who was divorced was her aunt Frieda, and the entire family had been appalled about that.
“Marriage is a commitment,” she’d heard her mother say countless times. “It’s not always easy but you see it through. If it gets hard, you work harder.”
To her parents, marriage was some kind of test that you passed or failed, and they took great pride in being part of the graduating class.
Mark had been a work colleague. Her “work husband,” she’d jokingly called him. He was handsome-ish, in an entirely different way from Nigel. Mark was short, burly, and full of confidence, not to mention her biggest cheerleader. Nigel had been impossible to talk to back then and Fran’s attempts to help had left her demoralized. Work was a release from all that. At work, when she talked, people listened. Mark listened.
Nigel had been depressed for six months when Fran called his mother. His mother was the meek, mousy type—the kind of woman who said she “didn’t understand the computers” and apologized when someone bumped into her. But there was no doubt she loved her son. And Fran was out of ideas.
“Oh,” she’d said when Fran had explained what was going on. “Oh, dear.”
Her response didn’t fill Fran with optimism, but she listened carefully, at least, and it was nice to be listened to. His mother had promised to call Nigel and that was the end of that.
Until Fran got home.
“How dare you call my mother?” he cried the moment she walked through the door after work. It was the most animated Fran had seen him in months. “Why would you do that? This isn’t her business. This isn’t anyone’s business.”
“I … didn’t know what else to do,” Fran stammered. It wasn’t like Nigel to yell. One of her favorite things about him was that he was soft-spoken, measured. “I thought she might be able to help.”
“You know what would help? You staying out of it.”
That was the point when something hardened inside her.
She started spending more time at work where people appreciated and respected her. If it weren’t for Rosie who was a little baby, she would have stayed at work all the time. She and Mark started ordering dinner on the nights they worked late. There were a few text messages, a few personal jokes. A little flirting, and not just on Mark’s end.
It started one night after a conference, during drinks in the hotel bar. Conversation got a little too personal, physical touch got a little too physical. Fran found herself thinking … why not? Mark was a handsome, single guy. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. It was like she’d been starving for months and he was standing there with a platter of delicious food. She couldn’t say no. She didn’t want to say no. It happened a total of seven times.
And then, Fran found out she was pregnant.
It was possible the baby was Nigel’s.
It was also possible it wasn’t.
So, here they were. With Fran trying desperately to keep her secret while running (quite literally, running) herself into the ground in a form of self-flagellation. She’d thought she could keep the secret. But now, with him being the perfect, supportive husband? She wasn’t sure she could do it.
Nigel’s glasses had fallen down his nose. His hands were clasped around Ava, holding her safe, even in his sleep. Fran knew Nigel would do anything for Ava. One day he’d read books with her and do puzzles and laugh mildly at her jokes. He might even be her father. Was it really fair to jeopardize that just to ease her guilt? Was it fair to destroy all of their lives because of her mistake?
She wasn’t going to tell Nigel, she decided. She’d live with her guilt, for the sake of her family. It was the least she could do.
She touched Nigel’s elbow and he jolted awake, glancing down at Ava quickly and relaxing when he found her safe. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and blinked up at Fran with his lovely thick eyelashes.
“Hey,” he said sleepily.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s go to bed.”
16
ANGE
A cheer went up among the parents on the grandstand. Ange joined in even though Will was on the bench. It’s about team spirit, not individual performance, the coach had said before the game, a nice little excuse for leaving the weaker players on the bench.
“Whatever happened to ‘It’s not about whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game?’” she wanted to scream. “Just give each kid a bloody turn!”
Instead she nodded and smiled and cheered other people’s kids on the field.
As she sat, watching other people’s kids kick the ball around, she was thinking about the neighborhood watch meeting. Even without a few of the residents, it had, by all counts, been a raging success. Afterward, she’d Instagram’d and tweeted several pictures. Ange liked the idea of a neighborhood watch. She liked the idea of making the neighborhood safer and keeping an eye on the neighbors. Tomorrow she’d put in an order for stickers and lawn signs, which would be prominently displayed on the street. YOU HAVE ENTERED A NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH ZONE. WARNING! YOU ARE BEING WATCHED. VIDEO SURVEILLANCE: ALL SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY WILL BE RECORDED AND SENT TO RELEVANT AUTHORITIES. Ange was looking forward to getting those signs up. It was good for people to know they were being watched, she thought. It made everyone behave better.
“Mom, I’m bored!” Ollie whined.
Me too, Ange thought.
“Shh,” she said. “We’re here to support your brother.”
“But he’s not even playing.”
“He will soon,” she insisted. But honestly, who knew? Will only turned up to sports games because Saturday sport was compulsory and he was a rule follower. But he wasn’t a natural athlete. He was bookish and inquisitive. When he was little, five or six, he would often wander off the field and start picking up leaves and examining them. (Photosynthesis! he’d said once, when Ange had chased after him to ask what he was doing. Look! Can you believe it?) At eleven he was tall and smart and an unequivocal geek. His saving grace was that he was exquisitely handsome, perhaps even more so than his father. And every year, as he filled out more, he became even more breathtaking.
Ollie shifted in his seat. “Please, Mum, can we go? My arm hurts.”
Ange locked eyes with Ollie. He was lying, of course. Unlike Will, a classic firstborn unable to tell a lie (an annoying trait when they were on holidays in the Gold Coast and were trying to get him into Sea World for free, and he insisted on telling everyone he was four and not three), Ollie could lie so convincingly it was hard not to be impressed. Ollie was a fabulous sportsman, of about average intelligence, but when it came to looks he’d inherited a horrible assortment of genes, from Ange’s pointyish chin to her mother’s stocky physique. Still, the boy could lie, which was bound to serve him well at some point. He’d probably make a very good real estate agent one day. Unfortunately, right now, there was a very slim chance that he wasn’t lying. And a slim chance was all it took to make a hairline crack in her resolve to laugh at his pathetic attempt to get out of watching the game.
“Where does it hurt?” she asked him.
He pointed vaguely at his arm. “Here.”
“Is it a sharp pain? An ache? What?”
“An ache,” he said.
Of course it was an ache. (“The arm might ache quite a bit over the next few weeks,” the doctor had said. “Ibuprofen and rest are the best things. And maybe some extra TLC. It can be quite painful. If he complains, indulge him a little. Let him stay home from school or whatever he’s doing.” But of course, Ollie had been there when the doctor had said that. And Ollie was no fool.)
“Oww,” he said, loud enough for surrounding people to hear.
“Shh,” Ange said, patting his arm awkwardly.
It was one of those moments when motherhood felt like a shock. As if someone had just walked up to you with a baby and cried, “This is your child. You are a mum! You are meant to know what to do in this situation!” Fran would know what to do, Ange thought. She seemed to be equipped for any situation—whether the child needed a Band-Aid, a lollipop, a hug, or a pep talk. She was the girl guide of motherhood and she’d earned all her badges.
“How about an ice cream?” she tried.
Ollie pretended to consider that. “It might help,” he said solemnly. “It is hot. Where’s Dad? Can he take me?”
Lucas, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Ange had last seen him wandering off with another dad to fetch equipment from the storage shed. But now the other dad was back in the grandstands cheering on his son, and Lucas was MIA. She felt a wave of irritation with him. Why did he always wander off? Why did he strike up conversations with strange people and find them fascinating?
Ange called his phone, but it rang on the bench beside her. It must have fallen out of his pocket. She sighed. “I’ll go check The Shed.”
Ollie gave her a winning smile. “I’ll wait here.”
Ange climbed down from the stand and trudged across the grass. Lucas had probably bumped into someone and struck up a conversation. Or maybe he’d discovered the world’s best climbing tree. Last weekend, he’d taken the boys to a treetop adventure park, where they’d been strapped into harnesses and climbed. Ange had sat that one out. She’d thought Will might have sat it out too, but he was surprisingly keen. Lucas had that effect on the boys. He had that effect on everyone. They’d all come home exhausted and drunk on adrenaline.
Ange’s pocket was vibrating. Lucas’s phone. She glanced at the screen as she continued toward The Shed.
“Lucas Fenway’s phone,” she said.
Silence. Ange waited. People were often a little thrown when an unexpected person answered the phone.
“Hello?” she repeated after a few seconds. “Who is speaking please?”
Nothing. Ange looked back at the screen. An old photo of Will and Ollie smiled back at her. The call had ended. She put the phone back in her pocket, mildly irritated. It was probably a client. A young mother who wanted a newborn shoot—a millennial. Didn’t everyone say the millennials had no phone manners, because all they did was text and email? Perhaps now if they didn’t get the person they were looking for, they simply hung up? It irritated Ange to no end. Why not just say, “Oh, I’m calling about a photo shoot”? Ange would have happily taken a message. Now the silly girl would have to call back and it would probably send her into a full-blown anxiety attack. A second phone call! Mortifying!
It was hard to believe these children were mothers themselves.
And then, out of nowhere, the young mother from the hospital sprang to mind. Erin, that was her name. Erin and her pretty little girl. She’d thought about them a few times since that day, and the affectionate way Lucas touched her arm. A paranoid thought occurred to her.
It wasn’t Erin on the phone, was it?
No. She laughed, an unhinged-sounding giggle. Why on earth would it have been Erin?
“Ange!” Lucas jogged up behind her. Leaves stuck to the soles of his boots. “What are you laughing at?”
“Where have you been?” she exclaimed. “I was looking for you.”
“These guys needed a hand setting up for Little Athletics,” he said.
He turned and waved to a couple of dads who waved back and shouted, “Thanks, Lucas.”
“I told them I was happy to help. Remember Little Aths?” he said, his eyes wistful. “Feels like yesterday, doesn’t it?”
His eyes welled up with actual tears, and Ange softened. How could he make her so angry one minute and the next, make her fall completely in love with him again?
“Ollie has a sore arm,” she said. “He wants ice cream.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s over there by the stand. He’s probably faking…”
“Roger that. I’ll take him to Dairy Bell and refuse to buy him anything until he admits he’s a faker. I’ll be back for you and Will in half an hour.” Lucas winked at her. “See you soon.”
“Wait. Your phone,” she said, holding it up. “You left it on the bench.”
He reached for it, but Ange didn’t let go. The result was a strange little tug-of-war-with-the-iPhone game, except that neither of them were pulling.
“Someone phoned but they didn’t say anything,” she said. “Pretty strange, don’t you think?”
They locked eyes for a moment.
Do you want to be asking this? he asked her.
I’m not sure, she replied.
Remember what happened last time? he said.
Yes. I remember.
Except they didn’t say any of this. Not out loud. Because there were some questions Ange didn’t want answers to.
“Well,” he said. “I’m sure whoever it was will call back. Make sure you get a video if my boy gets off the bench!”
Ange nodded, and even managed a smile.
“I will,” she said. “Thanks, Lucas.”
17
ESSIE
Essie had always loathed people who started sentences with “I’m the kind of person who…” mostly because it was invariably followed by a positive quality. “I am the kind of person who does anything for her friends; I am the kind of person who says what she thinks.” Well, good for you, Essie always thought, but if you were truly that certain kind of person, you wouldn’t need to talk about. Everyone would already know.
But in a way Essie knew her revulsion toward these people was tinged with jealousy. Because even if it wasn’t true, at least those people had a grasp on who they thought they were. Essie had no such grasp. She could be funny, but not funny enough for it to be a defining quality. She was welcoming and generous, but fear of not being liked will do that to you. People who said “I’m the kind of person who…” always spoke in absolutes, I am this and I do that. Everything was black-and-white while Essie existed in shades of gray.
Essie was thinking about this as she walked over to Fran’s house. Mia and Rosie had been invited to a birthday party of a girl from kindergarten and Fran had offered to take them. Essie carried Polly while Ben jogged beside her at a comically slow speed, on his way to take a Saturday body-pump class.
Essie thought about the fact that she’d lied to him about attending the neighborhood watch meeting. Why had she done that? The silly thing was, if she’d just told Ben she’d gone to Isabelle’s instead of the neighborhood watch meeting, he wouldn’t have cared. He’d probably have given her a high-five. (“My rule-following wife finally rebels,” he’d have said. “Good for you.”)
The problem was, now that she’d lied, she couldn’t very well tell him. He’d think it was strange. It was strange. That was the thing with lies—they grew like weeds until, eventually, they strangled you.
“Essie!”
Essie heard a car door slam and saw Ange walking toward her. Her heart sank. Behind her, Will, Ollie, and Lucas tumbled out of the car and headed toward their house. Essie threw them all a wave and headed determinedly toward Fran’s.
“What happened to you last night?” Ange called after her. From the click of her heels, she’d picked up the pace. “Your mother didn’t make it either. We had two empty seats!”
“Didn’t make it wher
e?” Ben said.
Essie looked around helplessly. Of course, this was the one time Ben paid attention to her conversation with Ange.
“Oh, uh … Mum had a cold. She was in bed.”
“Oh,” Ange said. She stopped. “Well, that’s a shame. Tell her I’m around if she needs anything.”
“I will. Thanks.” Essie kept walking.
“And what’s your excuse?”
“Your excuse for what?” Ben said. He picked up Mia and deposited her on his shoulders. She started running her toy train through his hair. “Choo choo. Choo choo.”
“Her excuse for why she wasn’t at the neighborhood watch meeting last night,” Ange said.
Essie wasn’t sure if Ange was trying to punish her or just being obtuse. She seemed particularly forceful this morning, even for Ange. Perhaps the evening had gone late. She looked a little tired, like she hadn’t slept well.
Ben was looking at her with an expression that was so Ben she almost smiled. He wasn’t suspicious. Not angry. More … curious. Essie cursed silently. How had she got herself into this situation?
In her peripheral vision, Essie noticed her mum walking up the drive, mail in hand. It gave her an idea.
“I was with Mum. She was a bit feverish and I wanted to keep an eye on her. Sorry we didn’t make it to the meeting.”
At the word “Mum,” Ben immediately disengaged, bored. “Right, then. I’ll keep going.”
He kissed Essie, gave Mia a fancy dismount from his shoulders, and jogged away.
“Bye,” Essie called, wishing she could jog away with him.
“You could have called,” Ange said.
“I’m sorry,” Essie said. “I should have.”
Ange nodded. “All right. Well, you’ll come to the next meeting, won’t you?”
The Family Next Door Page 8
