‘Will you say something?’ I said to Harry, after he’d sudded and scrubbed diligently for a few minutes.
‘What?’ He pretended not to know what I meant.
‘You know what. Dotty. That stuff she said, about picking up the pieces.’
I saw Jem glance at Harry’s back but she said nothing and carried on spooning sprouts into a container.
‘You and James are none of my business,’ my brother said, working on the crystal wine glasses.
‘What about mum and dad?’ I said. ‘Was that what she meant?’
‘I don’t know anything about mum and dad.’ Harry adopted a blank expression.
‘Yes, you do,’ I said. ‘Is it – them – that Dotty meant?’
‘Look, Grace, I honestly don’t know.’ Harry started on the stainless steel serving dishes which Jem had piled up beside him. Then he gave me a sideways look. ‘There might have been something around the time we moved to Norfolk. But I don’t know anything for sure.’
I processed this. I had been fourteen when we moved from Cambridge. I didn’t remember anything special about it, although I had stayed with Dotty for most of that summer. Harry was two years older; he’d had a temporary job or something. Quickly, I did the maths. This was twenty years ago. Who knew what wounds had opened and healed?
Jem came over to me now, putting her arm around my shoulders. ‘She was awfully tipsy, you know.’
I nodded. ‘I know.’ I looked at Harry again. ‘I just wonder what she meant.’
He wouldn’t meet my eye.
~~~
It was on Boxing Day morning, after Dotty had left, that I finally cornered my mother outside the chicken run. She was whispering sweet nothings to her brood.
‘I’m surprised you can still eat poultry,’ I said to her. I was out of my pyjamas, but feeling crummy in tracksuit bottoms and a jumper stolen from Harry. The extra guests and limited bathroom facilities meant I hadn’t yet had a shower today.
‘Yes, chicken nuggets are certainly off the menu,’ she replied.
I watched, surprised, as she broke a banana into pieces and offered it to them. A white chicken and a pinky-brown cousin competed fiercely for the treat.
I worked up my courage. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’
‘Poppet …’
I twisted my hands in the too-long sleeves of Harry’s sweater. ‘Well?’
‘Dotty had no right to say anything.’ My mother threw the banana skin at the compost heap and wiped her fingers on her trousers.
‘So, there was something to say?’ My voice was barely audible.
Mum turned to me and took both my hands in hers to stop me fidgeting. ‘Love, it was a long time ago. We can’t dwell in the past.’
‘Did dad … did he cheat on you?’
She looked at me steadily, her face showing only the slightest shadow of pain. Then she reached out a hand and gently smoothed my hair. ‘Gracie, I love my life. I love my husband. And I love my family very much.’
I opened my mouth to protest, got as far as ‘But, mum –’ before she silenced me with a resolute shake of her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Look to your future, Grace.’
~~~
Next afternoon, Harry, Jem and I were making half-hearted efforts to get our stuff together in preparation for departure, when the doorbell rang.
‘Oh gawd,’ said my mother, trundling to the front door in her slippers. ‘I hope it’s not the Smythes and another of their impromptu drinks parties.’
It wasn’t social neighbours: it was FedEx with a box for me, origin California. Was this a late-arriving gift? There had been nothing under the tree for me from James, which didn’t surprise me. I hadn’t sent him anything, either. After all, what would one buy for an estranged spouse? I took myself to the far end of the living room where mum and dad had laid out tea things so we could all have a snack before our journey.
First, I found the card, a simple hand-written note which read, Grace, I didn’t know what you would like but I know you feel the cold. Happy Christmas. All my love, James.
Inside a badly wrapped package I found a beautiful pale grey cashmere blanket, which, if I couldn’t snuggle up with a man, was certainly the next best thing. Mungo would have to keep his grubby paws off this.
As I flapped the blanket open to admire it, a small square box slipped to the floor. I exchanged a silent look with Jem, and reached to pick it up. The outside read Astley Clarke, London, and inside was a beautifully simple pair of stud earrings.
‘Ooh.’ Jem peered from the other end of the sofa. ‘Yummy.’
I wasn’t sure, but I had a feeling I was looking at diamonds set in white gold. James wasn’t stingy, but by his usual standards, these were a beautiful gift. He must have bought them during his recent trip to London. The earrings glimmered as I tilted them back and forth.
There was something else in the box: a large, thin envelope. After diamonds and cashmere, divorce papers seemed unlikely. Puzzled, I delved inside. There were several sheets of paper, with a sticky note on top: I wanted you to see these, in case they help. Sorry, I couldn’t get them before now. J. The pages looked like log files from a computer program. I had to look closely before I could make out I was reading system-stored email correspondence.
May 18. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J: So excited for my bedroom. It’s going to be great. You should see it! Rebecca.
May 19. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R: Glad to hear it. Grace is very talented. James.
May 19. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J: I’m so looking forward to Vegas! It’s gonna be a blast. Can you stay on after for the workshops? Rebecca. xo
May 20. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R: I don’t think so, I need to get back. Regards, James.
There were more like this, upbeat, hopeful, a little flirtatious from Rebecca to James; brief and business-like from him to her. I read on, until I found:
May 29. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J: Just checked in! Room 955. View is great. Come see it! R. xo
May 29. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R: Still have some work to do for tomorrow. I’ll see you all at dinner. James.
May 30. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J: You were awesome today! The investors loved you! So privileged to work with you. Congrats and hugs, Becca. xoxo
May 30. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R: Thanks. You too. ;)
Then, this. I bit my lip hard as I read on, not caring that, for once, the Gillings had gone as quiet as mice.
May 31. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J: Good morning … xxx
May 31. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R: I feel terrible about what happened. We have to talk. James.
May 31. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J: Last night was amazing. Meet you later for cocktails? Becca xxx
May 31. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R: I’m sorry, I made a big mistake. I was horribly drunk. I want to apologise to you. I’ll find you at lunchtime. James.
Finally, there were these:
June 4. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J: I know we’re trying to hide this from the office, but I can’t keep pretending. You’re amazing. I want to be with you. Can’t wait to pick up where we left off in Vegas. My place tonight? Hugs and kisses, Becca. xxx
June 4. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R: If I ever gave you reason to think I have feelings for you, I apologise unreservedly. I made a terrible, one-time mistake. I love my wife. Please stop these notes. James.
My tea in its white china cup was cold and murky. I realised I’d been gripping the cashmere blanket as I read, holding it to my chest like a shield.
I looked up at Jem and Harry, not caring that my eyes were full of tears. ‘Guys, I need a favour.’
Jem nodded immediately. ‘Sure thing,’ she said.
‘If I drop my car in Saffron Sweeting, can I get a lift to your place for tonight? I need to be at Heathrow first thing tomorrow.’
Harry stretched his arms above his head and glanced at my parents before replying. ‘Where are you going?’
I
stood up to finish packing. I didn’t want to lose a single moment. ‘San Francisco.’
CHAPTER 31
After the dreary British weather, I had trouble adjusting to the bright afternoon sunlight as I drove south on US101 from San Francisco Airport. Traffic was light and the temperature was several degrees warmer than in England. I turned up the radio in my rental car and felt a joyful purpose which had been absent for a long time.
My wallet, by contrast, was feeling the pain of a last-minute ticket purchase, but it seemed a small price to pay to see James. Completely unable to sleep on the plane, I had twirled my wedding ring and watched the map on the seat-back television, counting down the miles as we made absurdly slow progress across remote parts of northern Canada. This had, at least, given me time to settle my thoughts.
After my encounter with mum in the garden, I’d escaped for a walk, tearfully refusing Jem’s offer of company.
Far from being crisp and sunny, Boxing Day had been overcast and damp. To counteract the creeping cold and my tumbling thoughts, I’d set a punishing pace, aiming for Kelling Heath.
For the first couple of miles, I’d seen nothing of the countryside. My head was down, my hands jammed in my pockets, my thoughts swimming with doubt and self-pity. But as my body warmed up and my brain cooled down, I’d found myself thinking about Mungo, wishing he were here to explore and meet new rabbits.
I’d wondered how James had spent Christmas, and whether he was on his own. Then, as sudden, mournful emptiness threatened to invade my chest, I’d pushed those thoughts aside and contemplated my parents’ marriage.
Granted, they no longer behaved like besotted lovers, but their relationship seemed comfortable, respectful, solid. The two of them were like wheels on a bicycle, hard to imagine the machine functioning without both front and back. So if – and I still wasn’t sure – dad had cheated on mum, did that mean infidelity was a puncture that could be repaired? Sure, you had to take the whole inner tube out, find the hole, patch carefully and allow time for the glue to set. But then, with care, you could pedal on. I had been unshakable in my assumption that an affair meant the end of the road, but here they were, twenty years later, cooking up a Christmas feast and blithely sharing the wishbone.
~~~
I figured it was too early for James to be home from work, but I didn’t care. I headed to Menlo Park to wait. Fully expecting to have to park myself on the wooden steps leading up from the street, I knocked on the door, just in case. Strangely, my ears detected music from inside the apartment but, deciding they must still be unreliable from the flight, I turned away and prepared to wait.
The door opened behind me and I swung around to find not my husband but a tall, slim young woman. I took in a terrifying expanse of brown leg before my eye was arrested by pink workout shorts and a skimpy Nike top. Her face was girl-next-door cute and her blonde hair was cut short, like a pixie. She didn’t look a day over twenty-five.
‘Hey?’ she greeted me blankly.
Battling a mouth that was full of tongue and drier than an airline sandwich, I asked if James was home.
‘James? No, he’s not. Are you a friend?’
‘Uh-huh. From England.’
‘Oh jeez, that’s too bad. I think he left town.’
‘Left town?’ What could she mean?
She nodded her pixie head. ‘He sublet the place to me, for three months. Sorry, I don’t know where he went.’ She chewed on a finger, thinking. ‘I have an email address for him, if you want.’
‘That’s okay. I have it.’ At this point, I remembered to breathe. ‘Er, so, you’re not his … girlfriend?’
‘Hah! No, totally not. I think he’s married, actually. He put this place on Craigslist and I got lucky. It’s really nicely decorated, for a guy.’
Reversing my initial opinion, I decided I liked her. But that still left me with my sails fully rigged and no wind. I’d crossed eight time zones and he’d left town?
‘Are you okay?’ She looked at me as I sagged against her – my – doorway.
‘Yeah. Sorry. Just jet-lagged.’ I stood straighter and rubbed my eyes. It was getting on for midnight in the UK. ‘I guess I’ll head to my hotel.’
I thanked her and made my way back down the steps, holding on carefully to the banister as I didn’t trust my legs.
In the car, I pulled out my phone to call James, but got only a generic voicemail message. Could he really have gone away?
~~~
The last time I had visited James’s workplace, I had been spilling both tears and purple paint, so I was nervous about making a reappearance. Nor was I looking my best, after being processed through the sausage machine of economy-class travel. But it couldn’t be helped. I brushed my hair, left my unflattering duffel coat in the car and lifted my chin as I walked into his Palo Alto office.
I sensed the company was doing well. The clock on the wall told me it was almost five, but that was still early in start-up land. More desks were filled than in the summer, and some framed magazine features were displayed proudly on the wall. They even had a receptionist, a rusty-haired, freckled young thing wearing scruffy jeans and an eager smile. But I couldn’t see James at his old spot.
‘Hi,’ I spoke confidently, even though my insides were like a technology stock on the day after the IPO. ‘I’m here to see James Palmer.’
‘Oh.’ The receptionist looked confused, darting a glance over to the area where I knew the engineering team sat. ‘James doesn’t work here any more.’
Even though I was half expecting this, I still felt the thump of disappointment in my stomach.
‘Do you know how I could reach him?’ I made sure to speak clearly, hoping my British accent would lend some credibility and authority without giving me away as his wife.
‘Sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘But Duncan might.’
Duncan was just passing the front desk, enormous Starbucks cup in hand. Wearing thick glasses and a Google polo shirt, I suspected he had already made his millions and only worked here to keep his brain entertained.
I turned to him and smiled engagingly, holding out my hand. ‘Hello. I was expecting to meet with James Palmer.’
The light glinted off Duncan’s glasses as he looked at me suspiciously. ‘Are you a headhunter?’
‘No – goodness, no. I’m Gr-’ Whoops, that wouldn’t do. ‘I’m Greta Gilling. From the British CISSP.’ My face turned pink as I faked a name and threw out an acronym I’d heard James use. I had no idea what it stood for and hoped desperately it would provide sufficient cover.
Duncan sipped his coffee through the lid of the paper cup. ‘James left us right before the holidays. Let go, in actual fact.’
Let go? Did he mean sacked? I couldn’t believe that: James had always shone at work and the company was obviously growing.
I smoothed the surprise off my face and tried for a neutral tone. ‘Do you know where he is now?’
Duncan shook his head. ‘No. You could try Microsoft. We’ve lost a few good guys to them recently. James was one of our best too.’
‘Microsoft?’ I didn’t think that was likely. Bill Gates had never been one of my husband’s heroes. He preferred the romantic nobility of the Linux crowd.
‘Yeah. Not here, though. Seattle.’
Seattle? Oh no, please no. I knew of someone else who had recently moved to Seattle. She signed her emails Hugs, Becca.
‘Right. Thanks.’ My chin drooped.
‘But if you do see James, can you get him to give me a call? I’d like to talk to him about unauthorised access of our email server.’
‘Okay.’ My ears threw this information away immediately; they were too busy helping me keep my balance, as the oxygen evaporated from the atmosphere around me.
I didn’t start crying until I was outside, sitting in the rental car. Then I let my head fall to the steering wheel and I sobbed. How could I have got this so wrong? I’d come five thousand miles and had missed the boat.
The glowin
g December sun had dipped below the Stanford hills and the mild winter air felt suddenly brisk. Around me, the Christmas lights of downtown Palo Alto twinkled, palm trees wrapped with tiny white stars. Yet Silicon Valley, home of so many dreams, had never looked less appealing.
I looked at my watch. There didn’t seem to be anything left to do. If I got a serious wiggle on, I might just catch the last British Airways flight of the day.
~~~
With typical British joie de vivre, there was a forty minute queue for passport control and London’s taxi drivers were on strike.
‘Welcome home,’ said the immigration officer as he examined my passport with leisurely interest and scrutinised me for signs of terrorist tendencies.
I looked back at him blankly, struggling even to find a courteous smile. I suspected the only story on my face was shell shock, brought on by two days’ non-stop travel and managing to lose the same husband twice. Oscar Wilde would no doubt deem this most careless.
Having been allowed back into my own country, I took one look at the seething bowels of Heathrow’s transportation system and gave up. Desperate international arrivals were trying to fathom their transit options, buy Oyster cards with foreign currency and cram themselves onto the churning platforms for either the Piccadilly line or the Heathrow Express. Deciding to take my chances on the M25, I headed wearily for the National Express coach station.
~~~
The taxi from Cambridge dropped me on the road outside Grey Stoke House. It was already pitch dark and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep.
I picked my way over the perilous, potholed obstacle course to my cottage, assisted only by a wafer of moon. For once, it was a relatively clear night and a few flakes of snow fell on the back of my neck.
As I came nearer to home, I realised that as well as my faithful Beetle, another car was parked in the shadows. My heart lifted, Hollywood-style, as I saw a male figure huddled by the front door. For one tiny moment, time froze and hope flared as I jumped to the irrational conclusion that James was waiting.
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