by Beth O'Leary
Then Ethan’s hand brushes Ceci’s arm, and I know I’m on to something. He ducks his head to speak to her. Then, quick as a flash, blink and you miss it … he kisses her on the lips.
For a moment I hesitate. I balk. But then I remind myself of what I said when I first suspected Ethan was running around on Leena: Carla would never have balked, and I shouldn’t either. So I hitch my handbag up my arm and me and my wheeled suitcase set off at a march.
Ethan and Ceci don’t even look up as I approach. I tap Ethan on the shoulder. He spins.
“Eileen! Hi,” he says, taking a step back. “What are you doing here?”
“Ceci, I presume?” I say to the woman.
She just raises her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“Off you trot, lass.” I gesture her toward the building. “My quarrel isn’t with you. Though you ought to know that there’s a special place in hell for women who set their sights on somebody else’s man.”
“Now, hang on, Eileen,” Ethan says.
“I saw you kiss her.”
“What on earth has that got to do with…” Ceci begins.
“Are you still here?” I ask her.
Ceci looks at me with distaste. “Ethan?” she says.
“I’ll see you in the meeting,” he says. “Stall them, would you?”
“Let’s just go, Ethan. Who even is this woman?”
“I’m Leena’s grandmother,” I say.
Her eyes widen.
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.”
“I’ll … I’ll see you inside,” she says to Ethan, and scuttles away on her high heels. She reminds me of a praying mantis. I look away. She doesn’t deserve thinking about.
“So,” I say to Ethan. I wait.
He rubs his forehead. “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Eileen.”
“I’m no fool, Ethan. Don’t try to take me for one.”
“Look. You don’t understand. In the nicest possible way, Eileen, modern relationships, they’re not like…”
“No. Don’t try that.”
He runs his fingers through his hair. “OK. All right. I didn’t … I didn’t mean for things to happen with Ceci. The last thing I want to do is hurt Leena. But she’s been so different lately. I don’t know what’s got into her. It doesn’t even feel like I’m in a relationship with Leena, it’s like this whole other person, and she wants to talk about the—the transport links in rural northern England, and making stew, and planning village parties. It’s … It’s just…” He reaches for my arm suddenly. “Please. Don’t tell her.”
“Ah, yes. I suspected we were going to get to that soon.” I remove my arm from his grasp with deliberation.
“Please. It’ll mess everything up. I’ll end it with Ceci, I’ll do it right now after our meeting.” He’s beginning to fray; his eyes are desperate.
“I won’t tell Leena.”
He sags with relief.
“For two days. I’ll give you that much. Though God knows you don’t deserve it.”
I leave him there, then, because I can’t hold my temper much longer and I can’t stand the sight of him, withering, sorry for himself, sweating in his expensive shirt. A succession of kind strangers help me with my bags until I’m settled on the train in King’s Cross, pulling out of the station into the open air, the wide sky, with the cranes pivoting steadily back and forth, building an even bigger London.
I’ll miss this city. But it’s not my home. As the train speeds its way up north I wonder if this is how it feels to be a homing pigeon, tugged onward, as though someone’s pulling on the threads that hold you to the place where you belong.
31
Leena
I wake up the morning after May Day in the customary manner (cat in face) but, instead of jumping out of bed, I go back to sleep for at least another three hours. On second wake-up, I discover Ant/Dec has taken up residence on my lower ribs, and is purr–snoring so gleefully I feel bad moving him. Also, moving sounds rubbish. I’m bloody knackered. And more than a little hungover too.
Did my mum walk me home last night? I vaguely remember talking in great detail about my business plan with Bee, and then telling her I didn’t want to leave Yorkshire, and her saying, Why not set up your business up here? Why London? What’s so bloody brilliant about London anyway? And then I’d got into this big rant about the Central line, and …
My phone is ringing. It’s Ethan. I rub my eyes and fumble for the phone on the side table.
“Hey.”
“Hey, Leena,” he says. He sounds tight, worried. “How are you?”
“Bit hungover. You?”
“Listen, angel, I’m really sorry, but I need to talk to you about something. It might be a bit upsetting.”
I pull myself upright against the pillows. “OK…”
“I bumped into your grandma this morning. I was with Ceci, from work—we were on our way to a client meeting. Your grandma … I’m sorry, Leena. She went crazy. Yelling at Ceci and me, saying these awful things—saying I was cheating on you, it was mad, Leena. I don’t know what got into her.”
“Oh my God,” I say, clutching at the duvet. “What?”
“Do you think she’s OK, Leena? Has she seemed a little … off to you lately, or anything? At her age…”
“What, you think she’s losing her mind?” I’ve gone cold. My heart is beating in my ears.
“No, no,” Ethan says quickly, but I can hear the worry in his voice. “I’m sure she was just … having a bad day, or something, and maybe took it out on me.”
“She said you were cheating on me?”
“Yeah.” He gives a breathy laugh. “Leena, you know I’d never…”
“Of course,” I say, before he can even finish, because I don’t even want him to have to say it.
“I think … can you come home, Leena?” He sounds so tired. “Today, I mean? I need to see you. This has been … it’s been a crazy morning.”
“Today? I’m supposed to be staying up until tomorrow lunchtime, to catch up with Grandma…”
“Right, of course.”
“Do you need me there?” I wipe my face; I’ve teared up a bit. This is horrible. Why would—how could … “I’ll come back now. If you need me. And I’ll call my grandma and talk to her.”
“Don’t be upset with her. Maybe it’s about your granddad—I mean, he left her for another woman, right? Maybe she got a bit muddled and it all sort of came out. Maybe this trip to London was a bit much for her. She probably just needs some rest.”
“I’ve got to call her,” I say again. “I love you, Ethan.”
“I love you too, Leena. Call me back, OK?”
I fumble with Grandma’s stupid old phone; it seems to take forever to get it ringing her.
“Hello?”
“Grandma, are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, dear, I’m just on the train up to you now.” There’s a pause. “Are you all right? You sound a little…”
“Ethan just rang.”
“Ah. Leena, love, I’m so sorry.”
“What got into you? Are you OK? You’re OK, aren’t you?”
I can hear the train in the background, the rattle and whoosh as she makes her way here. I lean forward, bringing my knees up to my chest, staring down at the faint rose pattern of the duvet cover. My heart is beating too fast, I can feel it against my thighs as I curl in on myself.
“What do you mean, what got into me?” she says.
“Yelling at Ethan. Accusing him of—of—with Ceci, Grandma, what were you thinking?”
“Leena, I don’t think Ethan has told you the whole story.”
“No, you don’t mean that, don’t say that! Why are you saying these things, Grandma?” I brush at my cheeks; I’m crying in earnest now. “I don’t know what to think, I don’t want you to be going crazy and I don’t want you to be in your right mind either.”
“I’m not losing my mind, Leena—good God, is that what that weasel told yo
u?”
“Don’t talk about him like that.”
“I saw him kiss her, Leena.”
I go still.
“He said things have been different while you’ve been away. He said you’ve been a different person, and—”
“No. I don’t believe you.”
“I’m sorry, Leena.”
“I don’t want you to say sorry because you’re not sorry for the right thing.”
“Leena! Don’t shout at me, please. Let’s just have a civilized chat about all this over—”
“I’m going back to London now. Ethan needs me.”
“Leena. Don’t. Stay in Hamleigh and we can talk.”
“I need to get back.” I scrunch my eyes so tightly it hurts. “I’m not … I’ve let Ethan down. I’m not being his Leena, up here, in Hamleigh. I don’t know who I’m being. I need to get back to proper me. Work, Ethan, my life in London. I shouldn’t stay up here any longer.”
“You’re not thinking straight, my love.”
“No,” I say, my finger already hovering over the red phone button, “I’m not. This—this stupid swap”—I spit it out—“was meant to help, but now it’s messed up the one thing, the one good thing, and…” I start to sob. “I’m done, Grandma. I’m done with all this.”
32
Eileen
I am home, at last, after what seems like an age. Even making a cup of tea feels beyond me. I shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night, I ought to have known better. And now, after the long journey, and the difficult goodbyes, and that awful phone call with Leena … I feel heavy and sluggish, as if I’m moving through treacle.
There’s a new distance between me and Leena. If we’d talked more about our experiences over these last two months, perhaps she would have believed me about Ethan. I thought we’d become closer, living each other’s lives, but it’s been quite the opposite. The house smells of her perfume mixed with the scent of home, and it’s strange.
The doorbell rings. I lever myself up out of my armchair with effort, frustrated at the deep ache in my back and the fuzzy, quiet pain in my limbs.
I’m hoping it’ll be Marian, but it’s Arnold. He looks different, but I can’t tell why—a new flat cap? A new shirt?
“Are you all right?” he says, with his usual abruptness. “I saw you stumble, outside the house, and I wondered…”
I bristle. “I’m quite all right, thank you.”
He bristles too. We stand there, bristling at one another, and it’s just like old times.
Then his shoulders sag. “I missed you,” he says.
“I beg your pardon?” I say, blinking, gripping the doorframe to keep steady.
He frowns. “You’re not all right. You need to sit down. Come on. Let me come in, will you, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
“Well,” I say, still reeling somewhat from Arnold’s last declaration, “I suppose you did come to the front door.”
He holds my elbow as we make our way back to the living room rather more slowly than I’d like. It’s comforting to see him, or it was until he said he missed me. That was somewhat discomforting.
“That confounded cat,” Arnold says, shooing Dec off the sofa. “Here, sit yourself down.”
I just about refrain from reminding him that this is my house, and it ought to be me inviting him to sit. He’s being very neighborly. In fact he’s being …
“Is that a new hat?” I ask abruptly.
“What?” His hand goes up self-consciously. “Oh. Yes. You like it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“No need to sound so surprised. I did tell you I’d decided to turn over a new leaf. I got three new hats.” He’s already off to the kitchen; I hear the sounds of the tap running, the kettle going on. “Milk, no sugar?”
“One sugar,” I correct him.
“It’ll ruin your teeth!” he calls back.
“Like toffee apples?”
“Those are fruit, aren’t they?”
I laugh, closing my eyes and leaning my head against the back of the sofa. I’m feeling a little better, like the life’s coming back to my limbs, tingling in my toes and fingers as if I’ve just come in from the cold.
“You know, Eileen, your cupboards are a state,” Arnold says, coming back into the room with two large mugs of steaming tea. “There’s a tin of broad beans in there from 1994.”
“Good year, 1994,” I say, taking my mug.
Arnold smiles. “How was it, then? The big city?” He looks at me shrewdly. “Did you find your one true love?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“What? You didn’t bring a man back with you, then?” He looks around as if checking the corners for Romeos.
“You know I didn’t,” I say, whacking his arm. “Though I did have a rather torrid love affair.”
He looks back at me very quickly. “Torrid?”
“Well, I think so. I’ve never actually been very sure of what that means.” I shrug. “An actor, from the West End. It was never going to last, but it was good fun.”
Arnold is looking very serious all of a sudden. I suppress a grin. I’ve missed winding Arnold up.
“But it’s over now?” he asks. “And there wasn’t anyone else?”
“Well,” I say coyly. “There was one other man. But I was only chatting to him online.”
Arnold sits up a little straighter and begins to smile. “Oh, aye?” he says.
“He’s lovely. A really sensitive man. His life hasn’t been easy, and he has his troubles, but he’s so kind and thoughtful.”
“Sensitive, eh?” Arnold says, raising his eyebrows.
“He’s been reading Agatha Christie because he knows she’s my favorite author.” I smile, thinking of Howard tucked up in his flat, coming to the end of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.
“Oh, he has, has he? How do you know that? Did someone dob him in?” Arnold asks, still smiling.
I tilt my head at him. “He told me himself.”
Arnold’s smile wavers. “Eh?” he says.
“About the books. He lets me know when he finishes each one, and tells me when lines make him think of me, and…”
Arnold gets up so abruptly he spills tea down his shirt. “Bugger,” he says, dabbing at it with his sleeve.
“Don’t dab with that, you’re just making it worse!” I say, moving to stand. “I’ll fetch you a—”
“Don’t bother,” he says gruffly. “I’d better be gone.” He puts down the half-empty tea mug and strides out of the living room. A moment later I hear the front door slam.
Well. What on earth’s got into Arnold?
* * *
As soon as I have the energy, I get myself up and pull my shoes on and I walk rather more slowly than usual to Marian’s house. This is the loveliest part of coming home, knowing I’ll see her again. At least, I hope it’ll be lovely. A little part of me is afraid she might be doing worse, not better, and I’ll realize I shouldn’t have left Hamleigh after all.
She knows I’m home today, but when I give her a knock nobody answers the door. I swallow uneasily and try calling her, but she doesn’t answer. She’s probably just nipped out. I’ll see if she’s down at the village shop.
I turn away from Marian’s front door and then pause, looking down at the mobile phone in my hand. It’s not mine. It’s Leena’s. We were supposed to swap back once I got home, but then she left for London.
Of course, we told everyone we speak so regularly that we’d changed our phone numbers, but I know for a fact that Leena didn’t tell Ceci.
If Leena had proof that Ethan was being unfaithful to her … Surely then she’d believe me. And I could get proof. I just have to pretend to be Leena. Just for one little text message.
What I’m about to do is most certainly wrong. It’s meddling of the worst kind. But if I’ve learned anything these last two months, it’s that sometimes everyone’s better off if you speak up and step in.
Hello, Ceci. Ethan has told me everything. How
could you?
33
Leena
The journey back to London feels hazy, as though my ears have popped and everything’s a little muffled. I find my way to my flat on autopilot; it’s only when I step into the building that I really connect with where I am. It’s all different. The whole downstairs space looks beautiful: exposed floorboards, a seating area, a dining table pushed to the back of the room. Grandma must have done this. There are bright, amateurish paintings stuck to the walls and a stack of bowls in one corner of the dining table; it seems lived-in, well loved.
Once I get to the flat, though, I forget all about the downstairs area. From the moment I open our door and smell that scent of home, all I can see is my life with Ethan. We cook in that kitchen, we curl up on that sofa, we kiss in this doorway, over and over, at the start and end of every evening we spend together. I can almost see him here, like the faint lines you leave in a notebook when you press down hard as you write.
He would never hurt me. He wouldn’t. I won’t believe it.
Fitz returns home half an hour later to find me sobbing on the floor, my back against the sofa. He’s at my side in an instant. He pulls me against his shoulder and I cry into his cashmere sweater and he doesn’t even tell me off for getting his dry-clean-only jumper all wet.
“Everything’s a mess,” I say between sobs.
Fitz kisses the top of my head. “What’s happened?”
“Ethan … Grandma … He … She…”
“I think I need some of the linking words here, Leena. I was always shit at Mad Libs.”
I can’t bring myself to tell him. There’s this one particular thing Grandma said that I’ve been hearing over and over, playing on a loop over the train announcements, the saxophonist in King’s Cross Station, the chatter of passers-by as I made my way here. He said you’ve been a different person.
I don’t believe Grandma. I trust Ethan. I love him, so much, he’s my happy place, my comfort blanket, he would never hurt me like that. He’s Ethan.