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4
THEA
‘I don’t want to do it, Mummy. It’s stupid and boring and I don’t see the point.’
Nell scowled at me, then slammed her pen down onto the polished wood of the dining table, her dark curls bobbing with the ferocity of the action. At the opposite end of the table, I sighed and closed my laptop.
‘The point, Nell, is that you need good grades at school to make a success of yourself in life. And yes, homework can be boring. Lots of things in life are boring, but we still have to do them, OK?’
She scowled harder, her chocolate brown eyes narrowing to slits.
‘Well, help me then. Flora used to help me. You never do. You’re rubbish.’
I flinched slightly, trying to stay calm. Fighting back never worked with Nell – it only wound her up more.
‘Flora doesn’t live here anymore, does she, darling? I do help you, when I have time, but I’m trying to work right now. And please don’t talk to me like that. What would Daddy say? And what would your baby brother think? Come on, let’s—’
Nell stood up so suddenly that her chair tipped backwards and crashed to the floor behind her. Her eyes flicked to the pram in the corner of the room and back to mine, an expression on her face that I couldn’t read. Anger? Hatred? Something else?
‘Well, Daddy’s not here anymore either, is he? And who cares what my baby brother would think? Who cares what anybody thinks?’
She slapped the table hard with both hands, her face contorted with emotion, then turned and ran from the room. I heard her stomp up the stairs and then a door slammed. I sat motionless for a moment, then sank my head into my hands. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. It was getting to the point where I just didn’t know how to handle Nell anymore when she was like this. What was I supposed to do, how could I help her? Had I ruined her life, as well as my own? She was eight years old, still a baby really, and yet in the past few months she’d changed so much, often seeming more like a raging, hormonal teenager than a sweet little girl. It wasn’t all the time, thankfully – I had no idea how I’d cope if this was a daily occurrence. But these outbursts were regular, and becoming more frequent, and it frightened me that I didn’t seem to be able to reach her anymore.
I knew exactly what had caused today’s, too. I didn’t often do the school run these days, not since … well, not since. I’d tried to, at first, tried to keep everything as normal as possible for Nell. But I’d had to stop. Too many nasty comments, too many stares, especially in those early days. It upset Nell, frightened and confused her, and I couldn’t bear it. Now, some of the other parents took it in turns, had set up a sort of rota, to pick her up in the morning and drop her off at home again in the afternoon. I knew they were doing it for Nell, and not for me, but I was still deeply grateful. There was the odd day, though, where they couldn’t fit the detour into their schedules, and on those occasions, I’d have to do it myself. And sometimes, just like when I went shopping, it was fine. They always looked, of course they did, but I was used to that. I could cope with the sideways glances, with the mutterings – it was only really the shouts, the loud name-calling, the vile language, that made my heart pound and my head swim.
But today, one of the fathers, one who’d been particularly abusive in the past, the dad of a little boy in the year below Nell, spotted me. My breath caught in my throat as I spotted him at the same time. I’d grabbed Nell’s hand, trying to steer the pram quickly out of the school gate with the other, get her away before he started, but it was too late.
‘Oi! Fucking evil cow! Look at her, the fucking weirdo. Should be locked up. Fuck off out of here!’
I didn’t look at him, didn’t need to. I knew exactly what his expression would be like, his eyes narrowed with hate, his thin lips set in a sneer. I’d seen the same expression so many times, on so many faces, in the past few months.
But Nell had looked, her eyes wide, face reddening, tears beginning to roll as I dragged her down the road, out of earshot. I’d asked her if she was all right, told her not to listen, told her not to worry about it, all the things I’d said to her a hundred times before, and she’d nodded and wiped her eyes, and started telling me about the art class she’d had this afternoon where silly Charlie Wilson had spilled an entire jar of dirty water down his trousers, but I’d known then. I’d known by the set of her jaw and the stiffness of her smile that sooner or later today we’d have another outburst, that she would punish me for what had just happened.
I was making my daughter desperately unhappy, and the thought was almost unbearable. All I wanted to do was run upstairs after her, take her in my arms, tell her everything was going to be all right. But was it? Would everything ever be all right again? Or would that just be a lie, another lie to add to all the others I’d told her? I’m fine, Nell. I won’t drink today, Nell. It’s just water with lemon, Nell. People will soon forget, Nell. It’ll all be OK, Nell. Lies. All of it, lies.
So no, I couldn’t go upstairs to comfort my daughter, not yet. She wouldn’t let me anyway, would hold herself rigid now if I tried to wrap my arms round her. I knew that if I left her alone for a few minutes she’d calm down, but she’d still be cagey with me for the rest of the day, refusing to let me cuddle or console her, and it broke my heart. I swallowed hard, trying to put her out of my mind for a few minutes, and opened my laptop again.
I had to order some new stock, had to arrange a photo shoot, had to keep this business on track, had to concentrate. I’d been running Just Enfant for four years, setting it up after Nell started school, and I suddenly found myself with hours of spare time every weekday. I imported children’s clothing from all over the world, quirky, unusual pieces – mini kimonos from Japan, dresses with beautiful Masai beadwork from Kenya, little rhinestone-studded cowboy boots from Texas. I’d had some decent publicity when I launched – Isla had helped – and the business had taken off in a big way almost immediately. Within a year I’d needed to hire a small warehouse to house the stock and some casual help to pack the orders; by the end of year two I’d needed a full-time assistant, which was when Flora had come along. Those were the glory days – my life a whirl of work and motherhood and happiness. Not like now, when life was nothing but greyness and pain. Would I ever be happy again? And would Nell?
Before she was born I’d worked full-time in London as a fashion buyer for Normans, the department store chain. I adored it – the travel, the trade fairs, the designers, the shows. But motherhood and that sort of lifestyle really weren’t compatible, and so just before Nell was born we left London and moved to the edge of the Cotswolds, to Cheltenham. Rupert’s company had offices in the town, and were happy to transfer him, and we thought it a reasonable place to live, a pretty Regency spa town with decent shops and restaurants and a seemingly never-ending stream of festivals – literature, jazz, food, science, horse racing. More importantly for me it was just two hours from London, my friends and social life a short train ride away. Of course, by the time Nell was born, I had new friends, mummy pals acquired during antenatal classes, coffee mornings, parenting groups. I’d grown to love it here, the town, my social network, the beautiful countryside just minutes away.
But everything was different now. Most of my friends had drifted away, the stream of invitations to dinners and parties fading to a trickle and then stopping altogether.
I stared at my screen for a moment then pushed back my chair, stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the street was quiet, the sky already darkening. A man bundled up in a padded jacket, a woolly hat pulled down low over his eyes, was half-walking, half-jogging on the other side of the road, a large black Labrador tugging at the lead he held in his outstretched hand. Even from this distance, I could see that he was smiling, saying something to his eager pet, and I felt a sudden pang of envy.
Everywhere around me, people were going about their lives, feeling happy, enjoying the little things. The normal things. I wondered, would I ever be able to feel like that again? To take pleasure in simple, everyday tasks, without this gnawing pain, this overwhelming guilt, this grief that paralyzed me? Would I ever stop feeling this self-loathing, this disgust every time I looked at myself in the mirror? And what about Nell? How was I going to fix Nell?
I turned from the window, wondering, not for the first time, if I should get her some professional help, a counsellor or something. I was seeing Isla later in the week, as usual – she’d probably know somebody. Isla knows everyone. But what if Nell refused to go? Could I make her? I sighed, my eyes drifting to the drinks cabinet under the mirror, the big one with the elaborate metal scrollwork that I’d loved so much when Rupert and I had spotted it in a junk shop when I was pregnant with Zander, just after the scan where we found out we were having a little boy. Rupert had bought the mirror for me straight away when I said how much I loved it, so excited about the new baby, so thrilled he was getting a son. If only he’d known then, how things were going to turn out. If only I’d known.
My eyes flicked again to the drinks cabinet, then I resolutely looked away. I’d been doing so well, hadn’t had a drink for two days now. Well, this was day three, so nearly three really, if anyone was counting. I took a deep breath. No, no drinking today. I could do this sober. I had to. I inhaled again, slowly, deeply, blew the air out forcefully, then walked out into the hallway and headed upstairs to Nell’s room.
5
ANNABELLE
‘Oh, that garden will be perfect for photos! Look Annabelle, how lovely it is!’
Flora, who was standing at one of the three windows of the large drawing room, turned to me, her eyes bright with excitement. I put my notebook down on the arm of the sofa and went to join her. She was right.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘It really will, won’t it?’
We stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, taking in the view. It was Wednesday morning, and we were on a site visit to a house near Wotton-under-Edge. It was owned by Elaine Gorton, a criminal barrister who worked in London during the week and spent her weekends in the Cotswolds, but she’d given me keys this week so I could come and check the place out, put a plan together for our next meeting.
She was getting married in May, at nearby St Mary the Virgin church, and I was in charge of the reception, a relatively small affair for around sixty people, which would be held here at her home, an elegant, Grade II listed, Queen Anne-style villa set in an acre of beautifully landscaped gardens. From a paved patio area outside the window, steps led down to an expanse of lawn, ideal for the marquee I intended to set up, and bordered with shrubs, roses and fruit trees. A curved path led, via an archway covered in some sort of evergreen climber – I’m not bad on trees, but not great on recognizing plants – to a large, white, painted summer house, and behind that a walled ‘secret’ garden. It had been too wet to venture out yet this morning, but I knew from the photos Elaine had sent me that that would be the perfect spot for pre-lunch drinks, with wooden benches dotted around under magnolia trees, beautifully colour-coordinated beds of herbs and flowers, and a gently bubbling fountain.
‘You’ve got a good eye, you know.’ I turned to Flora and she looked at me and grinned.
‘Thanks, Annabelle! I’m not much of a photographer myself, but it does look like a garden from a wedding magazine, doesn’t it? I can just picture Elaine out there, all slinky in her dress, the sun shining, the roses in bloom … it’s going to be fabulous, isn’t it?’
Her green eyes shone, and her enthusiasm was infectious. My first thoughts when planning an event like this, which would rely so heavily on good weather, were anxious ones about rain and wind, flyaway marquees and soggy food. But Flora was definitely better at looking on the bright side, and although I still needed to have a wet weather contingency plan, I suddenly felt inspired.
‘It is,’ I said. ‘Maybe we could drape that archway halfway down the garden with some little fairy lights, and do a few more photos out there later on, when it gets dark? And … random thing to say, and tell me if you think I’m bonkers … what do you think about trying to use that horse? The one we saw as we drove in?’
‘Oooh yes!’ Flora squealed, clapping her hands, and I could see that she’d immediately understood my idea. ‘We could make a flower garland for its neck. It would look wonderful! I wonder if it’s tame enough though?’ She wrinkled up her small nose, pondering.
‘Hmm, yes, maybe we should check that out before we suggest it to Elaine – could go horribly wrong otherwise!’
We both laughed. We’d spotted a white horse in the field adjoining Elaine’s garden as we drove in, the animal almost fairy tale in appearance with a long flowing mane and graceful swishing tail, and a haughty, regal stare. I wasn’t sure who owned it, but if they were willing, and the horse was a well-behaved one …
‘Oh, Flora, I almost forgot.’ I turned from the window as something else from my never-ending to-do list suddenly came to mind. She turned too, grabbing her own notepad and pen from the windowsill.
‘Yes? Shoot.’
I flicked through my notes.
‘Here it is. Isla Laird’s been in touch. You know her, don’t you? Oh, of course you do, she’s a friend of Thea’s, isn’t she? She’s a producer on that late-night chat show, Yak Yak Yak? Anyway, Ailsa Levi is appearing on the show in a couple of weeks’ time, and as we’re doing her book launch on Friday Isla was wondering if we could get a bit of footage for her to use on the show – you know, Ailsa signing books and that sort of stuff? She said the show will pay for it – we just need to sort someone who can shoot broadcast-quality video as well as the stills photographer we’ve already booked. Can you organize that?’
‘Sure, no problem.’
Flora nodded, scribbling away in her book. I watched her for a moment. Was it my imagination, or had she suddenly turned a little pale?
‘Are you OK, Flora?’ I asked hesitantly.
She looked up, a slightly haunted expression in her eyes, then smiled.
‘Fine! I’ll get onto that this afternoon. Oh look, it’s stopped raining. Do you want to make a run for it now, zoom down and have a peek at the secret garden while the going’s good?’
I nodded.
‘Great idea. We can roughly measure the lawn too, see how big we can go with the marquee. She wants a dancefloor as well as dining space. Should be fine, but let’s just check.’
As I followed Flora out through the hallway and down into the kitchen to the back door, I mentally kicked myself. I should have dealt with Isla Laird myself, damn and blast it. Why had I passed the job on to Flora? She’d definitely looked a little shaken there for a moment. I should have thought, should have realized that as one of Thea’s best friends, Isla was very much a part of what had happened, and that being forced to deal with her now was bound to be very difficult for poor Flora. That had been thoughtless of me.
I knew Isla myself a bit, too, of course – as a showbiz type, who flitted between London and Gloucestershire, she often attended events I’d organized, launches and celebrations and parties thrown by writers, actors, local celebrities. She’d even been to a do at my own house once, a couple of years back, I remembered now – probably the garden party I’d held to mark three years of Big Day Event Planning.
She was quite loud, the sort of person who some would describe as ‘fun’, I suppose. A bit over the top for me, and I’d sensed that Rupert – he and Thea had been at the same party – found her slightly irritating too. But, by all accounts, she’d stuck by Thea, after what had happened, and that had to be admired, I supposed. I was pretty sure I couldn’t have done it. My chest tightened slightly, as it always did when I thought about Thea, and what she’d done, but I swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts away, pulled on my wellies and followed Flora out into the damp garden.
6
THEA
‘What time is Daddy coming, Mummy?’
I looked up from my laptop – I’d just been ordering some stunning little brocade jackets from a designer in Iran, which I intended to team on the website with a recently arrived selection of embroidered dresses from Moscow, a modern twist on the traditional sarafan style – and glanced at my watch.
‘He said he’d be here about five thirty, darling. So any minute now.’
It was Wednesday, one of Rupert’s nights to have Nell. The days varied every week, depending on his work schedule – Rupert worked in field support for an IT company, and often had to travel to repair or install systems – but we aimed for Wednesdays if we could, hoping a regular routine would be better for our daughter. He had her every weekend too, picking her up from school each Friday and returning her on Monday evening, so he had four nights a week with her and I got three. It didn’t sound like a lot, but it was more than I deserved, way more, and I was deeply grateful for it.
‘Have you got everything? Did you remember your PE gear for school tomorrow as well as your other stuff?’
I got slowly up from the table, trying not to jar my throbbing head. I’d fallen off the wagon again the night before, despite my good intentions for the week, opening a bottle of red, and then another, waking stiff and cold on the sofa at 2 a.m. before dragging myself to bed to toss and turn restlessly until dawn. The nausea had eased now but the headache remained, a dull pounding in my skull. Trying to act normally, I crossed the room to check Nell’s overnight bag, rummaging through it. She had a spare toothbrush, other toiletries, books and toys at Rupert’s place, so it was really only clothes and school things she needed to bring, and she seemed to have everything she needed. Plenty of packing practice by now, I supposed.
‘All present and correct by the look of it, well done!’
I kept my voice bright, but I was already missing her, already dreading the quiet when the front door closed behind her and she was gone from me for another twenty-four hours.
‘Of course, what do you expect?’ she replied, with a cheeky grin. She was in a good mood today, and I smiled back and reached out a hand to stroke her dark curls.
‘Oi, stop it, mum! I’ve just brushed it!’
She batted my hand away, then squealed as the doorbell rang.
‘Daddy! I’ll get it!’
She turned and ran out into the hallway. Moments later Rupert was in the doorway of the dining room, tall and broad-shouldered, his head freshly shaven, a hint of dark stubble at his jawline. He was wearing a dark suit with a pale pink shirt, tie loosened at the neck.
‘Thea.’ His voice was cool, polite.
‘Hi Rupert.’
He glanced around the room, eyes resting for a few seconds on Zander’s pram, which was sitting next to the window. He shook his head slightly, then looked down at Nell who was bouncing up and down on her heels.
‘Ready to go, sweetheart? Thought we could stop for a takeaway pizza on the way home, eat it in front of the telly, that sound OK?’
‘Awesome!’ she said.
‘Great. Well, say goodbye to your mum and we’ll be off.’
Nell launched herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist and tilting her head back for a kiss. I dropped one onto her forehead then held on tightly, making ‘grrrrr’ noises until she yelled at me to get off her and wriggled free.
‘Bye, Mummy! See you tomorrow evening!’
She skipped out into the hall, and I turned to Rupert.
‘You’ll pick her up from school tomorrow, as usual? Or arrange to have her picked up, I should say?’ he said.
The hint of ice was there in his voice, as always, but I had become immune to it.
‘Of course. Oh, and don’t let her forget her PE stuff in the morning. It’s in a separate bag and you know what she’s like.’
He nodded.
‘I know. OK, well, see you Friday then.’
He turned and left the room, and moments later I heard the front door slam. He hadn’t mentioned Zander, of course. He never did. It had upset me terribly at first, in the early days after he’d left me. Now, I was used to it – his coldness, his lack of emotion. The revulsion in his eyes when he looked at me. My husband, this man who’d been by my side for over a decade, the man I’d married in a beautiful country church on a glorious spring day in Oxfordshire, and thought I’d love and be loved by forever. The man I’d built a home with, a life with, raised children with.
Our marriage wasn’t perfect – how many were? – but it had been good, great even, for so many years. And … well, he despised me these days, I knew that. I was even getting used to it, knowing it was only what I deserved. I never got used to Nell being away, though, hated the house without her in it at night, and although I tried to settle back down to some work I couldn’t concentrate.
Restless, I pushed my laptop to one side, wishing it was Friday when Isla would be here, when the house would be filled with her, her loud voice, her gorgeous if ridiculously high shoes, her expensive perfume. And, more importantly, her friendship, her love, her hugs. The lights seemed brighter, my home actually physically warmer, when Isla was around, especially now, in these dark cold days.
Rupert had never really understood it, the bond between us – ‘obsessive, you two. It’s a bit weird, Thea,’ he’d said once, in the early days – and he’d been right when he complained too, back then, that Isla resented him, that she’d been reluctant for me to get serious about him. She’d cried, actually cried, when he proposed. She didn’t really have many other friends, not in those days, not now really either, if I thought about it. Work colleagues, people she socialized with, had fun with, but not friend friends, nobody she was as close to as me. I’d never really been able to work out why, but I supposed some people were just like that, weren’t they? After all, how many close friends do you need? And although I’d made other friends over the years, many of whom I’d grown really fond of, it was never like it was with Isla. We were Thea and Isla, Isla and Thea. Thila, we’d joked once, at the height of the Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes ‘Tomcat’ thing. It was just the way it was.
The nausea was back, and realizing I’d barely eaten today I wandered through to the kitchen and opened the fridge, wondering what to cook for dinner. I had some pasta in the cupboard, but nothing to make a sauce with. Deciding the fresh air would do me good, I manoeuvred the pram out into the hallway, pulled on my coat and walked briskly up to Bath Road, past the bank on the corner and the wine bar with the little front courtyard where, even now, in the dark and the chill of the January evening, people were sitting outside, smoking and nursing pints of beer, huddling under the patio heaters that warmed the space.
At the little Sainsbury’s I headed straight for the aisle where the ready-made sauces were, suddenly lacking the energy to make my own. Arrabbiata or carbonara? My hand wavered in front of the shelf, then I picked up the jar of carbonara and put it in the basket I’d rested on top of the pram. Maybe I’d get another couple of jars for the weekend, make life easy for myself, I thought.
As I added a four-cheese sauce and a jar of pesto to the basket, a small girl sidled up alongside me, long red plaits swinging. She peered into the pram, clearly keen, as so many children were, to see the baby within, and my breath quickened. I grabbed the handle and tried to move the pram away, but it was too late. Her eager expression faded, replaced by a frown that crinkled her smooth, pale brow, and she looked up at me quizzically for a moment, then ran down to the end of the aisle to where a petite woman, also with red hair and bundled up in a navy puffer jacket, was leaning on her trolley, scanning a list in her hand.
‘Mummy! That lady’s got an empty pram. It hasn’t got a baby in it. Why hasn’t it got a baby in it?’ the child hissed.
The woman glanced down the aisle to where I stood, frozen, then back at her daughter. She shrugged and started to walk away.
‘No idea, love. Come on, help me choose some soup for dinner.’
The little girl stared back curiously at me for a moment, then followed her mother around the corner.
I stood stock-still, staring into the pram. She was right, of course. It was, as it had been for months, empty. Zander’s blanket was still there, soft and white, still smelling of him, very faintly now, the brightly coloured chain of little teddy bears holding hands still strung across the front of the hood. But yes, the little girl had been absolutely right. I was pushing an empty pram. Pushing an empty pram around like the crazy, sick woman I now was. Because, of course, there was no baby, was there? Not anymore.
