by Jojo Moyes
‘What’s happening with the shop? Are you headed off there now? I notice you’ve been shut a lot lately.’
‘It’s been . . . difficult.’
‘Hang on in there,’ he said. ‘You might find things easier after the inquest.’
She felt the familiar clench of discomfort. She was not looking forward to giving evidence.
‘I’ve done a few,’ he said, closing the gate behind him. ‘They’re not so bad. Really.’
She forced a smile, braver than she felt.
‘I don’t think your man was too keen either, from what he told me.’
‘What?’
‘Alejandro. Told me he was off to Argentina.’
‘He’s going back?’
‘Shame, isn’t it? Nice guy. Still, can’t say I blame him. It’s not the easiest town to settle in. And he’s had a bumpier ride than most.’
Suzanna lay awake for most of the night. She thought of Cath Carter, and of Jessie, and of her broken, empty shop. She watched as the dawn broke, the blue light filtering through the gap in the curtains that she had never liked, and watched the silver trail of the jet planes silently dissecting the sky.
Then, as Neil sat in the kitchen cramming toast into his mouth while he searched the worksurfaces for his cufflinks, she told him she was leaving.
He seemed not to hear her. Then, ‘What?’ he said.
‘I’m leaving. I’m sorry, Neil.’
He stood very still, a piece of toast protruding from his mouth. She felt rather embarrassed for him.
Eventually he removed it. ‘Is this a joke?’
She shook her head.
They stared at each other for some minutes. Then he turned, and began to pack things into his briefcase. ‘I’m not going to discuss it now, Suzanna. I’ve got a train to catch, and an important meeting this morning. We’ll talk this evening.’
‘I won’t be here,’ she said quietly.
‘What’s this about?’ he said, incredulity on his face. ‘Is this because of your mother? Look, I know it’s all been a shock to you, but you’ve got to look on the bright side. You don’t have to live with all that guilt any more. I thought you all understood each other better now. You told me you thought things might improve.’
‘I do.’
‘Then what? Is this about having children? Because I’ve backed off, you know I have. Don’t start making me feel bad about that.’
‘It’s not—’
‘It’s just stupid to make life-changing decisions when you’re not thinking straight.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Look, I know you’re still upset about your friend. I feel sad about her too. She was a nice girl. But you will feel better after a while, I promise.’ He nodded to himself, as if affirming his words. ‘We’ve had a tough few months. The shop is a drain on you, I know that. It must be depressing having to work with it looking . . . well, with all that still in the air. But the windows are going in – when?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday. I know you’re unhappy, Suzanna, but just don’t overreact, okay? Let’s just get it all in proportion. It’s not just Jessie you’re grieving for, it’s what you thought was your family history, probably your mother, even. It’s your shop. It’s your way of life.’
‘Neil . . . it’s not the shop I wanted.’
‘You did want the shop. You went on and on about it. You can’t tell me now you didn’t want it.’
She had heard an edge of panic in his voice. Her own was almost unnaturally calm as she said, ‘It was always about something else. I know that now. It was about . . . filling a hole.’
‘Filling a bole?’
‘Neil, I’m really sorry. But we’re kidding ourselves. We’ve been kidding ourselves for years.’
Finally he was taking her seriously. He sat down heavily on the kitchen chair. ‘Is there someone else?’
Her hesitation was just brief enough for her answer to be convincing. ‘No.’
‘Then what? What are you saying?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m not happy, Neil, and I’m not making you happy.’
‘Ah,’ he said, sarcastically. ‘The great it’s-not-you-it’s-me conversation. So this is what we’re reduced to.’
‘It’s both of us,’ she said. ‘We – we don’t fit any more.’
‘What?’
‘Neil, can you say you’re happy? Really?’
‘Not this again. What are you expecting, Suzanna ? We’ve had a tough time. It’s been a tough year. People have been committed to asylums on less stress than we’ve had to deal with. You can’t expect to be happy the whole time.’
‘I’m not talking about gaiety. Not happy-happy.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’m talking about . . . I don’t know, a kind of contentment, a sense that things are right.’
‘Suzanna, things are right. But we’re married – it’s not always going to be hearts and flowers.’ He stood up, began pacing The room. ‘You can’t just throw everything up in the air, keep shopping around, just because you’re not waking up singing every morning. You’ve got to work at something, to stick at something in your life. Life is like that, Suze, it’s about persistence. About sticking with each other. And waiting for the happy times to come back. We’ve had happy times, Suzanna, and we will again. You’ve just got to have a little faith. Be realistic in your expectations.’
When she didn’t speak, he sat down again, and they were silent for some time. Outside, one of the neighbours slammed a car door and shouted an instruction at a child, then drove off.
‘You’ll have your family, Neil,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ve got loads of time, even if you think you don’t.’
Neil got up and walked over to her. He squatted down and took her hands in his. ‘Don’t do this, Suze. Please.’ His brown eyes were pained and anxious. ‘Suze.’
She kept staring at her shoes.
‘I love you. Doesn’t that mean anything? Twelve years together?’ He dipped his head, trying to see her face. ‘Suzanna?’
She lifted her face to his, her eyes steady, and not regretful enough. She shook her head. ‘It’s not enough, Neil.’
He looked back at her, evidently hearing the certainty in her voice and seeing something final in her expression, and dropped her hands. ‘Then nothing’s going to be enough for you, Suzanna.’ His words were bitter, spat out in the realisation that this really was it. That she had meant what she said. ‘Real life is never going to be enough. What you’re after is a fairy story. And it’s going to make you very unhappy.’
He got up and wrenched open the door. ‘And you know what? When you realise it, don’t come running to me because I’ve had enough. Okay? I’ve really had enough.’
She had hurt him enough so she didn’t say it. That she would rather take that risk than live with what she already knew, had finally realised, would be a lifetime of disappointment.
Twenty-Six
Suzanna lay on the bed she had slept in as a child, as the sounds that had echoed through her childhood resonated through the wall. She could hear her mother’s dog whining, claws scrabbling on the flagstone floor downstairs, its flurry of staccato yelps proclaiming some unseen outrage. She absorbed the muffled sound of Rosemary’s television, turned up as she watched the morning news. The FTSE up four points, grey with scattered showers, she noted, smiling wryly at the inability of plaster and lath to offer any resistance to the evidence of Rosemary’s faded hearing. Outside, on the front drive, she could hear her father talking to one of the men, discussing some problem with a grain chute. Sounds that, until now, had only ever told her she was alien in this environment. For the first time, Suzanna was comforted by them.
She had arrived late two evenings previously, having packed her belongings while Neil was at work. Despite his words, he had hoped, she knew, that she would change her mind while he was gone. That what she said had been perhaps an unhappy side-effect of grief. But she knew. And she thought, in
his heart of hearts that he probably knew too, that the grief had delayed the decision, clouded her certainty that it had to be taken.
Vivi had met her at the door, had listened without saying a word when Suzanna announced tearfully (she had thought she would leave the cottage without a second glance, had been surprised by how emotional she felt at packing her clothes) why she was there. Surprisingly Vivi hadn’t pleaded with her to give it another go, or told her what a wonderful man Neil was – even when Neil turned up, as she’d known he probably would, drunk and incoherent later that night. Vivi had made him coffee and let him rant, ramble and sob. She had told him, Vivi said afterwards, that she was so sorry, that not only was he welcome to stay in the cottage, but that he would be part of their family for as long as he wanted. Then she had driven him home.
‘I’m sorry to have put you through that,’ Suzanna had said.
‘Nothing to be sorry for,’ replied Vivi, and made her a cup of tea.
It was as if she had been static for years, Suzanna thought, gazing at the rosebuds on the wallpaper, noting the corner by her wardrobe where she had, as an adolescent, scribbled in pen her hatred of her parents. Now, as if unleashed by her actions, things were moving rapidly, as if time itself had decided she had too much to make up.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Yup?’ Suzanna pushed herself upright, and saw, with shock, that it was nearly a quarter to ten.
‘Come on, lazybones. Time to shake a leg.’ Lucy’s blonde head peered in, a tentative smile on her face.
‘Hey, you.’ Suzanna sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘Sorry. Didn’t know you were coming so early.’
‘Early? It doesn’t take long for you to revert to your old habits.’ She moved forward and hugged her sister. ‘You okay?’
‘I feel like apologising to everyone for not being a wreck.’
That was the worst thing, how easy it had been to go. She felt guilty, of course, for having been the cause of his unhappiness, and the sadness of having to break a habit, but none of the crushing sense of loss she had anticipated. She had briefly wondered whether it meant some kind of emotional disability on her part. ‘Twelve years, and so little wailing and gnashing of teeth. Do you think I’m odd?’
‘Nope, just honest. It means it’s the right thing,’ Lucy said, pragmatically.
‘I keep waiting to feel something – something else, I mean.’
‘Perhaps you will. But there’s no point in looking for it, trying to make yourself feel something you don’t.’ She sat down on Suzanna’s bed, and rifled through her bag. ‘It was time to move on.’ She held an envelope aloft. ‘Talking of which, I’ve got your tickets here.’
‘Already?’
‘No time like the present. I think you should just go, Suze. We can sort out the shop. I don’t think it’s fair on Neil if he has to see you around everywhere. It’s a small town, after all, and it’s never been short on gossip.’
Suzanna took the tickets and stared at the date. ‘But that’s not even ten days away. When we talked, I thought you meant next month. Maybe even a couple of months.’
‘So what’s there to stay for?’
Suzanna bit her lip. ‘How am I going to pay you back? I won’t even have time to sell off the stock.’
‘Ben will help. He thinks you should go too.’
‘Probably glad to have me out of the house. I think he’s been rather put out at having me home again.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Lucy grinned at her sister. ‘Love the thought of you backpacking,’ she said. ‘Hilarious. I’m almost tempted to come too. Just to witness it.’
‘I wish you would. I feel quite nervous, to be honest.’
‘Australia’s not the end of the world.’ They giggled. ‘Okay, it is the end of the world. But it’s not – you know – third world. Dig-your-own loos.’
‘Have you spoken to your friend? Is she still happy to put me up for a few days?’
‘Sure. She’ll show you round Melbourne. Get you started. She’s looking forward to meeting you.’
Suzanna tried to picture herself in foreign vistas, her life, for the first time, a blank, waiting to be populated by new people, new experiences. The kind of thing Lucy had urged her to do years ago. It felt terrifying. ‘I haven’t done anything on my own. Not for years. Neil organised everything.’
‘Neil infantilised you.’
‘That’s a bit strong.’
‘Yeah. It probably is. But he did let you behave a bit like a spoilt child. Don’t get arsy with me for saying it,’ she added quickly, ‘not while we’re having our sisterly bonding session.’
‘Is that what this is?’
‘Yup. About fifteen years later than it should have been. Come on, show me where your bags are and I’ll start sorting your things for you.’ Lucy unzipped the big black holdall with determined speed. ‘Bloody hell!’ she said. ‘How many pairs of high-heeled shoes do you own, Imelda?’ She zipped the bag shut again and hauled it to the other side of the room. ‘You won’t need any of those. Get Dad to put them in the attic. Where are your clothes?’
Suzanna pulled up her knees under the duvet and hugged them, thinking of the infinite possibilities before her. And the ones she had missed. She was trying to fight the sensation of being rushed, that she should sit still for a while and take stock. But her sister was right. She had caused enough harm to Neil already. It was the least she could do.
‘Are you getting up today, you fat lodger?’
Suzanna rested her face on her knees, watching Lucy’s blonde head bob up and down as her sister sorted through her clothes – clothes that looked suddenly, as if they didn’t belong to her. ‘I told Mum there wasn’t anyone else,’ she said eventually.
Lucy stopped, a pair of socks balled in her hand. She put them into a pile on her left. When she looked up, her face was a careful blank. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘He was the first.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I just thought it was going to take something pretty radical to shake you out of your safety-net.’
‘You think that’s what it was?’ Suzanna realised she felt vaguely defensive about her marriage. It had lasted a lot longer, survived a few more slings and arrows than many.
‘Not just that.’
Suzanna stared at her sister. ‘It wasn’t just a casual fling.’
‘Is it over?’
Suzanna hesitated. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually.
‘You don’t sound very sure.’
‘There was a time when . . . when I thought it might be right . . . but things have changed. And, anyway, I should be by myself for a while. Sort myself out. Something Neil said made me think a bit.’
‘You told Neil about him?’
‘God, no. I’ve hurt him enough. You’re the only one who knows. Do you think I’m awful? I know you liked Neil.’
‘Doesn’t mean I ever thought you two were right for each other.’
‘Ever?’
Lucy shook her head.
Suzanna felt relieved yet a little betrayed by her sister’s apparent certainty. Then again, even if Lucy had said anything, she reasoned, she would have taken no notice – she had taken little heed of her family’s opinions for years.
‘Neil’s a simple soul,’ Lucy said. ‘Just a nice, straightforward chap.’
‘And I’m a complicated old cow.’
‘He needs some nice Home Counties gel to lead a nice simple life with.’
‘Like you.’
Is that really what you think? Lucy’s eyes asked, and Suzanna discovered that she didn’t know because she had never looked hard enough.
Lucy paused, as if judging her words carefully. ‘If it makes you feel any better, Suze, one day I’ll probably drop my own little bombshell on Mum and Dad. Just because my life looks simple to you it doesn’t mean I am.’
It had been said light-heartedly, but Suzanna, gazing at the young woman opposite, thought of her sister’s furious ambition, her determined privacy, h
er lack of boyfriends. And, as the germ of a notion grew, of how blind, how self-obsessed she had been.
She slid out of bed, crouched beside her and ruffled her sister’s short blonde hair. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘when you do, my prodigal sister, just make sure I’m around to enjoy it.’
She found her father by the Philmore barns. She had walked the long route, up the bridleway and past the Rowney wood, carrying the basket Vivi had made up, which she had offered to run to them in her car. It was okay, Suzanna had said, she fancied the walk. And she had walked meditatively, ignoring the fine rain, conscious of the glowing swell of autumnal colours on the land around her.
She heard it before she saw it, the grind and bump of the bulldozer, the creaking and crashing of timbers, and had to shut her eyes for a second: such sounds didn’t always mean disaster. Once her breath had been restored to her, she had walked on, closer to the house. And then, coming upon the scene of activity, stood at the edge of what had once been a yard and watched as the bulldozer crashed against the rotten wood, bringing down, amid those still standing, the semi-derelict buildings that had been there for centuries, which even the most fervently antiquarian listings officer at the council had admitted were no longer worth saving.
Her father and brother were at the other side, motioning to the men in the bulldozers, her father breaking off occasionally to talk to two others, one of whom appeared to be in charge of the skips.
By the time she had arrived, two buildings were already down, their metamorphosis from shelter to sculpture almost dismayingly swift. On the ground, with the blackened timbers sticking up like a final obscene protest, she observed that for such large structures they had produced a surprisingly small amount of rubble.
Ben had seen her. He pointed to his father, a question, and she nodded, watching as he walked over to interrupt the older man’s conversation. Ben and he walked in the same way, with the same stiff-legged gait, shoulders hunched forward as if permanently ready to do battle. Her father, tilting his ear towards his son, ended his conversation and, following his son’s hand, gestured towards her. She stood still, not wanting to have to make polite conversation. Finally, perhaps sensing her reticence, he came across to her, dressed in a thin cotton shirt that she remembered from her youth, oblivious, as he seemingly always had been, to the elements.