Between You and Me

by Margaret Scott

  Oh, how the mighty had fallen!

  Here at Meadowlands there was no such glamour. I’d either squeeze in a shower when Amber was still in bed, or I’dhave to plonk her on the bathroom floor with her blocks and grab a quick one while she was awake. There was never any temptation to linger either as it was a rubbish shower with only a handful of un-lime-blocked jets and the only senses ignited by the own-brand shower gel was the sensation of dry skin stretched tight over my hairy shins. Breakfast was usually a hastily grabbed slice of – albeit wholegrain – toast and my clothes selection revolved around what was clean, comfortable and to be found.

  To be fair, my mornings in the apartment in Dublin needed to be that relaxed and serene because I worked bloody hard for the remainder of the day. From 8a.m. to 8p.m. most days, often not even stopping for lunch, the hours flying by in a haze of meetings, deadlines and, on occasion, meetings about deadlines.

  Being a part of the team at Grantham Sparks was almost like being back at college. We worked hard but, boy, did we party hard too! We tended to socialise only with fellow employees as no one else would have appreciated either our hours or the effect the stress and strain of our work had on our temperaments. As a result, work-based relationships were common enough.

  Especially illicit ones.

  Because, of course, there was no denying the one thing that had made the previous six months so worthwhile.

  Oliver.

  Unlike myself and Cain, we’d worked on practically every one of my assignments together. When I skipped lunch, so did he. When I worked until midnight, so did he. And all that time, even though we were rarely ever alone together, our awareness of each other and of our ‘thing’ was palpable. I knew without looking when he was listening to me and I could feel without looking when his eyes were boring into my back. When he wasn’t with me, I needed to know where he was, and when he entered the room the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  The away jobs of course were the best. We’d work until late, and then the team would eat together before heading back to our separate hotel rooms. And then I’d hear the soft knock on my door, and there he’d be. Leaning jauntily against the door, his brown eyes twinkling. On nights that he couldn’t join me until later, I’d slip a key card into his pocket and I’d go to bed and fall asleep, not knowing anymore until I felt his arms around me and then I’d sigh and curl into him, falling into the deepest of sleeps, knowing that finally I had everything I wanted in life.

  I hadn’t imagined any of that.

  And that was what I had to keep reminding myself.

  I stood up to see what other cereal I could offer the child. The choice was limited thanks to my overzealous dumping of anything unhealthy. I sighed, and turned back towards the table to see Amber engrossed in making patterns in the spilt juice on the table of her high chair.

  I hadn’t imagined my time with Oliver.

  The nights that we’d lain there and planned our future.

  The nights where we didn’t sleep, but chatted for hours on end, our bodies entwined, my head on his chest. Again, the fact that I had my own apartment meant all this was so much easier – no waiting to hear Monica’s key in the lock, no strolling around a freezing park because we’d nowhere else to go.

  And I’d never forget that first night when he’d suggested that he’d return to New York with me.

  Up to then I’d assumed this was one, long, glorious holiday romance. That at the end of the six months I’d go my way and he’d go his.

  And then, that night in late July he announced that my leaving without him was definitely not in his plan. And my heart had leapt from my chest and the room had begun to spin in long, glorious swoops.

  I hadn’t imagined any of it.

  I never could have imagined it. That kind of optimism just wasn’t me, especially not after New York. Such was my scepticism at the start, I’d taken some persuading that he was serious.

  Because I’d been burnt badly in New York. And yes, of course it was my own stupid fault. A relationship with a married man was only ever going to end one way. But for those few glorious weeks with Cain Hobson, I’d managed to fool myself that this one was different, that this one was going to have a happy ending – for me at least. But of course it hadn’t. Cain Hobson got caught, went back to his wife and children, and I’d been made to look like a home-wrecker. Not that I expected any sympathy, which was just as well, as I definitely didn’t get any. I’d taken my punishment on the chin. Public humiliation and, what was almost harder, the knowledge that people were saying a lot worse in private.

  Yes, I’d learnt a valuable lesson and had definitely not been looking for another relationship from Oliver Conlon. And I think that was why I had tried to keep my head throughout the early days. It hadn’t exactly been a Mills & Boon type romance. We argued a lot. We had a very different way of doing things. He laughed at my ways, and I, in turn, replied that people like him gave accountants a bad name. As a belated birthday present I’d bought him a vintage abacus and wrote in the card that it was from the same era as his accounting methods. He told me I was unorthodox, a rebel, but I insisted that I just knew how to think outside the box, that he’d have been a better auditor if he’d had more imagination. But all the bickering only added to the tension between us. And that was never a bad thing.

  We had a remarkably enjoyable way of dealing with tension.

  And all that time, he had been sleeping with Catherine Taylor.

  All that time he’d let me walk blindly back into the same situation I’d fought so hard to leave behind.

  And he hadn’t said a word.

  Yes, why didn’t he just tell you? It’s not like you would have finished it.

  I would have!

  But you haven’t, have you?

  I sat down at the kitchen table. What was I doing? Why was I giving him a second chance? Had I learnt nothing? What kind of a fool gives a liar a second chance?What kind of a fool lies to an entire village to give a liar a second chance?

  I looked at Amber again and realised with a sinking heart that my real reason for all this effort with her was not to try and help this family out.

  It was to ease my guilty conscience.

  In a twisted way I was trying to make up for my lies by improving the household a little before I went on my way. In fairness I could have let the two of them munch away on Chocco Krunchies for a month, but I needed to give something back to make up for my deceit. I was sugar-coating my lies, no point in denying it.

  Sugar-coating.

  That was it.

  Okay, maybe not sugar – that would kind of defeat the process, but surely to God there was something here I could add to the bloody porridge to get it into the little terror.

  I flung open the fridge and the first thing I saw was a punnet of blueberries.

  Bingo!

  “Amber?”

  “Ah?”

  “Would you like Holly to make your porridge the same colour as Barney?”

  “Yaaaay!”

  You see, Oliver? Sometimes you just have to think outside the box . . .

  Chapter 24

  The fire crackled as I sank into the cream sofa. I took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, closing my eyes.

  “Holly?”

  I opened one eye to see Dawn standing over me, glass of white wine in hand.

  “Oh yes,” I murmured, taking the icy-cold glass from her, “I have to say, this is just bliss, Dawn. This room, the wine and . . .”

  “The fact that Amber, Jamie and Mark are four doors away,” Dawn finished for me.

  “And that. Mostly that.” I laughed, taking a long, slow sip of the beautifully chilly Chardonnay.

  Dawn had invited me over for supper as Graham was away on business for the evening, and between the heat of the open fire and the sensation of icy-cold wine trickling down my throat,any reservations I’d had about saying yes were swiftly melting away.

  “I can’t believe how different your house
is to ours – sorry – Mark’s,” I corrected myself, blushing at my mistake, “even though essentially they’re the same house.”

  It was true. Dawn’s house, while warm and homely, was decorated in various shades of cream and ivory, making everywhere look so clean and bright. The honey-coloured oak boardsthat covered the entire ground floorwere scattered with deep pile rugs. We were in the sitting room, the same room that was locked up in Mark’s house, and I looked around with interest. Huge scatter cushions were artfully flung on the giant L-shaped couch, and delicate wood carvings hung on the cream walls. The giant glass-and-oak coffee table had obviously been expensive and gave the room a look directly out of an interiors magazine. Dawn had a lot better taste than I would have given her credit for – there wasn’t an item or colour out of place. The finishing touch was the sweet aroma of a Jo Malone candle wafting in from the hall.

  Mark’s house on the other hand, despite the myriad of colours it was painted, seemed dark and cold compared to this haven of honey. And while it smelt of a myriad of things, magnolia was never one of them.

  It was the clutter in Mark’s house that really drove me insane. Of course Daniel was too small to have toys scattered to the four walls but, still, any sign that a baby existed in Dawn’s house was so tastefully done. For example there was no garish plastic highchair on view: Daniel’s was walnut with a cream leather-lined seat, and not splattered with congealed food like Amber’s. I imagined that Dawn would be the type to purée organic food for her precious baby, and then store it in tiny, pastel-coloured containers, lovingly stacked in a frost-free freezer. No baby-food jars in this house! I also caught sight of a chart on the back of the kitchen door which seemed to chart Daniel’s sleeping and eating pattern since he was born – well, that’s what I assumed the hours and ounces were referring to.

  But then Dawn seemed to be a girl who liked to keep records. I looked around at all the photographs. There were so many photographs – on the walls, on the mantelpiece, on every available surface. Spanning from obvious early-relationship snaps through to very artful wedding photos to a giant portrait of the gorgeous Daniel, whom I could now see was the picture of his good-looking dad.

  Again I couldn’t help thinking of the Fieldings’ house. Apart from that one family shot on the stairs, and a small picture of Emma in each of the children’s rooms, there were no photographs. Plenty of paintings, but no photographs.

  “You’re frowning?” Dawnsaid.

  “Am I? Sorry.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Oh, nothing really. I’m just admiring your photos but, I’ve just realised, there are no photos in the Fieldings’.”

  “What – none?”

  “Well, one of the family in the hall, and then the kids have one each of Emma, but no others. Strange.”

  “I suppose.” Dawn was thoughtful. “Maybe he took them all down, after the accident.”

  “I didn’t think of that. I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be easy still seeing her everywhere.”

  “No. Definitely not. Did you know her at all?”

  “Not really, actually. I was still working then, you see, so I’d never have been around much during the day. It’s funny, though, she was kind of famous around here, so I feel I knew her even though I didn’t really. People were always talking about her. They all kind of adored her even though I’ve heard some of the girls say that you’d either see Emma all day or not for weeks. And she was certainly very good-looking.”

  “Yes, stunning,” I agreed, before continuing curiously, “Do you know how, well . . . what happened? I mean, I know it was a car accident, but was there anyone else involved?”

  “Well, I know as much as you. It was a car accident, early one Wednesday morning – not really sure of the details but it was at the junction of the Kilkenny road – but no, no one else was involved. Apparently there were a lot of wet leaves on the road and her car skidded into a wall.”

  “Jesus. Where were the children?”

  “Well, that was the lucky thing. Teresa Murphy – you’ve met Teresa, haven’t you? Well, she had them – I think she often kept an eye on them for Emma. Her grandchild is about Jamie’s age – they used to play together a bit.”

  “Thank God they weren’t in the car.”

  We both paused, lost in thought for a few seconds. Then I noticed the look of misery on Dawn’s face and felt guilty.

  “Look at us! Could we find anything more depressing to be talking about? Tell me all about that handsome man up on the wall there!”

  It worked.

  “Oh, that’s my Graham.” Dawn blushed. “We’ve been together for almost six years now, married for four.”

  “Wow, that’s lovely! I didn’t realise you were married that long.”

  “Yes, well, as I was telling you before, it took us a while to have Daniel.” Dawn looked embarrassed. “We were about to give up trying actually.”

  Ah yes, I remembered that story now. No wonder there were so many photographs of the child. Then it occurred to me that maybe most married couples had houses like this, peppered with snapshots of their happiness. With a start it hit me that Cain Hobson probably had a sitting room just like this.Wedding photos, baby photos, arty family snaps . . .

  I suddenly felt very strange.

  Like an imposter. I didn’t fit in with this kind of domestic bliss, all this cream and ivory and perfect photographs of perfect people. It was all starting to make me feel a bit ill actually.

  Suddenly I wondered if I would ever have this kind of room. Or ever want one for that matter.

  It didn’t seem likely; at the very least the scatter cushions would drive me insane.

  Dawn was looking at me funnily again.

  Just then I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. “Well, lucky you didn’t stop trying!” I said, fishing it out of my pocket in case it was Mark.

  It was a text from my dad.

  Holly, pls contact your mother 2 further confirm extension not necessary to sunroom 4 your sister’s Xmas visit.

  I smiled, slightly impressed at Dad’s attempt at texting.

  “What’s up?” Dawn asked curiously.

  “It’s my dad – my sister is coming home for Christmas and I take it Mam is up to her usual tricks of trying to overhaul the entire house prior to her arrival.”

  “Rolling out the red carpet, eh?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You better believe it. Marsha is the Golden Child – a visit from the Pope is the only thing I can think of that would create more fuss.”

  “So that’s where you’re spending Christmas then?”

  Before I had to answer we heard the front door open.

  Dawn shot up in the couch.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  She shook her head slowly, then the sitting-room door opened and she squealed, “Graham!”

  A face that I immediately recognised from the photos on the wall looked around the door.

  “What are you doing home?” Dawn was still squealing.

  A flash of annoyance crossed his face as he noticed me on the couch, instantly making me uneasy.

  “Oh, last-minute cancellation – you know how these things go.”

  For someone who had just got out of a boring business conference, he looked incredibly grumpy, but Dawn didn’t seem to notice. She immediately started fussing around him like a mother hen, taking his coat, offering him a glass of wine and then finally remembering my presence.

  “Oh, where are my manners!” she shrieked. “Graham, this is Holly – she’s just started work with the Fieldings, as their nanny. Holly, this is the famous Graham.”

  “Hi, Holly, nice to meet you.”

  “Hi, Graham.” Seizing my opportunity, I stood up. “Dawn, I’m going to go and leave you two to it.”

  “Well, nice meeting you.” Graham sank down on the couch.

  “Oh Holly, no! You haven’t even eaten yet! Graham!”

  “What? I’
m joking! Of course you should stay. Don’t mind me, I’m tired.”

  Graham was smiling now and, while it looked relatively genuine, the whole domestic-bliss air to the house was starting to make me feel claustrophobic. First the photographs, then this whole ‘Hi, honey, I’m home’ routine – Jesus, it was just too much. Mark’s house might be cluttered with annoying bric-à-brac and painted in those dreadful garish colours, but its chaotic ambience was exactly what I craved at that moment.

  I just couldn’t take the perfection of Dawn’s house. Not for another second. Even the smell of her bloody candle was starting to turn my stomach.

  “No, seriously, I’ll be off. If it makes you feel any better you can give me a portion of that delicious curry to take home!”

  While Dawn protested further, I knew that really she was thrilled to have her husband home and was dying to get him to herself. He seemed to travel a lot with work, so a night like this was rare enough without me sitting in the middle.

  I eventually got out the front door and drank in the cold night air in huge gulps.I looked down the street at Mark’s house. There were lights on downstairs. Mark was still up.

  My pace quickened. Then I noticed the strange car parked behind his on the driveway. Visitors? At this hour?

  I let myself in and, assuming the guests were in the sitting room, tiptoed into the kitchen, bemused at my disappointment that a coffee alone with Mark was no longer an option.

  I jumped when I saw the pretty blonde sitting at the kitchen table, looking very much at home.

  “Hi, Holly!” she said, smiling.