The Girls in the Garden

by Lisa Jewell

  Clare nodded and sighed. “Have you been through this yet?” she asked. “With your girls?”

  “Ah.” He dropped his chin. “No. Well, at least, not as far as I’m aware. There was an American boy, a couple of summers back; he and Catkin hung out a fair amount but I don’t think it went further than that. And Fern is Fern, living in her own little world. Willow is still a baby. And, you know, they live a fairly sheltered life. So no, I haven’t had to deal with this yet. But I hope when I do that I can keep calm about it.” He smiled. “So. How are things? Generally?”

  She thought of the lasagna in the oven and wondered if Pip would think to take it out when the alarm went off. She decided to risk it. “I went to Walthamstow today,” she whispered. “I saw him.”

  Leo’s eyebrows jumped. He let out a puff of air. “Wow. So your hunch was right.”

  “Yes. Looks that way.”

  “And how was it? Did you talk to him?”

  “No, I just saw him, fleetingly—not even all of him, just bits of him.”

  “Bits of him?”

  “His knee, his hand, the side of his face.”

  “And?”

  She shrugged. “He seemed fine. He seemed normal. She was going somewhere, an interview or something. He wished her luck and gave her a hug. That was it. And now . . .” She looked for the words that would somehow make sense of the mixed feelings she’d been having all day long. “I don’t know now . . . His voice.” She glanced up into Leo’s eyes. His attention was fixed on her, intensely. “His lovely voice. I’d forgotten. So soft and deep. And he was wearing socks.”

  “Socks?”

  She smiled. “Isn’t that the silliest thing? Socks. His big feet in socks. And he seemed so normal. When the last time I saw him he was so mad. So mad.” She shook her head. “And now I’m not sure. I’m not sure what to do. Am I being irresponsible knowing where he is, when he could be a threat to me and my children, and not doing anything about it? Or am I being compassionate? I mean, he could be building up to another episode right now, and he knows where we live, yet . . .”

  “Yet he’s a human being.”

  “Yes! Exactly. And for so long, in my head, he’s been a monster.”

  Leo nodded. “You know,” he said, softly, “maybe you should talk to her? To Roxy?”

  “You think?”

  “Well, she’ll have the clearest perspective on him right now. On his state of mind.”

  “Yes, but she’s in love with him. And she’s not a mother. She’ll do anything to protect him. Even lie.”

  Leo sighed. “You’re right,” he said. “You are absolutely right. Listen. I’ve got a friend. He works in mental health, over in Islington. I could talk to him? Ask him anonymously? Would that be helpful?”

  “God, yes. That really would.”

  Leo smiled, touched her arm yet again. This time Clare found herself unthinkingly clasping her hand over his, holding it there tightly. “Good,” he said, their hands still held together, “leave it with me.”

  Slowly, she unpeeled her hand from his, and slowly he let his hand fall from her arm. There followed a tiny, exquisitely awkward silence before Clare pulled herself back into shape and said, “Well, I’d better go and rescue our lasagna from the oven before it’s nuked.”

  Leo simply smiled and nodded and watched her go.

  Virginia Park

  Annual Summer Party!

  Face-Painting!

  Live Jazz!

  Tombola!

  Beautiful-Pet Competition!

  Petting Zoo!

  Races & Tug O’ War!

  Saturday July 5th!

  2 p.m. till late!

  All welcome!

  18

  Through the back door Clare could see the white peaks of the tents and gazebos that had been assembled by the eager-­beaver party committee since early this morning. The sun was high in a cloudless sky. The park was full of the sounds of industry and expectation. It was the day of the Virginia Park Annual Summer Party.

  And also the day that her firstborn became a teenager.

  She’d thrown Grace a small party in their backyard earlier: nonalcoholic cocktails, helium balloons, a giant red velvet cake with thirteen candles, all her friends from the park, a round of “Happy Birthday to You,” nothing fancy.

  Now she stacked sticky paper cups into a tower, gathered up handfuls of brightly colored straws with concertinaed tissue fruits attached, balled up used paper napkins and shreds of ripped wrapping paper and envelopes, and dropped them all into a black bag. She took birthday cards through to the living room and arranged them on the dining table, piled up Grace’s gifts neatly: a hoodie from Tyler, just like the hoodies that Tyler herself wore; a John Green novel and a framed arrangement of silk butterflies from the sisters; money and a malodorous celebrity perfume from Clare’s mother; clothes from her; a glittering diamanté bracelet from Pip in a suedette box; and from Dylan, well . . . Clare didn’t know what he’d bought her daughter; Grace had taken it still wrapped into her bedroom after the party, saying she was saving it for later.

  They’d gone now, all the children. Grace had changed into the floral camisole top and silky boxer shorts that Clare had bought her for her birthday, applied more makeup to her fresh-skinned face, and they’d all headed out into the park.

  Clare took the bin bag to the hallway and opened the front door. She stopped when she saw Leo passing by on the street, the familiar loping gait, his hands full of shopping bags.

  “Hi,” he said, smiling warmly. “Birthday party over?”

  “Yes, just clearing up.”

  “How did it go?”

  “It was good. They’re fed and watered, ready for the summer party.”

  Leo nodded and as he did so his sunglasses fell from the top of his head to the pavement. Clare dropped the bin bag on the front path and ran to pick them up for him. “All in one piece,” she said, dusting them down and sliding them back onto the top of his head.

  “Thank you,” said Leo.

  The moment had been strangely intimate, her fingers against his hair, and it stretched itself out somehow, beyond real time. Clare found herself flushing and took a step back from him.

  He looked toward his carrier bags. “Doing a barbecue later on. Plenty here for you and the girls. You’re welcome to come over and join us?”

  “Oh,” said Clare, slightly thrown by the invitation. “What sort of time?”

  “Whenever you like. We’ll be on the terrace all day. Whenever you like.”

  Clare nodded. “Lovely,” she said. “Thank you. Can I bring anything?”

  Leo smiled. “Just your lovely self,” he said. “Just your lovely self.”

  Adele was halfway through transforming an angelic toddler into a horrible ghoul when her daughters appeared with Grace and Dylan. Since Grace’s party had finished they’d all been wandering about aimlessly, territorially, pretending that they weren’t having fun.

  “Happy birthday, Grace!” she said. “Did you have a nice party?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Grace, smiling her inscrutable smile. “Thank you for the presents.”

  “Oh, you are welcome. It wasn’t much, but I’m glad you liked them.”

  “Can we help?” said Catkin, smiling in amusement at the somber child in the chair.

  Catkin unfolded another chair and picked up a handful of brushes. Adele looked up from her little skeleton girl and smiled at her daughter. Fern flipped open a third chair and called over a little girl who wanted to be painted as a rabbit. Willow acted as assistant, cleaning brushes, passing colors.

  Adele picked up a damp sponge wedge and smudged out the dark sockets around the toddler’s eyes. Then she lifted her head from the child’s face to see if she could spot her parents anywhere. As she looked around, her eye was caught by the sight of Grace and Dylan, heads together over her little shoulder bag, looking at something inside it, smiling at one another, closing the little bag, and then leaving the park through the comm
unal gates, Grace looking back just once, over her shoulder, as though checking that they hadn’t been seen.

  19

  Clare felt a flutter of anxiety as she approached the Howeses’ terrace later that afternoon. There seemed to be an awful lot of people clustered around the table.

  “Clare! Pip! You’re here! Excellent.” Leo got to his feet and pulled chairs out for them. “Clare,” he said, “this is my sister-in-law, Zoe.” He gestured at an attractive dark-haired woman who was unmistakably Adele’s sister. “And this is John, Zoe’s husband.” A nice-looking man with a blond beard and thick-framed glasses stood up to shake her hand. “And these little cuties are my niece and nephew, George and Darcy. Everyone, this is Clare, our neighbor from across the way. And this is Pip, her daughter.”

  “One of my daughters,” she replied. “I’m not quite sure where the other one is.”

  “I saw her just a few minutes ago,” said Leo. “With the gang.”

  Clare exhaled. “Oh. Good. What are they up to?”

  “No idea,” he replied breezily. “Hanging out. Talking crap. Stuff.” He waved a bottle of wine and said, “Red? Or white? Or, in fact, Pimm’s? Is there any Pimm’s left?” He swept his gaze across the table. “No, we must have drunk it all. Sorry about that.”

  Leo poured her out a glass of white wine and passed Pip a beaker of cordial. “Where’s Adele?” she asked, feeling slightly out of place without the mother figure here to bind them together.

  “Just putting away the face-painting stall. She left the girls to run it for an hour and apparently the stall got hijacked by a bunch of younger children who completely trashed it.” He laughed, rubbing his hand across his stomach. “Apparently there is a small naked boy running about out there painted head to toe in sludge brown. Apart from around his private parts. He’s supposed to be a poo.”

  “Leo,” Gordon called from the French doors. “Pass me a foldy chair, will you? I’m going to stake my place for the jazz.”

  Leo rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I’ll do it, Dad. You stay here.” He pulled a stripy retro deck chair from a small wooden shed and smiled conspiratorially at the others.

  “No,” said Gordon, “not much in the mood for socializing. Think I’ll just take a walk.” He nodded toward the stripy chair. “Put me front row center.”

  Clare watched Gordon leaving. Huge pile of a man. His movements so forced and peculiar. The dyed brown hair. The violently patterned shirt. She watched him stand for a moment in the heart of the park, turning his big head this way and that, looking both lost and imperious. Like a deposed king, she thought.

  “Pip,” she said quietly in her daughter’s ear. “Do me a favor, will you? Can you have a look for Grace for me? Just find out where she is? You don’t need to say anything to her.”

  Pip sighed. “Okay, then.”

  “How old is she?” asked Adele’s sister, watching Pip’s retreating figure.

  “Twelve,” said Clare. “Just.”

  “Gosh, she’s very tall.”

  “Yes,” said Clare. “Her dad is six foot three.”

  “Wow. And you’re so tiny!”

  Clare regarded her wineglass. She had drunk half already. There was going to be a lot of small talk ahead. She would need more than her usual small glass to get through it.

  Pip returned a moment later and slid back onto her chair, her hand reaching automatically for the crisps in front of her.

  “Well?” Clare asked quietly. “Did you see her?”

  Pip nodded and put a crisp in her mouth.

  “What’s she doing?”

  “I don’t know. She’s with Dylan and Tyler and they’re all just kind of talking.”

  Clare peered curiously at Pip, who appeared to be processing crisps down her throat as a form of distraction rather than for pleasure.

  “Are they all okay?”

  Pip nodded and took another crisp. Clare put her hand out to Pip’s to stop the process. “Are you sure?” she asked. “Do I need to go over?”

  “No,” Pip snapped under her breath. “Don’t go over. They’re fine. Just leave them.”

  Clare looked at her in surprise. She saw Leo staring at her meaningfully.

  “Everything okay?”

  She nodded, then picked up her freshly filled glass and knocked back a third in two gulps.

  Adele was back. She’d said she was filthy and needed a shower and had appeared on the terrace five minutes ago all fresh and pretty in a floral dress and a black shawl, wearing red lipstick and earrings that glittered. The air was still golden and filling up now with the sounds of the jazz band warming up: stray squawks of saxophone, sonorous vibrations of double bass, hoots of trumpet. High-pitched feedback from the sound system. Testing testing. The crowds of people in the park had moved across to the spot just outside the next-door house. They arranged themselves afresh on their blankets, opened new bottles of wine, adjusted their sunglasses to the lowering golden sun. Zoe and John had taken their two small children out and sat now with a child on each of their laps just outside Leo and Adele’s back gate.

  “You not going to watch?” Adele asked her.

  Clare shook her head. “Not really a fan of jazz,” she said.

  Adele laughed. “Me neither,” she said. “I like music with proper tunes.”

  Leo had gone indoors to start getting the food ready for the barbecue. Adele and Pip were sitting side by side, drawing.

  They’re really good with kids.

  She remembered one of her girls saying that to her a while ago.

  Clare sighed and collected her wineglass from the windowsill, taking it through with her to the kitchen.

  Leo was slicing open film-topped packets of sausages and chicken pieces, arranging them onto a huge platter. He looked up at her and smiled.

  “Came in for some water,” she said. “Think I need to sober up a bit.”

  He grimaced at her and laughed. “Why on earth would you need to sober up? It’s Saturday! It’s summer! It’s a party!”

  “I know, I know. But I’m a single parent. Sole responsibility and all that. It’s not good . . .”

  “Oh, come on now. Your girls are virtually adults. I think you can afford to let your hair down from time to time. Not that you have much hair to let down.”

  Clare smiled anxiously and put her hand up to her boyish crop. She thought of Adele’s lustrous mahogany mane, imagined her pulling out that elastic band at the end of the day, it falling in waves over her bare shoulders, down her olivey back.

  He looked at her curiously, as though he’d been watching her thoughts. Then he poured her a glass of water and passed it to her. “What you need,” he said, turning back to his pile of meat, “is something to eat. You will stay, won’t you? I have, as ever, royally overcatered.”

  Clare nodded. Then she looked behind her and said, in an urgent whisper, “He’s been again.”

  Leo glanced up at her. “Chris?”

  “Yes. This afternoon. Another carrier bag. Gifts for Grace.” She shivered at the memory of her mother standing in the hallway with the bag in her hand saying, “Clare. I found this on your doorstep.”

  She’d lied to her mother. Said it was from a school friend of Grace’s, that her mum had promised she’d drop it off. Then she’d put it on the table in front of her, violently resisting the urge to open it until her mother had left.

  A gigantic makeup kit in a smart metal-cased box. Expensive shampoo and conditioner: For the Coolest Curls Around. A book by a famous (according to the bio) beauty vlogger. A tasteful card, the numbers 1 and 3 decorated with glitter and paper lace, a fifty-pound note slipped inside.

  Darling Grace,

  The day you were born was the happiest day of my life. It is hard to believe that today you are a teenager and even harder to believe that I can’t be there to celebrate with you. But I hope you understand why that is. And I hope one day I can be a part of your amazing, beautiful, extraordinary life once more.

  I love you
and am thinking about you today and every day,

  Lots of love,

  Your Daddy

  How did he know, she wondered, that the big, almost chubby, fresh-faced girl he’d last seen when she was twelve and a bit was now a leggy, Amazonian thirteen-year-old in skimpy shorts and full makeup? How did he know that everything had changed?

  “Did you see him?” Leo asked now.

  “No. I mean, assuming it even was him. It could be he sent Roxy.”

  “And was it okay?” he said, washing his hands at the sink. “The gift?”

  “It was more than okay,” she said. “It was perfect. She’ll love it.”

  “And a card?”

  “Yes. A beautiful card. Full of beautiful sentiments.” She sighed.

  Leo pulled a bag of zucchini out of the vegetable drawer in the fridge and looked at Clare thoughtfully. “You know,” he said, “he’s handling this really well. Do you think it’s possible he might be better?”

  Clare frowned. “Better?”

  “Yes. You know. Not ill anymore?”

  “Well, obviously he’s not ill anymore. They wouldn’t have discharged him if he was still ill. It’s not about whether or not he’s ill. It’s about the way I feel about what happened. And I am not over it. I mean, totally not over it. He broke something inside me the night he did what he did, something that I’m not sure can ever be fixed.”

  “Your trust?”

  “Yes! My trust! My faith that whatever happened, however ill he became, he would never ever do anything to hurt his family. And I know that wasn’t him that night. I know it was an imbalance of chemicals. But, you know, we’re all just a cocktail of chemicals when it comes down to it. There’s not much else to us, so maybe that was the real him? And maybe this one”—she pointed across the park toward her flat—“the one sending the thoughtful gifts to his daughter on her thirteenth birthday, the one taking medicine every day, is the fake? And if that’s the case, then did I marry a monster?”

  She’d begun to cry toward the end of this outburst. It was the wine. It was the emotion of the day. It was him. He crossed the kitchen and came toward her with his arms outstretched. He took her into his arms and she put her face against his T-shirt. She could hear the beating of his heart. She could smell the warmth of his skin. She could feel the depth of his soul. And she wanted, more than anything, to kiss him. And she knew, more than anything, that she must not. That he was married to a good woman. That she was a disaster.