by Alex Day
The Porsche is parked outside on the street. ‘The car park was full when I arrived,’ he explains. ‘And people are so careless. The spaces are really tight, everyone’s in a hurry, and I’ve had a couple of scratches and scrapes. All those mums dropping their kids off here, there, and everywhere, rushing and not even noticing that they’ve bumped someone. Sometimes I think it’s safer to stay out here.’
He gestures to the road, which is wide and spacious, and fairly sparsely occupied. As he does so, we both see Miriam approaching, scurrying along in her characteristic head-down, determined way, like Mrs Tiggy-Winkle.
‘Look at you two!’ she cries as she spots us. ‘Don’t you look the vision of health and vitality! You should be the pictures on vitamin supplement boxes!’
Dan and I catch each other’s eyes and I suppress a giggle. She’s truly batty.
‘The ones for the more mature age-groups, I presume you mean,’ I laugh. And then, realising what I’ve insinuated, add, ‘Only speaking personally, of course.’
Dan grins and Miriam beams.
‘I must get a snap for the foraging newsletter,’ she goes on, in what seems to be a non-sequitur.
‘Why?’ I enquire, mildly.
‘To show the benefits of eating wild food – you are the living proof!’
Before we can comment further, she’s whipped out an ancient iPhone and started snapping away. I know I’ll look dreadful, my hair, only just released from its ponytail, still staying resolutely behind my ears rather than framing my face the way I want it to, my cheeks still flushed from the strenuous exercise of the match.
‘Fantastic!’ exclaims Miriam, appearing happy with her work. ‘You could be a couple, you two; you match each other somehow.’
I’m overcome with mortification – poor Dan, being associated with insignificant lil’ ol’ me when he’s used to the glamour queen that is Charlotte. Miriam’s peering at her phone, bending over, and I make a what–is-she-on? face at Dan above her head. He grins, unphased as ever.
‘Look!’ cries Miriam, wielding the phone at us. ‘Just look at you!’
Nervously, I take a peek. We stand there, the crown of my head fitting neatly underneath Dan’s chin, perspiring gently in the sunshine. Or at least I am. Dan looks immaculate, a George Clooney-esque aura of perfection about him.
I shrug. ‘I honestly think you’re mad,’ I say to Miriam, ‘but if you must use it, I suppose it’s my only chance of ever being a cover girl!’
Dan also gives his blessing.
Escaping Miriam’s clutches, we get into the car. The Porsche does the journey in nanoseconds. Fast cars, expensive jewels, a beautiful house and a gorgeous husband; there’s plenty to envy in Charlotte’s lifestyle.
It’s a good thing I’m not the covetous type.
Chapter 19
Charlotte
My phone pings to signify a message. It’s from Miriam and I don’t open it immediately as the potatoes need basting – yes, potatoes are on the menu, due to public demand. When everything is back under control a few minutes later, I pick up my phone to see what Miriam wants – something about next week’s foraging schedule or the exact quantities required for sorrel pesto probably.
I punch in the passcode and see, instead of what I’m expecting, a photo. It’s of you and Dan, standing outside the tennis club. Dan’s gaze is directed straight at the camera. Typical. He never loses an opportunity to pose. But you. You look as though you’ve been caught unawares; your eyes are averted and you’re glancing down as if hurriedly smoothing your skirt or checking the buttons of your shirt are done up correctly.
Or as if you don’t really want the photo to be taken.
Using my thumb and forefinger, I zoom in on your face. Our country air and locally-foraged produce seem to suit you. Your gently tanned skin glows with health – though you should watch that. Too much sun is so ageing. But you look lovely and I wish, not for the first time, that I could think of someone who would be suitable for you, someone I could introduce you to. I know you’re lonely, I know that more than anything else you desperately want a man, but unfortunately, though Biglow has many positive attributes, a healthy supply of single, eligible gentlemen is not one of them.
Perhaps you should sign up to one of these online dating sites. I don’t think they’re just for young people anymore; apparently there are ones that specialise in the over-forties. Or maybe Guardian Soulmates would be best – you are a bit of leftie, and Guardian readers are mostly bleeding-heart liberals, just like you. Or eHarmony, maybe. It worked for a friend of a friend of mine; unlikely though it sounds, she found eternal love with a man from Minehead who breeds miniature schnauzers. Perhaps I’ll suggest it, when the time is right. The dating agency, that is, not the breeding of irritating yappy pooches!
I take another look at the photo. Something catches my eye and I hesitate, zooming in again, even further than before. The earrings you’re wearing are very pretty. And they look expensive. They must date from your former life, when you had a husband and he had money to spend on you. If I remember, I’ll ask you where you – or rather, he – got them. Finding a new jewellery emporium is always fun.
I’m absorbed in contemplation of your accessories when the sudden blaring of the front door bell makes me jump out of my skin. My heart skips a beat and a shock of fear runs through me. I let the phone drop from my hand and focus on steadying my breathing. I’m just regaining control when a deafening ring, combined with a low thumping, disturbs the silence anew. My mobile. I glance towards it, then irritatedly snatch it up, fear replaced by annoyance. It’s Dan.
‘Charl,’ his voice booms down the airwaves, using the name he knows I hate, ‘can you let us in? I told you I didn’t take keys but you’re not answering the door.’
‘Coming,’ I reply, curtly. I stride towards the door, spending the time it takes to get there composing my face into an expression of welcoming bonhomie.
The meal I’ve laboured over is greatly appreciated and, though I say it myself, delicious – rack of lamb with rosemary potatoes (which you and I both giggle about as I serve them), broccoli puree and caramelised carrots, followed by a pear tarte tatin that melts in the mouth.
After we’ve eaten and the boys, who I managed to get to play outside whilst you and Dan were at the club, have disappeared to the fustiness of the indoor games room, and Dan to his study, you and I retreat to the drawing room. The French windows are open, revealing the flawless green lawn that the gardener spends so long perfecting. In the beds that surround it, the roses are flowering profusely. At the end is the ha-ha, its visual trickery extending the manicured garden into the lush, tree-studded meadow that stretches into the distance beyond. This separation, it suddenly occurs to me, seems to reflect my life at the moment, divided into the part I understand, which is being a mother and carer and wife, and the part that I don’t, which is … well, so many things, but mainly, of course, my tormentors. And Naomi.
Nevertheless, despite everything I feel quite relaxed as we settle ourselves on adjoining sofas. I opened wine in your honour and somehow between us we’ve managed to polish off two bottles. I’m concerned about your drinking. I will mention it sometime, when the time is right. It might not be a problem. It might just be that really good wine is a treat for you these days.
I’m about to ask you how school is going for the boys when the phone rings.
My heart stops.
I break out into a cold sweat that instantly makes my palms and my armpits feel clammy. My heart thumps so loudly I’m sure you can hear it. It’s the landline and I race for the handset before anyone else can get it. Neither Dan nor the boys ever answer but still, every time I panic that this will be the time that one of them will. And that, instead of a drop down, in place of silence, there’ll be someone there who’ll talk.
Breathless from my sprint, I snatch up the receiver.
‘Charlotte! So glad to have got you! I thought you might be out enjoying the weather. So pleasant, is
n’t it? Though perhaps almost too hot …’
It’s Miriam. As her voice prattles on, going on about the photo she took of you and Dan and how it would be perfect for the newsletter, my chin sinks to my chest and I’m suffused in a hot flush of relief. I concentrate on four-four breathing to calm myself: breathe in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four … By the time I’ve recovered, I realise that Miriam is asking me something and I haven’t heard a word.
‘Charlotte, are you all right? You sound rather peculiar – a bit like a heavy breather, actually!’
She guffaws loudly at her own joke and I manage a little titter.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I counter, feebly. ‘Must be a poor line.’
‘So I can put you down to contribute some seasonal blooms for the church flowers next week, Friday, for the Joyce wedding on Saturday?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I splutter. I’d agree to anything right now, I’m so thankful that it’s harmless Miriam on the other end of my phone and not who I always fear it might be.
I walk very slowly back to the drawing room, regaining my composure with every step. I’m OK for now.
Another stay of execution, but for how long?
Chapter 20
Susannah
‘Just Miriam,’ Charlotte announces, as she returns and sits back down on the sofa opposite me. She is her normal, self-assured self once more; on the surface, there’s no sign of the frightened rabbit who leapt off her chair as if a bomb had gone off as soon as the phone rang.
Whatever’s on her mind has not gone away. I wonder what Dan will do about it and whether he’ll ask me again. I wonder what I should do about it.
‘She wanted to know about flowers for the church,’ Charlotte continues.
‘You are wonderful,’ I say. ‘Is there anything you don’t take part in?’ I know I should be more involved in village life but I just don’t have the time, with work and the boys and I’m still sorting out the house. That’s a task that feels like it will go on forever.
‘I think it’s so important to contribute where you can,’ replies Charlotte, somewhat obliquely. I’m not sure if she’s implying something about me or not. ‘And when it comes to flowers – well, I’ve got plenty at this time of the year.’
She waves her hand towards the overflowing beds in the immaculate garden beyond the doorway as if I’ve asked for evidence. I nod in acknowledgement as I pick up one of the many photos from the side table next to me.
‘So when are you off to Corsica?’ I ask, appraising the image. In it, an infinity pool drops away to a sweeping cerulean bay, at the tip of which lies a jumbled fishing village, picturesquely located at the foot of steep cliffs. I think that, if I owned something so idyllic, I’d be there every possible moment. But I suppose if you have such luxury permanently at your fingertips, it’s difficult not to take it for granted.
‘This is the place?’ I add, checking my assumption is correct as I continue to gaze at the vision of paradise in the picture.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Charlotte confirms. ‘And before you say anything, I know how lucky I am. We are,’ she corrects, presumably thinking of her children as well as herself.
Ruefully, I ponder what my summer will be this year – namely, me working my socks off and the boys lucky to get a day out at Camber Sands. Although Justin has vaguely alluded to taking them camping in the Lake District, so you never know. They, at least, might get a change of scene. I wonder how long Charlotte will be away for and I’m suddenly aware of how I’ve come to rely on her friendship and how lonely I’ll be if she’s gone for two months; there’s no one else I’m remotely as close to. Certainly not Miriam. Or Naomi. Of course there’s always Dan and the tennis, as I understand that his work commitments mean that he never joins his family for the entire duration of their stay abroad, but it’s not the same with a man. I can’t confide in Dan, tell him my secrets, unburden myself to him in the same way I can to a girlfriend such as Charlotte.
‘When are you going?’ I ask, inwardly chastising myself for thoughts that, if spoken, might come across as me resenting Charlotte and her boys their summer break.
‘Oh, I don’t know yet,’ she replies, airily.
I interpret this as the last-minute approach of the well-off – no need to plan half a year ahead to be sure of getting the best price with the low-cost airlines.
‘The thing is,’ she continues, falteringly, ‘that I … well, I don’t think I’ll spend all summer in Corsica this year.’
Spoken in such an uncharacteristically hesitant manner, her words take me totally by surprise.
‘What?’ I ask, involuntarily.
‘Corsica,’ Charlotte repeats, somewhat sadly. ‘I don’t think I’ll go to the house for the whole of July and August.’
‘Whyever not?’
‘I’m not sure I should leave Dan alone for so long. You know what they say: while the cat’s away, the mice will play.’ Charlotte’s face has visibly fallen, her eyes downcast and her lips almost trembling.
I’m taken aback, so much so that I don’t answer immediately, needing to choose my words carefully.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say eventually, trying to sound as encouraging as I can without coming across as pushy or overbearing. ‘You can’t let the Naomi thing get to you to such an extent that it interferes with your summer – or the boys’ summer, for that matter.’
I brush a speck of dust off the photo and put it back down on the table. ‘And anyway,’ I add, thoughtfully, ‘they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder so you’d probably find that some time away from Dan would put everything into perspective and do your relationship a lot of good.’
Our respective sofas suddenly seem a million miles away so I get up and go and sit next to her. Her hands are tightly clenched together in her lap and I give them a gentle squeeze. They feel hard and bony, resentful somehow, as if they are gripping the weight of her uncertainty, the extent of her troubles, whatever those might be, and finding it hard to let go.
‘You absolutely must go. I insist on it,’ I conclude, and then utter a short laugh of mitigation. It’s not like me to be giving instructions to Charlotte; our relationship tends towards the opposite. ‘Come on,’ I urge, ‘you can’t let a silly girl like Naomi rule your life.’
Charlotte shakes her head at the same time as attempting a wan smile.
‘How about this,’ I continue, hating to see her so sad and forlorn and grasping for anything that might make a difference. ‘I’m going to be here all summer and I promise you that I’ll keep an eye on her, make sure she keeps her claws out of him.’
At this, Charlotte finally seems to relax somewhat, running her fingers through her immaculate brunette hair in her habitual gesture. It feels good to know that this is how much she trusts me, that knowing Naomi will be under my eagle-eyed surveillance is the key to her peace of mind.
‘You’d be crazy not to go to Corsica,’ I add, warming to my theme now. ‘You love it so much and you deserve a break. It might be a good idea to have another word with Dan about Naomi, put your mind at rest about it all. I mean, clearly, there’s …’ I hesitate, not quite knowing how to put what I’m thinking into words, not wanting to make anything worse or increase Charlotte’s worries, ‘I mean, there probably is something there. But it might not be as bad as you think. It’s always best to get things out into the open,’ I conclude.
Whilst she is pondering this, I contemplate the long weeks of July and August that stretch ahead. Even if I don’t have a whole bunch of friends to miss yet, there’s something about the annual emptying out of the country, when everyone who possibly can heads off somewhere that’s not home, whether it be Cornwall, Croatia or Corfu, that I’ve always found difficult. Of course it’s fine if I’m one of the ones who’s on the move, too – but so often in my life I’ve been the one left at home, going nowhere and doing nothing. This year will be exactly the same, and suffice to say I’m not relishing the thought.
I wonder about what the village will be like when everyone is on vacation and then think that the thing that will really affect me, when Justin has the boys, will be my own loneliness. So often I long to be free of the work and responsibilities that children entail, but when they’re not there I miss them like one of my own limbs.
‘But are you really not going anywhere?’ Charlotte asks, interrupting my chain of thought, changing the subject from herself.
I shrug. ‘No holiday for me,’ I say, with fake cheeriness. ‘I mean, I’ve only just moved here so I’ll enjoy the good weather and play some tennis. I can’t take time off from the cafe so soon after starting the job, plus the summer is the busiest time and Naomi has said it’s all hands on deck,’ I continue. ‘And anyway, where would I go and who with? I’ve no money and no partner. Justin will have the boys for a few weeks – there’s talk of camping – so I won’t even have them to keep me company.’
I raise my eyebrows and, as I do so, catch your eye. We both laugh.
‘I know,’ I say, ‘rather them than me sleeping in a tent. But it’s all he can afford and he is their father. I don’t want them to grow apart from him or lose touch – and I don’t want to be someone who lives in bitterness and resentment, however much Justin hurt me with his secrets and lies.’
Secrets and lies.
Charlotte seems to have quite a few of those. Whilst she pretends to be so open and forthcoming, in reality she’s a clam that I haven’t even got near to breaking open yet. She opens her mouth to speak and I feel my whole body tense, wondering if this is the moment she’s going to reveal all. But before she’s got started, the door bursts open and Jamie and Toby come running in.
‘Can we go down to the river to swim?’ they shout in unison.
The moment of disclosure is gone.
I hesitate, looking to Charlotte to see how she will respond to the request. I’m not sure how I feel about unsupervised activity around water but there are four of them and Jamie and Toby are tall and fit and strong so I’m sure they’ll be fine and are more than capable of looking after the younger two. But Charlotte can be quite a fusspot of a mum, and I wonder which side of her will dominate this decision – her need to protect her children against the outside world balanced against her inability to ever deny them anything.