They didn’t embrace, but their goodbye was shot through with kindness.
‘There you are! At last!’ Zelda was saying, rising from her chair, crossing the grass to greet somebody.
But we’re all here, thought Sarah, tucking a flower from one of the posies on the table into her hair. The dusk was trying to gain a foothold, but high summer doesn’t give up that easily and the garden was still bright.
A woman was being introduced to the others, her back to Sarah. It didn’t make sense. Yet there she was.
Sarah reached her just as Tom shook Smith’s hand.
‘What are you doing here?’ Unvarnished, it sounded unfriendly.
‘Zelda invited me. I can go. If you want.’
Zelda took the young woman’s arm. ‘You’ve only just arrived, dear.’ Dee-ah. ‘Do try the jam tarts. They’re . . . interesting.’ Steering Smith away, she sent Sarah an unmistakable message with the merest incline of her head. ‘Manners!’
Sarah read Tom like a book. ‘You knew about this and you never said a word!’
‘Zelda told me on the way back from court.’ Tom smiled. ‘Even though she’d just had the biggest news of her life, she wanted to talk about you.’
‘Tell.’ Sarah prodded him. He was taller but she was meaner. ‘Tell, Tom.’
‘Zelda tracked her down, and they began to email each other. Don’t ask me what about. I’m just rehashing what Zelda told me. Then Zelda suggested she might like to come to this bash.’
Zelda, you sly old puss, thought Sarah. She strode over to Smith.
Zelda backed away into the gathering dusk.
‘Am I welcome?’ Smith was tamed, with hair that was just brown, and an outfit that was just an outfit.
‘Even if you weren’t, you were invited by the guest of honour, so . . .’ Sarah frowned. ‘If Jane hadn’t spotted you in Suffolk, would you ever have reappeared?’
‘I couldn’t.’ Smith popped her sunglasses back on, TV-sized shades that hid her eyes and robbed her face of nuance. ‘I was dead, remember.’
‘Did you want to get in touch?’ Sarah laid her heart bare; life was too short – or was it too long? – not to be frank. ‘I missed you so much. Every day.’
‘Don’t, Sarah. I’m a bitch. I can’t undo all the shit I unleashed. I’m bad, like I said. And you’re not. Standing near you helps me feel a bit less dark. But it probably makes you feel like strangling me.’
There’d been a reason why Sarah had told Smith – and not Leo – about her childhood mutism. She’d known she’d be understood, not judged or turned into an anecdote. Smith didn’t try to fix me. She’d just given of herself, stood beside her. She shared the burden and that was all I needed.
Forgiveness, like abs and glutes, responds well if regularly exercised. Sarah had tried hard to understand Smith, but hadn’t been able to make that leap. In the end it hadn’t been necessary; instead she accepted her, with all her glaring imperfections. ‘I still miss you, actually.’
‘Well, no need to miss me any more! I’m here. If you’ll have me.’
That was the cue for a speech, but Sarah said only, ‘You’d better behave, lady.’ This was a day of grand emotions and big gestures. It was a day to be generous, and to believe. She reached over and removed the sunglasses, laying bare Smith’s worried features. ‘There’s only one rule. No faking your own death.’
‘I promise.’ Smith was meek but Sarah sensed her chutzpah waiting in the wings. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘Don’t put it like that,’ grimaced Sarah. ‘There’s nothing to live up to. I just want you as my mate, Smith.’
Tom, keeping a respectful distance, gave up pretending not to listen. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he hollered, ‘This is where you hug each other!’
They did as they were told. And it was good.
The party dwindled, as even the best parties must. Lisa and Graham took their argument indoors, tailed by Una, who was singing very loudly. Mikey took off into the shrubbery to do whatever it is that one-eyed hedgehogs do all night. The lights went off in Leo and Helena’s flat for the last time.
Smith was smashed, fast asleep in a deckchair. Jane had been invalided indoors by Jamie, a living testament to the folly of mixing vodka and quiche.
On a bench, in a row, sat Sarah, Zelda and Tom, passing around the snoozing Ben like a bag of sweets.
‘I really should feed poor Peck,’ said Zelda.
‘Jamie fed him. And yes, before you ask, it was a mix of his favourite pellets and some organic banana cut to the right size.’ Peck’s quarters had been upgraded along with his mistress’s; his cage was a white ironwork extravaganza, customised with a swing and a mirror and real branches for him to stand on and pontificate. ‘That bird lives like a sultan.’
‘Mavis adored him.’ Zelda exhaled sleepily, like a kitten. It was a sad sound, for a poignant night. ‘Peck was the only thing she truly loved. So he’s a monument to her, and he’ll always have a home with me.’
‘They live to seventy years old, you know.’
‘I’ll leave him to somebody who’ll appreciate him.’
‘You mean me, don’t you?’ sighed Sarah.
Tom, who had beak-shaped scars on his forearms, said, ‘Doesn’t the constant abuse get you down?’
‘I’ve learned to tune him out,’ said Zelda. ‘He’s not as witty as Ramon.’ She paused before saying, ‘But he’s cheaper.’ She felt Sarah draw breath and she pre-empted her by saying, ‘No ranting about Ramon tonight, dear.’
‘He was a bad, bad husband,’ said Sarah. ‘Unlike Charles.’ Sarah felt as if she knew the man. ‘Or Tom,’ she added, a little late. ‘And Jamie.’
‘Jamie,’ said Zelda, ‘is the most uxorious man I’ve ever encountered.’
‘You and your ten-dollar words,’ said Tom. ‘What does uxorious mean?’
‘It means excessively fond of your wife, excessively submissive to her,’ said Zelda, enjoying Tom’s sardonic agreement. ‘Not only does Jamie allow Jane to boss him around, he enjoys it.’
‘He’s so gentle with her.’ Women notice how their friends’ menfolk treat them. Sarah had derived great pleasure watching Jamie guide Jane away from the dregs of the booze and suggest, mildly, that no, there wasn’t time for one more dance.
‘Blokes love being bossed,’ said Tom. ‘I can’t imagine marrying a woman who expected me to make all the decisions.’
‘I’ll remind you of that,’ said Sarah, ‘next time we come to blows in Homebase.’
Since Ben arrived, Sarah had noticed the frayed edges of Jane’s certainty. Jane had prepared for motherhood, armed to the teeth with muslin squares and nursing bras and a pushchair sanctioned by Which? magazine but it was testing her.
‘Why won’t he sleep?’ she wailed in the middle of the night. ‘Why won’t he take my milk?’ she mewled in the middle of the day. Ben was hell-bent on proving he wasn’t just any old baby; each day he starred in storylines of his own devising that weren’t to be found in the manuals.
To Sarah, Jane could admit she wasn’t up to the job, that Ben’s chubby fingers found every chink in her armour. ‘I can’t do it,’ she sobbed.
Jane believed she kept these fears from Jamie, but Sarah knew better. Jamie propped his wife up in small ways that Jane didn’t notice. Sarah knew this, because she did the same. Without a word being said, she and Jamie were partners not in crime, but devotion. When Jane rediscovered her equilibrium, they’d stand down, but not before.
Taking the baby, Zelda bounced him a little. ‘I thought Jamie might finally put his foot down when it came to naming this little fellow.’
‘Jamie wanted to call him after his granddad.’
‘Instead,’ sighed Zelda, addressing the child, ‘you were named after me, Bennison.’ She yawned, unable to smother it as both hands were around her namesake. ‘Sorry. How rude of me.’
‘Zelda, you can sleep for a month after what you’ve been through.’ Sarah took the baby, enjoying the dense
weight of him.
‘There’s so much clearing up to do . . .’ Zelda looked about her helplessly.
‘Leave that to us,’ said Tom.
‘To bed!’ ordered Sarah. Relief overwhelmed her again. The storm had passed them by. Zelda is safe. ‘What are you going to do tomorrow?’
‘Write, as usual,’ said Zelda. She seemed to catch Sarah’s drift. ‘It’s really over, isn’t it? That demon at my shoulder is gone.’ Zelda closed her eyes, breathing in the smell of the night-blooming jasmine she’d planted, and Bennison’s nappy. ‘Home sweet home,’ she said, and took the baby indoors.
‘Alone at last,’ said Tom theatrically, scooching up.
Their shoulders touched. Sarah sank into his side. He was solid and warm. There was no need to desperately make the most of him, because he was back for good, not a few snatched hours.
Tom reached out and tussled with a rose bush, managing to steal one of its big, flaky blossoms for his wife. ‘For you,’ he said. A little fragrance clung to his hand.
‘What a day,’ she said.
‘What a life,’ said Tom. ‘What a house.’
The house accepted the compliment graciously. Protective, welcoming, bulky against the night sky, number twenty-four was no prison. Sarah saw the beauty in it.
It was her home.
Acknowledgements
I know a lot more about child psychologists than I did a year ago, thanks to Alison Stewart. Thank you for your calm wisdom and patience. And wine. And crisps.
This book had many midwives, all of them fussing and clucking and wanting the best for it. Thank you so much Sara-Jade Virtue, Clare Hey and Jo Dickinson, three of Simon & Schuster’s finest humans. Thank you for your dedication, your energy, your cleverness, your diplomacy and your company.
Thank you Zelda and Mavis for lending me your names, and for being the most stupid spaniels I’ve ever met. Your snoring and your pleas for food get me through the writing day.
Finally, thank you Matthew for being my husband (never an easy job) and thank you Niamh for being my daughter, and sorry for all the meh dinners you endured right before deadline.
No, actually, this is the final thank you – to everybody who reads this book. You’re the reason I do it.
If you loved reading
Turn the page for Chapter One of
Available now in paperback and eBook
The crumpled invitation had somehow survived thirty-five years and numerous house moves, its words still legible, though faded:
Kate tucked it into the corner of the dressing table mirror as she leaned in, eyeing her reflection sideways, as if trying to take it unawares. ‘Not bad. Not good. But not bad. Happy Birthday, me!’
The invitation slipped a little and caught her eye. Kate had shared her fifth birthday party with Princess Diana’s wedding day. She was ambushed by peachy nostalgia: the whole nation had been so in love with Lady Di. She remembered the mums around the TV set, ooh-ing at the new princess’s dress.
And then Becca broke my new Action Man. Kate sighed. Typical. Her cousin had been unable to comprehend why a girl would want an Action Man, but their classmate Charlie had understood.
Kate conjured him up. Slightly whiffy and very scruffy. The other kids gave Charlie Garland a wide berth because he was different. Kate had overlooked the nits because he was also good-different; quiet but not boring, Charlie didn’t tease the girls just for being girls.
A sudden noise jerked Kate back to the present. It sounded just like the idiosyncratic yawn of the front door scraping open. She listened hard, but heard only the silence of an empty house, a silence that is actually a gentle soundtrack of ticks and creaks.
Turning back to the mirror, Kate regarded her tired but merry eyes. This is what forty looks like. Kate tapped the underside of her chin in case it harboured any ideas about drooping on the threshold of her – gulp – fifth decade. All in all, her reflection didn’t look too bad if she left out her contact lenses.
Standing up, Kate paused at a ghost of a noise, more a swish than an actual sound. She wondered at her jumpiness. God knows, I’ve had enough practice at being alone. Today, as on every other day, her house curled around her, snug and calm.
And empty. For many, forty was the perfect excuse for a party but Kate had opted out; a lifelong party goer/giver, she’d let the usual suspects know that this milestone would pass with no birthday ‘do’.
Reaching into the wardrobe, Kate’s hand found the dress immediately. She marvelled again at the weight of it. Pale satin, with the milky sheen of pearls, the dress was cut with a devastating simplicity that echoed more elegant times. Kate could testify to its waist-shrinking, arm-flattering superpowers.
Heavy layers of satin and tulle swooned against Kate as she held the frock against her dressing gown, holding it like a lover. The dress made her feel like Audrey Hepburn. A lumpy Audrey, admittedly, with a few more miles on the clock, but a very happy Audrey all the same. Waltzing dreamily, Kate withstood the urge to reflect and ruminate on this landmark birthday. She wouldn’t dwell on the missed chances, the fluffed catches, the absentees she missed so deeply . . .
But sometimes the past pushes in without asking. Suddenly Kate was five again, blowing out the candles on her cake. Charlie had sidled up to her, to stand very close and say ‘I like your dress’, low and urgently, like a small spy passing on classified information. Kate remembered snapping ‘What?’ She’d been suspicious of compliments, mistrusting them as much as Becca craved them.
Charlie’s hands had gripped his paper plate so hard it trembled. ‘I love you,’ he’d whispered.
Kate hadn’t hesitated; she’d pushed Charlie’s face into the iced sponge.
Now, Kate replaced the dress in the wardrobe, where it effortlessly outranked its denim and cotton peers. She stroked it regretfully, as if it was an exotic pet that had to be put down. Pity I’ll never get to wear you. Kate shut the door on the wonderful confection, its skirt puffing out and resisting. Even if she dyed it or took up the hem, a dress like that could never be anything but a wedding dress, which rendered it quite useless to Kate.
She wheeled at the unmistakable sound of a foot on the stairs. Kate crossed to the door. ‘Who’s there?’ she called, certain now that she was not alone.
About the Author
At home in Surrey, JULIET ASHTON writes all day in her small study while her two dogs stare at her. The rest of her house, which is full of music and books and comfy places to sit, she shares with her thirteen-year-old daughter and her husband, who’s a composer (hence the music). She believes wholeheartedly in the power of books to improve lives, increase understanding and while away happy hours.
Also by Juliet Ashton
The Valentine’s Card
These Days of Ours
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2017
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Copyright © The Just Grand Partnership, 2017
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