by Claire Sandy
With only Mike to help (all the other Herreras were missing in action, popping up the moment the gravy was decanted), Evie had flailed. Mike hadn’t known how to warm plates, or if the peas were done; he’d laid the table without knives. This lack of domestic skill perplexed her. He was proud of his capabilities, so why, when he washed up, did he leave the mucky casserole dish to ‘soak’ – that is, stand in tepid water until his wife caved and dealt with it? How had he passed forty-one summers on earth without amassing the wherewithal to set an oven timer?
Even as Evie thought these treasonable thoughts, Mike was in the kitchen carefully putting glasses back in the wrong cupboard.
Shen’s dinners were always immaculately served. The plates and silverware stood to attention when she set them down. The woman was like a duck; all the activity was below the water line, invisible. Shen was as serene cooking a feast as she was wafting about in one of her kaftans.
Speaking of which . . .
‘Another new floaty thing?’ asked Evie, as Shen emerged from the house and took her customary seat and poured her customary large glass.
‘Do you like it? It’s Fendi,’ said Shen. ‘That chicken was divine.’
‘Thank you.’ Warmed by the compliment, Evie forgot for a moment to keep the lit treehouse window in her gaze; she’d worked up a superstition that if she held it in her sights, nothing too disturbing would happen inside it. Mike emerged and put his mouth to her ear. Enjoying the warm rush of his breath against her hair, she expected a sweet nothing, but heard instead, ‘Tell you what: if Jon has got Miss Pritchett holed up in the village, she’s the most understanding mistress ever. The man hasn’t been out for longer than it takes to buy a paper, for the last forty-eight hours.’
True, but Evie couldn’t unsee what she’d seen. ‘Isn’t it nearly time for our nightly cuddle with the Fangster?’ she asked Shen.
‘Here she comes!’ Shen’s face broke into an uncomplicated smile; she was slightly goofy when she forgot to ‘do’ her smile, and it never failed to touch Evie’s heart. ‘Hello, Beautiful.’
‘Say hello to Mama,’ said Elizabetta to Fang, in that even voice that never rose nor dipped.
Clive took shape from the dusk, crossing the terrace, stepping over a discarded lilo and scattered towels and a ragged scrap, which just twenty-four hours ago had been Mabel’s fancy new swimsuit, but was now one of Patch’s chew toys. (Patch was the Gok Wan of the collie world; he never destroyed a chain-store garment, homing in instead on quality items.)
‘You’ve got your daddy’s nose, haven’t you?’ Fang looked squarely back at Shen, offering no opinion on the matter and managing to convey that she found the topic beneath her.
‘No, she hasn’t, Shen. Fang is the image of your mother, through and through, God help her.’ Clive kissed Fang on her domed head; the baby pulled a face, evidently not being keen on cigars. ‘Come back to me when you can talk, kid,’ he said, kindly. ‘I’ll know how to deal with you then.’
‘Yeah, you’re great with them when they can speak.’ There was an eerie disconnect between the ecstatic expression that Shen maintained for Fang’s sake and her sarcastic tone. ‘Ten out of ten for Zane, big Daddy.’
‘Zane’s not so bad.’ Mike flopped on the chair beside Evie, eagerly snatching up the glass of wine she offered him. ‘He’ll grow out of it.’
‘Into something even worse.’ Shen shifted the baby to her other hip: Fang was round and bonny and heavy. ‘I asked him his ambition, and he said to be famous. I said for what? He said it didn’t matter.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘So shallow. At his age I was working.’
‘Me too,’ said Clive.
‘I like Zane,’ said Evie. I have to, she thought, as he’s embarking on a summer romance with my daughter. She smiled at Tillie, who’d climbed the steps to the terrace to snaffle some lemonade. ‘Back me up, Tills. Zane’s no nightmare, is he? Doesn’t swear. Doesn’t smoke.’
‘There are other ways to be a nightmare,’ said Tillie, taking a glass.
‘Well, yeah.’ Evie had expected solidarity. ‘But you should hear about some of the boys Mike grew up with, what they got up to.’
A shutter clanged down over Mike’s expression. He was sensitive to any mention of his history; as his wife, Evie knew this, and she kicked herself, grateful to Shen when she changed the subject.
Shaded by a weeping willow, right on the borders of Wellcome House’s domain, The Eights were deep in debate.
‘It’s not beg off,’ said Miles, with some of his father’s confidence. ‘It’s bog off.’
‘I always say beg off,’ said Mabel, who had never said it. ‘I think people say you right tart as well. That’s a really bad one, though.’ She felt ashamed and very happy, at the exact same moment.
‘What about up your bumhole?’ Miles did a jig with the sheer badness of that. ‘I dare you to say that to your mum.’
‘I’ve already told her to bloody off,’ said Mabel.
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Miles.
‘Whore,’ said Amber. ‘Slut. Psycho-bitch.’
The others were impressed.
Prunella and Patch joined in the ‘fun’ of rounding up the kids for bed. As soon as Mike grabbed hold of one small holidaymaker, another sprinted past, cackling like The Joker. The pug tripped him up; the collie ran into a tree.
‘Show me this contract you mentioned then.’ Clive sat alongside Evie on the bench.
Evie handed over her phone and he scrolled down the screen, reading intently. They’d gravitated to this corner when the bedtime rodeo began, as if they’d agreed to meet.
‘Looks sound.’ Clive peered over half-moon glasses that Evie had never seen before. ‘Nail down the date of your first pay-review, darling. Suggest three months; cheeky, but if you ask for six they’ll up it to a year.’
‘A crash course in business!’ laughed Evie.
‘Didn’t you know I part-own a small ad agency?’ Clive handed back the phone.
‘No.’ Evie part-owned very little; she was impressed. ‘Blimey.’
‘It does OK.’ He spoke in bullet points, unlike his usual affable style. ‘Right. My advice. Make yourself indispensable early on. Do more than they ask. Sniff around the creatives. Then you might get a crack at copywriting.’
‘Really?’
‘With your background? Of course.’
Of course? There were no ‘of courses’ in Evie’s life. ‘What background would that be?’ It was quiet now, the children lassoed and indoors, the adults scattered.
‘You did a few years in the industry . . .’
‘A thousand years ago!’ scoffed Evie. ‘Things have changed.’
‘And so have you.’ Clive folded his arms, regarding Evie as if such an attitude puzzled him. ‘You write novels. In other words, you pump out creative work to strict deadlines and word-counts.’
Put like that, the wilderness years with Lucinda Lash sounded like solid experience. ‘I just hope I’m not nobbled by being a mum,’ said Evie. ‘You know, if one of the kids is sick, or I get in late because Dan misses the school bus.’
‘So from now on, you all get up an hour earlier. Have your own mother on standby. Ensure Scarlett understands that you rely on her. Get that husband of yours to understand he’s in this too. Never let your home life interfere with work. Never.’
Hurdles were no obstacle to this man; he vaulted over them.
‘I feel so guilty.’
Clive snorted. ‘Pointless self-indulgence.’
‘It’s me who holds the family together. Now I’m pulling it to pieces.’
‘Bloody hell. It’s just a job, Evie. Expect your family to pull their weight and they will.’ Clive nudged her. His arm was bulky and hot. ‘They owe you.’ He stood. ‘You can do this,’ he said, not like a motivational quote, not like a biased mate, but like somebody who believed in her.
But why does he believe in me? thought Evie, as he left her and made for the open French doors of the drawing room. Clive had
handed her the tools to tackle the job at hand. So accustomed to furtiveness, it was heady for her to feel energized and confident.
‘Darling . . . darling!’ Through the sheer curtains came Clive’s voice, trying to placate, but not doing very well, given the tone of Shen’s answering, ‘Oh, stick it up your arse, Clive!’
‘As you wish, my little lotus blossom,’ he called as Shen punched her way through the sheers and stalked over to Evie’s corner of the terrace.
‘Thanks.’ Shen stood over Evie, a glass of wine in each hand; a first, even for Shen.
‘For what?’
Shen handed her one of the glasses. ‘Taking some of the strain.’ She winked. ‘With my old man. Literally. My old man is an old man. He does love to talk. And talk. Thanks for helping me out by letting him bang on.’
‘He’s a good listener too.’ Evie defended Clive, but carefully.
‘He’s got no choice!’ Shen let out a loud ha! ‘With me around.’
The picture Shen painted of her other half was sketchy. Clive was kind; Evie was startled by her use of the word. She’d never thought of him as any soft and fuzzy adjective before.
Shen drained her glass and shook herself. ‘Better follow him up. According to the schedule, it’s sex tonight.’
‘TMI!’ yelled Evie at her receding back.
Out of the shower, standing before the long mirror in the dimly lit room, Evie regarded herself as Mike slumbered in the burrow he’d made of the bed.
Damp, she was naked in all senses of the word. No make-up. Her true feelings upon her face.
That woman looks unhappy, thought Evie, taking in the face that was a parody of the snapshots of her youth, as if somebody had Photoshopped puffy crescents beneath the eyes and a ladder of lines across the forehead. She touched her jaw; lately her jawline – a thing she’d never even noticed before – had begun to annoy her. It was sagging, yes; definitely sagging. She fingered it, as if touching it might encourage it to behave.
Turning, she confronted her bottom full on. On the whole, she ignored her bottom. It’s big and that’s that, she would think, getting on with life, making the best of it, enjoying how it upholstered cold bus-stop benches for her. Tonight she must face her bum.
Maybe it was the non-stop beauty-pageant parade of bikinis. Teenage girls in bikinis. A lithe nanny in a bikini. And Shen in a bikini.
Shen was so neatly made, as if turned out of a mould. Every inch of her was clean, unmarked, fragrant. It took some willpower not to feel like a sack of compost beside the much younger woman. The kaftans that floated on Shen would be sausage-skin tight on Evie.
Comparisons are pointless. This was Evie’s line when Scarlett worked herself into a tizzy because she didn’t, and never would, look like Rita Ora. Her own body had been through so much, had weathered such knocks and shocks, that it deserved respect and gratitude, not criticism. Who cares what other people look like? On the whole, Evie took her own advice, but what did Mike really think of the changes time and trauma had wrought on her flesh?
She glanced at him. He was twisted, heavy, as if he’d been thrown across the room into the tangle of covers. Surely the difference in inches and cellulite between herself and Shen didn’t go unnoticed by him? As she went back to the shower room, Evie allowed herself a small sigh: just the one, for the matriarch can’t afford to wallow too deep in these puddles; she has stuff to do.
Click.
The shower room went dark. Mike heard Evie’s bare feet on the boards, sticking slightly, still damp. He stealthily laid down his phone, and its green glow died under the bed.
The mattress lurched. The sheet snaked away from him. Evie sighed; her customary exhalation before settling into sleep.
In front of the mirror, wet, hair all anyhow, she’d looked wild and exuberant. The ins and outs of her were a fair-ground ride – Mike wanted a ticket.
He pounced. They kissed. The kiss lingered. Evie made a swooning noise he particularly liked. They froze as a mobile phone announced the arrival of a text.
‘Ignore it,’ they said in unison, mouth-to-mouth.
Beneath the bed, unseen, unread, the message landed: going mad in my empty bed thinking of you I want to devour you Mikey I want to tease you and maul you I WANT YOU don’t make me come get you!!
The treehouse smelled of Scarlett, of that perfume she wore. Roses. Something like that. Zane stretched out on the make-shift bed of cushions. How many had the girls dragged up here? And what was it with women and cushions?
He turned over. He could see the windows of the house through the jagged outline of the treehouse porthole. He was grateful for the heavy feeling in his limbs. Tonight sleep would just claim him; it wouldn’t be one of those arid, wakeful nights. Perhaps he’d sleep out here every night of the holiday. It felt right, more him, on the edge of things.
What a bunch they were, these three families. They thought they were so discreet, good at hiding the important stuff, but the outsider Zane had X-ray vision and saw their secrets. He’d dreaded this holiday, done everything he could to squirm out of it. His usual techniques had failed him. Mum was adamant; so adamant that he’d been insulted. Are you trying to get rid of me?
But now . . . now he felt each day pass as if diamonds were running through his fingers and all he could do was watch them fall to the ground. And all because of a girl. It thrilled Zane whenever he imagined making his move. And then it oppressed him, because he couldn’t ever imagine having such courage.
He turned on his side as a thought stabbed him: Why did I say all that shit earlier?
Zane had had sex once, two years ago, and he’d spent the twenty-four months since worrying that he’d done it wrong.
Beneath the tree, the garden slept. It wasn’t silent; there were scurryings, slitherings. He sat up at a more emphatic noise. Was it the prowling cut-throat? Zane, keen to escape into sleep, decided it was a fox.
He looked up at her window, then closed his eyes, so it was the last thing that he saw before sleep. It was sacred.
DAY 6
Sunday, 16th August
Hi All Next Door,
Got your message. Please don’t worry about the fish. I’ll replace them and the kids will never know. We’re on our fourth Finny and Bubbles already. And no, that smashed window isn’t evidence of an attempted break-in – it’s been like that since January . . .
Evie x
Evie gritted her teeth. It would be easier to run a travelling circus, or invade a small kingdom, or herd cats through a dogs’ home than chivvy everybody out of the house.
Mike had insisted, ‘It’s perfect picnic-on-the-beach weather!’
‘No,’ Shen had countered. ‘It’s perfect hanging-around-your-palatial-rented-house weather.’
Evie had wanted to add that she didn’t feel great. She felt, to quote her grandma, ‘a bit off’. Mike had noticed. ‘You all right?’ he’d asked gruffly.
The gruffness hadn’t fooled Evie. The answer he wanted to hear – the only answer he could cope with – was the one she gave him: ‘I’m fine, darling. Slept badly, that’s all.’
For six years Mike had policed her every twinge. To him, they were all symptoms. She kept headaches from him, stoically bore a jippy tummy without complaint, in case he started feeling her brow, taking her temperature, watching her.
‘Darling,’ she’d said gently, just last month. ‘It’s not coming back. I feel ill because of the kebab that seemed like a good idea after the pub quiz.’
Eventually, somehow, Mike cajoled the kids away from the trampoline and the teens from the treehouse and Clive from his phone. ‘Who are we waiting for?’ He looked back towards the house. Timing was crucial; hesitate a moment too long and an Eight would need the loo, or Shen would realize she hadn’t packed her picnic lipstick.
‘Coming!’ Paula was heffalumping through the front door, negotiating the steps awkwardly, with – they all saw it – that look on her face.
‘You OK?’ Mike put his hands on her should
ers.
‘Not really.’
Shen’s frustrated growl travelled out of the Ling-Little passenger window.
‘My ring,’ said Paula, twisting her finger as if trying to dismantle her hand. ‘My wedding ring.’ She appealed to Jon, already at the wheel of their BMW. ‘It’s gone.’
‘Are you sure?’ He was patient, but it was a rude patience, as if what he actually wanted to do was turn on the ignition and drive off, screaming. ‘Because, Paula, last time this happened . . .’
‘Can we go?’ whinged Miles.
‘I know I left it on the en-suite basin,’ said Paula.
‘Let me look.’ Evie unbuckled her seatbelt and dashed back to the house as Mike shouted, like a hostage-taker, ‘OK, nobody else move! And that means you, Shen!’
There was nothing on the basin except a sheen of soapy water. Evie checked the floor, the shelves, beneath the claw-footed bath. She tried not to clock the chaise longue on her way out, but had to look: the pillow and rumpled sheet backed up Shen’s story about the Browns’ sleeping arrangements.
Paula took the news stoically, and at last the cavalcade of cars jolted through the gap where the gates should be.
‘Man, it’s hot.’ The windows were down, but Mike was suffering, wiping his brow. Tucked in between the kids on the back seat, Patch slobbered noisily; Evie knew how he felt.
‘Why couldn’t I go with Tillie?’ pouted Scarlett.
‘You mean,’ said Mike, ‘why couldn’t you go with Zane.’
‘What? Get off! No! God-duh.’
‘You love him,’ said Mabel.
‘You want to snog him,’ said Dan, biting his fist at the awfulness of that thought.
‘Shut up! Seriously. Shut up.’
‘Leave your sister alone,’ said Evie.