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A rush of air at my side announces the rapid arrival of Jamie. He leans in and plants a kiss on my neck that I think was intended for my cheek but missed.
‘The party bus is awesome,’ he says, breathlessly. ‘It’s got more games than you could ever imagine. I’m going back. See you later.’ He turns to leave as precipitously as he arrived, only pausing for a fleeting second to call back over his shoulder, ‘Love you, Mum.’
I have no idea what they are actually playing – apart from the ubiquitous Fortnite, I’m woefully ignorant of any of these online games, and I have to trust that Charlotte will only have booked those that are age-appropriate. The main thing is that the boys appear to have been well and truly accepted. Jamie’s triumph in the paper chase – he won by some margin – far from provoking jealousy, seems to have elevated him to the status of some kind of hero. At the finish line, the other boys clustered around him to heap praise upon him and claim the prime place as his best friend whilst Luke, as is often the case, basked in his reflected glory.
‘Well done!’ The words are boomed into my ear at such volume that I jump out of my skin. ‘Excellent effort!’ the voice goes on.
I turn to see a stout, determined-looking woman with a double chin and bushy eyebrows looming over me. I recognise her as the large lady who was mustering all the children on the green and who I took to be the organiser of the event.
‘That boy of yours!’ Everything she says seems to end with an exclamation mark. ‘He put the rest of them to shame, won the paper chase hands down. Good show!’
I smile modestly. I’m proud of Jamie, though I’d never boast or crow about his attributes. He’s everything a mother could want in a boy: clever and handsome, tall and sporty. He always wins everything, every spelling bee and times-table competition, all the athletics prizes plus the football and rugby tournaments – the latter not single-handed, obviously, but he takes a lot of the credit as he is usually captain as well as star player. This is what I try to focus on, when times are bad – how lucky I am to have my sons, that things can always be worse.
‘I’m Miriam, by the way,’ the hearty woman continues. ‘Miriam Whitehead. Nice to meet you.’ She proffers a large, unkempt hand, fingers unadorned by rings of any type, fingernails bitten and misshapen.
I take it and we shake, awkwardly. At least, I feel awkward. She seems oblivious. Her skin is rough and her palms slightly sweaty. It is more than warm in the kitchen now; in fact it’s decidedly hot, the Aga pumping out heat while the doors and windows are shut tight against the wind. I was frozen earlier, but now I wish I could take off my jumper, something that is not possible as all I have underneath is a faded and tatty old camisole that could not possibly be shown the light of day. I shift uneasily on the stool I’m perched on. Miriam hauls herself laboriously up onto the one next to me.
‘Lovely do, isn’t it?’
I nod. She’s a little odd, but I could forgive her anything because I’m so grateful not to be sitting here like Billy-no-mates anymore. And if I want to become a part of this community, I’ve got to start somewhere.
‘Charlotte’s children’s parties are always the most sought after!’ Miriam’s words explode forth in staccato bursts like anti-aircraft fire. ‘No expense spared. Party bags that cost more than I would spend on a present!’
‘Gosh,’ I reply. ‘That does sound extravagant. But lovely,’ I add hurriedly, in case Miriam should take what I have said the wrong way and think I’m being critical or judgemental.
‘Well, they can afford it. Dan is rich.’ Miriam purses her lips and nods, then lowers her voice to a conspiratorial tone as she leans closer to me. ‘I mean, stinking rich. Absolutely loaded. All four of the boys down to attend Rugby – it’s where Dan himself went, of course. Oldest two, Jonny and Angus – they’re twins you know – are already there.’
‘Oh.’ I’m at risk of coming across as mentally incapacitated if I keep on answering in monosyllables. But Miriam doesn’t seem to have noticed and it certainly isn’t inhibiting her. There’s an air of adulation in the way she talks about Charlotte and Dan, mingled with a tinge of subservience. There are people who like looking up to others, glorifying them, who admire and lionise the rich and privileged. She appears to be one of them.
‘They have a beautiful home,’ I say. I know so little about the couple, the host and hostess, that I don’t have a lot to contribute to this conversation. I want to show willing but I’m acutely aware of the difference in our circumstances. I’m penniless, skint. It’s only the generosity – dished out with tight lips – of my parents (long since restored to full financial wellbeing, thanks to a new career for Dad and a couple of handy inheritances) that has kept the boys and me from dependence on the welfare state.
‘Oh, isn’t it just?’ shouts Miriam. And then she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper that would be clearly audible to anyone within a radius of about five feet, if they were inclined to listen in, ‘I think they’re going through a bit of a bad patch in their marriage at the moment though. Problem is, Dan does nothing to help Charlotte around the house or with the children! She’s positively downtrodden in that respect. Although on the other side of the coin, when he’s out earning millions, how much laundry can he really be expected to do?’
The rhetorical question hangs in the air. I look across the room. Charlotte’s handing a bin bag to a young woman, presumably a hired help whose job it currently is to collect rubbish. OK, I think, so she’s in charge of domestic arrangements, which she may or may not be happy about, but ‘downtrodden’ and ‘rich as Croesus’ are hardly concepts that fit seamlessly together. Miriam is possibly prone to a bit of exaggeration – not to mention the fact that she’s obviously an incorrigible gossip.
‘No kids myself, of course,’ she proceeds, well into her flow now, ‘but I am the scout leader and I run weekend sporting activities for the local young people. So important to keep them active, I always think.’
I’m glad she’s not telling tales about Charlotte’s marriage anymore. It’s really none of my business and tittle-tattle always makes me feel uncomfortable. I’ve been the subject of enough of it over the last year or so.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I respond, pleased the conversation is moving onto safer ground. ‘My experience of boys is that, like puppies, they need plenty of exercise to keep them out of trouble.’
Miriam laughs.
‘So, you’re new to the village?’ she asks and then, without a pause, continues straight on, answering her own question with another one before I have a chance to say anything.
‘Of course you are. And you will want to join the Food for Free club, won’t you? Membership is gratis, it gets you out and about, and the bonus is that you reduce your shopping bill.’
‘Well,’ I answer, hesitantly. ‘That sounds … interesting.’
I’ve got absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. Perhaps it’s a reference to a foodbank – in which case I must look even more impoverished and desperate than I think I do. Though this comfortable – some might say complacent – community hardly seems the spot for such a charitable enterprise. Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure that I don’t want to be involved in this particular club.
No further enlightenment is forthcoming, however, as Miriam carries on regardless, onto yet another subject already.
‘The end-of-terrace in the street that leads off the far end of the recreation ground, isn’t it? It’s not a bad place, though I heard when it went on the market that it had a bit of a problem with damp.’
She seems to know a lot about me. I keep quiet, wanting and simultaneously not wanting to know how the village of Biglow has categorised me.
‘Well, did it?’ Miriam demands, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Have a problem with damp? I mean, you hear so many rumours but you don’t know if any of it is true or not. It looks like a nice house to me. Small, obviously – but people seem to want so much these days – en suite bathrooms, open-plan kitchen-diners, you name it. What’s wrong with walls, I ask you? Anyway, your little place is, in my opinion, quite ample for a family of four, I’m sure.’
Finally, she dries up. She takes a big swig of her glass of fizz and looks at me expectantly. I’m not sure which misconception to address first.
‘The damp is really nothing serious,’ I say, deciding on the least personal, ‘and the seller sorted it as a condition of completion.’
I finish my cup of tea, deliberately place it back on the counter and look at my watch. ‘And there are only three of us – me and my two children. I’m divorced.’
It seems ridiculous that, in this day and age, it should still be so difficult to say the ‘d’ word. But it is. Far from symbolising freedom and opportunity, it conjures up an image of someone unwanted, cast aside. There’s such comfort in coupledom, such cosiness. Two people, standing side-by-side, against the world is such a beguiling prospect, and it hurts when I think that I might have lost that feeling forever, might never know it again.
But the reality is that I can’t imagine how, where, or when I could ever meet someone new, find another partner. I know that lots of women – and men – find their partners online. But I’ve heard so many scare stories, of terrible dates, scary dates, boring dates, cringeworthy dates, not to mention the horrendous attempts at extortion that women – especially women – suffer, or the ghosting, or the revenge porn. I’m full of admiration for those who take the plunge and for whom it works out well. But I’m nowhere near brave or self-confident enough for that right now, and I’m not sure I ever will be. Which leaves me exactly where I am, focusing on doing the best for my amazing boys but knowing that, one day, they’ll have grown up and left home.
And then it’ll be just me and my solitude forevermore.
A phone rings, its piercing bell cutting through the chattering voices, clinking glasses, and setting down of crockery. My heart skips a beat. All of a sudden I’m reminded of all the calls from Justin’s creditors that presaged disaster, the demands for money that he could not pay. Charlotte’s phone rings and rings and no one answers, just like I, too, stopped answering for fear of who might be on the other end.
‘I–I really ought to be making a move,’ I say, flustered. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Miriam. I’m sure we’ll see more of each other, round and about.’
Miriam looks momentarily nonplussed that I’m not about to divulge any more secrets about myself, but quickly changes her expression to one of regret.
‘That’s a shame, going so soon,’ she exclaims. ‘I’ll drop by sometime soon though, see how you’re doing!’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I dissemble. I can’t see Miriam and me becoming soulmates but I’m grateful to her for reaching out to me. Even if her motive does seem to have been gleaning as much information about me and my family as possible.
I slide off the high stool and onto the tiled floor, my heels click-clacking against the stone and leaving behind a trail of mud specks, a legacy of the wet field earlier. As I make my way through the enormous room, ducking and diving between the groups of guests, I see Charlotte standing by the door, gazing distractedly out into the walled garden. She looks troubled and I wonder what could possibly be amiss in her apparently perfect life. I want to say goodbye to her, and thank you, but something stops me. It’s as if, right now, a magnetic forcefield surrounds her, preventing anyone getting close.
Then I remember the wink that she gave me earlier, that indicated alliance, allegiance. My footsteps lighten and I sigh with relief.
Perhaps she and I will become friends, like our boys are friends, and I’ll fit into this community in a way I never felt I truly did in Barnes. I leave the kitchen in search of the boys with the sudden, heady, and totally unexpected feeling of hope.
Chapter 4
Charlotte
Steamy, sultry heat. Sweat beading on my back and my forehead. Concentration furrowing my brow. The weight of a wordless silence, the low flutter of rifled notes, my breathing forcibly steady and even.
The envelope pushed under the door, a note inside it comprising one single word.
I press my forehead against the sliding door that separates inside from out, desperate for the feel of the cool glass against my skin. The phone’s ring was klaxon loud, cutting across the noise of the prattling horde in the kitchen as if it were no louder than whispers, rocking the house to its very foundations.
I thought, when I heard it, what I always think. That this is it. That this time, it is them. Oh God, please don’t let it be them.
I didn’t answer it. I didn’t dare to. I ignored it and it rang out.
The house is full of people and I should be tending to their every need. But right now, in the aftermath, I just need a moment. A moment to compose myself. I was majorly pissed off with Dan for being late. Now I’m almost grateful. He might have noticed my agitation, questioned me. Answered the phone himself, God forbid. Even though he never, ever does that, there’s no knowing that he won’t, one day. And then my dirty, guilty secret would be out – and what the consequence of that would be I don’t dare imagine.
In the reflection, I see you making your way out, pausing as if wondering whether to approach me, then thinking better of it and proceeding on your way to retrieve your boys and go home. I appreciate that you actually read the party invite and know what time it ends. Rousing myself to action, I hand out more black bags and instructions to the agency girls; there are plates and wrappers and napkins that need clearing. I hate mess. And the process of tidying, of sweeping detritus into trash sacks, is a good signal to guests that it’s time to start thinking about leaving. Nevertheless, there are people in this room I know I’ll be – politely – throwing out hours after the end time stated on the invitations. It’s as if they haven’t got homes to go to, nor anything better to do.
There’s another shrill, piercing ring and my heart stops – and then I realise it was just a clanging glass, not the phone.
When I’ve calmed down again, I make my way around the room, collecting discarded mugs of tea and half-empty glasses of prosecco. To take my mind off the unanswered phone call, I think of you, imagining your life and what has brought you here to this sleepy backwater. I wonder if you work, if you have a job. I suspect not. You seem to be just like me: someone who’s put their own career to one side in order to facilitate that of their husband. Dan didn’t bat an eyelid when he asked me to go on his first posting to Hong Kong, even though he knew it would mean me having to kiss goodbye to my TV job, the career I was so intent on, that I’d worked so hard to wheedle my way into. I was moving up the ladder, about to take on my first assistant-producer role. But it was either go with Dan or lose him so I did what countless women have done through the ages and gave it all up.
The thing is that it was obvious from the very start that Dan was going places. Literally. We must have lived in a dozen countries in our first fifteen years together. But of course I don’t just mean geographical moves, I mean that Dan was headed for the top from the beginning. He only has one default setting and that’s himself as a major success story, acing everything, outplaying everyone. Dan always has Dan in the number one slot and everyone else fitting into the adulatory queue behind him.
I very soon realised that if I wanted to keep him – and I did, I really, really did – I had to fall in line.
In Hong Kong, we lived on The Hill along with every other overpaid ex-pat. The apartment was beautiful, all sparkling glass, stainless steel, and polished tiles. There was a swimming pool in the complex, and a gym, and the majority of the wives just hung around there most of the day. There wasn’t much else to do while the men were at work and it was so hot, so relentlessly, hideously humid, that often I joined them, feeling sapped of all energy, stripped of the inclination to do anything constructive.
My idea that I’d find work once we’d settled in fizzled away, burnt out like the whizz-bang fireworks the Chinese love so much. Any job available locally was paid at local wages which were laughably low and anyway they weren’t appropriate for women like me. I’d have had to speak Cantonese, for a start. Plus Dan had a constant round of client entertaining and evening dos that I needed to accompany him to and preparing for those so I that I lived up to his high standards and expectations – tailor-made dresses, haircuts, spray tan – took up a huge amount of time.
As the weeks and months passed, I gave up on even pretending I was ever going to get gainful employment. And anyway, Dan poured scorn on any such suggestion. He simply couldn’t understand why I would want to work when he made more than enough money for both of us. He constantly urged me to relax, to enjoy myself.
‘All I want is you here waiting for me at the end of a long day. What’s the point of both of us being stressed at work when there’s no need?’
He didn’t understand that I required more than that. Perhaps I didn’t understand it, either. If I had, surely I’d never have got involved, never have done the things that, unbeknownst to anyone but me, blight my life to this day.
Sometimes, I even manage to convince myself of that.
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