by Clare Boyd
‘On a bender, of course. Don’t know why I ever believe he’ll go sober.’
I asked more about poor, lonely Arthur, who wore bicycle clips on his trousers even though he didn’t own a bike, touched that my father and my mother had developed such deep attachments to the regulars at the soup kitchen.
Before I knew it, lunch break was over. And I had not told him what I had done. While there was still hope that Elizabeth would calm down and forget to take it further, I would be cowardly. I could not bear to watch Dad’s face fall, knowing that he and my mother would suffer because of my selfishness.
* * *
Later that night, I called Rob, hoping for some sympathy. The walls were thin so I whispered the whole story, omitting the feelings Lucas had dragged up inside me again. The strange emotional ties to the past were unwarranted and unwanted, and unfair on Rob; he didn’t need to know.
At the end of my tale, he stayed silent. ‘Rob?’ I said, checking he was still on the line, fearing he had read my mind.
‘That was a really stupid thing to do,’ he replied.
My skin flushed. I shouldn’t have been surprised by his reaction. ‘I know,’ I said.
‘If you lose that job, we’ll be in the shit again, and I won’t be able to make a proper go of the bar.’
I spoke quietly. ‘The other week you were telling me not to go.’
‘The other week I hadn’t spoken to my accountant.’
‘Oh.’ I rubbed the bottom edge of my lip. ‘I didn’t know. Not good?’
‘I don’t wanna talk about it.’
A ring-pull cracked off a can. There was a pause as he took a sip. A tin of lager, I guessed.
‘Do you think they’ll sack Dad, too?’ I whispered, terrified of how Rob would answer, as though his reply would solidify our fate tomorrow.
‘They might,’ he said.
I groaned. ‘What have I done?’
He laughed, but it wasn’t light-hearted. ‘Shit, Heather. You’re mental, you are.’
‘It’s so stressful working there.’ I cleared my throat of the tears that were coming on. ‘Small things become big things, you know?’
There was a pause while he took a swig of his drink.
‘Listen to us, whispering down the phone like teenagers,’ he said, burping.
‘Why are you whispering?’
‘TRUE! I CAN SHOUT AS LOUD AS I LIKE!’ he roared.
‘Shh. You’ll burst my eardrums.’ I snuggled down under my duvet. ‘Tell me something to help me get to sleep.’
‘I’ve got a raging boner. What are you wearing?’
‘Thick greying flannel pyjamas with holes in the armpits.’
‘I’ve still got a raging boner. That’s how much I miss you.’
I reminisced about last weekend, when Rob and I had lain in bed for longer than usual on Sunday morning. The sun had streamed into the whitewashed room and the shells I had threaded on a string and hung from the curtain rail had rattled in the breeze of the open window.
‘Why don’t I come down to see you this weekend?’ I suggested.
‘Saturday nights are our only busy nights,’ he said.
It was a rejection and it felt like a punishment. I said, ‘Yeah, I guess the petrol costs a fortune. I’m not sure the car will even make it.’
‘Another weekend, babe, okay?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
Last year, when Rob had forgotten my birthday, I had complained to my mother about the lack of romance in our relationship, questioning whether we were right for each other. In response, she had described how Dad’s habit of microwaving cold stewed cups of tea had always infuriated her, but that she had learnt to accept his foibles, as he had accepted hers. She believed this acceptance was the ultimate romance and dismissed my concerns that Rob’s oversight was symbolic of a deeper ill between us.
‘You should see the crappy van that Agata and Piotr live in,’ I said.
‘It can’t be worse than that VW we rented when we first met.’
He was referring to the holiday in Wales where I had told him I loved him for the first time and he had suggested we move in together as a way of pooling our money.
‘Maybe it’s not that bad,’ I laughed, knowing that the camper van at Copper Lodge was far worse that the VW in Wales.
‘We should do that again next year.’
‘Yes.’ I sighed wistfully, wishing we could go now.
Misunderstanding my sigh, he said, ‘We don’t have to.’
‘Honestly, I’d love to. I’m just tired. This is all much harder than I thought it would be,’ I admitted.
There was a loud rustling of Rob’s bed covers and then a grunt.
‘I warned you about their type, didn’t I? Posh twats. I said they’d lord it over you. Remember?’ he said.
‘Yes. I remember.’ But it was Elizabeth’s words that launched themselves into my mind.
I know about you, she had said. I know about you.
As I said goodbye to Rob, I thought about Elizabeth and what she knew, and went to sleep certain that the Huxleys would terminate our contract at Copper Lodge tomorrow.
Eight
‘It really was shocking to see her there,’ Elizabeth insisted, remembering Heather’s beautiful eyes gazing at her. ‘In her underwear!’
The corner of Lucas’s mouth twitched. He slugged back his espresso. ‘You know I used to let her swim in the pool when it was Mum and Dad’s.’
‘But she was a kid back then. And she works for you now.’
‘She was probably just—’
His mobile buzzed.
Before he picked up, he said, ‘You’re getting distracted, Elizabeth. You need to focus on the party. Everything’s about the party. Leave Heather to me. I’ll deal with her.’ Then, into the phone, ‘Hello? Yes, uh huh. Go ahead, George.’
While he listened to what Walt Seacart’s assistant was telling him, he sifted through the sample invitations that Elizabeth had placed in front of him, checking the back of each design for the name of the stationers and its price.
When he came to the card decorated with gold strawberries, Elizabeth tapped on it and whispered to him, ‘Isla really wants us to use this one.’
It was by an artist and renowned local stationer, Mary Billingshurst, whom a smart mother at school had recommended. Yesterday, Elizabeth and Isla had taken a trip to see her in her Arts and Crafts cottage.
‘Mummy, this is the best one, you have to have this one, please, Mummy, please,’ Isla had begged. They had been standing in Mary’s workshop. The bright, cluttered space had smelt of turps and sawn wood. Mary had been behind the counter, quietly painting. She had worn an eyeglass and had thick veins on the back of her steady hands. Her designs were displayed on shelves. Each was unique and expensive.
‘Let me have a look,’ Elizabeth had said. The sample had been painted with two exquisite gold-and-red embossed strawberries in the top centre. The tiny flecks of pink, like seeds or confetti, looked as though they had been blown across the calligraphy. She imagined Bo Seacart’s eyes widening in admiration and Jude’s arty friends wowed by the understated craftsmanship, but when she had seen the price tag, she had gulped back her shock.
‘Darling, I’m not sure Daddy will go for this one,’ she had said quietly.
Isla had responded loudly. ‘But you promised I could choose and now you’re not letting me!’
Smiling apologetically at Mary, Elizabeth said, ‘Shush now, darling. Don’t be sad.’
Isla had crossed her arms and turned her mouth down. ‘You never like anything I like.’
‘That’s not true, poppet.’
‘It is true! I got you those dangling earrings and you never wear them!’
‘I do wear them.’
‘You and Daddy just think I’m stupid!’ she had said, hanging her head and biting her nails.
‘Isla—’
‘You never listen to anything I say because you think I’m stupid. And I am!’
Elizabeth had dr
opped onto her haunches, eye level with her daughter. ‘No. You are not. You are clever and beautiful, and you must believe in yourself. Daddy and I love you everything about you, and we love you very, very much.’
‘Promise you’ll order these then,’ Isla had sniffed, handing her the invitation.
Elizabeth had pushed her daughter’s blonde tresses behind her ears and promised she would try to persuade Daddy.
Now Lucas hung up the phone and flapped the gold strawberry sample in Agata’s direction. ‘Do you like these, Agata?’ he asked.
Elizabeth wondered if his trip into the garden last night had anything to do with his interest in Agata’s opinion now.
Agata’s face remained impassive when she said, ‘Pretty.’
Irritated, Elizabeth snatched the card from Lucas. ‘Shall I order them?’
‘We can’t afford them,’ he replied, shrugging at Agata as though apologising to her. ‘What’s happened with the caterers?’ he added.
‘Sarah Smith’s coming at nine thirty.’
‘Who the hell is Sarah Smith?’
‘The lady who makes the amazing macarons,’ Elizabeth reminded him.
‘Shit. I’d forgotten. I’m on a conference call until ten. Can she wait for me?’
‘I can handle it on my own, Lucas,’ she said, dumping three supersize packets of cola bottle sweets onto the work surface, breaking them apart noisily, tipping them into the jar, which was running low.
His phone rang and it was George again. Mary’s gold strawberries were back in his hand and he was studying the price on the back while grunting hmm, yes, hmm to George.
Elizabeth literally crossed her fingers. Lucas moved on.
‘Any of these three,’ he mouthed, waggling three dull art deco samples from a Sloane Street stationer.
‘What about Isla?’ she whispered, picturing her daughter’s heartbreaking tears.
Into the handset he said, ‘Hold on a sec, George, will you?’ He pressed hold. ‘When this deal goes ahead, we can buy her a field full of real gold strawberries, okay?’ Then he left the kitchen to continue his conversation with George in the garden.
In the build-up to 4 July, Lucas’s mood had been increasingly buoyant, bullish almost, in spite of the fact that Walt Seacart was being over-scrupulous about the full due diligence process, suggesting there were inconsistencies in the accounting practices of Lucas’s company, questioning its original five-year plan, undermining its projections and sales forecasts and nit-picking over insurance policy audits and the terms of the lease on a commercial property in his portfolio. On the surface, Lucas seemed convinced the deal would go ahead. But every single night he interrogated Elizabeth about progress on the party-planning, asking her to take her through every decision she had made. He would then remove his Rolex and instigate sex, sometimes twice over, and Elizabeth pretended to want it, accepting the pattern: the less control he had at work, the more he wanted at home.
Agata smoothed a hand over the sample. ‘Shame,’ she said.
‘Isla is going to be so upset,’ Elizabeth said. She stirred her coffee, worrying about the meltdown her daughter would have.
When Lucas had finished his call, she asked him, ‘Final decision?’
‘The others will bankrupt us,’ he said. He settled at her side and opened his iPad to read the newspaper.
‘Never mind,’ she laughed.
She was pretending she didn’t care; pretending she didn’t care that he never deferred to any of her decisions. Ever.
She was sure he could have afforded the invitations if he had wanted to.
‘I’m leaving for yoga now,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back in time for Sarah at nine thirty.’
‘Namaste,’ he chuckled.
‘Namaste,’ she returned, holding her hands in prayer and bowing to him.
* * *
Throughout her yoga class, she had experienced a crushing feeling in her ribcage. She had taken the long way home, needing to find some space to breathe.
With six weeks to go, she was trying her best to stay focused and positive, but her stress levels were rising exponentially, exacerbated by Lucas’s inability to delegate. He had given her the responsibility but lacked faith in her, which was the worst of both worlds.
At least Piotr had been respectful, and was on schedule. He had finished the repointing on the barn and had brought in two Polish men to help him gut the inside, preparing it for the installation of the pre-built oak mezzanine. The new windows were arriving next week. The new bed and coffee machine were ordered. Renovations were going according to plan, but somehow she couldn’t believe it would stay that way. Anxiety about making a mistake plagued her.
Now she was late for Sarah. It was 9.34 and Lucas was calling her already.
But she needed more time. More space. Enough space to stop herself from opening the car door and jumping out into the ditch, letting the car run off into the distance while the ringing got further away, and quieter, until it was gone altogether. Until she was gone.
On Lucas’s fifth call, she picked up. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi, darling. You know Sarah’s here already?’ he said.
She slapped one palm on the steering wheel and then composed herself. ‘Sorry. There were temporary traffic lights at the A245 junction.’
‘I was worried.’
‘My phone was on silent. Sorry.’
There was a pause.
‘I thought you weren’t picking up because you were upset about the invitations.’
‘No. I understand.’
The car banged over a pothole.
‘I’m getting Jude’s paintings out of storage this week.’ He knew how much she cared about this.
‘Oh good,’ she said, feigning indifference.
‘Did you hear me get out of bed last night?’
She pressed down her window for some air. ‘No? Did you?’
‘I went for a swim.’
‘In the middle of the night? How funny.’
‘I’m stressed about this deal. I can’t sleep.’
‘I didn’t realise. You seem so upbeat about everything.’
‘I’m trying to be.’
He had sounded genuine. ‘It’ll all be worth it in the end,’ she said, softening. It was a relief to muffle her suspicions, just as she had done last night, by pressing the pillow over her head, blocking out the noise of the shower.
‘When it’s signed, I’ll buy you a sports car.’
She remembered a story he had told her about his housemaster at boarding school. ‘You don’t need to prove anything to me, or to anyone,’ she said.
‘I’m not that boy any more,’ he snapped.
She regretted bringing it up. ‘Okay then. I’ll have a Ferrari, please,’ she joked.
‘Done.’
Before reaching home, he called again.
‘I just wanted to say I’m really proud of how you’re coping with the party and stuff. I’d never get through all this without your support.’
‘I’m enjoying it,’ she said.
She increased her speed to sixty mph on a lane more suitable for thirty and thought about how fast she would be able to drive in a Ferrari.
* * *
She reached home in one piece and parked her car next to Sarah’s old Audi. Through the glass walls, she could see Sarah sitting at the kitchen table and Lucas standing nearby. Before going inside, she watched them both for a minute. Lucas was throwing his arms in the air, holding court, and Sarah was laughing. Sarah might guess that Lucas was a type: the finance guy who was happy for his wife to get on with the silly business of party-planning.
‘Sarah, hi! Sorry, the class ran over,’ Elizabeth said, joining them.
‘No, no, don’t be silly. Agata and Lucas have been looking after me,’ Sarah said.
Lucas said, ‘I’ll be back when I’m done with this conference call. So sorry to be rude, Sarah. Are you sure you’re okay waiting?’
‘Of course,’ Sarah said, lifting her baby o
ut of his pram and letting him dangle in the air as she smiled at Lucas.
‘Hello, James,’ Elizabeth said to the pretty child, who was red-cheeked and snotty on Sarah’s shoulder. She pined for the days when Isla and Hugo were that age. At the back of her sock drawer she kept the muslin cloth that she had draped over her shoulder all those years before.
James began wailing. Agata passed Sarah a warmed bottle.
‘I wish I’d breastfed,’ Sarah said.
‘My boobs used to spurt into Isla’s eyes and make her scream,’ Elizabeth said.
Sarah laughed. Elizabeth joined in, wondering if it was laughter, or the lack of it, that had been the reason why she had wanted to employ Sarah. At the school gates, she had fantasised about being her friend. Going for coffee and seeing French films together. The last time she had been out with another woman, without Lucas, had been two years ago. She remembered the cheap pizza restaurant and the tart red wine. She remembered how luxurious it had seemed and that Lucas had waited up for her to ask her how the evening had gone.
‘Everyone told me it would be easier with the third,’ Sarah said.
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ Elizabeth said.
‘I’m so tired I’m just horrible to everyone all the time, even to myself,’ Sarah said, slumping.
In spite of a decade of experience at a top patisserie in Paris, Sarah now had the definite look of a scruffy down-home mother of three, as though she had been one all her life. She had a narrow pale face, partly hidden by a thick chunky fringe, possibly hacked off with kitchen scissors. But her smile made up for the dreariness of her appearance, always playing at her lips like mischief itself.
‘They go to school in the end, remember,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I even managed to read a book this month. A proper novel from cover to cover.’
‘Next you’ll be telling me you have sex with your husband!’ Sarah laughed.
‘At least once a year!’
Elizabeth’s hand passed over her throat.
‘Now I’m really jealous.’ She reached into the bottom of the pram. ‘But I can bake at least. Try one.’
She handed Elizabeth two pastel-pink boxes wrapped in dark silk ribbon. Elizabeth and Lucas Huxley had been printed in elegant white italics in one corner of each box. Elizabeth took a sharp intake of breath. ‘How lovely.’