The Perfect Family

by Samantha King

  “Consultancy?”

  “Yep. It’s always been my ultimate goal. Had my business plan ready for ages. It just means setting the ball rolling sooner rather than later, which is no problem. Far less painful than putting myself through the City recruitment grinder. I’m going to set up on my own. Be my own boss. More lucrative in the long run, too.”

  “You make it sound so easy . . .”

  “It is. No need for you to worry about a thing other than taking care of this,” he said, his big hand gently spanning the bump pushing against my sleeveless black chiffon shift dress, the one I’d splashed out on for my graduation ceremony, little knowing that its generous A-line style would come in handy for a rapidly expanding waistline. I couldn’t believe how fast my body was changing.

  “But I do worry. And I have no intention of being a kept woman.” I attempted a smile, not wanting us to squabble, especially in such exquisite surroundings. Especially when Dom had just asked me to marry him.

  “You want to be at home for the kids, don’t you? Isn’t that what you’ve always dreamed of—a proper family?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is,” I conceded, remembering all the times I had let myself in to an empty house after school, the walls echoing with loneliness. I wanted to be there for my children; I just didn’t want Dom to insist on it.

  “Well, then. That settles it. So what’s your answer? Will you be my wife, Maddie?” He sat back in his chair, beckoning the waiter for more champagne, never doubting my response.

  It was all happening so fast. I was still reeling in shock from the pregnancy test Gabrielle had bought for me the third time I’d thrown up my breakfast. Locked inside a toilet cubicle upstairs in Kingston’s Bentall Center, I’d thrown up once more for good measure. Gabrielle had come to meet me afterwards, her willowy height and cropped black hair cutting a distinctive figure as she swung jauntily through the crowds of shoppers, arms full of shopping bags overflowing with baby clothes, nappies and cuddly toys: she’d never been in any doubt that the test would be positive. As I’d wept on her shoulder, hormones and mixed emotions ran riot through me. I was desperately sad that Gabrielle was about to return to Paris, having completed the placement year of her languages degree, and I was a bag of nerves at the prospect of telling Dom I’d fallen pregnant. His reaction, and his proposal, had astonished, thrilled and ever so slightly terrified me.

  “Yes. Yes, I will.” I had butterflies at the thought of the babies growing inside me. They were all I cared about now, all I wanted; Dom was all I wanted. “But the teaching is just on hold, mind. Soon as the babies are old enough, I’ll go back to it.”

  “One step at a time. Let’s see, hey? You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, Maddie, and I’ll never, ever let you go. I just want you at home,” he said, reaching across the table to squeeze my shaking fingers, pressing down on the sapphire ring that still felt odd on my left hand.

  “Barefoot and pregnant, you mean,” I teased.

  “I can’t think of anything sexier.”

  FOUR

  The sound of a long, slow sigh draws me out of my memories, but when I look up, Aidan is still curled up on the sofa while Dom remains hunched over his laptop, his head in his hands. It’s like he’s drifted off into his thoughts, too, and I wonder if he ever thinks of those early days. I remember them as clearly as if they were last week. I remember his proposal, and I remember giving birth to the twins, their first steps, their last words—I remember every second of those things, but not a single moment of other life-changing events.

  I don’t remember my wedding night or honeymoon. I don’t remember who the police said came to the door on the morning of the twins’ birthday, their face hidden beneath the black balaclava. . . And I have absolutely no idea why he asked me to choose between my children. All I know is that he’s stolen my daughter’s life and destroyed my family, and that I can’t forgive myself for letting him. Beyond that nothing seems to matter. My guilt, my heartache: nothing can make either worse—or better.

  Perhaps if I force myself to confront the details, maybe then I’ll be able to work out how to start living again and look forward rather than eternally backwards. I glance at Dom and my heart pounds as I steel myself to ask him everything I’ve forgotten. I have to try, I have to stop burying my head in the sand, but even as I move towards him, I feel my mouth dry and the words lodge deep in my throat. I try to force them out and my eyes begin to water, panic crushing my chest.

  Before I can pull myself together, I hear a metallic buzzing noise, a long, shrill command, and it takes me a second to realize that someone must be at the front door. I spin around, wondering if I should go to answer it, and when I turn back to where Aidan and Dom were sitting moments before, they are gone.

  * * *

  Minutes, hours later—I have no idea how much time has passed—I find myself sitting on the stairs, taking deep breaths and trying to calm my thumping heart and racing mind. I need to focus, to gather my skittering thoughts.

  Aidan and Dom were right next to me, and now they’re gone. Where have they gone—to the pool, the park? Why didn’t they say goodbye? And didn’t I just hear someone at the door? But no finger pushes the buzzer a second time. No distorted silhouette darkens our hallway; there is only the hint of figures passing by on the street as they go about their daily business. Daylight pours uninterrupted through the frosted-glass of our front door, flitting in a dappled dance over the parquet floor.

  Shouldn’t it be getting dark soon?

  I keep losing track of time, of life around me, and it dawns on me that I may be having blackouts. Or perhaps it’s nothing physical, nothing so dramatic as fainting fits or losing consciousness. Maybe I’m just so buried in thought these days that I’ve been sucked too deeply inside my inner world. I’m not sure whether this is another side effect of post-traumatic stress, or whether I’m deliberately floating in this muffled state of vagueness because it’s far, far less painful than confronting reality. Only it’s proving confusing. Great chunks of time constantly seem to go astray, not to mention my son and husband.

  Then I hear the sound of Aidan’s recorder, the clear high notes scaling upwards until the tune ends with a hasty grating squeak, and moments later Aidan drifts past me on his way back into the living room. My darling boy. He always loved it when I called him that, his nose crinkling as he smiled shyly; Annabel used to laugh and punch my arm: Don’t be soft, Mum! She never waited for goodbye kisses at the school gate; Aidan wouldn’t leave me without a last cuddle. At least I got to spend those moments with the twins—chats on the walk to school, hot chocolate and toast afterwards as we sat at the kitchen table, comparing our days . . .

  I’ve never regretted my decision to stay at home with the twins. A teaching salary would have been helpful, especially at first, and sometimes I regret not using the degree I struggled to pass. But while I may not be teaching a class of children, I’ve found incredible fulfilment helping the twins learn, develop, grow into such clever little people. Maybe at some point in the future I would have gone back to teacher training. Maybe once, but not now. Now I can’t bear the thought of ever leaving Aidan again.

  Every time I look at my son now, it feels like I’m seeing him for the first time after a long absence. Like I’ve just stepped off a train after a trip and I’m racing up the platform towards him, tears in my eyes and my heart pounding with excitement and eagerness to hold him. It’s like a continual sense of joyful reunion—only it’s one-sided, because he still refuses to acknowledge me. He looks so pale. He’s barely left the house this summer. He needs some sun on his skin and fresh air in his lungs; he needs to run and play, to see his friends and get up to all the mischief that ten-year-old boys love. Only Annabel was the mischievous one. She made endless dens in Bushy Park, little hidey-holes and secret lairs. I’m not sure if Aidan has even been back to the park without her; he doesn’t tell me anything these days.

  And every time I open my mouth to ask, the pain in his eyes
silences me and I retreat into my shattered inner world, a heavy weight of guilt pressing down on my chest, paralyzing me. So I stay hidden in the shadows, a guilty bystander, listening, longing.

  * * *

  “Dad, you said you’d take me to Bushy Park.”

  My heart jumps; it’s like Aidan has read my mind.

  “It’ll be dark soon,” he continues after a long pause.

  Aidan’s unusually abrupt tone sharpens my attention, and I trail after him. He never used to be snappy; he was always so laid-back when Annabel was around. I want to cry as I see how hard he’s trying to act tough; I can see in his eyes that he’s torn, not sure whether it’s appropriate to go and play football in the park while his sister lies dead in the ground.

  I yearn to reach out to him but he’s angled his body away from me. His legs are crossed; one sneaker scuffs the other; hands are deep in his jeans pockets. I try to speak but still no words will come, and Aidan keeps his sad eyes focused on Dom, avoiding me. I try not to let Aidan see that it hurts when he ignores me, that he doesn’t even bother to suggest that I take him out to play. He knows I’ve become frightened of the outside world, yet his acceptance of that somehow hurts more than if he were to yell at me, openly blame me. He’s not letting me off the hook; he’s allowing me to sink under the weight of my own guilt. He’s angry with me, and he has good reason to be. I let his sister die.

  “Sure. Just let me finish this email, then we’ll shoot.”

  I see Aidan’s face tighten fractionally at the ill-chosen words, the casual reference to a weapon that blew his sister halfway across our back garden. But then he shrugs. “I’ll get my boots. They’re in the shed, aren’t they?”

  Aidan’s expression is uncertain. He’s not sure his dad has a clue where football boots and scooters and bikes are kept, but he doesn’t want to upset him by drawing attention to the fact. He doesn’t want to point out that it’s Mum who puts these things away; he doesn’t want to have to ask me—to need me—and he’s showing his dad that he doesn’t.

  I still understand my son.

  I allow the realization to soak through me, reminding myself that Aidan is still my child, and although we are both lost in grief and don’t know how to talk to each other, we are still connected. He is still part of me, and no matter how hard he’s trying to cut me off, I’m still part of him. I know how he sleeps on his tummy with his right hand hooked under his chin, his right leg tucked up as if he’s climbing a ladder; I know that he prefers white chocolate to dark; I know that he’s scared, and missing the closeness we used to have, and that he thinks if he shows any of this it will be disloyal to his dad.

  Guilty relief takes my breath away: I don’t deserve this comfort but I cling on to it. Aidan might try to erase me from his life, but I’m still here. I’m still his mum. No one can take that away from me.

  Can they?

  I glance fearfully towards the hallway, the front door, then I turn my back on the terrifying unknown of the outside world and watch Dom lock his briefcase and set it down on the coffee table. He looks up at Aidan with a broad smile, his thin mouth bracketed by creases I don’t remember seeing before under each sharp cheekbone. I wonder again if he’s lost weight; I try to put my finger on what’s changed. His hair is as thick and spiky as ever, neatly trimmed and still richly dark brown. Visibly, he hasn’t aged; he just seems . . . different.

  “Tell you what. Let’s head over to Kingston and I’ll buy you those football boots,” Dom says, slapping his knees before standing up and resting his hands on Aidan’s shoulders.

  “They cost over a hundred pounds. Mum says designer boots are an extravaganza,” Aidan says dutifully, but his legs uncross and one foot begins to tap against the floor in an excited jitter.

  “An extravagance. And they’re not. Only the best for my boy. So stop worrying, you sound like your mum.” He grins and pulls Aidan roughly against him.

  A memory stirs, but I can’t place it. Instead, I think with sudden irritation: That’s right, talk about me as if I’m not here.

  “Mum worries a lot.”

  “That’s what mums are for, son. But we still know how to have fun, hey?”

  Suddenly Aidan grins, sunshine breaking through the clouds, and I want to kiss his sad face that, just for a moment, has remembered how to look happy. I want to hug him and tell him that he’s right, I do worry too much, but it’s just because I care—because I don’t want things to get worse, so much worse . . .

  I puzzle over what that means: another memory just beyond reach. I have a sudden sense that I don’t want things to go back entirely to the way they used to be—but how did they used to be?

  I look around the living room in search of clues to help me decipher the mysterious gulf between Life Before and Life After Annabel. I see the brown leather Chesterfield that dips more on the left side than the right, because that’s where Annabel and Aidan always curled up together so they could stare in unison at the same book or comic, hands dipping in synchronized rhythm into a shared bowl of snacks. I see the upright piano and ornate walnut grandfather clock Dom bought at an antique fair, both incongruously grand in our modest 1930s semi.

  I grew up in a sprawling detached Edwardian house full of austere antique furniture and would have preferred a homelier, more cottagey look, but Dom was always trying to turn our house into a downsized version of an English stately home. We’ve never managed to find a compromise, I reflect, and the house has become a hotchpotch of mismatched styles. And as my eyes linger on each familiar object, my thoughts turn inwards once more and I remember the day we moved in—our first night as Mr. and Mrs. Castle.

  FIVE

  I remember Dom clowning around as he carried me over the threshold, pretending to stumble beneath my weight.

  “Put me down!” I giggled.

  “All right, if you insist. You’re getting chubby, Mrs. Castle.” His grin was infectious; I never tired of seeing it.

  “Idiot! I’m pregnant, not fat.” All the same, I glanced down at the smock top straining over my belly. I’d long since had to give up going for a run in the evenings, and my natural curves were growing more generous than usual. At five foot seven I wasn’t exactly short; lately, though, I’d begun to feel almost as wide as I was tall.

  “And you ate how many slices of wedding cake this morning?” Dom set me down on the kitchen floor like a sack of potatoes.

  “Not as many as your brother, that’s for sure.”

  “Huh. You noticed. He also drank most of the float I put behind the bar. Good job we went for a pub reception, not the Petersham Hotel. It’s always been the same with Max. My moment in the spotlight—he’s got to jump in and steal it with a rambling speech full of ludicrously long jokes without a punchline in sight. My wedding cake—he’ll scoff the lion’s share.”

  “He seemed sweet to me. Bit random, but then being best man is probably terrifying. I didn’t think his speech was that bad, actually. I heard a few laughs.”

  “They were laughing at him. Not with him,” Dom pointed out.

  “Surely not? I’ll have to have words. It’s not easy standing up in front of a bar full of people. He probably got stage fright.”

  “Don’t be fooled. Max isn’t frightened of anything. And he wouldn’t have noticed anyway. He’s oblivious to other people’s feelings. Too wrapped up in himself.”

  “Really? And I was just thinking how uncannily alike you and your brother are.”

  “Max and I are nothing like each other,” he said, moving away from me to lean against the worktop, long legs crossed in front of him, arms folded rigidly across his chest.

  “Well, you both looked very handsome next to each other,” I said quickly, realizing I’d touched a nerve. “The registrar definitely noticed.”

  “So that’s why you were glaring at her. I did wonder. Thought you were getting cold feet for a second.” A grin broke out across his handsome face.

  I sighed in relief. It was less than twelve hours since
our small, simple wedding ceremony at Richmond Register Office; I didn’t want to provoke our first row before the ink was even dry on our marriage certificate.

  “Think I’d struggle to be a runaway bride at this size. I can’t quite see myself doing a Julia Roberts and leaping on to a horse. Sadly, my pony-riding days are well and truly over. For now, at least,” I said, fondly remembering the hours I’d spent riding as a child.

  I’d hacked through Richmond Park a couple of times during uni holidays, too, and I wondered if children’s riding lessons were ridiculously expensive. Those kinds of luxuries couldn’t be a priority now; my jaw had dropped at the price of the double buggy, and needing two of everything really bumped up costs. It was a good thing I still had some money left in my trust fund; a huge chunk of what I’d inherited from my parents had gone on university tuition fees and student accommodation. Education mattered a lot to me, though; I valued the choices it gave me and I wanted to pass that on to the twins when they were older. I’d checked out the local schools before we settled on the house, and I was really happy with the local state primary down the road.

  “You were a stunning bride, and I’m the luckiest man in London. England. The world.” He laughed, pulling me into a slow dance around the kitchen.

  “Me too. Woman, I mean,” I half whispered, half laughed, tucking in close, allowing myself to be swept along. “And you’re right. The house is perfect. The garden too,” I said, peering out of the kitchen window as he finally released me. “Hampton’s lovely, really pretty and quiet, and I’m going to check out that teacher training college in Strawberry Hill next week.”

  “Hmm. You might change your mind once the babies are born. Once I’ve signed my first client. There’s no rush for you to work. Just put your feet up, enjoy being a lady of leisure for a while.” He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and, with a dramatic flourish of one arm, invited me to sit.