“Mum!” Essie slapped Barbara’s hand clear of Mia’s shoulder. “For heaven’s sake, what is the matter with you?” She picked Mia up and held her on her hip.
Barbara stepped back, breathless. “Funny. I was about to ask the same of you.”
Essie shook her head, perplexed, then turned and walked back to the house with Mia. Barbara would have followed but Polly was still asleep at her house. Instead she stood on the street between the houses, a strange feeling of déjà vu creeping over her.
It was happening, she realized. Her daughter’s demons were coming out again.
35
ISABELLE
“Hello?”
It was just starting to go dark when Isabelle’s phone rang. She snatched it up without glancing at the screen.
“Hi,” Essie said. “Is this a bad time?”
“Of course not.” Isabelle sat up straighter. “What’s up?”
“Actually I was wondering if you could come over. I have something to show you.”
“You do?” Isabelle said. Essie sounded different; she was talking too loud or something. Isabelle heard Mia babbling in the background.
“Yes, well. I hope it doesn’t freak you out…”
“Okay, now I’m intrigued.”
Essie giggled. Isabelle felt a whisper of worry—a tremor underfoot. Essie had been struggling last time she’d seen her. Exhausted and verging on delirious. And something in Essie’s voice told Isabelle that things may have worsened.
“Right, just give me a few minutes then. I’m just finishing something up and I’ll come to you…”
“Don’t be too long,” Essie said.
Isabelle had no intention of being long. She hung up the phone and pushed back in her chair, eager to investigate sooner rather than later. Perhaps Essie’d had another night of hardly any sleep? That could certainly make a person sound odd. She was only just on her feet when there was a knock at the door.
“I said I’d be right there!” she called jokingly. She threw open the door and stopped short.
He was dressed in jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a denim jacket, his shaggy black hair pushed back over one ear. His dusky-blue eyes shone with something like mischief.
Jules.
“What … what are you—”
“I said I’d come down on my bike.”
“You did but … I … I wasn’t expecting…”
Jules guided her backward into the house. He stripped off her dress, letting it fall to the floor. In a matter of moments they were both naked.
“I’m meant to be going to see Essie,” she protested against his mouth.
But by the time he lowered them both into the armchair, Isabelle had forgotten all about Essie.
36
FRAN
Fran sat on the floor in the dark room with her head in her hands. She and Nigel had spent the day pretending everything was fine. They’d spoken in odd, jovial voices about trivial day-to-day topics like meals and baths and who would read bedtime stories—a peculiar little show they’d put on for Rosie’s sake. Was it doing her any favors, Fran wondered, not being real in front of her? Obviously there were some topics too mature for a three-year-old, but did they have to talk with faux smiles and cheer? Fran didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore.
Rosie had been fussy and clingy at bedtime, so maybe they hadn’t done such a great job of keeping things from her. Kids were intuitive, wasn’t that what everyone said? She’d kept asking for one more story, one more cuddle, one more drink of water. Fran and Nigel had both indulged her, perhaps wanting to put off what was coming. But eventually there was nothing else left to do but turn off her light and go and talk.
Once the questions started, they came like a train. Nigel wanted to know everything. How it had happened, how many times, what feelings were behind it. Did she ever plan to tell him? Did she ever plan to tell Mark? (She didn’t. In an odd way, the whole thing felt like it had nothing to do with Mark.) Nigel’s mood rolled from calm to angry to shocked to upset. There were periods of silence. Then more questions. It felt like the questions would never end. They started broad and vague, and then became grotesquely specific. Did they perform oral sex? Him to her? Her to him? What was the position? How long did it last? Did she orgasm? Fran wondered if it was helpful for him to know, but she was relieved she didn’t have to be the one to decide for him anymore.
“Enough,” she said eventually. “I think we’ve covered it all. Maybe we should talk about what to do now.”
Nigel stood up and walked to the window. Fran wanted to go to him, to put a hand on his shoulder, but could she do that? Was she allowed? He looked like a statue at the window, so still she couldn’t even see him breathing. Fran wasn’t sure she was breathing herself.
When Ava began to cry, Nigel moved quickly—out of the room before Fran could even get to her feet. When he was gone, she gazed out the window. Lights were starting to come on in the street and Fran pictured the neighbors in their homes watching Netflix, brushing teeth, filling out paperwork for school excursions, paying bills. She wondered if any of the neighbors were looking back at her house, wondering what she was up to.
He’d been gone several minutes when Fran realized. Nigel was with Ava. The child she’d just told him might not be his.
She bolted.
Nigel was in the rocking chair in the darkness, with Ava splayed across his chest, exactly as she’d found him a few weeks ago, both of them blinking into the darkness.
Fran pressed a hand to her heart.
“You thought I might have hurt her,” he said with a sneer.
Fran didn’t respond. Obviously it was what she’d thought. But suddenly she saw how ridiculous that was. She slid down onto the carpet and rested her back against the wall.
Nigel met Fran’s gaze, dead-on. “Do you think she’s mine?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know you don’t know. I’m asking what you think.” He watched her steadily. He’d stopped rocking the chair now. Ava’s eyes had closed and her breathing was loud in the silent room.
“I can’t answer that,” she said. “What does it matter what I think?”
“It matters to me.”
And clearly it did. The reason she could hear Ava breathing, she realized, was because Nigel wasn’t.
Fran took a moment to think. “Some days I do. Other days—”
“For fuck’s sake!” Nigel’s calm snapped like worn elastic. It occurred to Fran that during their marriage, she had only seen him angry a handful of times. Even when he was depressed, it was rare. She hadn’t looked for a husband with a gentle temperament. She’d looked for several things, but that part had been sheer good luck.
“Fine! I do think she’s yours. If I were forced to guess, I’d say she was yours. But—”
“But you don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
Silence. Oblivious to what was happening around her, Ava let out a contented sigh.
“We’ll get a paternity test,” Fran said. “Now that you know … we can do that. And then we’ll know.”
“We’ll know what?”
Fran understood what he meant. They could find out the paternity of Ava. But there would still be so much they wouldn’t know. Like how they would move forward after this if she wasn’t his child. How they’d move forward, if she was.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” Nigel said. “Worse than you having an affair or a potentially illegitimate baby? Worse than becoming a part-time dad to Rosie and possibly losing Ava altogether? It’s that because of all this I might lose my relationship with you. And you are the one thing I don’t think I can live without.”
It was the loveliest knife she’d ever been stabbed with in her life. Fran closed her eyes and rested her forehead against her knees.
37
ESSIE
It was dark outside now and Isabelle still wasn’t here. Essie stood by the window, catching her own reflection. Her hairdresser was ri
ght, her hair did suit her face shape and coloring. She’d changed when she’d gotten home, into a tank top and long skirt so she could feel the breeze around her ankles, but she still felt hot and bothered. Where on earth was Isabelle?
Essie stepped from foot to foot, unable to stand still. She felt vaguely breathless and her heart hammered in her chest. Was it was normal to feel like this at the prospect of a visit from a friend? She hadn’t had a lot of good friends in her life, so she wasn’t sure. She also wasn’t sure about some of her … other thoughts. Women admired each other’s bodies, of course. (“You skinny bitch,” or “I’d do anything for your boobs.”) But was it normal to think about reaching out and stroking the line of your friend’s jaw? Was it normal to wonder what it would be like to kiss the pink cupid’s bow of her lips?
Lights flashed into the street and Essie watched as a motorbike drove up Isabelle’s driveway.
“What are you looking at?” Mia asked, appearing beside her. She’d abandoned her ham and cheese sandwich at her little table.
“Nothing, honey. Eat your sandwich.”
Essie craned her neck to see the person standing at the front door.
“Mummy! Can I see?” Mia ripped open the curtain.
“Mia!” Essie whipped the curtain back into place. It was a small street, and it didn’t take much commotion to catch people’s attention. Essie peered around the curtain again just in time to see Isabelle’s front door close. Who was that?
Essie charged toward her door, powerless to do anything else. It was the same feeling she’d had a few months back when she’d been away from Polly for a few hours, and her body literally ached until she could get back to her. Now she was aching for Isabelle. She couldn’t wait.
“I’ll be right back,” she said to Mia.
Outside, Essie stepped over the plants dividing their houses and started up Isabelle’s driveway. Barefooted, she found herself running. At the door, she raised her hand to knock then she stopped herself, peering through the thin strip of glass alongside the door instead. Isabelle’s shoes and underwear were lying there, trailing toward the lounge room.
Essie lowered her hand without knocking.
She made her way down the side of the house, her heart hammering. She squeezed past a shrub and stepped into a garden bed next to a window. It had a clear view of the living room. Essie moved closer. Isabelle lay across the armchair, one bare leg kicked over the arm. Her body was on an angle, long and lean and pale. She moved suddenly, and that’s when Essie noticed the man kneeling before her.
She jumped back. She felt the sting as hard as if she’d been slapped.
And then, in an instant, it was clear. She loved Isabelle. She loved her. It wasn’t the same way she loved Ben. She loved Isabelle in a pure, perfect way.
She loved Isabelle more.
“Essie.”
Essie jerked around. The security light cast a blinding glow, but from his size, Essie could see right away that it was Ben. She blinked at him, waiting for her eyes to adjust.
“What are you doing?”
Essie looked back at the window and his gaze must have followed because a moment later, he clapped a hand over his mouth.
The sensor light flicked off.
“Essie,” he whispered urgently. “We need to leave.”
She shook her head. She wasn’t trying to be difficult. She simply couldn’t leave. She was certain that if her feet were pulled off this soil, she would actually cease to exist.
Why did she feel like that?
“Essie. Let’s go.” Ben sounded, not angry exactly, but agitated. He gripped her arm just below her shoulder and started to lead her back toward the street. Essie dug in her heels.
“No.”
“Essie,” he said, softer now. “Let’s go home. We can talk there, okay? Essie, I’m going to help you…”
There was a flash of movement at the front door and then the light flicked on. Leaves rustled. And then someone else was there.
“Essie? Is that you?”
It took Essie a moment for her eyes to adjust. It was Isabelle. Her shirt and skirt were all askew.
I love you, Essie thought. I love you, Isabelle.
“What’s going on?” Isabelle said. She sounded wary. “Ben?”
“I’m not sure,” Ben said.
It was utterly silent and still. Essie felt their eyes on her. She wished Ben would go away. Emotions were coming at her so fast. A splash of anger, a flurry of nerves, a burst of panic. It made her bold. She shoved past Ben and looked Isabelle dead in the eye. Just look, she told herself. Look in Isabelle’s eyes. You’ll know. You’ll know if she feels it too.
Isabelle glanced toward the doorway where a disheveled man stood, half-dressed. The man on the motorbike. The one from inside. Essie watched the silent language that passed between them. And after a few seconds, she realized she had her answer.
Essie let out a whimper.
This time when Ben tried to guide her away, Essie let him. He led her past Isabelle and the disheveled man, back toward their home. Essie wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but when she walked past Isabelle she was sure she heard her whisper, “I’m sorry.”
38
ANGE
Ange sat in her favorite armchair with a glass of pinot grigio while the TV played some kind of house-flipping show. The boys were in their bedrooms doing whatever they did in there, and Lucas sat opposite Ange in his trendy jeans and V-neck T-shirt—one bare, tanned foot resting on the coffee table. The V in Lucas’s shirt seemed to have gotten deeper lately, exposing a taut hairless chest that usually filled her with longing. Today, it filled her with rage. Put a proper shirt on, she wanted to yell. A button-down and a pair of chinos. And while you’re at it, be a different kind of man! The kind who loves his wife and can keep it in his pants.
There was a knock on the door and they looked at each other, then raised their eyebrows in unison.
“I’ll get it,” Ange said, when Lucas remained seated. Had he always been so useless? she wondered. Had she been blind to it because of his deep V-neck T-shirts, or was she simply happy to put up with it so long as he wasn’t a philanderer with another family?
It was Barbara at the door. She stood there with Polly in her arms and Mia by her side. Polly was smearing a segment of orange into her white blouse and Barbara seemed neither bothered nor aware. “I’m sorry to bother you, Angela,” she said, “but is there any chance you could look after the girls for an hour or so. Essie is … well, she’s ill, so Ben and I are taking her to the hospital.”
“To the hospital? Is everything all right?”
“She’s physically fine…” Barbara drifted off, glancing at Mia.
Ange read between the lines. Physically Essie was fine. Mentally was another story.
Ange felt a twist of guilt. She’d noticed Essie didn’t seem herself these past few weeks. She and Fran had even discussed it, at Essie’s place. Why hadn’t she reached out to her? Why hadn’t she offered to help out with the girls, bring her a few meals, pop by for a chat? Ange knew what Essie had done last time, with Mia. Now she was unwell again and no one had helped her. She couldn’t help feeling that she, like all the neighbors, should shoulder some responsibility for that.
“Of course I’ll look after them,” Ange said, taking Polly from Barbara. “Why don’t you give me Essie’s keys and I’ll take them home and give them dinner and put them into their own beds? Then you can come back whenever you’re ready.”
“That would be wonderful.”
Barbara found the keys and handed them over and then kissed the girls good-bye. By the time Ange had brought the girls into the foyer, Lucas was there.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“Essie isn’t well and is going to the hospital. I said I’d take the girls back home and look after them for a few hours.”
Lucas nodded. Ange didn’t have to tell him not to ask any more. He squatted next to Mia. “So I suppose we’re going to have to get y
ou home somehow. Hmmm. I don’t suppose you like piggybacks?”
Mia glanced at Ange, then back at Lucas. She nodded shyly.
“You don’t?” Lucas cried. “Who doesn’t like piggybacks?”
She smiled. “I do.”
“You don’t?”
Now, she was flat-out giggling. Even Polly was smiling. “I said … I DOOO!”
Ange watched Lucas. The Lucas who had affairs and illegitimate children. The Lucas who also understood when to ask questions … and when to give piggyback rides.
“Hold on tight,” he said to Mia as he hoisted her onto his back.
Ange told the boys where they were going (she often left them home alone while she popped over to the neighbors) and then she and Lucas walked across the road to Essie’s. The house was in a surprising state. Breakfast dishes were stacked in the sink, toys were strewn all over the place, a half-eaten sandwich sat on the coffee table. Usually, when Ange went over to Essie’s it was clean and welcoming, with everything in its place.
“I’ll get the dinner started,” Lucas said, as Ange did a sweep of the room, gathering up the dirty dishes and taking them to the kitchen. When the boys were little, they had a similar routine—one of them tidying while the other made dinner. Later, one would read stories while the other did the dishes. No matter how stressful her day had been, when Lucas showed up, things made sense again. For years, Ange had listened to women talk about how their husbands were terrible with the kids, how they always did the wrong thing, or forgot to check the temperature of the bath, or did up the diaper too tight … or something. Ange had always nodded and smiled while being secretly smug. How lucky she was! Lucas wasn’t one of those husbands. He checked water temperature, and made lunch boxes and sang songs and put children to bed. He was a dream husband!
A dream husband to two women.
Ange unstacked and stacked the dishwasher, gathered the toys into their wicker baskets, and folded the laundry and put it away. Meanwhile Lucas had found a jar of pumpkin and zucchini mash for Polly, and had got some pasta and veggies started for Mia. When it was ready, he pretended the pasta was worms, which had Mia laughing hysterically. How is it possible? Ange thought. How can you be such a good guy and such a bad guy? How can I love you so much … and hate you so much.
The Family Next Door Page 16