by Lulu Taylor
‘We could sell the London flat and buy a cottage,’ she suggests. ‘Somewhere like this – rural and pretty with a garden . . .’
‘But where will I work?’ he says slowly in a tone of exasperated patience, as though pointing out the screamingly obvious. ‘If my writing doesn’t come to anything, I’ll need to find something like my old job again. And that means London.’
‘No. Not London.’ She’s determined. She doesn’t want to take the twins back there, to the noise and the traffic and the struggle to go anywhere. ‘We have to be able to make it work. Surely. I’ll start coming up with some proper book ideas. I’ll go to town for the day and see my agent and talk it over with him. I’ll get some pitches for articles ready.’
‘All very nice possibilities. If they happen, then maybe we could live off them. But we can’t be sure.’
He’s in one of his negative phases – nothing she suggests will inspire hope. He’ll knock it all down. She tries to think of what she can do in the short term to improve his mood, and places a hand over his, rubbing the tops of his knuckles gently. ‘Listen, I’ll talk to Francesca and ask her what her plans are. Maybe we can explain that we really need some time together as a family. She must know what that’s like, she’s a mother.’
Dan looks suddenly even more miserable, his blue eyes darkening and his mouth turning down. ‘No. Don’t do that. We don’t need to risk upsetting her. Leave her be. She’ll go in the end. It’s just . . . draining.’
Olivia stares at him, still rubbing her hand over his. ‘Dan . . .’ she ventures. ‘I know I asked you before but . . .’
He flicks his gaze up at her; it’s hard and unyielding. It reminds her of the dark days. The arguments. The tears and shouts and desperation. The sense that he might be a stranger to her. She feels momentarily cowed, then decides to press on.
‘You and Francesca . . . did anything . . .’ She tries to pick her words carefully. ‘Did anything ever happen between you? Romantically?’
He hesitates, and as soon as he does, a strange feeling washes over her, a prickling, buzzing feeling as though her world has just shifted. ‘Did it?’ she asks, her voice tight with sudden strain.
He looks up, his stare unwavering. ‘No,’ he says firmly.
‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you?’
He pauses again, and she is back on tenterhooks. ‘Look, I don’t know . . . back in the day, she might have nurtured a little crush on me. But if she did, it was a lifetime ago and it never went anywhere. It was over long before I met you. She was going out with Walt practically as soon as we left university and soon after that she got married. That’s all there is to it.’
‘That’s it?’
He nods. ‘Yep.’
She wonders why she still feels a sense of unease, as though this is not the whole story. Dan obviously doesn’t want to say more.
‘Do you promise?’ she persists.
He looks away, clicking his tongue with annoyance. ‘For God’s sake, Olivia, what did I just say? Of course I promise. There’s nothing to it. Can you please just accept it?’
He gets up, pushing his chair away from the table with unnecessary force, and she watches him go, heading back to the study and the demands of his play.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Francesca finds it is a relief to escape the cottage for a while and drive into town. She doesn’t have all that much to do. She’s already been on the phone to Anastasia for most of the morning, and sorted out all the details of her domestic and social life. An hour or so of emailing helped her deal with other arrangements. It looks as though the builder she met last week will be coming back to start work on demolishing the old gym and swimming pool. It all has to be rebuilt.
It’s a bit mad to start on a pool when they don’t yet have anything like a working house, but at least something will begin. And it justifies her continued presence in the house.
As she parks the car and wanders into the small town, she admits to herself that the settled bliss she felt so recently is wearing off. In many ways, she wouldn’t mind returning to the privacy and luxury of the London flat. She would quite like to be back home in Geneva. Talking to Anastasia and to Marie-Chantelle has brought her old life vividly to mind and she is surprised to realise that she misses it after all. There is an order to it, a smoothness and a predictability. She is free to do as she likes there. And what’s more, others do what she wants. She loves the twins with a deep passion but she has forgotten what hard work toddlers are – and how obstinate and determined they are too. She’s always calling out, telling them to stop, racing after them, trying to prevent them from eating worms, or falling in puddles, or smearing food where it should not be. They are constantly dirty, requiring endless changes of nappies and clothes, and hungry when they shouldn’t be and then refusing food at meals.
Olivia should stop feeding them all those snacks when they beg for them. They don’t need all those rice cakes and animal biscuits. It only fills them up and stops them eating dinner. It’s so British.
She catches herself up and laughs despite herself. She’s been too long in Europe, where the children of her acquaintance are like little adults, perfectly at home in restaurants and at smart dinner tables from an early age. Then she frowns again. And why isn’t she potty training them? They are surely old enough to be out of nappies by now. I’m sure Olympia and Fred were. But the memory is a little hazy and unreliable now. She can’t be certain how old the children were when they learned to be dry.
Francesca walks along the high street, past the endless chain shops, looking for a nice place to have a decent coffee, but she can only see Starbucks and a bakery cafe serving up monstrous iced buns with violently red cherries on top, or huge chocolate muffins studded with dry-looking chips. Eventually she sees a deli that has tables out the back and goes in for a black coffee and a look at the homemade cakes, which she carefully refuses. Sitting at a table, she takes out her phone and scrolls through the photographs she has taken of the twins. There are reams of them, but she loves them all. The children are surely worth the price of being here.
What a shame I can’t take them back with me. The thought floats into her mind, and she sits up straight, imagining suddenly a life in which she has the twins at home in Geneva, with their laughter ringing through the house. It would be so marvellous! She would be able to enjoy all the fun, and someone else would do the work. Her old nanny might even be available. For a moment, Francesca considers ringing her to check her availability. Then she shakes her head ruefully. It can never happen. How could I even start to get custody of them? For a moment, she wonders idly what the legal position would be, but she soon dismisses it. She’s well aware that the law would recognise Olivia as the children’s mother no matter where the eggs came from and besides, there is the matter of the disclaimer, signed in the Spanish clinic, that waived all rights to the children.
No. It can’t happen like that.
So how can it happen? Her mind wanders over the possibilities but nothing is realistic enough to capture her imagination.
There really is only one solution to all of this. Somehow, I have to replace Olivia. That’s all there is to it.
As she drives back to Renniston, the bags of groceries in the back, she feels calm again. It is as though life has become a series of little moments of resolution. Yesterday, she let go of the part of herself that has tried to understand and excuse Olivia for things that are not her fault. She’s not going to bother with sympathy and understanding anymore, they only stand in the way of what she wants. Today she has understood what has to happen for her aim to be realised. There are more conclusions to come to, she is sure of that, but they are unknown for now. At least she has confidence that she will receive them in time. Gradually, the way will become clear.
She parks the car at the side of the cottage, and takes some of the shopping bags from the boot to haul inside. Olivia’s list turned out to be quite long and there are several bags full to bursting. As she s
truggles with two of the heaviest, she becomes aware of someone watching her and turns to see William, the old gardener or caretaker or whatever he is, staring at her. He is just the same as usual, in old brown trousers and a saggy tweed jacket, his white stubble rampant and his faded eyes beady.
‘Well?’ she snaps. ‘What do you want?’
He says nothing but only stares at her, observing her as she staggers under the weight of the bags.
What have I packed in here? Lead? Oh God, I wish he’d stop staring at me.
She snaps, ‘If you wanted to help, you could bring a bag or two.’
‘I don’t obey your orders,’ he returns, his voice gruff. ‘I thought you understood that by now.’
‘All right, all right. I don’t give a shit, if I’m honest.’ Francesca rather enjoys releasing a casual swear word. She’s sure that he’s of the generation that would be shocked to hear ladies swear.
He takes a step towards her, his eyes blazing. ‘Why don’t you leave these people in peace? What are you doing here? I’ve watched you with those kids, you’re all over them. She’s their mother, the other one. Not you. You go off somewhere else. It’s not right, latching yourself on to them like this, and you know it.’
She narrows her eyes at him, resting her bags on the muddy ground. ‘You know sod all about it, so why don’t you just piss off? You can stop spying as well, and if you don’t, I’ll report you for harassment, and then we’ll see how much support you get from Preserving England. This is my house and my land. I know you don’t like it, but that’s the way it is, so you’d better get used to it.’ She realises she’s enjoying the spiky confrontation and letting loose a little of the acid that’s collected in her veins lately. ‘The sooner you’re away from here the better. The builders are coming in a day or two and all this will start to change, whether you like it or not. Your day is over, understand?’
Bending down, she picks up her bags again and heads for the cottage, while he stands there and watches.
As soon as she gets into the kitchen, Francesca senses the change in atmosphere. Usually, Olivia would give her a big smile and a friendly greeting. Now, from her place at the stove where she is stirring something that smells delicious, she turns with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and says in a cool voice, ‘Hello, you’re back.’
They don’t want me here anymore. They’ve discussed it. Francesca is certain. ‘Yes,’ she says brightly. There’s no way she’s going to acknowledge this change in mood. Everything is absolutely normal, as far as she’s concerned. ‘I got the shopping.’
‘Oh, thanks. That’s splendid.’ Olivia comes towards her, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s nothing. I’m glad to help.’
‘You must let me give you the money.’
‘No, don’t bother, consider it my contribution to the board and lodging.’
‘But,’ Olivia says stiffly, ‘it’s your lodging anyway. Remember?’
Francesca smiles again and gestures over her shoulder. ‘There’s more in the car but I might send Dan out to get it. The old gardener bloke is out there and he gives me the creeps.’
‘Really?’ Olivia brightens, her mood softening. ‘I’ll just go outside and have a word. I need to thank him properly for last night.’
Before Francesca can ask where the children are, Olivia has disappeared out of the door. She puts the milk in the fridge and looks around. The play mat is tidy and the table is set for the twins’ supper. She goes out into the hall, and hears the blare of the television coming from the sitting room at the end, the room below her bedroom. She goes towards the sound and opens the door. Bea and Stan are sitting on the floor, their backs pressed against the sofa, transfixed by the bright moving pictures on the screen in front of them. Dan is with them, but his head is tipped back, his mouth open and his eyes closed; he is breathing deeply.
The twins look round briefly as she comes in but when they see it is her, they return their gazes to the television, where a vividly coloured cartoon about birds is unfolding. Francesca is filled with calm. This is peace.
Very gently, she goes to the sofa and sits down next to Dan. He doesn’t wake. With one hand she reaches down and strokes Stan’s head. Her thigh is almost, almost pressed against Dan’s, but not quite.
Here I am, she thinks happily. With my family.
The pleasant, peaceful idyll is brought to an end by Olivia’s shout from the kitchen that the twins’ supper is ready.
‘Come on, little ones,’ Francesca says. ‘Dinner!’
Dan jerks awake and stares at her, surprised by her presence. Then a look of something like horror comes over his face. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks in a hoarse whisper.
She smiles sweetly. ‘Just watching television with our children, darling. What’s strange about that?’
‘Our children?’ he repeats, going pale.
She shrugs lightly. ‘The children, if you prefer.’
There’s another shout from the kitchen. The twins don’t move, still absorbed in the television. Dan blinks hard and leans towards her. She thinks about how his nearness would once have sent her into a frenzy of hard-to-conceal agitation and desire. Now she simply feels the rightness of their being close. Like any couple. Like any parents.
‘Listen, Cheska,’ he says in a low, urgent voice. ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at but you know what we agreed.’
‘What? I’ve forgotten.’
He stumbles, not sure what to say next. Has she really forgotten, or is she playing by the rules and pretending there is no secret? Is she forcing him to say out loud what is supposed to remain unsaid? She can’t help feeling gleeful as she watches these thoughts play across his face as clear as the cartoon the children are watching.
Dan gathers his thoughts and starts again. ‘You need to go soon, okay? Olivia and I need some space. You’re welcome, of course, but we’re a family—’
‘I know we are,’ she says innocently.
‘No. Olivia and I – and the children – that’s the family. You know that. You’ve got your own family and you should think about getting back to them. Okay?’
She reaches out and gently puts her hand on the thigh of his jeans. ‘Or . . . we could share?’ She smiles at him. ‘There are no hard feelings on my side, Dan, over . . . the past and all that happened. We can still make it right.’
He frowns. ‘What are you talking about?’ He shifts awkwardly under her hand but doesn’t push it away.
‘Perhaps there’s a way we can all have what we want. After all, we are a family. Daddy and Mummy.’ She leans in so that she is very close to his face, looks at his mouth, then up to his eyes, laughs throatily and whispers, ‘And Mummy.’
He gazes back as if hypnotised by her, perfectly still under the hand that rests on his thigh.
The door opens and Olivia is there, looking frazzled. ‘Can’t you hear me?’ she demands and then takes in the scene before her: Dan and Francesca close on the sofa, her hand on his leg. Francesca swiftly removes it in a smooth, guiltless way, as though it had been there only an instant. She shifts away from Dan in a small but obvious movement. Olivia blinks and opens her mouth to speak, but says nothing.
‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ Dan says, standing up quickly. ‘We were just coming.’ He picks up Stan, who whimpers with resistance, his eyes staying firmly fixed on the screen as Dan carries him off, scooping up Bea as he goes. A moment later, they are all gone, leaving Francesca with just the television for company, playing on regardless of its lost audience.
She stares after them, and thinks she might possibly have found how to get Olivia out of the way.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
1960
The winter term is always a subdued one, full of icy fingers and chilled toes, girls huddled around tepid radiators and wrapped in scarves. It is about endurance, more than anything else, hunkering down and putting up with all the discomfort until spring finally arrives to re
lieve the pressure.
Julia wakes up to the bell and groans, getting herself out of bed, aware that this is the last time she will feel warm all day. Washes are quick in the morning, and she gets dressed rapidly before making her way down through the freezing corridors to the dining room for breakfast, where at least it is a little less icy.
Who thought this place would be a good school? she wonders as she hurries down the stairs with everyone else. It’s too big and cold to be tolerable.
Perhaps if there was a decent heating system, it might help. But then again, the swimming pool and gym at the end of the east wing are still being constructed, so huge gusts of winter air come in all the time to chill the place even more.
Lessons start at nine after assembly and prayers, but she can tolerate those. At least they are inside, where it’s possible to dig fists deep into pullover sleeves and warm up fingers that way. Lunch is hot, and they eat as much as they can, even of the horrible stuff, like rice and gristle stew, or what they call tubey soup, because the lumps of meat in it are full of little white tubes, whatever they might be. But the afternoon, and sometimes even the morning, brings games. The walk to the changing rooms has the air of the condemned about it. The painful stripping of warm clothes and the replacement with kit, far too skimpy for the weather outside, and then the horrible run from the school to the frosty playing field.
‘Come on, girls, let’s warm you up. Run around the perimeter, please!’ Miss Dunleavy bellows, but she looks freezing herself and not at all keen to be outside. They run but Julia feels only marginally warmer afterwards. There are stretches, then they’re divided into teams, and then they start the match. Julia has only a vague idea of what the game consists of, and spends most of the time shivering on the side of the pitch, using her lacrosse stick to strike tiny snowstorms of frost off the crisp blades of grass.