by Cassie Hamer
Halfway out, Beth stopped.
Max wasn’t an idiot. Beth was the idiot.
He hadn’t forgotten the clubs at all. He was meeting with her.
Suddenly, Alex’s words rang in her ear. The definition of stupidity is to do the same thing over and over and expect a different result.
Slamming the garage door shut, Beth scurried inside where the computer screen was still giving off its ghostly glow. Reopening the email, she scribbled down the address of the gym. It was time to do something different. Something just for her. If Max could be a selfish pig, then why shouldn’t she do something for herself as well? Something just to make her feel good, that didn’t involve adultery, or the children.
Dance. Yes, take a dancing lesson. It was perfect.
Realising she had nothing suitable to wear in her own closet of chinos and knits, she went straight to Chloe’s wardrobe, which was full to overflowing with leggings and crop tops. Admittedly, they were a few sizes too small and no doubt her daughter would have a meltdown if she knew her mother intended to wear them out in public. But Lycra was designed to stretch, wasn’t it?
From Chloe’s cupboard, she picked out a pair of the larger-looking leggings, with a subtle ocelot print, and a plain black crop top.
She stood in front of the mirror and surveyed her body dispassionately. She wasn’t used to seeing herself this way. Usually, her morning mirror check was simply to make sure her hair wasn’t a mess and her eyeliner in the wrong spot. She didn’t pay much attention to her body because it was normally covered by her standard uniform of loose-fitting top and slim-fit-with-stretch pants. Thanks to her nutrition background, she’d never really had to worry about weight gain. She ate sensibly and walked regularly. Food was fuel and Beth liked the feeling of putting good fuel into her body.
But now that she looked at her body, with only a few swatches of Lycra separating her from total nudity, she realised it was really quite a good body, given her age and the fact of having carried two children. She still had a waist and Chloe’s crop top was doing a good job of keeping her breasts in an acceptable position. The high-waisted leggings covered the stretch marks and it seemed her bottom had somehow resisted the forces of gravity and stayed in relatively the same spot as it was twenty years ago. She could claim no credit for her shapely legs, however. They were inherited from her mother.
‘Not too bad,’ she muttered to herself, sailing out of the bathroom with a spring in her trainer-clad step.
The gym was five minutes away by car and while Beth usually objected to the idea of driving to an exercise class, she didn’t feel quite brave enough to walk down Cuthbert Close in Chloe’s activewear. It had been quiet earlier, but that could change in an instant. Mrs Nelson at number eight tended to water her garden every Sunday morning, and if she was there she would no doubt want a chat. Besides, it was quite frankly too chilly to be outdoors in such flesh-baring attire. Autumn was upon them and it was one thing for a room full of strangers to observe the outline of her nipple through Chloe’s overstretched crop top, but quite another for Mrs Nelson to peer at them over the reading glasses that hung at permanent half-mast off her nose. Beth grabbed her phone and keys, slung them into a recyclable shopping bag and headed back to the garage. She wasn’t quite sure what type of bag people took to the gym but figured a green shopping bag would be a less appealing option for thieves, in case of there being no lockers.
‘Hello, Beth.’
She jumped and the bag slipped from her shoulder. It was Charlie Devine, and she was wearing almost exactly the same outfit as Beth but in the opposite colour – white leggings and a crop top, along with the ubiquitous diamond earrings. Slung across her body was a tiny, white quilted-leather bag, giving the outfit an edge that Beth’s shopper bag completely failed to deliver.
‘Good morning, Charlie!’ she said too brightly, overcompensating for the oily sense of unease that had settled in her stomach. ‘Looks like we’ve got the same idea. Off to the gym?’
Charlie frowned. ‘No.’
Beth waited for her to offer more but the woman just stood there. Beth couldn’t bear the silence. ‘Well, I’m off to my first ever Zumba class and I’m feeling a bit nervous actually. You’re a dancer, aren’t you? What can I expect?’
‘It’s a long time since I taught dance.’
‘Really? That’s such a shame. I’d love to have been a dancer. Didn’t really have the flexibility for it, though, and my parents didn’t think it was a very sensible career path.’
Charlie raised her eyebrows.
‘For me,’ Beth went on. ‘I’m sure it was fabulous for you, but I really wasn’t good enough. Does Talia dance?’
‘She’s not interested.’
‘Ah, shame. Well, I guess you can’t control what your children enjoy, or don’t enjoy. They are their own people, and Talia seems a sweet girl.’
Charlie checked her watch. ‘I really need to be leaving.’
To meet with my husband? No, don’t be paranoid.
‘Yes, of course. Don’t let me hold you up.’
Charlie nodded and turned to get into her car.
‘Charlie, sorry,’ Beth called, and the other woman spun around. ‘One more thing.’ Shyly, she stepped out from behind her car. ‘Do I look okay? I mean, does this look completely ridiculous on me?’
Charlie looked her up and down, with an unemotional, analytical eye, like she was appraising a turnip, or some other equally uninteresting, inanimate object. ‘Your body is fine, but you look uncomfortable.’
‘It’s actually quite surprisingly comfortable,’ Beth protested.
‘No, I mean, you can tell the outfit’s not you. It’s like you’re wearing a costume. It’s obvious you’re not feeling it.’
‘Well … it is more revealing than what I’m used to,’ Beth admitted.
‘You need to own it. No apologies. And if you’re not feeling it, just fake it. Square your shoulders and lift from the chest. Fake it till you make it.’
As Charlie spoke, Beth found herself automatically obeying the woman’s commands. And yes, it did make a difference.
‘That’s better.’ Charlie nodded. ‘But you’re still not there. Some people just can’t carry it off.’ With a dismissive shrug, she hopped into her car and sped off down the street, leaving Beth to cough in the wake of her sulphurous petrol fumes.
‘Actually, I’ll have you know I am feeling it, Charlie Devine.’ Beth pulled her shoulders so far back she could feel it in her vertebrae. Her breasts lifted in response. ‘This is the real me. And I feel hot.’
Opening the car door, she flung her shopper bag into the passenger seat, started up the engine and roared out of Cuthbert Close, just as quickly as Charlie Devine had.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
‘Ready for that tea now?’ Cara set down the tray on the outdoor table.
‘Just want to finish this little bit here.’ Will carefully applied a streak of paint under the eaves. ‘Tricky little spot,’ he muttered before leaning back to survey his work. ‘Look all right to you?’
‘Looks perfect.’ Cara assessed the morning’s effort. Already, the cottage was looking a little more loved. Even in the weaker autumn light, the colour was delicious, like vanilla ice cream. She experienced an unexpected shiver of pleasure.
‘I really thought I was going to hate doing this, but it’s actually not the worst job in the world.’ Will clambered down off the ladder.
‘Gee, please stop with the enthusiasm. I don’t think I can take it.’
Cara laughed and Will gave a rueful smile. ‘Sorry … it’s not personal. It’s just … being here. I thought it would be harder. Bring back memories.’ He looked around. ‘But it’s just a house. Nothing scary. Just a little, old, falling-down house.’
‘No, really, you’re killing me with the compliments. This is my house you’re talking about.’
‘Mine too.’
There was that shiver again. A breezy day, that’s all.
&nb
sp; She went to pour the tea and as Will dumped the paint pot down on the table, a small drip of it flew from the tin and landed on Cara’s sleeve.
‘Oh, shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to …’
‘It’s fine.’ Cara waved away the apology. ‘I mean, you’ve only ruined my best ten-year-old tracksuit top, but that’s fine.’ She went to pick up the mug of tea but managed to brush against the hot teapot, causing her hand to fly off the handle and accidentally flick the paintbrush from where it had been sitting on the tin. This time the splodge of paint landed on Will’s nose.
‘Oh, you’re going to play it like that, are you?’ he said and wiped at the smudge.
‘I didn’t mean to … It was an accident. Honestly.’
Will picked up the brush that had fallen off the tin. ‘Very convincing. Accident, huh? Like this?’ He flicked the brush in her direction, landing a spatter of paint across her chest.
Cara sucked in a breath. ‘Oh, now you’ve done it.’ She picked up the second brush. ‘Poppy,’ she called. ‘I need reinforcements.’
Her daughter came flying out of the house and into the back garden. Spying the two adults wielding brushes, she squealed. ‘Paint fight. Yay!’
‘There’s another brush in the shed,’ Cara commanded.
‘Well, that’s just not fair,’ Will protested, while trying to move stealthily away from the table. ‘Two against one.’
‘Your brush is bigger.’
‘You’re closer to the paint.’
‘I really don’t think we should waste any.’
‘Either do I.’
‘You drop your brush and I’ll drop mine.’
‘Let’s do it together. On the count of three. One, two—’
A car horn interrupted them, an unmistakeably tinny beep from the street.
‘Halmi! Halbi!’ Poppy squealed and ran.
‘Who is it?’ asked Will.
‘It’s my mum and dad.’ Cara returned the brush back to the tin. ‘Their idea of letting me know they’re coming is to beep the horn from the street. One of their less endearing habits.’
‘At least they come.’ Will dropped his brush back into the pot with Cara’s.
She bit her lip. She got what he was saying. At least she still had parents alive. That was something to savour. But couldn’t they at least learn to make a phone call before arriving on her doorstep?
‘Look, it’s Halmi and Halbi.’ Poppy dragged them into the garden. ‘They’ve brought things.’
Her father set a large cardboard box down on the grass. ‘We cleaned out when we moved.’ He stretched his back. ‘These are yours.’
‘Dad, you remember Will Parry.’
Sam offered his hand. ‘Hello.’
‘And you’ve already met my mum.’
‘Yes, Mrs …’
‘Everyone calls me Joy,’ said her mother abruptly. She took a step towards the house, noticing the fresh paint. ‘You are finally fixing this place up. What took you so long?’
‘You can blame your daughter for that. She’s very exacting when it comes to picking colours.’
‘You let her choose the colour?’ Joy’s eyes widened, and Cara understood her confusion. Over the years her mother had become accustomed to landlords who would never let them bang a nail in the wall, let alone choose the colour of it.
But Cara wasn’t a tenant any more. Or, at least, she soon wouldn’t be.
Not that her mum and dad knew that.
‘Oh, sure,’ Will shrugged. ‘I mean, I know we haven’t signed the paperwork yet but—’
‘Mum, Dad, why don’t you come in for a cup of tea?’ said Cara. While her parents dawdled near the front door, inspecting the paintwork, she sidled up to Will. ‘I haven’t told them yet, about your dad, and about us … buying the house,’ she added. ‘But I’m about to. Right now.’
Will shook his head in disappointment and Cara couldn’t meet his eye. He’d already done the brave thing and challenged his siblings by deciding to keep Cuthbert Close in the family, while Cara had been too afraid to do the same.
‘Will Parry, are you coming in too?’ Joy called at the door.
He turned his gaze on the paint tin. ‘You know what, I think we need more paint. I’ll head up to the shop.’
‘Sounds good.’ Cara ushered her parents inside with her mother still grumbling and her father holding the cardboard box. She looked over her shoulder to watch Will leaving. He roared out of the street without a backwards glance.
‘You need to be careful of this man. He is strange.’ Joy had seen her watching him.
‘Mum, he’s not strange.’ In the kitchen she set about making a fresh pot of tea, while her mother took up a seat at the table and her father deposited the box on the bench. She felt their eyes on her, watching as she retrieved cups and saucers. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘This sounds serious, daughter. Come, sit with us.’ Her father gently patted the chair next to him and Cara gave a grateful smile.
‘I know you think it’s odd that Will let me choose the colour for this house.’
‘A man does not let another person make this decision unless there is a reason.’ Joy’s voice had a tone of warning and her raised eyebrow hinted that she understood exactly what that reason was.
‘It’s not what you think …’ Cara took a breath. ‘He let me choose the colour because … well, because something very sad happened.’ She took a breath. ‘His father died … Mr Parry, the owner of this place. He had a heart attack … There was no warning.’
Joy blessed herself and kissed the crucifix around her neck. ‘May his soul rest in peace. He is in a better place.’ She looked skywards briefly, then back to Cara with a steely gaze. ‘So Will Parry is selling this house?’ She nodded. ‘I understand. You and the little girl can come live with us.’
Cara cupped her hands. ‘Thank you, Ma, that’s very generous … But actually, Will Parry and I, we’re buying this place together. Fifty per cent each. His brother and sister have agreed on a price, and it’s a fair price, and Will says Poppy and I can stay in the house as long as we like.’
Joy’s eyes widened. ‘You are buying this house with this man? Together?’
Cara nodded.
‘Do you love him?’ her mother demanded.
She vehemently shook her head. ‘No, no. Nothing like that. It’s an investment, for both of us. Like a business deal.’
‘You cannot make a business deal out of your home.’ Joy folded her arms. ‘Do you know this man? How can you trust him?’
‘I’m going to ask my neighbour, the lawyer one that you like, to have a contract drawn up, so everything will be set out in black and white.’
‘This is very, very strange,’ said Joy slowly. ‘You should come and live with us. We are your family. You should depend on us, not this man who you do not know.’
‘Mum, thank you.’ Cara clasped her hands on the table, unable to meet her mother’s disapproving gaze. ‘But I need to be independent. I’m thirty-two years old and I can’t live at home. You left Korea when you were only eighteen, and you never went back.’ Looking up, she took Joy’s hand in hers. ‘Please be happy for me. This way, Poppy gets to stay at her own school with all her friends and she gets to come home to a community that she knows and loves … I think it’s the least she deserves.’
Her mother snatched her hand back. ‘This is not how a daughter should behave.’ Before Cara could speak, her mother had leapt to her feet and was at the door. ‘Sam, come, or we will be late for church.’
‘Mum, wait! Can’t we talk about this?’
But Joy was gone.
‘Ugh. She’s impossible.’ Cara jumped to her feet and flung open her pantry door. She was seething, furious. Why couldn’t Joy understand? Or even try to comprehend Cara’s position? Her eye fell on a packet of crushed hazelnuts. Perfect. She would make a meringue hazelnut torte and take out all her frustrations and anger on the egg whites, which would require a good, solid whipping. Wi
th this level of emotion driving her, she’d be done before Will was back from the paint shop. ‘It doesn’t matter what I do, I can never make her happy.’
‘Daughter, please.’ Her father touched her arm. ‘She is proud of you.’
Cara stopped searching for ingredients. ‘She’s got a strange way of showing it.’
‘She is proud of you,’ he said. ‘It is herself she blames.’
‘Herself? For what?’
He laid his palms open. ‘She left her family, everything she knew, to come with me to this country.’
‘But you came for a better life, for me. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
Sam shook his head with a smile. ‘I was a poor farm boy. A different man would have given her a better life.’
‘But she fell in love with you!’
‘Some say love is a choice.’ He shrugged. ‘Her mother never forgave this choice, and your mother has never forgiven herself. She must always make amends. Try her best. Have the nicest house. Make sure you do not make the same mistake. Everything bad that happens … is her fault.’
‘That’s crazy.’ Cara started sorting through her drawer for the whisk and the metal utensils clattered through her hands. ‘And I’m not even sure it’s right.’
The skinny beep of the Daihatsu made them both stop still.
‘You should go.’ She slammed the drawer shut. The whisk wasn’t where it should have been. It was infuriating.
Sam stood at the door. ‘Look inside the box, daughter.’
She waited until he was gone before taking the box and putting it on the floor. She would look at it later. Right now, what she really needed was to beat some eggs and let the baking absorb her anger.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Alex shivered and pulled her coat tighter against the chill autumn wind skittering across the park. The sun had disappeared again behind cloud and she cursed the indecisive weather. Whose stupid idea had it been to enrol the boys in Sunday afternoon soccer?
Oh right, hers.
‘Get in there, Noah. Kick it,’ she screamed from the sideline.
But either Noah couldn’t hear or he refused to, for there he was, dawdling in the middle of the field, while a pack of ten other five year olds tussled over the soccer ball, like a litter of puppies play-fighting over a chewed-up shoe.