‘I’d like to live in America,’ said Milly, through a yawn.
‘Would you, darling?’ Sophie kissed her head.
‘So I could go to the Juilliard School like Meredith.’
‘Yeah, sure …’ sneered Olivia, sleepily.
‘The Juilliard, eh?’ Andrew, in the front next to the driver, had turned to flash an admiring smile at his younger daughter. ‘That would be even harder than the Royal College, Millikins.’
‘So?’ Milly nestled more closely against her mother. ‘I’m going to Google it when I get home.’
Both girls were sound asleep by the time the car pulled up the drive. The outside light came on at once, intensifying the glow of the house’s soft yellow walls in the moonlit dark. ‘Come on, you two.’ Sophie nudged her daughters, reaching across them for the door handles. ‘A happy house,’ she murmured, holding back as the rest of the family launched themselves at the front door, feeling the urge to offer a private thankful farewell for the healing powers of the holiday and knowing that their morning departure would be too hectic for such niceties.
‘And this must be your book,’ exclaimed Andrew, holding up a carrier bag as she approached the door. ‘That was good of him, wasn’t it? Which one was it, then?’ He peered into the bag but then was diverted by Olivia, shrieking from inside the hall that she had seen a cockroach.
Sophie took the bag but resisted looking inside until the girls were in their beds and Andrew noisily performing ablutions in the bathroom, whistling between mouthfuls of water and toothpaste.
The book was nothing but an old paperback with an innocuous title by someone she had never heard of. Puzzled, but relieved – even wondering if Carter had made a genuine mistake – Sophie was on the point of dropping it into her open suitcase when a piece of folded paper fell out from between the pages.
Sophie, you have stolen my heart. Remember when I said, ‘Love does not need the presence of the other person’? Well, I lied. I need you and always shall. Carter
It seemed to Beth the final, inevitable insult that their day of departure should present them with the best weather of the entire holiday. Tugging back the faded, loose-fitting bedroom curtains for what she hoped, most sincerely, would be the last time, she only just managed to refrain from remarking on the fact. William had grown defensive enough about the trip as it was, without her making things worse. And she no longer cared about the weather anyway. All she wanted was to get on the airplane, to get home. The desire for it had been burning for days now, a constant, invisible, shameful fire, gobbling up her ability to appreciate anything. Even the crammed sightseeing upon which William had gallantly insisted during the final week – the National Gallery, the postponed boat-ride on the Thames, the Tower of London, dragging George and Alfie in their wake – had rolled past her like some sort of a slide-show rather than an experience of the real thing.
‘Honey, you awake over there?’ She spoke softly, a tremor of inexplicable, terrible sadness sweeping through her at the sight of William, still in bed, hugging a pillow to his chest like a child with a comforter. He looked so vulnerable. And since their return from Skipton he had been noticeably subdued. The smoking had gotten worse too, although she had bitten her tongue and not said a thing. He was leaving his kids, after all, she reminded herself, with an ex who, for all her good clothes sense and ethical garment-stitching, was a money-grasping, whining bitch. And then there was his last conversation with Harry, a shouting match over the phone the previous evening, which had left William too sore to talk. Beth ached to get him away from it all, back to the place where he could be his wry, merry self again, waking up happy just because he had her.
When William didn’t answer she returned her gaze to the window. It was going to be hot, you could tell, from the gauzy look of the sky. Absently, she picked up the photo of the Chapman family that had once so impressed her, aware of how dramatically her feelings had changed, not just towards England but towards this gently dilapidated borrowed house and its owners. Especially the woman, Sophie. Beth brought the photo closer, frowning. The sharp gaze and high cheekbones, the beautiful daughters and romantic musician husband, the dusty box of love-letters so carelessly hidden – how readily she had lapped it all up, such a willing slave to envy and admiration. But now she knew better. Now she knew that the friendly, smiling photos, the scruffy comforts of the house, had been part of a subtle conspiracy – a conspiracy to lure her trust and then stamp on it. Four weeks of misery. And Dido … Beth dropped the picture and wiped her hands on her nightie, as if fearing contamination. The whole place was jinxed. She couldn’t wait to leave it, to reclaim her own home, find her beloved pet and forget the whole damn trip ever happened.
An airplane had appeared in the sky, thunderously close. Not far behind it was another. There were too many airplanes in west London, William had muttered recently, but Beth had secretly decided she loved every one of them – noise and all – for being reminders that the world was small, that escape from what had turned into one of the most insidiously unpleasant months of her life was just at hand.
‘Better get up, honey, we ordered the car for nine thirty – remember?’ Beth started pulling on the clothes she had laid out for travel the night before, noting with a burst of joy that the tightness of the trousers’ waistband had eased. Her ankle was better, her weight was better, only an hour till the taxi – life was really getting back on course. Bending down to lace up her trainers (chosen because her still tender ankle was bound to swell once they were airborne), she peered at the shoebox under the bed to make sure she hadn’t dreamt sliding it back into its cobwebbed corner. She had even fixed a new elastic band round the letters, a little thicker, but red like the one that had crumbled in her fingers.
Upright, ready to go, she was staring with despairing affection at William, his face still plunged deep in the folds of the pillow, when the doorbell rang. ‘William – it must be the taxi. William!’ She thumped the bedclothes and hobbled down the stairs.
But it was a uniformed young policewoman, one novice enough to assume she was speaking to the owner of the house and to launch, therefore, into an invitation for Beth to attend an identity session at the police station.
‘We have a youth in custody for a burglary similar to the one you experienced in January. It’s all done on video,’ she added helpfully, misinterpreting Beth’s blank expression as reluctance. ‘You won’t be face to face or anything.’
‘No, you don’t understand, I’m not Mrs Chapman, I’m … a house-guest.’
At which point William – still pulling on a T-shirt – took over, offering to leave a note to explain the development to the Chapmans, even though the policewoman, visibly fighting mortification at her mistake, insisted they would get in touch in person anyway.
‘I think they should have told us,’ Beth remarked stoutly, returning to the subject once they were finally – blissfully – speeding towards Heathrow along an almost empty motorway. ‘I mean to say … a break-in? As future tenants we had every right to know. Can you imagine if something like that had happened while we were there … and with your kids too?’ she added, adopting a tone of horror that had more to do with her now settled antipathy towards the house – and the visit in general – than concern for the welfare of her stepsons. ‘William? Don’t you think it might even have made us think twice about the whole plan to swap houses?’
‘So, better not to have known, then,’ murmured William, who had been staring in a dazed way out of the window, not really playing ball on this conversation or any other. ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t better,’ he added quietly, ‘the holiday … You had such high hopes, I know.’
‘Don’t be dumb … it was great.’ Beth managed a breezy laugh. ‘A few set-backs along the way, maybe …’ She pulled a face that was trying to be funny but he didn’t see.
Once in the terminal, they were among the first passengers to check in, a satisfaction that proved short-lived when it was announced that the flight, thanks to a
minor technical problem, would be delayed by at least two hours. Beth sought consolation in the consumption of three chocolate croissants. Shortly afterwards she left William to go and throw them up into a toilet, a process that took quite a while, given the need to disguise the noise of vomiting with flushes and then clean her teeth and touch up her face with powder and lip gloss.
‘I thought you were never coming out,’ William exclaimed, when she returned to him.
‘I’m a girl, remember?’ Beth shot back, pleased to hear an echo of the old playfulness in his tone.
He had his iPhone in his lap and was scrolling through messages. ‘I’ve just sent Harry an email, saying maybe I could fix him up with a work-experience thing in New York. An attempt at an olive branch. What do you think?’
‘Oh, baby, that is such a good idea. Do you think you could?’
William shrugged. ‘The way things are it will certainly be difficult. But it’s worth a try … Anything’s worth a try, given that Harry’s only plan appears to be playing drums and signing on for a job seeker’s allowance.’
‘Harry plays the drums?’
William scowled. ‘Badly, but yes. That’s mostly what our delightful chat was about last night, since he has formed – God help me – a rock band. Susan’s made him keep his kit in the basement for so long – between all her boxes of wool samples – I thought he’d lost interest. Or, at least, I hoped he had.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘But then maybe he’s the next Ringo Starr and I don’t know.’
‘Maybe.’ They caught each other’s eye and laughed, aware that lately such moments had been rare. William’s eyes grew moist – from mirth, Beth assumed, until suddenly, astonishingly, a few real tears were spilling down his cheeks. ‘Honey? My God, William, what is it? Is it Harry? He’ll be fine. He’s just a kid finding his way.’ Beth picked up his hands and pressed them to her lips, close to tears herself. ‘Oh, you know what we both need right now? A holiday … ’
And then they were laughing again and hugging like the fledgling lovers they were, two instruments in the same key, playing the same tune.
‘Oh, look, look, this is my favourite,’ said William, sniffing and smiling, extricating himself from the embrace to stroke the screen of his phone to get to his photos. ‘There. Look at that. Beautiful or what?’
Beth was somewhat bemused to find herself staring not at an image of her and William, but one of her with George and Alfie, sitting on a wall outside the Tate Modern. She had her arms round both boys and their heads were tipped in towards hers. It was a good, clear shot, with all of them grinning yet managing to look natural. ‘Yeah, that is a really nice one. They’re such great kids – I loved getting to know them better …’
‘And you’re so good with them, so good …’
‘I don’t know about that. I’m just myself, I guess.’
‘Exactly.’ William turned towards her, knitting the fingers of both their hands. ‘Beth, listen, there’s something I want to say, but I need to know that you’ll forgive me before I say it.’
‘Forgive you?’ She smiled uncertainly, her mind darting to a host of possible horrors.
‘Not that there’s anything really to forgive,’ William gabbled, seeing from her expression that he was in danger of losing her before he had even started. ‘Except that we had agreed something and now I want to revise that decision – or at least revisit it. And I know you’re going to be shocked so please do your best not to be.’
‘William, at this rate we’re going to miss our flight-call,’ Beth murmured, still nervous but faintly exasperated too.
‘A baby. Our baby. We could have one. Maybe. To complete us.’
In the silence that followed Beth was aware of her emptied stomach grumbling. It even occurred to her that one of the other more obvious fears might have been easier to react to. A grope with the peachy-assed Henrietta, perhaps … an old-times’-sake fuck with Susan … Yeah, both those would have been a whole lot easier. ‘But … we are complete,’ she said at last, her voice small.
William dropped his head. ‘Yes, we are. And I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that …’ And instead of backing off he was in full advance again. ‘You cannot imagine what it’s like to have a child – the love, the joy. It’s worth all the heartache a million times over. I want you to know that love, Beth. You deserve to know it. It will, quite simply, blow your mind. But more than that, I keep thinking how wonderful it would be to see the bit of you that would be in our child and the bit of me that would be in your child. It was such a screw-up with Susan, but with you I – we – could get it right …’ He pulled his hands free suddenly and sat up. ‘Okay, that’s it. I’ll stop there. Don’t say anything,’ he added, slapping his thighs in a manner that Beth hoped meant the matter was closed.
But then he was off again, his voice calm, his eyes ablaze. ‘Don’t say anything now, that is. I promised it was something we never needed to discuss and I’ve gone and broken that promise and for that I apologize. But there are reasons I’ve broken it and so all I’m asking for the moment, Beth, my love, is for you to agree to think about it. Just to think about it. Okay?’
Beth nodded, already not thinking about it. He shouldn’t have asked and she felt mad at him for that. But he was so wound up, so emotional, that it seemed unfair to judge him too harshly. Time alone was what they needed, back in their own space, their own home.
When their flight was called at last they walked slowly, William because of the conflicting emotions tugging at his heart and Beth because she was over-compensating for the unedifying desire to run.
‘Hey, you do forgive me, don’t you?’ he murmured, placing his hand on her lap as the plane taxied towards the runway, bouncing on the ruts in the tarmac. ‘What I asked you to think about back there – you’re not cross?’
‘I was just surprised, that’s all.’ Beth kissed the side of his face. How could she be cross now, with the plane pointing home? She relaxed back into her seat, so enjoying the push of engine acceleration against her chest that they were in the air and her head bursting before she remembered to feed herself a stick of gum.
PART TWO
9
Email to: [email protected]
8 September
From: [email protected]
Dear Beth,
This is just to offer you my own personal HUGE thank-you (I know Andrew has written separately to William) both for looking after our own home so well and for allowing us the most fantastic holiday in yours. Your house was so beautiful – I can’t put into words what a wonderful time we had. Everything was just perfect – and so much more relaxing than being in a hotel. (Not to mention a lot cheaper!) We were able to see our old friends in New York and do lots of sightseeing, but also to soak up the tranquillity of Darien … I can honestly say that every member of our family was thrilled by the whole experience.
The one big sadness, of course, was the disappearance of your lovely cat Dido. I just don’t know what can have happened to her and cannot apologize enough. Every time I think about it I still feel terrible. I know that Persian cats are very expensive so I would like to say now that if she doesn’t turn up and you decide that you would like to replace her, Andrew and I would be honoured if you would allow us to pay. Just let us know.
William assured me over the phone that our own, much more humble dwelling suited your needs well, so I am truly glad about that. I gather the weather was pretty terrible, which was a shame for you – the dampest August on record, according to our tireless weather pundits. It seems grossly unfair to confess therefore that I acquired (and still have!) the most fantastic suntan. The girls are brown as berries too, but even Andrew, who has the palest of skins and never tans, has more than a hint of a healthy glow!
So THANK YOU. The holiday of a lifetime. We shall treasure it always.
With warmest wishes,
Sophie Chapman
PS If we have left anything behind, apologies – I haven’t noticed
anything yet but we are a bit of a messy family! Please could you put any stray socks etc. in the post – we will reimburse you, of course.
Email to: Zoë[email protected]
8 September
From: [email protected]
Dear Zoë,
I simply CANNOT believe it is eight months since we last had a proper get-together. Where has the year gone? Of course, with the girls being older and not needing quite so much chaperoning, we don’t have all those chances to bump into each other … but still, that’s no excuse! Having just returned from a wonderful family holiday (in Darien, Connecticut – we SWAPPED houses with some Americans!) I am determined to turn over a new leaf and make an effort to see the friends I care about. To which end, can you and Pete come to dinner a week on Friday (26 Sept), say eight o’clock? Let me know.
All best in meantime,
Sophie
PS I have asked Karen and Jeremy too. I know they were planning to move south, but I think the credit crunch scotched that, didn’t it?
Email to: [email protected]
8 September
From: [email protected]
Dear Gareth,
Many thanks for being so understanding over the phone. I am writing now, as we agreed, to confirm that I would very much like to resume teaching at WFC this term in a similar freelance capacity as before, i.e. doing twelve hours a week but, as I said, having mucked you around, I am happy to do more or less than that, depending on what suits. I am in your hands! I appreciate that, so late in the day, you already have tutors lined up for this term and will wait patiently to see what you can offer.
I would also like to assure you that (touching wood), my health seems thoroughly restored. I entered the year suffering from what seems in retrospect to have been a form of exhaustion, but as I said on the phone, six months off – culminating in a glorious four-week holiday in the USA – have set me right back on my feet.
With best wishes and thanks,
Before I Knew You Page 14