Falling

by Julie Cohen

  ‘I’m doing revision, remember? I’ll do it tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow is when we have to go and pick up Granny Honor.’

  ‘I’ll do it tonight, then.’

  ‘Don’t forget to text me.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Lydia headed for the front door. ‘I’ll be back later.’

  ‘Don’t you want to say hello to Richard?’

  ‘What for?’ She banged the door after her.

  Charming. But Jo had to admit, Lydia did slightly have a point. Even though Jo believed that Richard had tried his best to be pleasant to Lydia, the two of them had never clicked. It had been the subject of many discussions between Jo and Richard when they were still married. Jo had said that maybe it was because Lydia, who’d been eleven when Jo and Richard married, was too old to accept a new parent figure in her life. Richard would snort and say, ‘Nonsense. She remembers her own father and I can’t compare.’

  Jo would deny it. But in this particular thing, out of all the things that Jo and Richard discussed during their marriage, Richard had been right. Jo had known it even as she denied it. Richard couldn’t compare to Stephen.

  Maybe that was even why she’d married Richard. Probably that was why she’d married him. It was easier to accept something lesser.

  ‘Daddy!’ cried Oscar, and Iris launched herself off Jo’s lap to toddle over to Oscar at the window. Jo saw Richard’s Jaguar parked on the drive behind her own Range Rover. There were two people getting out of it.

  Her stomach sank, but she said brightly, ‘Here he is! Look, Iris, it’s Daddy’s car. He’s come to take you out for the weekend.’

  ‘Daddy!’ Oscar yelled again and he scampered to the front door, Jo following with Iris in her arms. He was just tall enough to reach the doorknob and open the door before Richard could knock.

  His father stood on the doorstep. He wore an open-necked shirt, white to suit his tanned complexion. His black hair was casually styled. He looked not one day older than the day he’d come into the estate agent she’d been working at as a receptionist, and made a beeline for her, told her his property requirements and then asked her out for dinner.

  ‘Hey, Oscar,’ he said, holding out his arms to his son. His expensive watch glinted in the sun. Oscar ran to him and was scooped up.

  Iris hid her face in Jo’s neck.

  ‘Hello, Richard,’ said Jo. ‘Hello, Tatiana.’

  Richard’s new girlfriend – the person whom Jo had hired, at Richard’s insistence, when Iris was born, to help her with the children – stood slightly behind Richard, and had the grace to look self-conscious. She was tall and willowy, with long straight dark hair and the casual posture of youth. Her face was as tanned as Richard’s; she wore an effortlessly chic outfit of white linen trousers and a black sleeveless top. ‘Hi, Jo,’ she said in her Russian accent, all fur hats and sexiness.

  Richard kissed his son and held out his other hand for his daughter, but Iris shrank away from him. ‘Honey, it’s your daddy.’

  ‘She’s feeling a little shy today,’ said Jo, smiling. She did not say She barely remembers you. She did not say You didn’t come to see them last week when you said you would. She did not say You ran off with Tatiana before Iris had the chance to know who you were and deep down, I’m glad that she’s shy with you.

  ‘It’s Daddy, darling,’ she crooned to Iris instead. ‘He’s going to take you out somewhere nice.’

  ‘No,’ said Iris against her neck.

  ‘We’re going to ride in Daddy’s car!’ crowed Oscar, who had not forgotten his daddy. Who had a photograph of Daddy beside his bed and spoke about his daddy most evenings before he went to sleep and whose questions about why Daddy hadn’t come today occasionally forced Jo to lie about Daddy’s important job which kept him busy and far away.

  ‘It’s such a sunny day that we thought we’d go to the seaside,’ Richard told him, and Oscar wriggled and crowed again.

  ‘The seaside?’ said Jo. ‘That’s lovely, of course, but I didn’t pack—’

  ‘Don’t worry, just to Bournemouth. We can buy sunscreen and all the extra things they’ll need. And ice cream,’ added Richard, and Oscar bounced up and down in his arms.

  ‘Chocolate ice cream!’ he yelled.

  ‘Any flavour you want, my boy.’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Jo said to Iris, who was breathing hot into the hollow of her collarbone. ‘Ice cream!’

  ‘And fish and chips for tea,’ said Richard. ‘What do you say, Irie? Wanna come?’

  ‘No.’ Iris’s voice was muffled in Jo’s hair. She clasped her hands more tightly. ‘Mummy.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie,’ murmured Jo, cradling the precious little body. ‘It’s your daddy. He wants to spend time with you. He’ll bring you back on Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s her favourite word at the moment,’ Jo explained to Richard. ‘She doesn’t always mean it.’

  ‘Iris? Do you want to come with me, darlink?’ Tatiana held out her arms.

  ‘No,’ said Iris, but she lifted her head and looked at Tatiana. Then she unclasped Jo’s neck and reached out for Tatiana. Jo relinquished her, still feeling the trace of the warm little body pressed against hers.

  ‘So what’s your plan with your glorious free weekend?’ asked Richard. ‘Ladies of leisure who lunch?’

  ‘I don’t know any ladies of leisure.’

  ‘Yummy mummies, then. Oh well, you’re not dressed for it anyway.’ He nodded at her old jeans, her well-worn T-shirt and trainers. ‘Gardening?’

  ‘Painting Lyddie’s room. Honor’s coming to stay with us for a little while.’

  ‘What, that old bat?’

  ‘Old bat!’ repeated Oscar, and giggled.

  ‘She broke her hip and needs a bedroom on the ground floor until she’s back on her feet.’

  ‘Rather you than me. Listen, Jo, we’ve got something to tell you, a date to put in your diary.’

  ‘Let’s go to the seaside!’ commanded Oscar.

  ‘One minute, mate, I have to talk to your mother.’ But he paused, playing with the Velcro strip on Oscar’s shoe. Rip open, close, rip.

  ‘A date?’ said Jo, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. ‘Are you going on holiday again?’ Yet another week or two when Richard couldn’t see his children.

  ‘Well, yes. Eventually.’ Rip. Rip. ‘Two weeks in the Cayman Islands, actually.’ Rip. The fastening was coming loose from the shoe. ‘But before that, we’re getting married.’

  Jo stared at Oscar’s shoe, felt like she was falling.

  ‘Twenty-fourth July,’ said Tatiana. ‘It is a Sunday.’

  Jo gathered herself and smiled up at Richard and at Tatiana. Now, she noticed the ring on Tatiana’s left hand, on prominent display as she held Jo’s daughter. It was a large and sparkly diamond, of course; bigger than the stone Jo had chosen for her own ring when she’d become engaged to Richard.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘Lovely ring, it’s so pretty.’

  ‘Richard asked me to marry him on my birthday in Nice,’ said Tatiana.

  Richard had also asked Jo to marry him in April, but in Paris.

  ‘Well, Happy Birthday as well,’ Jo said. ‘That’s great news, I’m so happy for you. Should I buy a hat?’

  Richard had the slight good grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Well, you’re invited of course, Jo. It’s all amicable, isn’t it, mate? But we wanted to tell you right away because Tatiana would like Oscar as a ring bearer and Iris as a flower girl.’

  ‘My mother is making the dresses,’ said Tatiana. ‘She is making a pink one with silver sparkles for Iris. Just like a princess.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Jo. ‘Well, of course, they’ll be thrilled. I’ll put it in the diary.’

  ‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,’ Richard said. ‘Mum’s happy to look after the children.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Jo picked up the changing bag and the overnight bag she’d packed and left r
eady by the door, and handed them to Richard, who took them with a comedy wince.

  ‘Oof! What’s this full of, rocks?’

  ‘Wipes and nappies, mostly.’ Though to her knowledge, Richard had never changed a single nappy in his life. Tatiana was perfectly conversant with nappies, of course.

  They’d be having children of their own before long, and where would Oscar and Iris be?

  ‘We’ll have them back by lunchtime tomorrow,’ said Richard. He leaned forward to give her a peck on the cheek, and she was enveloped by his aftershave. He hadn’t changed it; it was the same sandalwood and lime that he’d been wearing when he’d first asked her out; the same kind she’d bought him for Christmases. That was Tatiana’s job now, too.

  Jo kissed Oscar and Iris. ‘Be good for Daddy and Tatiana. Have fun.’

  ‘No!’ said Iris.

  Tatiana laughed. ‘She is more adorable by the day.’ Richard started for the car with Oscar, and she paused. ‘Thank you, Jo. You are being very civilized.’

  ‘Oh, well, I just want everyone to be happy.’

  ‘You are special woman.’

  Jo shrugged, her smile frozen.

  ‘And you should come to wedding. My mother is also making seventeen kinds of cake.’

  ‘Seventeen! Fancy that.’ She gave Iris an extra kiss on her round cheek, and breathed in the baby smell to last her until tomorrow.

  She stood and waved to the car as they left, but neither Oscar nor Iris noticed, as far as she could tell. Then she allowed herself to slump, and go back inside.

  The mirror in the hallway told her what she already knew. Her hair was scraped back, her face naked of make-up. She had a spot starting on her chin. Her T-shirt didn’t quite hide the softness of her middle, the post-breastfeeding flatness of her boobs. Her jeans bagged around her backside.

  Was she really surprised that Richard had been attracted to the young, lithe, beautiful woman who’d been living in their attic room?

  ‘Just wait until she has children,’ Jo said to her reflection, but she didn’t like her expression as she said it. And besides, who knew if that would even be true? Tatiana might be one of those women who kept their figure after pregnancy. Maybe Richard would spend more time at home with Tatiana and her children. Maybe they would make the perfect family, one that Richard had never been able to manage with Jo.

  Or maybe it had nothing to do with natural beauty at all. Maybe it was all about making an effort.

  Jo snorted and went off to her bedroom. Fifteen minutes later she was wearing a top that had a small hole in the hem but which fitted her properly. She was also wearing foundation, powder, blusher, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara and lip gloss, and though she hadn’t taken the time to wash her hair, at least she’d brushed it and put it up neatly into a bun on the top of her head. She looked better, and even though no one was going to see her, why shouldn’t she paint her mother-in-law’s bedroom in full slap? If she wanted to, just to make herself feel good?

  Because it made her feel foolish. But not quite foolish enough to wash it off.

  She played music loud enough to shake the walls and painted Honor’s room a pale blue, the colour of a washed-out sky. The colour was fresh and lovely, much prettier than the violent purple that Lydia had painted her walls when they’d moved into this house.

  Jo loved painting. She remembered how she’d painted every room of the tiny terraced house she and Stephen had rented when they’d moved to Brickham so he could take up a lectureship post. Every room a different colour. Her favourite was their bedroom, a soft moss green that made her feel as if she were a cosy nesting bird.

  And she’d painted, too, when her mother passed away, in the house where she’d grown up in Cambridge. She’d scrubbed down the woodchip with sugar soap and she’d coated everything with fresh, pure white, to chase away the memories of her mother’s laboured breaths, the reality that she was no longer there to clasp Jo’s hand.

  It was supposed to be a new beginning. As much of a new beginning as there could ever be, in this life.

  Jo finished the first coat and surveyed her work. The purple wasn’t going down without a fight; she’d need to do another coat at least. Still, the room was much brighter than it had been. It would be lovely and cheerful for Honor once it was finished.

  While she was waiting for the paint to dry she made herself a cup of tea and a sandwich, deliberately not scrubbing the paint speckles from her hands first. They’d only get messy all over again, and she had no one to set a good example of handwashing. She took her lunch outside to the back garden, where there was a sunlounger still left out from last summer. Oscar liked to bring his teddies out here on fine days and pretend to put them to bed.

  It was a beautiful spring day – a perfect day to go to the seaside, actually, though she hoped Richard would remember to buy sunscreen and put it on the children. With the children gone and Lydia out, she was glad she had a project to keep her busy. Spring was her least favourite season. Even now, in April, she could feel what was coming later: the visit to Adam in May that she would have to conceal from Lydia – and Honor, too, this year. The anniversary of Stephen’s death in June. The sleepless nights.

  She had used to love spring. Loved the world coming to life around her. But now even the cheerful flowers and the new leaves gave her a sense of dread. After ten years, you would think she would have learned to love spring again. Time was supposed to work magic, smooth things over, and it had been a long time. She should try to love spring again.

  Jo ate her sandwich and lay back, cradling her cup of tea on her stomach, letting the sunshine warm her face and arms, making herself relax. The grass needed mowing, and the beds needed weeding, and there were toys strewn everywhere waiting to be tidied away, but that wasn’t Jo’s job, not today. Today she was painting, and only painting. It was so rare that she had time to do only one thing, that it felt like an unbelievable luxury.

  It was even rarer that she had five minutes to sit still in the middle of the day, doing nothing, by herself. To listen to the birds singing in the trees, listen to the breeze rustling the leaves. The distant sound of traffic, a jet somewhere far overhead, going somewhere she did not know.

  She closed her eyes and willed herself to love spring again. New grass, new leaves, the birds singing. The scent of green and soil. All the life uncurling from the earth. She thought about the delight it caused in Oscar and Iris. A new beginning, like a room painted white.

  But could painting a room erase everything that had happened in it?

  A tear slid down her cheek.

  ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’

  Jo sat up so quickly that her tea slopped onto her shirt. The man who had spoken was on the other side of the hedge, only about a metre away. He was leaning on something, a rake maybe, and the sun was behind his head, caught in his curly brown hair. It took her a second to recognize him as the man that she and Sara had ogled through the window last week.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said immediately. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. Did it burn you?’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m fine, thank you, sorry.’ Jo wiped her cheek, and then her top. ‘The tea’s gone cold,’ she said inanely.

  ‘Your top, though – it’s stained. I’m sorry, it’s my fault.’ He grinned at her; one side of his mouth tilted up higher than the other and there were smile lines in his cheeks – more like dimples, really, because he was too young to have wrinkles. He had a bit of beard stubble on his face and it somehow made him look even younger.

  ‘If you let me know where you bought it, I’ll happily replace it,’ he was saying. ‘Or I can have it cleaned for you.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. It’s a really old top. I’ve been painting in it.’ She held up her paint-spattered hands to show him.

  ‘Nice colour.’ He extended his hand over the hedge, and Jo scrambled up to shake hands with him. His palm was warm. ‘I’m Marcus. New neighbour who can’t resist peering through hedges.’

  ‘I’m Jo. And it’s fi
ne, absolutely fine. Lovely to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  He didn’t say anything immediately, just looked at her and smiled, and Jo’s pulse hammered. Had he seen her crying? Had he seen her a few days before, when she’d been watching him out of her kitchen window?

  His smile was open and friendly. His eyes were greyish-blue. He had some freckles on his nose from the sun.

  ‘Well,’ he said. He cleared his throat. ‘I suppose …’

  ‘When did you move in?’ Jo blurted out. And immediately blushed.

  But he didn’t seem to mind. He put his hands in the back pockets of his faded jeans and said, ‘About a month ago? No, three weeks. I’ve never had a new house before, and I feel I should keep everything about it perfect, you know?’

  ‘I know. I felt the same way when we started living here. Did you … did you move far?’

  ‘Just from the other side of town. I’ve got a new job and this is closer. And it’s definitely a nicer neighbourhood. Have you been here long?’

  ‘Three years, nearly four.’

  ‘Seriously, how long does it take before you stop feeling guilty about leaving smudges on the skirting boards?’

  ‘It depends whether or not you have children.’

  ‘Ah. That makes sense.’ He nodded at the clutter of toys in Jo’s garden. ‘Are yours helping you with the painting?’

  ‘They’re with their father for the weekend.’

  ‘Blessed peace and quiet. And I’ve interrupted it.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure. I mean, I wouldn’t know what to do with peace and quiet anyway. It gives you too much time to think.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure for me, too,’ he said quietly, and for a split second Jo allowed herself to fantasize that this lovely young man actually meant what he said, that he was actually talking to her as an attractive woman and not a harried, paint-spattered neighbour who really should take better care of her side of the hedge.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I think it’s safe for me to put a second coat on.’

  ‘Happy painting. Nice talking with you, Jo.’

  ‘You, too.’ She picked up her mug from beside the sunlounger and headed back towards the house. It was ridiculous, but she swore she could feel him still looking at her; a warmth on the back of her neck.