by Karen Swan
‘We all missed you – even Sam! It wasn’t the same without you.’
‘Really? But it was only a few hours.’ Cat had said the same thing, but it seemed so hard to believe they’d have missed her.
‘Well, once the dynamic changes, even just a little bit . . . Everyone was furious with Alex. No one believed he hadn’t tried it on with you. We all saw that kiss on Sunday – it was a real smacker. Even Rob was fuming, and you know how mellow he is.’
Laura simply nodded, remembering how the last time she’d seen him he’d been as far from mellow as it was possible to get. Shame flooded through her as she recalled the white-hot silence that had paralysed them both in the lift. It wasn’t even the kiss that made her feel so guilty – that had clearly come as a surprise to them both. It was the way it had made her feel about him afterwards, pushing forward thoughts and feelings she would never have dared acknowledge otherwise. And the way she’d reacted at the sight of him yesterday made her panic. Rob had called it a mistake; he was trying to draw a line under it and move on. But whatever had been stirred up between them in Verbier, it wasn’t gone, she knew – not yet.
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘I must go,’ Laura said an hour later, forcing herself into a standing position. ‘I’ve got so much work to do it would make your eyes boggle.’
‘Boggle! Great word!’ Kitty chuckled, high on caffeine again.
Laura tramped to the front door reluctantly, dreading the three-hour journey back, and stared out at the unfamiliar landscape. Dolly was disappearing into the snow like a toddler’s welly in mud.
‘Oh no! How the hell did that happen?’ she cried, looking up at the snow tumbling down from the great black sky like feathers from a pillow fight. Several inches had fallen during her foray into Quinces Cottage and was shin-deep already.
‘Oh dear,’ Kitty murmured over her shoulder.
‘This is going to be a long drive home,’ Laura sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a shovel?’
Kitty looked across at her in surprise. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to try to drive back in this?’
‘Well, of course.’
‘Laura! Look at the snow!’
‘It’s just a shower,’ Laura said uncertainly. ‘It’ll thaw in a bit. It never settles in this country.’
‘Didn’t you see the weather forecast?’
‘No. I’ve been staying at the studio since I got back. Working,’ she added hurriedly as Kitty frowned. ‘I don’t have a TV there.’
‘Heavy snowfall’s been forecast – up to a foot. This is earlier than they said it was coming, but you won’t get back tonight. You’d end up sleeping on the motorway. There’s no question of driving back.’
‘But . . . but . . .’
Kitty placed a hand on her shoulder and steered her back in. ‘Come on. In with you. You’re white as a sheet. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re coming down with something. Come on. We’ll run you a bath while I make up the spare room.’
‘Kitty, no, really, I’m—’
‘In! Joe will be back with the kids any second and then it’ll be all hands to the pump.’
‘I don’t want to be in the way,’ Laura moaned.
‘Trust me, you won’t be.’
‘Well, at least put me to use,’ Laura said as Kitty shut the door and trapped the honey-coloured light back inside the cottage.
‘Just relax and take some time out. You look so stressed.’ Kitty placed a concerned hand on her shoulder.
‘I’m not stressed,’ Laura said, shaking her head far too many times to be believable.
‘Well, I am. I need to get supper on the table and I don’t have an Aga.’ Kitty chewed a lip thoughtfully. ‘I’m tempted to give them plum cake.’
‘I could help you make . . . ’ Laura faltered. What could you cook if you didn’t have an oven? ‘Toast?’
‘Upstairs. You’ll only get me nattering again if you’re anywhere in earshot, and then we’ll never get the kids to bed. And you do not want to be around Joe if the kids are up past eight.’
Laura nodded politely. She did not want to be around Joe full stop. Oh, how had this happened? She had no clothes here, no toiletries . . .
Kitty bounded up the stairs and into the bathroom, expertly dodging a couple of potato guns and accompanying potatoes left lying on the steps. Laura followed, hearing the water pipes clatter into life one by one behind the walls as Kitty began running her bath.
She looked in on one of the bedrooms as she passed. Toy Story curtains threw a blue intergalactic light into the room, and a bunk bed was strewn with dressing-up costumes. A lava lamp had been left on on the desk, and the carpet was almost completely obscured by toys. How did they get to bed? Laura wondered. Hover over? Perhaps she could be defiantly helpful and colour-code the Lego?
‘You’re in here,’ Kitty called. Laura identified where she was from the creak of the floorboards and peered round the door, smiling, taking in a bald maroon carpet and a set of 1940s curtains printed with blowsy blackish-purple blooms. Very Agatha Christie. A vintage teal velvet dress was hanging from a wire hanger on the wardrobe.
‘It’s not Verbier, I’m afraid,’ Kitty said, blushing slightly and quickly making up the bed with an antique linen monogrammed sheet and padded comforter.
‘Thank God for that,’ Laura laughed. ‘I was all opulented-out by the end of the weekend. This looks fab.’
Kitty straightened up, beaming, as she looked around proudly. ‘Well, it’s home,’ she shrugged happily.
The slam of a door downstairs alerted them to the return of her brood. ‘Oh God! They’re back,’ Kitty said. ‘You’d better get in the bathroom quick before they start playing battleships with the shampoo and use up all the hot water.’ She shoved a clean lilac towel into Laura’s arms and pushed her into the bathroom. ‘Oh, and I apologize in advance for their behaviour.’
The smile slid off Laura’s face. ‘Why? What are they going to do?’
‘Who can say?’ Kitty shrugged helplessly. ‘But I’m sorry anyway.’
Even under water, she could hear Kitty’s little menagerie. The hum of shouty conversations and mischievous, teasing laughter vibrated through the floorboards and into the pristine white enamel beneath her bare bottom. Kitty’s voice threaded through it all like a loving kiss, alternately reproving – someone throwing carrots? – and soothing as another fell off a chair. Family life.
Feeling her eyes sting, Laura slid under the bubbles, still able to hear them practising carols. She wondered how long she had to stay up here for. What would be a polite absence? Reappearing after they’d all been put to bed? She looked around the bathroom as though trying to unearth its family’s secrets. The walls were mint green with white tongue-and-groove boarding on the lower half. A looped bath mat was clean and springy – clearly freshly washed – but the legion of towels hanging on pegs along the back of the door were rather more . . . limp. All the shampoos on the side of the bath were ‘no tears’ varieties except for a slim bottle of Head & Shoulders; there was a series of half-used emollient bath lotions, and a pot on the side of the basin was the place where toothbrushes clearly came to die. There must have been twelve in there, with three different types of toothpaste. A yellow plastic step was placed around the base of the basin pedestal, and a red potty had been pushed back against the wall.
It was the nitty-gritty of family life exposed, the bare bones of lives shared and lived together. Something of which she knew nothing. Her bathroom was like a spa by comparison, with limestone-replica tiles, fancy chrome waterfall taps and his ’n’ hers electric toothbrushes charging side by side. The bath gleamed so brightly she could practically put her makeup on by looking in it. Her bathroom was beautiful and ordered and hygienic. Or sterile, if you wanted to be bald about it.
She heard a creak and turned to the side. A little round face was peering at her and she instinctively covered herself with her hands, even though there was enough bubble cover in that bath to hide
a submarine.
‘I need a poo,’ the child said.
‘Oh, okay,’ Laura replied, instantly flustered. ‘If you just give me a minute, I’ll get out of the way for you,’ she said, understanding that this was the moment to reappear to Kitty. She went to rise.
‘Or not,’ she said, sinking back down. The little girl just walked into the room, staring at the floor. She took the yellow stool from the base of the basin and put it in front of the loo. Then, pulling up her dress, she sat down.
Laura watched her colour change, with rising alarm, from tender blush pink to fuchsia to crimson to royal purple.
‘Uh . . . what’s your name?’ she asked, pretending to study the ceiling.
The little girl didn’t answer.
‘I’m . . . I’m Laura.’
Still nothing, just more straining. She shut up. The poor child clearly needed all her breath.
‘Oh, there you are!’ Kitty said, and Laura almost capsized as she turned in alarm and then tried to cover herself again. Kitty laughed. ‘Sorry, Laura! Please . . . pretend I’m not here,’ she said, coming further in and helping the little girl off the loo. ‘Come on, Martha. Let Mummy clean your bottom,’ she sighed, grabbing a wet wipe.
Martha! Martha! Laura repeated to herself. Must. Not. Forget.
Laura froze as Martha bent double, wondering how on earth it could be that she was lying in a bath in front of near strangers. Well, okay, not complete strangers. Laura had seen Kitty in a onesie – that automatically assumed a certain level of intimacy – but they were hardly friendly enough to be naked and wiping bottoms together!
‘Right, there you are, madam. All done. Now back to your bedroom and take your clothes off. It’s bathtime.’
Laura looked up in outright panic. They were all coming in here? All of them?
‘I’m just getting out, actually,’ Laura said, not making any move. It was one thing being naked in front of a five-year-old . . .
‘Great,’ Kitty beamed as the thunder rolling up the stairs suggested the rest of the herd was on its way. ‘Well, would you be a love and leave the water in?’
Laura waited for Kitty to leave, then jumped out of the water as if she’d been torpedoed and wrapped herself like a bandage in the fat lilac towel Kitty had given her. She was just securing the knot when the door burst open and the bathroom was flooded by little people looking up at her curiously.
‘Kids! This is Aunty Laura! She’s having a sleepover with us,’ Kitty hollered across from the airing cupboard on the landing. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with the prefix, Laura. It’s either “Aunty” or “So-and-So’s Mummy”.’ She staggered over beneath a pile of old towels and dumped them on the floor, then planted her hands on her hips and did a headcount to make sure all were present and correct, completely oblivious to the look of sheer terror on Laura’s face as the children swarmed around her. She clutched her towel tighter. ‘Anyway, just so you know – in descending order – Tom’s the oldest, he’s just turned eight,’ Kitty said, pointing to the highest-up head. ‘Then there’s Lucie, she’s seven; that’s Martha, she’s five; Finn’s four; and of course you remember Samuel.’
Laura nodded. How could she forget him? At least some of her trauma at the prospect of a child could be attributed to this little horror.
‘Nice to meet you all,’ she nodded.
‘Right, you lot. In!’ Kitty said, swiping all towels from the back of the door and replacing them with fresh ones.
The children charged for the bath and Laura gingerly tiptoed around the tangle of knees, elbows and bottoms, clutching tightly to her towel lest anyone should snatch it. She breathed a sigh of relief as her bare feet met bare carpet and she was back in the safety of the hall again. And there and then she swore a solemn oath that – come what may – she would never, ever own a bathroom with a latch door.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The clock chimed eight times and Laura heaved a sigh of relief – she had officially survived. The rumbling thunder that had all but shaken the house from its foundations was steadily replaced by the whistling wind of five sets of baby snores. Laura had managed to make herself useful at last, reading a bedtime story to the two older kids. Tom and Lucie had been laughing over a cartoon book depicting bunnies committing suicide when she first walked into the room, instantly making her doubt her chosen book, The Velveteen Rabbit, as a suitable choice. But as Laura had settled herself nervously in the squashy armchair positioned in the corner of their bedroom and begun to read, Tom and Lucie had abandoned their positions on the floor and slid down each of the arms of her chair so that they were squashed together on her lap. The physical proximity had completely disconcerted her at first, but as they wriggled themselves carelessly into comfy positions and rested their heads against her chest, she felt theirs and her breathing change, almost as though a rope that had been compressing her breath had been allowed to slacken. By the story’s end, Tom had fallen asleep and Lucie had thrown her arm up around Laura’s neck, twirling her index finger round the hair at the nape of her neck whilst she sucked her thumb. They had sat like that in silence until Kitty looked in and rescued her.
Rescued wasn’t the right word, though.
‘Ah, wine o’clock,’ Kitty sighed as they came downstairs. She strode straight over towards the Aga – which, thanks to Joe, was now slowly warming up like a basking bear – and grabbed the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon he’d placed at the back.
Laura followed her into the kitchen, self-conscious in the oversized flannel pyjamas Kitty had sweetly left out for her. But what else was she going to wear?
She stopped at the sight of Joe sitting on the sofa, still in his boiler suit, a beer in his hand. With one hand he was idly patting Pocket’s docile head.
‘Hello again,’ she nodded.
Joe looked up at her and grunted as if to say, ‘You again?’. ‘I’ve towed your car off the lane. It’s in the barn,’ he muttered after a moment.
‘Oh. Thank you,’ Laura remarked, pleasantly surprised by his consideration.
‘Although I wouldn’t be surprised if you find half of it scattered along the path. Seems to me like it’s Sellotaped together.’
Or maybe not. ‘Well, it’s very good of you and Kitty to let me stay here tonight. The weather closed in so quickly—’
‘It was forecast.’
‘Not in Suffolk, it wasn’t,’ she replied quickly, her eyes flicking anxiously towards Kitty lest she should pick up the hostility between the two of them. ‘They’re just getting rain over there.’
Joe looked back to the TV, switching channels with the remote. ‘Well, you’ll be able to get back on your way tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’
Kitty set the bottle and glasses on the worktop. ‘Here, Joe, put those on the table, please. Laura, on a scale of one to ten, how hungry are you?’ she asked, holding a ladle above a brown electric slow-cooker that looked like it had been purchased in the 1970s.
Eight, her tummy growled. She realized she had missed lunch altogether getting from Min’s to Olive’s to Kitty’s, and the plum cake seemed like a long time ago now. ‘Ooh, six,’ she said politely.
Kitty ladled up a man-sized portion of beef stew regardless, and they each took their plates over to the table. Joe began eating in silence, chewing every mouthful at least fifty times.
‘The children settle to sleep so well,’ Laura said, searching for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t ignite Joe’s ire.
‘I know. They fall into bed like they’ve been clubbed. It’s keeping them asleep that’s the tricky part,’ Kitty sighed. ‘The three littlies will all end up in with us by the morning.’
Joe rolled his eyes in silent suffering, indicating through the gesture that they all ended up on his side of the bed, but continued to eat. Laura wondered what on earth Kitty saw in him.
‘You must get so tired,’ Laura sympathized.
‘Yes, but that’s just how it is in this period of our lives, isn’t it? I k
eep telling myself I’ll look back on all this in twenty years when they’ve gone to university or whatnot, and the house is quiet and tidy and clean, and . . . ’ Kitty gave a small shudder and Laura noticed Joe give his wife a quick, reassuring wink.
‘How’s Sugar going to be coping with this weather? It’s hardly her indigenous climate.’
‘Camels are adaptable,’ Joe replied. ‘It’s what makes them such good survivors.’
Laura looked at him. What did he know about surviving?
Kitty touched his arm. ‘By the way, did Tom tell you his latest joke?’ Her voice was lower, more intimate, and Laura remembered what Alex had said about them, that first day of the summer holidays, lying on the grass ‘snogging each other’s faces off’.
He shook his head, and Laura noticed they were sitting so closely together, he had to keep his left arm immobile in order not to knock Kitty with it. He could easily shuffle over to the right a little, but he appeared to be choosing not to.
‘How do you make Lady Gaga cry?’ Kitty asked, the giggle already in her eyes.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Poke ’er face.’
There was a moment’s delay as Joe struggled to get it – Laura didn’t imagine he listened to dance music in his tractor – before he suddenly burst out laughing. It was a deep, goose-honking sound, and replaced his omnipresent scowl with crinkly laughter lines around his eyes.
Laura, to her utter surprise, responded in kind and Kitty joined in too, the three of them giggling harder every time they made eye contact before they eventually subsided into a bemused, slightly self-conscious silence.
Kitty broke it first. ‘Seconds? There’s plenty.’