Years After You

by Woolf, Emma

  Amberjack Publishing

  1472 E. Iron Eagle Dr.

  Eagle, ID 83616

  amberjackpublishing.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Emma Woolf

  Printed in the United States of America. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Book design by Aubrey Khan, Neuwirth & Associates

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data available upon request

  ISBN 978-1-948705-356

  ebook ISBN 978-1-948705-349

  FOR XANDER.

  FOREVER IN MY HEART.

  PART

  ONE

  The phone rang and rang. Standing on the train platform, Lily muttered under her breath, “Pick up, please . . .”

  Finally she heard her sister’s voice: “Lil, is that you? Everything OK?”

  “Sorry to call you at work, Cass—do you have a minute?”

  “Sure, yes. Let me just find a meeting room.”

  Lily heard Cassie’s heels clicking down the corridor and then the closing of a door.

  “So, what’s up? Where are you?”

  “You’re not going to believe what’s just happened. Remember Harry invited me out to his house today to work on that project?”

  “Yeah, right. His wife was out all day and you were going to . . .” Cassie’s voice held a tinge of amusement, “work from home together.”

  “Anyway, she came back. You wouldn’t believe it, I had to run out of the back garden and literally scramble over the wall. I’m waiting for a train back to London now. I’m wearing Harry’s shirt. Luckily I’ve got my bag and phone, although—oh God, I don’t know what I’ve left in his house—I can’t call him. Honestly, Cass, she turned up hours earlier than planned. I’ve never been so scared in my entire life.”

  Lily heard her sister’s intake of breath at the other end of the line, and a snort of suppressed laughter, and found she was laughing too.

  “Lil, you two are insane, how could you even risk it? Listen, I have to finish something before the end of the day—but what are you doing now?”

  “Right now? I’m standing on the platform at Gerrards Cross wearing a man’s shirt tucked into skinny jeans, hair dripping wet, and—oh, wow.” Lily’s hands closed around a packet of cigarettes in Harry’s shirt pocket. “Hallelujah.”

  “Come and meet me at the office,” Cassie said. “I’ll be done by six, you can tell me everything over a cocktail.”

  “Perfect,” Lily said, “but I’ll need to borrow some make-up.” Hanging up, she walked down to the far end of the platform. It was the lull before rush hour and the station was deserted.

  Despite her insouciance on the phone with Cassie, she was shaken by the events of the past hour. She had been caught in another woman’s house—in her shower—and had made her escape, half-dressed, over the garden wall. It was shameful. She didn’t want to imagine what was happening at the house now; she didn’t care. She should never have gone to Harry’s house—she’d known it was wrong. Never, never again, she thought.

  Lily felt guilty, but she also felt angry. Damn Harry for making her into his dirty little secret. That wasn’t who she was. She longed to be away from the stupid suburbs with their failed marriages and sad lies. She couldn’t wait to get back to London and see Cass; she needed a drink. She settled herself on a grassy bank, lit a cigarette with shaking hands, and lifted her face to the sun.

  They lay on the soft grey carpet of Harry’s study, Lily’s head resting on his chest, arms entwined, gazing up at the skylight.

  “I love that view,” Harry said. “In summer, it’s just an endless blue. It reminds me of this poem called ‘Patagonia.’”

  He kissed Lily’s forehead and pulled himself into a sitting position, reaching for his clothes. “Come on, let’s get up. I want to see that flat you were telling me about.”

  Lily stretched full-length and sat up, her hair mussed from the carpet. “Harry . . . I can’t.”

  “Can’t what? Can’t show me the flat?”

  “I can’t accept your offer. It’s incredibly generous and I’m touched, but it’s so much money. I’d feel wrong accepting it.”

  “Lil, I’ve explained. You know that my father left me money in his will, and I’m more than comfortable—think of it as a gift. Or it could be a loan, or an investment, or whatever. You want to buy somewhere bigger, and I want to help you, and . . . show me the flat.” He picked up his blue cotton shirt from the floor, shook it out, and draped it around Lily’s bare shoulders.

  “Come on, at least show me the photos.” He flipped open his laptop and started typing. “. . . Let’s see, Belsize Park, two-bedroom flat, England’s Lane, top two floors. Hey, check out the garden.” He shot Lily a grin. “I’ll give the agent a call and see if it’s still on the market . . .”

  Lily shook her head. “I’m going to take a quick shower,” she murmured. She knew how it looked, Harry offering her £150,000 for a deposit on the flat. Equally, she acknowledged that it was a small sum out of his late father’s legacy, and probably as good an investment as any these days. Standing under the hot water, she resolved to at least go back and see the flat again, with Harry this time. They could argue about the finances later.

  Harry walked into the bathroom, smiling. “I’ve booked a viewing for Monday at midday; we can go straight from that meeting in Camden.” He leaned over the sink to open the small bathroom window, and then spun round, his face suddenly pale. “Lil, it’s Pippa’s car . . . Shit . . . Let me . . . I’ll go downstairs and keep her outside, can you—sorry, how quickly can you get out?” Harry was in a panic, gesturing at her with a large towel.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” she said. She turned off the hot water and pulled open the shower door. “You keep her outside,” she muttered under her breath. “OK, my jeans are in the study, underwear, wait, where’s my handbag, and my shoes are in the front hall.” Lily was dripping all over the bathroom floor. “Go, Harry, get down there; for God’s sake stop her coming in!”

  “You know, the back door, out into the garden, then that lane leads along to—”

  “Yes, the station, it’s fine—just GO!”

  * * *

  There’s something going on. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but Harry’s been acting weird all evening. And there’s something else—the house feels different. I can’t work out what’s wrong, but I’ve already broken the no wine on weekdays vow I made yesterday. Can one of you tell me if I’m being stupid?

  It started like this: I drove into Beaconsfield for my tennis lesson this morning, then I went and met Trish and Sandra for lunch. We finished around half two, and I had an hour spare before collecting Daniel and taking him to rugby. So I was in Waitrose, killing time, and bumped into Daniel’s best friend’s mother. She offered to collect them and give Daniel dinner at theirs, and drop him home later. Which got me out of a boring few hours watching rugby.

  So I ended up with a free afternoon. Harry was working from home, so I decided to head back and see if he wanted to help me clear the junk in the garage. (I know, romantic, right?) I’d just turned into the drive when he came rushing out of the house in a bathrobe—this is the middle of the afternoon—saying something about my car making an odd noise and had I noticed anything and maybe we should look under the bonnet. I told him I hadn’t heard anything and I wouldn’t know what to look for under the bonnet; he was welcome to look at it while I took the shopping in. Then he said had I seen the gravel i
n the driveway and did I think it needed replacing; all sorts of random stuff, like he didn’t want me to go into the house.

  After about ten minutes of this, I finally got past him—I was worried about the sorbet melting, it was a warm day—and when I got inside, the back door was open. Nothing unusual maybe, but there was something else—an atmosphere—not a scent exactly, but a feeling within the house. I went upstairs and the bathroom floor was wet, damp towels hanging askew and the caps off my posh shampoo and conditioner. In twenty years of marriage to Harry he’s never used more than a blob of his own shampoo, the basic men’s anti-dandruff one which sits beside my rather more expensive products. I walked across the landing—our bedroom was as pristine as I’d left it this morning, bed neatly made. But in Harry’s study his chinos and socks were strewn across the floor, which isn’t like him. Maybe he’d gone to the gym in a hurry? As I was leaving the study I glanced at the screen and saw a website for a London estate agent based in Belsize Park. WTF?

  I went downstairs to ask about the bathroom and found him in the kitchen; he was standing at the sink, washing up several plates, coffee cups, and glasses. I was about to mention the estate agent’s website but something stopped me. Something was really not right. I noticed that his hair was bone dry. He hadn’t been in the shower at all—or if he had, he certainly hadn’t used my shampoo and conditioner.

  So I’m on my third glass of red, and he’s down at the bottom of the garden, apparently having a cigarette. I guess the quitting smoking thing is off again. He does that quite a lot these days after dinner, goes outside to smoke, checking voicemails or sending texts, I don’t know what. Mobile reception is patchy in the house, but it does make me wonder. I’m probably being paranoid, and the wine doesn’t help. It’s just this strange vibe—a woman sort of senses that, doesn’t she, in her own house? And those unanswered questions about the bathroom and the website. I should have just asked him. Look, Harry doesn’t lie to me, so I’m not going to build this up. And I’m not going to become one of those sneaky wives who checks her husband’s phone and internet history and bank statements . . .

  I just glanced out of the conservatory window and he’s on the phone. Who’s he talking to at eleven p.m.?

  Harry drained his tumbler of whisky and set it down on the paving stone which edged the pond. He lit another cigarette and arched his back with a low groan. The pain which had been absent all day had come back that evening, despite the painkillers, red wine, and whisky. The moon was almost full, giving a silvery sheen to the pond and reflecting back a second watery moon.

  He exhaled a long plume of smoke and wished he could ring Lily. She hadn’t replied to the text he’d sent a few hours earlier, after the initial panic of Pippa’s return: Sorry, Lil, I didn’t want to get rid of you—she was meant to be out all day. Hell. Did you get back OK? xx

  He looked at his phone and then glanced back at the house. Pippa was still sitting there, a small figure in the dark conservatory, motionless in front of the glow of the computer screen. Updating Facebook, he assumed, posting photos of her perfect life, their perfect family, scrolling through other people’s photos, new cars, houses, holidays. He didn’t understand her preoccupation with social media—the boys, fine, they were teenagers—but Pippa was forty-seven, not seventeen. What did she get from it? She saw most of her Facebook friends every day at tennis, for lunch, or at the school gates.

  The surface of the pond rippled in the night breeze. Harry found himself remembering ten years earlier, the summer they had bought this house. Back then the garden had been a wilderness. He and Pippa had been full of excitement and still in love, the boys only five and three, and they spent countless weekends out here digging the pond. He could see her now, her hair still long in those days and glossy raven black, brown as a berry from the sunshine, wearing a red bikini and shovelling mud along with him and the boys. Moving to the new house had rejuvenated their relationship. It must have been around that time they conceived their daughter. Where had that Pippa gone? Where had they gone?

  He should go indoors. He should go in and switch on the dishwasher and undress and lie beside his wife upstairs, where only hours ago he had lain on the study floor with Lily in his arms. He took out his phone and texted those lines from the poem to her:

  . . . When I spoke of Patagonia, I meant

  skies all empty aching blue. I meant

  years. I meant all of them with you.

  “Better?” Cassie smiled as Lily slid into the booth.

  “Much better! Thanks.” Lily handed a small cosmetics bag back to her sister just as the waiter arrived with a tray of drinks.

  “And even better now.” She took a large gulp of her vodka and lime. “Oh, Cass, what a mess . . .”

  “Come on, tell me everything.”

  Later, after several more drinks, Cassie agreed that the situation with Harry was a mess. But Lily felt better about it anyway. Talking to her sister helped, as did the vodka and lime, and things seemed clearer now. Lily was full of a new resolve as they walked to the Tube station through the dark London streets. She would ignore her feelings for Harry and instead make the right choice. “I’ll end it. I was stupid to let it go this far, and even stupider to go to his house. We were lucky today, but it was close. That’s got to be a sign, hasn’t it?”

  “I want you to be happy, Lil,” Cass said, “and I worry this will all end in tears. Relationships are a mystery, especially from the outside; we can’t really know what’s going on with Harry and his wife. But when it implodes—as it probably will—you don’t want to be involved.”

  “And I especially don’t want to be standing in his shower, naked! But seriously, Cass, I wonder how people even make marriages work. How can you be sure that you want to be with the same person for the rest of your life? How did you know when Charlie asked you?”

  “It just felt right,” Cassie said. “As much as he drives me mad sometimes, he’s the only man I want to be with. That’s not to say that it will definitely last forever—how can anyone be certain they’re making the right decision when there are two people’s feelings involved?” She paused. “It’s a huge gamble, to commit to another person for life. I suppose there’s always an element of uncertainty.”

  “You’re right. Nothing’s one hundred per cent guaranteed. From what Harry says about him and Pippa I don’t understand why they got married in the first place. And he claims their sex life is pretty much non-existent. Although they say that cheating husbands always tell their mistresses that their marriage is dead. Who knows.”

  Lily reached out and hugged her older sister goodnight as they parted, Cassie to walk the few minutes home and Lily into the Tube station. Cassie’s right, she thought to herself. She did not want to be there when it imploded.

  * * *

  We made love again last night. It makes such a difference, like we’re closer than ever, and now everything’s wonderful. We shared a shower this morning and even had breakfast together before I drove Harry to the station. I don’t know what all that worry last week was about—me being silly and suspicious and menopausal, I suspect. I’ve written on this blog before about my hang-ups, how my late forties have hit me, the grey hairs and the saggy boobs and everything going south! Turning forty wasn’t as cataclysmic as I’d expected, but forty-five hit me like a ton of bricks. I went from feeling still young at forty-two, forty-three, even forty-four—to suddenly past it.

  But I’m not the only woman in her late forties who starts to feel invisible and starts to suspect her husband of all sorts of nonsense. I’m off the wine, at least on weeknights, and I’m going to plough my energies into some kind of start-up; I don’t know, an online estate agency, property, or maybe I could train as an interior designer . . . My plans are vague, but I definitely want to get started on something. It’s when I sit at home feeling unproductive that my mind goes into overdrive. And I want to focus on the boys and Harry too. And then there’s my serve—I really want to tak
e my tennis to a new level, and maybe get involved in the local ladies’ tournaments.

  It was so good between us last night, tender and passionate, just like when we first met. I know Harry’s under pressure at work and it doesn’t help when I’m critical and tetchy. Resolution: no more nagging! Even that silly mix-up over the London properties: remember I noticed on his computer he’d been looking at flats in Belsize Park? He explained and it totally makes sense: he was thinking about investing the inheritance from his father, maybe buying a flat for the boys when they’re older, but it was only an idea. And there I was inventing all sorts of crazy scenarios—I hate the way I blow things out of proportion! Yet another resolution: don’t snoop into your lovely husband’s computer or phone!

  “So. At our last appointment we talked about your father. How are you feeling now?”

  Harry shrugged. In these sessions with Dr. Christos he often felt like a sulky teenager, wilfully uncooperative, but what was he supposed to say? “I don’t feel anything, really. Our relationship was virtually non-existent for years, now he’s dead. It doesn’t make any difference.”

  Dr. Christos jotted something on the notepad in front of him. “And it’s been how long now?”

  “Five or six months. Honestly, there’s not much to say. He was an old man in his nineties, and he was very sick. It happens.”

  “And yet you’re close to your sons. At our last session,” Dr. Christos flipped back a few pages, “you said the only thing stopping me from walking out is being there for the boys.”

  Harry nodded. His voice was low, almost inaudible. “It’s true. I doubt Pippa and I would still be together if it weren’t for Dan and Joe. I don’t love her any more. I don’t know why or when it ended, but it did. Then again . . . I’m not even sure Lily wants me.”

  “Ah yes. You and Lily.”

  “Yes, well.” Harry’s face darkened. “I don’t know why I’ve been fooling myself. She’s twenty years younger than me, she’s got plenty of other things going on in her life. If she ever was in love with me, I’m not sure she is any more.”