by Rebecca Done
Money’s tight at the moment – everything we have is earmarked for the renovation down to the final pound, and the work to date has massively blown our budget – so expensive nights out have come to an end and the long lazy dinners in restaurants we once loved so much are a definite no-no. Plus, we’re both persistently knackered.
But tonight I’m determined for us to unwind – added to which, today is the anniversary of Dad’s funeral, and I want to quietly toast him. So I pick Molly’s favourite wine (though she’ll probably only have a sip, so strict is she about her alcohol intake while we’re trying to get pregnant), some smoked cheese and garlic olives, plus a loaf of Italian bread, and am just about to make my way back up the hill to my car when I run into Nicola.
‘Oh, hi,’ she says, like she didn’t know she’d be bumping into me at all.
This I’m not convinced of. Nicola’s been hanging around a lot recently. I see her everywhere – in the pub, on my lunch break, in the local supermarket. She doesn’t always try to make conversation, which sometimes makes me think perhaps I’m imagining it – that she’s just going about her business in the town we both live in, and I’m bound to bump into her from time to time. But then I’ll glance out of the living-room window and she’ll be jogging past our front door; and something about the way she carries herself will remind me how manipulative she could be when we were going out.
Even Molly’s noticed that Nicola seems to be cropping up an awful lot. ‘There she is again,’ she’ll murmur into my ear, nudging me while we’re out and about.
But I always end up telling her that this is just what happens in a small town. You run into people on the street all the time – especially when they live a mere five-minute jog from your front door.
‘The house is coming on nicely,’ Nicola says to me now. ‘I run past, sometimes.’
‘Oh, really?’ I say breezily, pretending I’ve never noticed her, even though we both know that on occasion we’ve actually locked eyes through my living-room window (completely unintentional on my part at least).
‘It looks fun,’ she says, ‘doing a place up like that.’
The truth is that it’s not, not really. My end of the deal, since we’re living in Norfolk, is that I crack on with renovating the cottage in any moment of downtime I get. Dad neglected the place so completely since Mum’s death that there’s more to do than we first thought – due to ongoing damp problems, at the very least we need to sort out the roof and lower the ground level outside the house. Then we need to take down trees, rebuild both chimney stacks, rip up the ancient rotten floorings, sandblast some of the stonework, sort out the plumbing, install ventilation … the list goes on. Plus the whole place needs rewiring, replastering, new floors, redecorating … it’s a mountain of a task, and as it turns out, I’m unsurprisingly a complete amateur when it comes to doing up crumbling period cottages. A lick of paint has gradually turned into a painstakingly slow and complex process – and though my friends have rallied round to help, everyone has their own lives to lead, and it’s tough trying to coordinate voluntary manpower to show up together.
Plus, Molly and I have scant alone time as it is, and I’m loath to use up what little of it we have shepherding processions of people in and out of the cottage.
‘It’s hard work,’ I say.
‘I don’t see Molly around much,’ she remarks.
I sigh, because it’s really none of Nicola’s business. ‘She’s still working in London.’
‘And how’s Graeme?’
I hesitate. Graeme is … I don’t actually know how Graeme is at the moment. He never came to stay with us for Christmas, claiming a last-minute trip to the Balearics for the New Year, and I’ve barely heard from him in the weeks since. He didn’t even get in touch on the anniversary of Dad’s death. I feel horrible that we’ve drifted apart so completely – but I have absolutely no idea how to make things better.
Should I sell the cottage and give Graeme half the money, despite him continuing to insist he doesn’t want me to? Would that really ease the tension between us? Of course, if I could guarantee it would, I’d do it – Molly and I could buy somewhere small with our share of the money, maybe on one of the new estates fringing the village. But if it doesn’t fix things between Graeme and me, I’d regret it for ever – especially as Graeme has demonstrated he’d probably throw all that money away within months of it hitting his bank account. The last time we spoke, he told me his sixty grand was more or less gone, before he asked me for a couple of hundred quid to tide him over. (I promptly transferred it to him the following day, no questions asked, and without telling Molly.) Plus, Molly and I have committed to our future in that cottage, for the short-term at least, and have put our hearts and our money into the renovation. Not to mention all my memories of Dad and my gradually fading memories of Mum being tied up there.
I haven’t told Molly that Graeme and I are drifting apart. She thinks he’s busy with work in London and I’m busy with the renovation. Brothers can just pick up where they left off, I tell her good-naturedly when she remarks that we haven’t seen him in a while. Anyway, he’s probably met a girl or something. I picked a cheap and easy lie, one I knew Molly could believe. I’m also worried that admitting our relationship is starting to falter will make it more real – turn it into a problem that needs fixing, rather than one which may or may not even exist.
‘Graeme’s fine,’ I say lightly.
Nicola looks strangely stricken. ‘Oh, really? I heard differently. And I’ve been so worried about you two. God, if you fall out, then … well, you’re all the family each other has, aren’t you?’
I stare at her. Suddenly the bag in my hand seems strangely heavy. ‘What?’ What do you know about it? ‘Have you spoken to Graeme?’
I’m testing her, in a way. Because I saw her bag and her coat at Graeme’s place in Hackney before Christmas. I know she’s had contact with him.
She hesitates, her mouth flapping for a couple of moments, before she closes it and shrugs neatly. ‘Don’t worry, Alex,’ she says, ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’ She nods down at my shopping bag, the bottle of wine peeking out of the top. ‘You should go. You look as if you have a nice night in planned.’
Stupidly, I feel a bit self-conscious about the wine bottle, since Nicola was always on at me about why I would even so much as consider drinking when I had an alcoholic for a dad.
My curiosity wins out. ‘Nic, wait. You can’t just … say that and walk away. What’s Gray said? I’ve been – I’ve been really worried about him,’ I admit.
She sighs, drawing out the breath like it’s painful. ‘I said I wouldn’t say anything.’
‘To who – Gray?’
She nods reluctantly. I can’t tell if she’s being sincere or not. She’s so hard to read, Nicola – and that’s coming from someone who dated her for six years.
She takes a breath, and I steady myself to hear her say, Graeme’s been struggling with a serious alcohol problem, Alex. Just like your dad.
‘Me and him … we had a fling. We were together, for a few weeks.’
I stare at her. ‘Are you … are you making this up?’ It’s the only conclusion my brain can arrive at, because despite everything – despite the evidence having been staring me in the face – I wasn’t actually expecting her to say that. Which is far more a measure of my faith in Graeme’s loyalty to me than in Nicola’s.
I never even told Molly I’d seen Nicola’s stuff there that day, I wanted to deny it to myself so much. But now it’s all falling into place, and I berate myself for my stupidity, my naivety. Graeme wasn’t cold to me that morning because he was stressed about money, he was cold because he felt bad, because he wanted to get me out of the flat before I realized what was going on.
I haven’t asked him, since I spotted her stuff. That’s the sort of conversation I can only have with him face to face, and anyway, the last thing I want to do right now is push him away from me even further. Doing or saying any
thing that might threaten our relationship for good is not an option, and if it involves Nicola, then I’m even more reluctant on principle.
She sighs. ‘I wish I was making it up. I feel horrible that I did that to you, Alex.’
‘Why?’ I ask her, feeling anger claw its way up my throat like something rabid from a creepy fairy tale. ‘Why the hell would you sleep with Graeme?’
‘We just got talking,’ she says. ‘After your dad died.’ She slings me a look. ‘I texted you, you know. To say how sorry I was about Kevin. I emailed you, tried to call.’
Yes, I remember all too well. I canned the lot of them. ‘What was there for us to say?’ I ask her angrily, deliberately failing to acknowledge that today is one year since the funeral. ‘We’re not together any more, Nicola.’
She works her mouth a little. ‘Well, Graeme was pretty devastated, and then you got the cottage, and … I think he just felt like it was all getting a bit much. And when he moved to London we stayed in touch, and … then I went there for a work thing and we met up. It went from there.’
‘Out of all the people in the world,’ I say to her, ‘you pick my twin brother.’
She puts a hand on my arm. The touch of her fingers feels like burning, even through the thickness of my winter coat. ‘I can see you’re upset …’
Not for the reason you think. I couldn’t care less if Nicola slept with every man on earth, apart from one. But now she’s been with my twin brother. The man who knows me inside and out, who I’ve confided in over the years about Molly, who I trust completely – despite everything that’s happened over the past twelve months or so. The thought of that is just too much to bear.
‘Why the hell would you pick him?’ I demand furiously. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I know you’re hurting …’ she says again, clearly interpreting my anger as evidence that I still hold a flame for her – which couldn’t be further from the truth.
‘You’ve betrayed me before,’ I say sharply. ‘I don’t care about that. But I do care about Graeme.’
‘I shouldn’t have said anything!’ she cries now. ‘Please don’t say anything to him, Alex.’
‘Is that why he didn’t go travelling?’ I ask her. ‘Because you were hanging around? What did he do, Nicola – treat you to nice restaurants? Expensive jewellery? Blow all his money on indulging you?’
‘No,’ she says firmly, quietly, ‘of course not.’
‘So are you still in touch?’ I ask her.
‘No,’ she says simply. ‘I finished it because …’
‘Because what?’
‘Because I realized I still have feelings for you, Alex. All these years later. I still –’
‘Don’t say anything else,’ I snap at her.
‘Alex,’ she says, lowering her voice, ‘you’re clearly upset. Why don’t we go for a drink, talk about this?’
‘No, Nicola,’ I say firmly. ‘From now on, I want nothing more to do with you. Do you understand? Nothing.’ And then I walk away from her and towards whatever’s left of my Friday night with Molly, without looking back.
I don’t know why I don’t tell Molly. Maybe because it’s the weekend, and though Molly’s exhausted she kisses me and we end up falling into bed and making love almost as soon as she’s walked through the door, before she’s even taken her coat off, just like old times. And then we open the wine and indulge ourselves once again with talk of baby names. And to bring Nicola up after all of that seems wildly inappropriate to say the least.
Maybe Molly would wonder why I keep bumping into her, or why I would even have a conversation with her, rather than just walking on. Would Molly start thinking there’s something going on – that our meeting wasn’t accidental? Worse, is that what Nicola wants?
And how can I tell her Nicola’s still got feelings for me, that she almost said she still loves me? Molly would quite rightfully wonder how the hell I managed to put myself in a situation where Nicola felt free enough to confess such things to me.
But there’s also a small part of me that’s embarrassed. First Nicola cheats on me while we’re together, then she hooks up with my twin after we’ve split up. What personal gems did she persuade Graeme to divulge in the passionate afterglow of whatever they had going on? What little nuggets from our childhood has he shared? What stories might he have unwittingly passed on about me – or worse, about Molly? I can’t bear to think of it, and I don’t want to worry Molly – not while she’s working so hard, and we’re both so desperate to fall pregnant. So I decide to park it.
I won’t tell Molly, but I will talk to Graeme, the very next chance I get.
25
Molly – present day
‘Alex, I need to talk to you.’
We’re eating supper in the garden a couple of days after Graeme’s confession, rolls stuffed with pulled pork and smothered in hot sauce, Alex’s new favourite thing. The last warmth of summer is still lingering in the air, though the tell-tale signs of autumn creeping up are all around – dew on the grass, the dusk arriving earlier, a golden tone to all the foliage like it’s been washed over in watercolour.
‘We need money. We can’t carry on as we are.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Alex mumbles, mouth full, sauce staining his lips. He looks happy tonight, satisfied, and as always I am wary of rocking the boat, but this is a conversation we need to have. If I’m honest, it’s the conversation we needed to have eighteen months ago.
‘There are some options,’ I tell him, cautious because Alex can get overwhelmed when he needs to decide what to wear in the morning, let alone when he’s being presented with huge life decisions. But I have to at least give it a stab.
‘All of these are just suggestions,’ I say cautiously. ‘We could … move to London. I’ve been offered my old job back. Remember Sarah? She said I could go and work back at the agency.’
I really need to let her know today – or at the very least send her some sort of holding communication. I’ve already missed a couple of calls and swerved several texts from her as I procrastinate.
‘And,’ I continue, ‘my mum and dad have said we could move in with them.’
There is a long pause. Alex carries on chewing as if I’ve not even spoken, which I actually take to be a good sign. There is no panic, as yet.
‘We’d have money,’ I say. ‘I was earning a good salary at the agency – remember? And my mum and dad would be around …’
‘And Graeme,’ he says then, which pulls me up short, because already it almost sounds as if he’s actually not averse to my proposal.
‘Well, he might be,’ I say nervously – because if I have my way, Graeme will most certainly not be around. ‘But there’d also be more things for you to do in London, Alex. There might be more opportunities for work. Mum and Dad love spending time with you, and … maybe we do need more support. We struggle a bit, don’t we?’
He shrugs. ‘Sometimes. I get bored here.’
I breathe steadily. Why have I been tuning that out all this time? He does mean it when he says it. He’s bored. ‘So … you might be up for it? Moving to London?’
‘Maybe,’ he mumbles.
‘I mean – how about we try it, for a couple of months? We wouldn’t have to sell the cottage, and if it didn’t work out, we could just come back.’
‘I don’t want to sell the cottage,’ he says, alarmed, picking out the words from my sentence that scare him the most.
‘No, and we won’t – if we move to London we could stay with Mum and Dad. But if we stay here … I don’t know. I’m not being paid by Spark any more, remember? So we don’t have the money to do this place up. And I’m worried I might not find another job here now.’
He nods, polishes off his roll. ‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah … is that a yes?’
He frowns. ‘I don’t know. I play golf here. I have friends.’
‘You have friends in London too,’ I remind him. ‘And your Norfolk friends – they could come and stay
, all the time,’ I assure him. ‘There are places you can play golf in London. Dad would love to play with you, Alex. You could go together.’
And we can finally get you away from the poisonous influence of Nicola, I think, but I don’t say it.
‘Need some crisps,’ he tells me, standing up and walking away, back into the house.
I lean back in my chair and take a tentative breath. Okay, so maybe tomorrow he’ll change his mind – but this is small progress. It didn’t go as disastrously as I was worried it might.
I text Sarah rapidly.
Can you hold that job for a couple more days? Still talking to Alex. This would mean the world to me. Xx
She texts back within minutes.
Yes, of course. Built in some buffer time. But will need to know for sure by the end of the week. Xx
I’m still sitting in the same spot an hour or so later when Alex comes back outside, having clearly been sidetracked by matters other than crisps. It’s dark now, and all the stars are out. My mind has been whirling with new possibilities and plans for the future, and I’m feeling almost dizzied by them. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt hope like this, and even the novelty of optimism is enough to excite me.
To my amazement, he’s brought the blanket off the back of the sofa with him, which he drapes over my knees.
From Alex, foresight like this is unprecedented.
‘Thank you,’ I manage as he sits down next to me and surprises me all over again by taking my hand.
‘It’s cold,’ is all he says.
‘What have you been doing?’ I ask him with a smile. ‘Your hand’s all warm and wrinkly.’
He laughs like I’ve said something really funny. ‘Washing up.’
So we sit there together side by side like the old couple I always hoped we would be, letting the seat of our jeans go slightly damp as we share the blanket and look up at the stars. And then suddenly, without warning like always, he leans over and kisses me, and my romantic, attentive husband momentarily returns.