“Two of my favorite people,” he said, clicking again. “But I hate to tell you…unless Alfie has a secret stash—and anything’s possible—you’re not going to find the tomato sauce in here!”
Eve flushed. Embarrassed.
“I’m showing Evie our room,” Alfie said, saving Eve from having to choose between confessing to being a snoop or telling tales on a five-year-old.
Ian’s eyes met hers. “You’re sleeping in Sophie’s room,” he said. “She’s moved in with Hannah for the night. I hope that’s OK?”
“Of course it is,” Eve said with feeling. “I was expecting the sofa.”
It was gone eight before the stragglers left and Ian disappeared to coerce an exhausted and overexcited Alfie and Sophie into a bath and their beds. Hannah used his vanishing as an opportunity to commandeer the sitting room and turn on whatever reality show was flavor of this month.
Feeling like a spare part, Eve went to see if she was needed in the kitchen.
“Ghastly,” said Ian’s father, as he staggered in with a plastic bag full of rubbish. “Not all it’s cracked up to be, entertaining.” Tying a knot in the top of the bag, he said, “People descend like locusts, eat the place bare, then leave their rubbish all over the lawn and push off, leaving me to clear up. Remind me why we do it?”
Elaine patted his arm as he passed. “The pleasure of seeing the people you love enjoy themselves, perchance,” she said, smiling. “Your eldest granddaughter’s birthday, maybe?”
He pulled a face and went to get another bag.
“Can I persuade you to dry?” Elaine asked Eve, who was loitering awkwardly by the doorway.
“Of course. I was just about to offer.” Eve was conscious how pathetic that sounded. As soon as Elaine shut the door, then headed not for the sink but the fridge, where she liberated a half-full bottle of Chablis and two glasses, Eve realized she’d been had. It was a trap.
Should she start washing up anyway?
The elderly woman read her mind. “Sit down, my dear,” she said. “Keep me company while I put my feet up and have a drink I actually taste.”
Eve knew the feeling. She felt much the same about food. She hadn’t tasted a thing all day, even though she’d eaten like it had been going out of fashion.
Taking a chair, Eve perched on its edge and hoped she didn’t look as nervous as she felt.
Elaine filled two glasses and pushed one toward Eve. And then, having raised her glass in silent salute, she said, “I hope you don’t mind, but there are a couple of things I’d like to say.”
It wasn’t a question, so Eve picked up her glass too, more for something to do with her hands than anything else, and made herself sit back in the chair.
Ian’s mother took another sip, longer and slower, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were steely, almost as if someone else was suddenly in residence.
“I hope you understand what you’re taking on,” she said. “Ian’s not just their father, he’s both parents in one. I don’t know what sort of deal you and he have, but you need to understand that those children must be part of it. Will always be part of it. He wouldn’t let it be any other way. And nor, I assure you, would I.”
Eve held Ian’s mother’s gaze for a few seconds, then looked down at her own glass. Condensation was dripping onto her fingers.
“Those children have been through a lot. And Hannah more so than the others.”
Although Elaine held up a hand to keep Eve from speaking, Eve had no intention of uttering a word. “I’m sure she’s not easy. Any fool can see that. But what I am saying is it’s up to you to make it work. You’re the adult in this equation. Hannah’s the child, whatever she likes to pretend otherwise. And she misses her mother terribly.”
Eve nodded, slowly. She was listening with every nerve in her body, but she hadn’t a clue what Elaine expected her to say.
“However scared you are, her fear is far greater. Remember that.”
“I will,” Eve managed.
“I watched my son go through a lot,” Elaine said. “Far more than any mother wants to see her child suffer. Caroline’s death was awful, just awful. And why she had to write that damn column I don’t know. Ian hated it, we all did. But then I suppose he’s told you that. All we can do is hope they never make the film.”
Eve felt her eyes bulge in horror, and she buried her face in her glass before Elaine could see her shock.
What bloody film?
She forced herself to push the question to the back of her mind. Save it, she urged herself. Don’t let her see you don’t know.
She would ask Ian later—if she ever got him on his own.
“Caro was no saint, you know,” Elaine was saying. “I’m sure he’s told you that, too. If he hasn’t—out of respect for her memory, or some such—I’m telling you now. No matter what you’ve read in the papers, she wasn’t some heroine. Oh, she was brave, braver in public than in private, is my understanding, but who isn’t? But ill or not, courageous or not, Caro wasn’t perfect. Mind you, I don’t doubt that Ian is less than perfect when you’re not his mother.”
Elaine smiled; her eyes were softer now. “Now,” she said. “I want my son to be happy. And if you make him happy—and you must, or he wouldn’t have invited you here—that’s good enough for his father and me. But I’m telling you it won’t be easy. In fact, prepare yourself for it being very, very hard. But you will have me on your side, that I promise you. While you are on Ian’s side, Tom and I will always be firmly on yours.”
She reached across the table and placed a thin hand over Eve’s own. Despite its papery skin, her grip was strong.
“You are the first, you realize that?”
Eve nodded. She hadn’t been sure before this weekend, but now it was obvious. Oh, she was certain there had been women before her; one-nighters, maybe two, but they hadn’t mattered enough for Ian to let them into his and his children’s life. Or, for that matter, his parents’.
“Good. That’s clear then.” The old woman was reaching the end of her speech. “But if you hurt him or my grandchildren…I assure you, my dear, I may be old, but I’m tougher than I look. You won’t know what hit you.”
“I won’t,” Eve said, finding her voice in the face of the older woman’s resolve. “Hurt them, I mean. I love Ian, Mrs. Newsome….”
“Eve?” The kitchen door opened and Ian’s head appeared around it. He took in the table, the wine, the two glasses and the ghost of a hastily withdrawn hand. “Mom? What’s going on?”
Pushing back her chair, Elaine climbed to her feet. “Nothing, dear. Eve and I were just having a little chat.”
“Eve?”
Eve drained her glass in one gulp. She felt as if a tsunami had washed over her and she had come out the other side. Alive, just barely, and clinging to a tree.
“Uh-huh. Like your mother said. Just a little chat.”
Nine
Wake up, wake up, wake up!”
Hammering, loud, long and very, very hard. Eve wasn’t sure if it was inside her head or outside, but she knew it hurt. A lot. Surely she hadn’t drunk that much? Mentally she tried to tot up the Pimm’s, the glasses of rosé, then there was a bottle of beer and that final glass of Chablis…
“Wake UP!”
No, definitely outside her head, but now inside the room. Inside the room, on her bed. And, if she didn’t open her eyes in the next few seconds, she imagined it would be on her head.
“Alfie, stop!” came Ian’s voice. “What bit of ‘Let’s take Eve a cup of tea and wake her up gently’ didn’t you understand?”
Eve opened one eye and found herself nose to nose with a small blonde boy, his hair standing on end at the back of his head where he’d slept on it and so far evading all threat of a brush.
“Hello,” she said, hauling herself onto one elbow and risking a small hug. He hugged her back, and she was surprised to feel a surge of something more than pleasure.
“Would you like a Jammy Dodger
?”
“Alfie…” Eve could hear a warning note in Ian’s voice, but it was too early in the day for her family code-breaker to be functioning.
“Erm, no thanks. It’s a bit early for me.”
“See, I told you she…”
“Pleeeese Eve, you gotta have a Jammy Dodger.” It was one of those wails that could go in either direction.
“OK, OK…I’ll have a Jammy Dodger.” If it mattered that much, the least she could do was have a cookie with her tea.
“See, Dad!” The little boy jumped off her bed and raced for the door, his Spider-Man pajamas a whirr of blue and red. A second later, she could hear his feet as he pounded down the stairs.
“What a pushover,” Ian said. “Budge up.” She moved her legs to one side, and he perched beside them, squeezing her knee through the floral duvet. “You’re just too easy.”
Eve grinned. “Speak for yourself.” But before either one could find out just who was easy around here, she spotted a flash of pink bobble lurking beyond the door.
Just as well, as the door crashed open again, and Alfie appeared carrying a plate with four Jammy Dodgers skidding around precariously. By the time the plate reached Eve, two had vanished.
“We’re not allowed cookies before breakfast,” said a voice from the landing. Sophie sounded put out.
“Granny said OK.” Crumbs sprayed from Alfie’s mouth as he spoke. “I can have a cookie if Eve does.”
Eve heard a bedroom door slam.
“A cookie. So, where’s the other one?” Ian asked. But it was too late, the second Jammy Dodger had gone from Alfie’s dressing-gown pocket to his mouth in a flash.
“Alfie!”
“Can’t didn’t won’t!”
“Alfie, what have I told you…?”
But boy and cookie were long gone. Eve realized she had, indeed, been had. Used up and tossed away by a five-year-old mercenary who knew a fast track to a snack when he saw one and wasn’t above using it.
“Can’t didn’t won’t?” she asked.
“All-purpose denial.” Ian couldn’t help grinning. “Can’t do it, didn’t do it, won’t do it. One size fits all.”
Eve was impressed. Maybe it would work on Miriam? “I didn’t even know they made Jammy Dodgers anymore.”
“I know, disgusting things. They’re all food additives. Reckon they must be in the granny handbook. Those, and those horrible sports cookies with icing on one side and pictures of stick men playing tennis and cricket on the other. She has a limitless supply of the damn things. Dread to think what their sell-by date was. Begins with nineteen probably. Used to drive Ca—” he stopped, aware of what he’d almost said.
Caro mad, Eve wanted to finish for him. Of course it had, of course Caroline would have been the queen of organic. No food additives in the Newsome household then, that was for sure.
They were saved by a second flash of pink in the gap where door met hinges. “Would you like a Jammy Dodger?” Eve said, looking past Ian, to where she knew Sophie lurked on the landing outside.
Silence.
“Sophie? Would you like a cookie?”
A be-bobbled head peered around the door into Eve’s room. “Am I allowed one, Daddy?”
“I don’t see why not,” Ian said. “Just this once.”
The girl ventured in, coming just close enough to the bed to take the remaining cookie before backing away again. She was already dressed in denim jeans with pink embroidery on the pockets and pink everything else.
“Thank you for lending me your room,” Eve said. “It was kind of you. Your bed’s very comfortable.”
The girl smiled, pleased, but didn’t speak.
“What d’you say, Sophie?” Ian coaxed.
“It’s OK, but my sleeping bag’s really prickly.”
Eve burst out laughing.
“Sophie!” Ian rolled his eyes.
“Well,” she said, bottom lip wobbling. “It is.”
“I’ll swap you for your duvet if you want,” Eve offered.
“No,” Ian said. “You won’t. Anyway, Granny and Grandpa are going today so there’ll be enough duvets for everyone tonight.”
Breakfast at the cottage was chaotic, all dogs, children, Rice Krispies and spilled milk, but that was nothing compared to the fight for the children’s bathroom. Were mornings always like this? Eve wondered. Getting to the office on time was about the full extent of her usual morning achievements. How Ian got three kids washed, dressed and to school with all the necessary equipment and all before nine, she had no idea. And as for doing it without them looking as if they’d been dragged through a hedge backwards…it was beyond her. OK, so he usually had Inge, the au pair, who had returned home for a holiday…but, even so, Eve was impressed. And slightly appalled. Although there was no way she’d let Ian’s mother get a whiff of that.
“Can I give you a hand?” she asked Ian’s father as he staggered downstairs, carrying a large suitcase. He stopped, taking advantage of the opportunity to rest the case on the bottom step and catch his breath. “If you can lift this, you’re tougher than you look,” he said. “But I’m not about to find out. Ian would kill me if you did yourself a damage.”
His eyes were Ian’s, but twinklier. Ian’s without three years living in the shadow of his late daughter-in-law’s cancer, and two years of child bereavement counseling. Although who knew what the old man’s eyes had seen over the years?
Tom handed Eve the car keys. “How about you open the trunk for me?”
So Eve unlocked the Volvo Estate and then watched, feeling useless, as the old man lugged the leather suitcase across the gravel, pausing halfway to catch his breath before bundling it into the trunk.
“Are you sure I can’t help?”
“You are helping,” he said, fixing those eyes on her. Not so twinkly now.
Another Newsome family trap, Eve realized, only this one she’d helped spring herself.
“More than you know.”
Eve blushed.
The old man squeezed her arm. “You survived Elaine’s interrogation, for a start!” His twinkle was back.
“It wasn’t…”
“Don’t deny it, my dear. Braver men than you—no offense intended—have fallen at that hurdle. Take it from me. I’ve been married to Elaine for forty-five years, and I’ve seen her disapproval. It can be ugly.”
“Thanks, Mr. Newsome.”
“It’s Tom. I’ve told you, call me Tom.”
Ian’s father leaned forward and grasped Eve’s shoulders—part affection, part, she suspected, simply holding himself up—and kissed her firmly on both cheeks. “Well done, my dear. And welcome.”
“Come on, you old fool, we’re going to spend the rest of the day on the A303 if we don’t start soon.” Ian’s mother was on the doorstep, Alfie loitering around her legs. Her expression told Eve nothing other than the fact that they were likely to be late.
“Where’s Hannah?” Tom said, to no one and everyone.
“Coming,” said Ian, appearing around the side of the house, Ben panting and tail-wagging at his side. “I sent Sophie to tell her you’re off so she’s to get up pronto.”
The girl’s grandmother glanced at her watch, her face registering the time. “Channeling her inner teenager,” Eve said.
Ian shook his head. “Outer teenager. She’s thirteen now. We’d better get used to it.”
Eve wasn’t sure what “it” was. But she had a horrible feeling they were going to find out.
Ten
The envelope sat on the kitchen table, where it had rested for the past two hours. Not for the first time that morning, Clare thanked all manner of gods she didn’t believe in that it was the summer holidays and, in true teenager style, Louisa was still asleep at 11:00 a.m.
And if Lou wasn’t asleep, she was at least lazing in bed and leaving Clare in peace, to get on with “whatever schoolteachers do in the school holidays,” as Lily used to say.
This had to be the first summer her younger
sister hadn’t made some scathing remark about teachers getting a nice long break. Clare had always ignored her, anyway. She’d developed a talent for that over the years, ignoring the things people said that hurt or wounded her. Even her mother and sister had no idea how much of her holidays Clare spent working. Some was to earn extra money, like marking exam papers. The rest, preparing lessons for the coming term, rereading set texts (although if she had to read Jane Eyre one more time, she would scream) was just the kind of stuff that, as a teacher, she was expected to do but never got any thanks for. At least she could do it at home. Not that Lou really needed her there anymore. Now the need was all on Clare’s side.
If it hadn’t been the holidays, Clare wouldn’t even have known the letter was there until she got back from school, which was rarely before five thirty, and almost never before Louisa.
That thought brought bile to Clare’s throat.
What if Lou had found the letter first?
What if, curiosity stirred by the unfamiliar handwriting, she’d opened it? Lou wasn’t allowed to open her mother’s mail, obviously. But it wouldn’t have been the first time. Last time, Clare had bollocked her to within an inch of her life, but last time it had just been an overdue bill, with Open Now in red on the flap.
Just a bill…there was no such thing as just a bill in Clare’s house. But it had been an official letter, not a personal one. Albeit one that had told Lou facts her mother would have preferred her not to know about the state of their finances.
Turning the envelope over in her hand, Clare swallowed hard. Funny how she’d recognized the handwriting the second she’d seen the letter on her mat, even though it was fourteen years since the last letter. That one’s contents had been altogether neater, more studied, more thoughtful, bearing all the signs of having been written, torn up and rewritten a dozen times. Not that there was anything about this letter that hadn’t been thought through: every word had been planned, analyzed and assessed for potential misinterpretation. But the writing still bore all the hallmarks of every doctor’s hand Clare had ever seen. One part legibility to two parts haste. Perhaps they taught it at medical school. If Clare hadn’t known better, she might have thought it was from her own GP.
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