by Unknown
Kit grimaces. She’s seen the necklace. It is beautiful. A Temple St Clair crystal globe encircled by a vine of tiny diamonds. It looks like it must have cost a fortune.
‘I couldn’t help it,’ Charlie said to her. ‘I’ve had my eye on it for months and I was feeling a bit low. It’s just retail therapy, I know, but once I got over the guilt, I did start feeling better. I told Keith it could be an early anniversary gift.’
‘That’s some anniversary gift,’ Kit said and laughed.
‘Anyway, Rakers has never been so packed. All the news is doom and gloom, with people losing their jobs and their houses, but I swear, you’d never know it in Rakers.’
‘I guess you’re not the only one experiencing the power of retail therapy,’ Kit said, and they both laughed.
Kit has never understood stocks and shares. There were times, during their marriage, when Adam would try to explain about the stock market, but Kit would reach a point in the conversation and just blank. She couldn’t understand it, and didn’t want to understand it.
As far as she is concerned, it is all smoke and mirrors. She wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when the financial world collapsed because it all seemed to be a house of cards to her anyway.
When they went through the divorce, she wasn’t interested in Adam’s stocks and shares. Even when they were listed on the assets, she wasn’t bothered, because she never thought of them as real money.
Every few months she tries to put a little money aside. Some into the SEP IRA that Adam started for her when they were first married, and some into what she thinks of as her nest egg, money for a rainy day.
The one place she never thinks to put her money is the stock market, and today she is grateful.
‘What’s happening with yours?’
‘I’ve lost everything I had at Bear Sterns.’ Adam had worked there for the first few years of his career, and his annual bonuses had been partly cash, and mostly stocks. ‘And the rest of my portfolio has dropped about thirty per cent.’
‘Oh well. Could be worse. Could be eighty per cent.’
‘It might be soon. How about you? Are you okay?’
‘I at least don’t have to worry about my stocks disappearing, not having a portfolio.’ Kit laughs.
It is not difficult for them to talk about money, as Adam never felt fleeced by Kit, and Kit has always been a little naive about money. Had she been more savvy, she would have got a tougher lawyer, and could certainly have had substantially more than she ended up getting. But she wanted to protect the children from a nasty divorce, wanted to be on as friendly terms as possible with Adam, so she ended up agreeing to a settlement that she knew was unfair, but that she believed ultimately saved them all from unnecessary pain, and helped assuage her guilt at the marriage breaking up.
And look at them now. How many divorced couples, even ones who had been through mediation, were able to put their differences aside and have lunch, together, with their children? How many were able to get on this well?
‘But are you okay for money?’ Adam says. ‘You know you just have to ask if you need anything.’
‘Thanks, Adam.’ Kit smiles, knowing that her pride is too strong, that she would rather work three jobs than have to go to Adam to ask for money. ‘We’re fine.’
‘You know, the kids and I were going to have a movie night tonight. Nothing fancy. We’re going to Blockbuster, then doing pizza and popcorn. Why don’t you join us?’
‘I… can’t. I have plans. But thank you. That’s really kind of you to think of me.’
‘Oh. Sure. A date?’ Adam grins, but Kit is certain that it is only to hide some hurt, and she is sorry.
‘Just a friend,’ she lies. Why tell him? ‘Thanks for lunch.’
They smile at one another, but Kit finds it awkward. She turns to call the kids over to say goodbye, still feeling odd as she and Edie climb into her car to drive home.
‘Now that is a good man,’ Edie says, as they pull onto the Post Road.
‘He’s a great father.’ Kit nods. ‘And yes, he is a good man.’
‘Wasn’t he a good husband?’
‘In some ways. I know he loved me, but he loved his work more. He didn’t pay any attention to me. I’ve never been so lonely. I know that seeing us together now, you can’t understand how our marriage didn’t work, but, I promise you, there were big problems. I was desperately unhappy.’
‘And you’re happier now that you’re divorced?’
‘God, Edie. You’re so transparent!’ Kit laughs. ‘In some ways, of course I’m not happier. I’m a working single mother. It doesn’t get much harder than that. There are some days when it’s all I can do to keep my head above water. I adore my children, but it is just so damned exhausting being the only parent, making all the decisions, having to be all things to all people, with no one to ease the burden. But I get breaks. When the kids are with Adam I get to be me, the real me. I don’t have to be someone’s wife, or mother, or anything. I get to be selfish, and sometimes I think I deserve a little selfishness. I love my life today, and I love it because I created it. I painted the walls of my house, and I know where everything is, and if I don’t want to do something, like entertain corporate clients yet again, I don’t have to.’
Edie nods to show she understands before Kit continues.
‘You know, Edie, when I was married to Adam, I did everything then. Sure, he paid the bills and did some of the weekend stuff, like Costco shops, but I did all the other chores because he was never around. In the beginning he was, that was when he was fun, the Adam you see today, but as he became more senior at work, we saw less and less of him. He’d get home after I was in bed, travel at weekends, not show any interest in me or the kids. When he was home he’d be stuck behind his computer in his office. It wasn’t a marriage. It was two people barely co-existing.’
‘You young people,’ says Edie, shaking her head. ‘You all think marriage is this great romantic fantasy, but a lot of the time that’s all that marriage is. I loved my Monty, but did I like him all the time? Hell, no. There were times when I hated him, and some of those times lasted a couple of years, but it always passed. We’d made a commitment to one another and both of us knew we had to honour it.’
‘Edie,’ Kit says through gritted teeth, ‘you weren’t there. You don’t know how awful it was.’
‘You’re right. I don’t know. I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that I think there are so few truly good men out there, and Adam is one of them.’
‘He is. And I’m sure that one day he’ll make someone else very happy. It’s just not going to be me.’
*
There is a message from Steve when Kit gets home, and she decides to call him back on her way to the grocery store. She checks her watch – yes, there’s still time – before hauling the pumpkins from the car into Edie’s house.
‘Forgive me,’ Edie says, as Kit is leaving. ‘I truly didn’t mean to upset you. I think of you as a daughter, Kit, and I only want to see you happy.’
‘I know,’ Kit says gently, reaching down to give Edie a reassuring hug. ‘It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.’
‘I still don’t like that Steve fella,’ Edie mutters into her ear, and Kit laughs.
‘You will,’ she says. ‘And so will Rose. Wait and see.’
‘Just checking in with you…’
Hearing Steve’s voice spreads a warmth through her body, and she smiles as she fumbles for her ear piece – the last thing she needs is a fine for using her mobile phone while driving.
‘You’re not cancelling me, then?’
‘Are you kidding? I wouldn’t cancel for the world. I wanted to see if there was anything I could bring to dinner.’
‘There’s really nothing,’ Kit says. ‘Just yourself.’
‘I’m not coming empty-handed,’ he laughs, ‘so how about wine? Red or white?’
‘I think maybe red.’
‘Great. Oh, and Kit?’
‘Yes?’
‘I can’t wait to see you.’
Kit rushes back from Trader Joe’s and dumps the paper bags on the counter – she has a trunk filled with recyclable shopping bags, but she always forgets to bring them in with her – then quickly unpacks and puts things away.
Steve mentioned the other night that he loved home-cooked food, and what could be lovelier than a home-cooked meal, a roaring log fire, and the soft, soothing sounds of Ray Lamontagne on the iPod?
She is making French onion soup, a provençale monkfish stew and an apple crisp, served with gourmet vanilla ice cream. Kit is a woman who recognizes the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and the monkfish stew is something she ate at the Greenhouse last year and loved so much she begged Alice for the recipe.
‘You should do a cookbook,’ she told Alice at the time.
‘I’d love to,’ Alice said with a laugh. ‘In another lifetime when I have more than two free minutes a day…’ But she had handed the recipe over and it has become one of Kit’s favourites.
The onions have caramelized and are simmering in beef stock and red wine, with thyme and bay leaves, the baguette is already sliced, the Gruyère grated, waiting to melt sumptuously on the top.
The beans, olives, tomatoes and anchovies are cooking gently, the monkfish is washed and seasoned, ready to be roasted quickly at the end. The apple crisp, now prepared and in the fridge, will be placed in the oven just when Kit pulls out the monkfish.
The whole house smells delicious. She has scented candles, but nothing is quite so enticing as the buttery, garlicky scent wafting from the kitchen. Nevertheless, the candles are lit, as is the fire, and the music is coming from the iPod.
Kit is in the bathroom, getting ready. Tonight is probably the night, she realizes, thinking about their kiss. Tonight is the night she will go to bed with him. So many years since she has slept with anyone other than Adam. So many years that she has forgotten what this feels like, this anticipation, this cross between excitement and nerves.
And yet in a flash it all comes back, making her feel like a teenager again, her eyes alight, her skin glowing.
She has new underwear on, nothing too sexy – she is a woman in her forties, for God’s sake, not a twenty-something – and her legs are newly shaved and moisturized with a lemon Jasmine moisturizer she uses only on special occasions.
The doorbell rings and she feels her heart catch in her mouth as she runs down the stairs to answer it. After all these years you would expect to feel less nervous, she thinks, feeling ever so slightly sick as she opens the door.
‘Hi.’ Steve, looking almost stupidly handsome, smiles at her.
‘Hi. Come in.’ She steps back, suddenly wishing she hadn’t been quite so obvious in turning her home into a seduction set. Why did she have to go so overboard with the candles?
‘Oh, this was on the mat outside the door.’ He hands her an envelope with her name on it.
‘Thanks.’ She takes it and leads him into the kitchen. ‘Can I get you some wine?’
He puts a bottle of red on the table. ‘I brought some. God, it smells great in here. You must be some cook.’
‘I try.’ She is distracted as she looks at the handwritten envelope. ‘Let me just look at this.’
As she reads, she frowns, deeper and deeper, then freezes, the colour draining from her face.
‘What is it?’ Steve asks, concerned.
‘It’s from a woman who says she needs to talk to me,’ Kit says slowly.
‘About what?’
‘She says she’s my sister.’
13
‘I thought you didn’t have any brothers or sisters.’
‘I don’t,’ whispers Kit, as a photograph drops out of the envelope. She picks it up, in slow motion. It is the woman Kit saw out of the window, standing on the street this morning, looking at the house. She isn’t surprised. It feels as if there is a part of her that has known, a part of her that knew there was more to her than met the eye.
Of course there is a sense of familiarity. This girl looks just like Ginny, Kit’s mother. Granted, she isn’t groomed, overly made-up, dressed in couture and climbing out of a town car, but look at her eyes. They are the same. The bone structure is the same. Her skin is much paler, but her mouth is the same as Kit’s.
‘Do you think she’s lying?’ Steve asks awkwardly, not knowing quite what to say.
‘It doesn’t look like it, does it?’ Kit gives a short bark of laughter.
‘What does she say?’
‘Here.’ She hands him the piece of paper while shaking her head. ‘I need to sit down.’
Dear Kit,
I landed in Highfield a few days ago, and have been trying to work up the courage to contact you ever since, and now I am taking the coward’s way out and writing you a letter instead of doing what I had planned and ringing your doorbell.
I imagine you will have no idea who I am. My name is Annabel Plowman, and I live in Hampstead, London. My father lives around the corner from me. His name is John Plowman. He runs a successful landscape business there in London, but many years ago he worked as a full-time gardener for Virginia Clayton (as she was then), just after you turned twelve.
The way my father tells it, she was the love of his life. She got pregnant, with me, and when her husband found out about the affair, he demanded she give me up for adoption.
My father took me away, said I would be placed with a family in London, but he was always going to keep me. He was paid off handsomely to keep quiet, to make sure no one in Virginia Clayton’s life ever knew about me. He never cared about the money, would have done anything to stay with our mother, but he took it so he could raise me properly, not have to worry about schools.
I’ve tried to get in touch with our mother many times. My letters have gone unanswered, and the handful of times I managed to reach her by phone, she wasn’t the slightest bit interested in talking to me.
My father tried to do everything right, but he never told me, until very recently, that I had a sister. He thought that I had had enough pain, being abandoned by my mother, that I shouldn’t have to deal with losing a sister too.
I always wanted a sister. Someone to share everything with, someone to be my best friend. I cried when he told me, and I knew I had to meet you.
I’m staying at the Highfield Inn. Please, please, please contact me when you read this. I know it’s probably a huge shock, but I so want to meet you, to get to know you.
Your sister,
Annabel Plowman
‘Wow,’ Steve says.
‘I know. Wow indeed.’
‘Shall I open this bottle of wine?’
Kit sighs. She was so ready for tonight, had the evening all planned, had been so looking forward to it, and now she can hardly think straight.
‘Steve? I’m so sorry. I think maybe… I think maybe we should reschedule.’
‘You do?’
‘I just… I just can’t concentrate. This is such a huge shock.’
‘Let’s talk about it,’ Steve says, kindly. ‘I totally get how you must be feeling. I’m here for you.’
‘Thank you, Steve.’ She smiles gratefully up at him. ‘But I think I’m better off on my own. I feel like there’s a ton of stuff I need to think about.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am. Maybe we can do it again this week.’
‘I’d like that,’ Steve says, not hiding his disappointment, but doing his best. Then, bending down to kiss her softly on the lips, he lets himself out of the house.
Kit opens the wine herself, pours a hefty glass, and goes to sit by the fire, the letter still in her hand. She rereads it, over and over, then stares in the fire, remembering.
There is a part of her that wants to believe this woman is a liar. But John Plowman. It is a name she remembers. A man she remembers. Well. Oh yes, Kit remembers, for he was one of the many who took pity on her when she went to stay with her mother, only to be l
argely ignored.
He was the head gardener at the estate in Bedford. A trained horticulturalist, with large, gentle hands, and a winning smile. He was sweet and kind, and spent hours with Kit every day, giving her small jobs to do, weeding, pruning, showing her how to pinch off the vegetables to encourage the fruit to grow.
It was the best summer she had ever had.
John Plowman. Kit remembers him well. She remembers him softening the hurt when her mother was yet again disinterested.
For that was the insanity. Each time Kit was flown out from her father’s house in Concord, where she lived full-time, to visit her mother, she thought that this time it would be different, this would be the time that Ginny would pay attention to her, want to be with her, show her that she loved Kit.
Yet each time was the same. Not that she didn’t have fun, but it wasn’t with her mother. Never with her mother. The temporary nannies, employed only for when Kit was staying, took her to shows, circuses, fairs. And John taught her about gardening, how to handle plants, telling her, in his singsong voice, stories of when he was a boy in Dorset.
She peers at the photo in her hand, and instantly remembers John Plowman’s face. And then she picks up the phone.
‘Mother? Hello? Can you hear me?’ Kit is shouting over the crackle.
‘What? Hello? Hello? I can’t hear you. Who is it?’
‘Mother? It’s me! Kit.’
‘Kit? Is that you?’
‘Yes. Where are you? It’s a terrible line.’
‘Darling, I’m on a boat. Whoops!’ She giggles. ‘I keep getting in trouble. Apparently, it’s a yacht, and we’re in the south of France having the most marvellous time. I’m falling in love again and this time I think it’s for keeps.’
Kit represses a sigh. How many times, exactly, has she heard almost the exact same words come from her mother’s mouth?
‘Mother, I need to ask you something. It’s about a girl called Annabel Plowman.’
‘What did you say? Darling, I can’t hear you. Speak up.’