The Family Next Door

by Sally Hepworth

  Lucas looked at her. “Honey, you seem stressed. How about I run you a bath?”

  “But dinner is—”

  “I’ll finish it. Go on. I’ll bring you another glass of wine. And I’ll keep a plate warm for you to eat when you get out.”

  She wanted to slap him around the head. She wanted to know how he could do this to her and, more important, how he could do it to their sons. She wanted to know how he could stand there and pretend to be the perfect husband after spending the afternoon with Erin and Charlie. She wanted to hear him tell her the truth. Instead, she heard herself say: “A bath would be lovely,” and she headed out of the room.

  31

  FRAN

  Fran had been for a blissfully intense run. She’d run so fast and for so long that she wasn’t conscious of a single, solitary thought. People often said they went for a run to “clear their head,” but those people wanted their thoughts to become clearer. Fran wanted the opposite. She wanted her head entirely empty, devoid of thoughts, and a run always did just that for her. Unfortunately, it didn’t last. Which meant Fran was going to have to try something else. The truth.

  She let herself inside. Nigel and Rosie sat at the dining room table, with LEGOs sprawled out in front of them. Fran felt a jolt of surprise at seeing Rosie. In the middle of her thoughts about life-changing confessions, she’d forgotten her children existed.

  “Mummy!” Rosie said. “I’ve built you a house. You won’t be able to live in it, because it’s tiny and it’s pretend and it’s made of LEGOs.”

  Fran felt touched. Rosie never made her anything. Everything was always for Nigel. She was also surprised to see them playing with LEGOs. It was rare to see Nigel engage in noneducational toys.

  “It’s great,” Fran said, pulling up a seat next to Nigel. “I like red.”

  “There’s also some green and a bit of yellow,” Rosie added.

  Indeed there was. Fran felt a wave of affection for Rosie’s spectrum-like accuracy. She looked at Nigel. He’d sorted the entire box of LEGOs into colors, which he had divided into clear ziplock bags, with another bag for all the instructions. She should have known he’d have come up with a better use of his time than actually creating something.

  A sudden, aching pang of love nearly knocked her over. Why did I cheat on this man? she thought. Why couldn’t I have supported him through the rough times like a good wife would have done?

  “I’ll just go check on Ava,” she said, starting to stand. She was halfway out of her seat when Nigel reached for her.

  “Ava’s fine,” he said. “Just … sit for a little while. We want Mummy here with us, don’t we, Rosie?”

  Rosie nodded enthusiastically. “We love Mummy.”

  They beamed at her, identical smiles that very nearly made Fran feel happy. But it was too out of character. Nigel must have spoken to Rosie, said something like: Mummy’s not doing very well right now so we need to be nice to her. They were both looking at her a little too often. Their eyes were a little too soft.

  “I love you too—”

  “I need a wee,” Rosie said, jumping up. She scampered off. Fran felt relieved to have one less pair of eyes on her.

  Nigel scooted his seat a little closer. “I feel like I’ve been neglecting you,” he said. “And I’m sorry. Rosie and I have decided to make it up to you.”

  Stop, Fran thought. Please stop.

  “I know you’re struggling, and I’m going to step up. Maybe we should have a date night? I know you don’t want to leave Ava, but we could ask Isabelle to babysit, or maybe Essie’s mum. Barbara loves babies.”

  Fran picked up Rosie’s pretend LEGO house. It had a tiny purple flower on one of the red bricks that Rosie had failed to mention when reciting its colors.

  “Why don’t I speak to Barbara and I’ll book La Svolta for dinner,” he said. “One night next week, maybe. We could—”

  “I had an affair last year, Nigel. And Ava might not be yours.”

  Her voice was even and clear, soft and serious. There was no room for misunderstanding. She put down the LEGO house.

  Rosie ran back into the room. “I want to make a car. But you won’t be able to drive it because it’s too small and it will be made of LEGOs.”

  Rosie clambered onto the chair opposite them and took the house that Fran had been holding. She reached for the blue LEGOs and began assembling her car while Nigel and Fran stared at each other over the top of her head.

  32

  ESSIE

  “Are we just doing a trim today?”

  Essie stared into the shockingly well-lit mirror in the front window of her hairdresser. She wore no makeup, of course, and she looked awful. Old. Her eyes were circled with purple and her skin had a faint sheen to it, like she was getting ill. And there was something else too. She looked thin. Almost … gaunt. When had she gotten thin?

  The hairdresser—a new girl named Kym who was in her early twenties with ironic gray hair and huge pale blue eyes—clearly misinterpreted her lengthy pause.

  “Or do we want a restyle?”

  Kym was pulling and tousling Essie’s hair and peering into it as if she was searching for treasure in amongst the strands. It looked like a reddish-brown sea of tangles, long and shapeless, hanging halfway down her back. No wonder Essie’s mum had taken it upon herself to book her an appointment. “Uh … a restyle?”

  Kym lit up. “Cut and color?”

  “Well…” Essie had never colored her hair before, largely because she knew color took a long time. Upward of three hours. Who had time for that? But today the idea of three hours away from her children filled her with joy.

  “Sure. Cut and color.”

  “Perfect,” Kym said, and disappeared to get her “color board.” She left Essie with an iPad to google styles she liked. While Kym was gone another girl came to ask if she’d like a tea or coffee. Essie ordered a peppermint tea, but the moment the girl disappeared to make it Essie thought: Did I just order peppermint tea?

  Something isn’t right with you, Essie.

  And she wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  “Right,” her mum had said when she arrived this morning. “I’m looking after the girls at my place today. I’ve made you a hair appointment first thing, and afterward you can go out for lunch, get your nails done, or just come home and sleep. Up to you.”

  Essie knew she should feel grateful, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel anything at all. Ben had still been at home when her mum arrived, which meant they were clearly in cahoots.

  Don’t leave her alone with the children was the implication. She can’t be trusted.

  Maybe they were right. In the past few days she’d drifted past exhaustion into some sort of deadened state. Instead of constantly lusting after sleep, she’d accepted she would never sleep properly again. When Polly cried, she lurched to her feet like someone had flicked a switch, robotically feeding, bouncing, and replacing the pacifier in the child’s mouth. She did everything that was expected of her, but she didn’t feel a thing. The only time she’d felt vaguely alive was when she was with Isabelle.

  The nicest thing about Isabelle was that she found Essie so interesting. It was unfamiliar. Usually when Essie spoke to other adults she played the role of interviewer—asking questions, listening, nodding. But with Isabelle she became the focus of every conversation. Isabelle wanted to know every detail about Essie—how she’d met Ben; had she always wanted children; had it been difficult to conceive? How about Essie’s childhood—was it happy, was Barbara a good mother? She asked about her father, and Essie explained that he had run off with another woman while her mum was pregnant. She didn’t usually tell people that. Her mum had never spoken much about her dad and Essie had deduced from this that it was an insult to her mother to talk about him. But there was something special happening between her and Isabelle. It felt like that time after you’d started dating someone special when you wanted to share every detail about each other.

  Isabell
e shared details about her life too. Her mother died when she was twenty, but her parents had gone their separate ways years before that. She had a brother called Freddy and two half-sisters. Her dad had married a much younger woman who was nice enough, but Isabelle kept her distance, as she’d never felt part of that family. There was genuine sadness in her voice when she talked about that. It made Essie want to wrap her arms around her and hold her. She didn’t remember wanting to do that to another woman before.

  By the time Kym returned with the color board, Essie had a couple of pictures ready to show her.

  “Oooh,” she said. “A big change!”

  Was it? Essie wondered.

  “I love it!” Kym squealed before she could change her mind. “It will really suit your face shape.”

  Well, good, Essie thought, sipping her peppermint tea, and then spitting it out and putting the cup on the bench in front of her. Kym gave her a strange look, but Essie didn’t care. When you were a sleep-deprived mother of two in your thirties, you could spit out your tea if you didn’t like it.

  As Kym pasted color onto her hair with what looked like a pastry brush, Essie found herself feeling overwhelmingly tired. She let her eyes close. Maybe she’d catch forty winks while she was here? When you were a sleep-deprived mother in your thirties, you were allowed to do that too.

  33

  ANGE

  “Ange! Is that you, dear?”

  Ange had been about to head out to her Pilates class when the phone had rung. Now, she cursed herself for answering. Her mother-in-law always called the landline, probably because Ange always screened the calls to her cell. In the early days of her relationship with Lucas, Ange would make him call her back. (Your family, your problem, she’d say). But at some point she’d stopped saying things like that to him. At some point his family became her problem. Everything became her problem.

  “Hello, Leonie,” Ange said, standing by the counter with her rolled-up yoga mat by her feet. She never sat when her mother-in-law called. It was better to remain on guard.

  “It’s nice to hear your voice, Ange. My word. How long has it been?”

  Not long enough.

  “I’ve been meaning to get in touch forever,” she continued without a pause. Leonie had an irritating tic of filling even the slightest pause with meaningless chatter. After a conversation with Leonie, she always felt like she’d been the victim of a minor assault.

  “How are my grandsons? Growing like weeds? I really must plan a visit.”

  “Will and Ollie are fine, and you’re welcome anytime, Leonie,” Ange said, safe in the knowledge that Leonie only ever left Perth to come to Melbourne at Christmas, where she stayed for a week at an Airbnb in the city. She refused to stay in the spare room because “she didn’t want to intrude,” which would have been wonderful, had she not gone on about it so very much. Apparently her own mother-in-law used to descend when her children were little and demand to be waited on hand and foot. Clearly, she’d set the intention to not be this grandmother, and more important, to make sure everyone knew she wasn’t. In spite of this, Leonie was a wonderful grandmother. Whenever she did visit, Leonie could always be found engaging with the kids. She read books and did role-plays and played the dullest of games for hours. Because of this, the boys adored her and because of this, Ange found she couldn’t quite bring herself to hate her.

  “And how’s my boy?” she asked, talking about Lucas, of course.

  “He’s great,” Ange said on autopilot.

  Ange could practically see her beam. “Well, I suppose he’s busy. What with work and the boys and running the household.”

  Once, when Leonie was visiting, Ange had sat on a barstool with a glass of wine while Lucas stacked the dishwasher. Leonie had never fully recovered. (“Let me do it,” she’d insisted to Lucas, shooting a glance at Ange. “Honestly, you’ve been on your feet all day, you shouldn’t have to do this too.” It didn’t seem to matter to her that Ange worked and earned the lion’s share of the money. In Leonie’s opinion it was a woman’s job to take care of her man in the home.)

  “We’re all tired but happy,” Ange murmured, all the while wondering: Why am I playing this game with my mother-in-law? What sense of shame or pride is so deeply ingrained in me that I cannot be real?

  She imagined what an honest conversation with Leonie would sound like:

  “How’s Lucas?” Leonie would ask.

  “Well, he’s had at least one affair that I know about…”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Also he has a secret phone and I’m almost positive he has an illegitimate child.”

  “My word.”

  “And I’m thinking about leaving him, but despite what he’s done I can’t really bear the idea of it, and frankly, I’m not sure why I have to be the one to make the decision when he was the one who has had the affairs!”

  But you couldn’t have conversations like that with your mother-in-law. You couldn’t have conversations like that with anyone.

  “So, how is work?” Leonie asked her.

  This was a departure. Leonie’s usual repertoire was to ask about the kids, then ask about Lucas in a way that made Ange feel inferior, then finally get to the point of the call (which was usually to ask for some real estate advice for a friend of hers). The only time she asked Ange about work was to make a point of the fact that she worked too much.

  “Not bad,” Ange started. “Though I’m finding—”

  “It’s good that you work,” she interrupted. “The brain doesn’t like to be idle. It can make you start to overthink things.”

  Ange paused. That felt like a loaded statement. “What kind of things?”

  “Oh, you know. Things. I remember when my kids were little and Lucas’s dad was off at work, I used to send myself crazy with thoughts. About my friends, my children … my marriage. But you can wonder too much about things, can’t you?”

  This time, Leonie didn’t fill the silence with chatter or noise. Ange lowered herself into the seat beside the phone. Had Lucas spoken to her? It was unlikely, but not impossible. Suddenly Ange wondered about Leonie’s marriage. Had it also involved infidelity? Had she made it her philosophy to turn a blind eye? The thing about people who lived by a philosophy was that they liked others to follow their philosophy too. Otherwise there was the risk of their philosophy being wrong.

  “Life is all about attitude, Ange,” Leonie continued. “If you tell yourself enough that life is perfect … somehow, it is.”

  Maybe, Ange thought. Or maybe you end up living a perfect-looking lie.

  34

  BARBARA

  Barbara was standing at the window when she saw Essie’s car pull into her driveway. She hesitated, wondering whether to go out. On the one hand, she wanted to see if she was feeling better after her hairdresser visit this morning. On the other, she wanted Essie to enjoy her day off without any interference from her. As she watched her emerge from the car, Barbara felt herself descend into the kind of internal dispute that her friend Lois often had about her daughter.

  “Does she want me to visit or stay the heck away?” Lois often lamented.

  Barbara never had any sage advice to offer Lois. Essie always told her what she wanted. If Barbara rang Essie and she was in the middle of something she’d say, “Mum, can’t talk, Fran’s here,” and Barbara would hang up the phone without the slightest hint of offense. But now Barbara had no idea what Essie wanted or needed.

  Barbara watched her through the window. Essie had her head in the backseat, getting out some groceries perhaps. Maybe she could go there under the guise of helping her bring them inside? Both girls had gone down for a nap; it wouldn’t hurt to pop outside for a moment. Barbara had a feeling that if she just saw Essie—up close—she’d get a good idea of her mental state. But when Essie emerged from the car, Barbara did a double take. Her hair was dark brown, and short. Chin-length. With bangs.

  Barbara walked out the front door and headed toward her.

 
“Essie!” Barbara called, when she was a few yards away. Essie turned around and Barbara caught her breath.

  “Oh,” Essie said, self-consciously. “Yeah. I went for a restyle. What do you think?”

  She touched her hair, with pride or perhaps embarrassment. She reminded Barbara of those women on TV who had complete makeovers and then had to perform a catwalk to show off their “new look.” Barbara liked those shows. But Essie didn’t seem to have any understanding that she didn’t have a new look. She had a look that belonged to Isabelle.

  “Gran?” Mia’s voice came from Barbara’s front door. “I’m awake!”

  Mia scurried across the driveways in her T-shirt and undies and bare feet, her skinny pale legs a perfect pair of matchsticks. Her hair was sweaty and mussed from sleep. A few paces away from them, she stopped and frowned. “Mummy?”

  “Hello, sweetie.”

  “Your hair is different.” Mia blinked up at her mother, scratching her bottom absently. “You look like Ithabel.”

  Okay, Barbara thought. I am not being paranoid.

  “It is similar, I guess,” Essie admitted. “But I like it. Anyway, Isabelle doesn’t have the copyright on bangs, does she?”

  Essie tried for a laugh but it fell flat. It was the strangest thing. Barbara’s daughter was standing in front of her, but it wasn’t her daughter. She didn’t even look like her daughter. She needed to call Ben.

  “Can we go home, Mummy?” Mia said.

  “Oh, no, Mia,” Barbara said quickly. “Mummy’s having a rest day. You can stay at Gran’s for a bit longer.”

  “No! I want to stay with Mummy.” She wrapped her arms around Essie’s leg.

  “It’s fine, Mum,” Essie said, but Barbara reached for Mia’s shoulder and yanked her away from her mother. She didn’t want Mia going anywhere with Essie.

  “Gran!” Mia shrieked. “That hurts!”

  “Mum, let go of her.”

  But Barbara didn’t let go. It may have been Mia’s reaction, or perhaps the strange look in Essie’s eyes, but Barbara felt herself becoming a little hysterical. “Really, I think it’s best if I—”