I Invited Her In: The new domestic psychological thriller from Sunday Times bestselling author Adele Parks

I Invited Her In: The new domestic psychological thriller from Sunday Times bestselling author Adele Parks Adele Parks ‘Packed with secrets, scandal and suspense, this is Adele Parks at her absolute best.’ Heat‘Wow! What a read. Intense, clever and masterful.’ Lisa JewellA gripping story of friendship and betrayal from international best-selling author Adele Parks‘I invited her in… and she took everything.’ When Mel hears from a long-lost friend in need of help, she doesn’t hesitate to invite her to stay. Mel and Abi were best friends back in the day, sharing the highs and lows of student life, until Mel’s unplanned pregnancy made her drop out of her studies.Now, seventeen years later, Mel and Abi’s lives couldn’t be more different. Mel is happily married, having raised her son on her own before meeting her husband, Ben. Now they share gorgeous girls and have a chaotic but happy family home, with three children.Abi, meanwhile, followed her lover to LA for a glamorous life of parties, celebrity and indulgence. Everything was perfect, until she discovered her partner had been cheating on her. Seventeen years wasted, and nothing to show for it. So what Abi needs now is a true friend to lean on, to share her grief over a glass of wine, and to have some time to heal. And what better place than Mel’s house, with her lovely kids, and supportive husband…This dark, unsettling tale of the reunion of long-lost friends is thoroughly gripping exploration of wanting what you can’t have, jealousy and revenge from Sunday Times bestseller Adele Parks. Also by Adele Parks (#) Playing Away Game Over Larger Than Life The Other Woman’s Shoes Still Thinking Of You Husbands Young Wives’ Tales Happy Families (Quick Read) Tell Me Something Love Lies Men I’ve Loved Before About Last Night Whatever It Takes The State We’re In Spare Brides If You Go Away The Stranger In My Home The Image Of You Short story collections Love Is A Journey Copyright (#) An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018 Copyright © Adele Parks 2018 Adele Parks asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008284626 PRAISE FOR ADELE PARKS (#) ‘Gripping, twisty and heartbreaking, this standout story is a triumph’ Isabelle Broom, Heat ‘Unpredictable and gripping until the end’ The Lady ‘The plot twists and turns . . . the reader is left frantic to know how it’s going to work out’ Woman ‘Twisty, unputdownable and utterly engrossing’ Jenny Colgan ‘The secrets, lies and suspense kept me engrossed’ Daily Mail ‘Convincing, sensitive and rich with emotional intimacy’ Daily Express Contents Cover (#u8a18eaf1-1FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474) Also by Adele Parks (#) Title Page (#u8a18eaf1-3FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474) Copyright (#) PRAISE (#) Prologue (#) 1. Melanie (#) 2. Abigail (#) 3. Melanie (#) 4. Abigail (#) 5. Melanie (#) 6. Abigail (#) 7. Melanie (#) 8. Abigail (#) 9. Melanie (#) 10. Abigail (#) 11. Melanie (#) 12. Abigail (#) 13. Melanie (#) 14. Abigail (#) 15. Melanie (#) 16. Abigail (#) 17. Melanie (#) 18. Ben (#) 19. Melanie (#) 20. Abigail (#) 21. Melanie (#) 22. Ben (#) 23. Melanie (#) 24. Melanie (#) 25. Abigail (#) 26. Ben (#) 27. Melanie (#) 28. Abigail (#) 29. Melanie (#) 30. Melanie (#) 31. Melanie (#) 32. Melanie (#) 33. Ben (#) 34. Melanie (#) 35. Melanie (#) 36. Abigail (#) 37. Melanie (#) 38. Ben (#) 39. Tanya (#) 40. Abigail (#) 41. Ben (#) 42. Melanie (#) 43. Melanie (#) 44. Melanie (#) 45. Melanie (#) 46. Abigail (#) 47. Ben (#) 48. Melanie (#) 49. Melanie (#) 50. Ben (#) 51. Abigail (#) 52. Melanie (#) 53. Liam (#) 54. Melanie (#) 55. Abigail (#) 56. Melanie (#) 57. Abigail (#) 58. Melanie (#) 59. Tanya (#) 60. Ben (#) 61. Melanie (#) 62. Abigail (#) 63. Melanie (#) 64. Tanya (#) 65. Melanie (#) 66. Liam (#) Epilogue (#) Acknowledgments (#) Questions for Discussion (#) Extract (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher Prologue (#) Becoming a Single Mum, for the first time, is like someone has just thrown you out of a car that’s travelling at high speed on a motorway. Door flung open, a gush of blustery, sharp wind, a mean, forceful shove and there you are, face down on the tarmac in the middle of the fast lane. You scramble to your feet, cling to your offspring. Both of you are in utter peril. The thing is, you do not have time to be outraged at the fact you’ve just been shoved out of the car – a car you’d assumed would comfortably, carefully take you on your life’s journey to a destination unspecified but simply and certainly lovely. A future that included a nice home and the active participation of the father — however, no time to dwell. You’re too busy dodging the on-coming traffic. The cars zoom past – swoosh, whizz, honk – you duck, dive, dart, and dodge. A small Fiat speeds by and the driver winds down the window to shout, ‘Children of single parents are more likely to do badly at school.’ You do not have a crystal ball that would show you the day he picks up his stonking GCSE results, so you panic. Next, a big family saloon (which is basically insulting because it is a big family saloon) drives by. The parents lean out of their windows and yell, in unison, ‘Children who grow up without fathers are more likely to end up unemployed, homeless, or imprisoned, you know?’ You kiss your baby’s head and promise him you won’t let that happen. Vehicle after vehicle speeds by. People are crying out about a new government report that insists kids from lone-parent families are more at risk of poverty, poor health, depression. Other drivers add that they’re also more likely to run away from home, drink, and smoke heavily. Then, finally, a juggernaut of a vehicle tries to flatten you. A paunchy, smug fella wearing a vest top and tattoos toots on his horn then screams, ‘Kids from lone-parent families are more likely to suffer sexual and physical abuse, indulge in drug-taking, fall into crime, have early sex and, finally, complete the circle by becoming teenage parents themselves! You silly bitch!’ Presumably this pillar of society (who farts in his cab) read all this in a tabloid, on a pit-stop in a layby (just after he’d had a wank), so he is now an expert. Everyone is. You cover your baby’s ears. You don’t want him to hear this stuff. Of course, they have to say, ‘lone–parent’ but since ninety per cent of single families are headed up by mums, it’s clear who is being blamed. Not the absentee father, because that would be too logical, but rather the Boudica who is battling on alone. It makes my blood fucking boil, it really does. Sorry about my language but sometimes, you know, no other word can do the job. It seems everyone is out to get you. No one says that you’re a warrior, a Trojan, a veritable saint. Can’t they see these babies, these children, are total miracles – little soldiers in their own right? Still, no time to ponder. You hop and jump, weave and scurry because your life depends on it. You cling to your child, tight, taut, tense. You’re prepared to lie down in front of one of those cars for him, if you have to, but you know that act of martyrdom would be pointless. What you really must do is stay alive and look after him, no matter what comes hurtling your way. You just have to look after him. 1 (#) Melanie (#) Monday 19th February While the girls are cleaning their teeth I start to stack the dishwasher. It’s too full to take the breakfast pots – I should have put it on last night. There’s nothing I can do about this now, so I finish making up their packed lunches and then have a quick glance at my phone. I’m expecting an email from my area manager about the results of some interviews we held last week. I work in a high street fashion retailer that everyone knows. There’s one in every town. Our branch needs another sales assistant and, as assistant manager, I was asked to sit in on the interviews. Dozens of people applied; we interviewed six. I have a favourite and I’m crossing my fingers she’ll be selected. Unfortunately, I don’t get to make the final decision. I skim through the endless offers to invest in counterintuitive home-protection units, or pills that promise me thicker and fuller hair or a thicker and fuller penis, and look for my boss’s name. Suddenly, I spot another name – ABIGAIL CURTIZ – and I’m stopped in my tracks. It jumps right out at me. Abigail Curtiz. My first thought is that it is most likely to be a clever way of spreading a virus; the name is a coincidence, one just plucked out of the air by whoever it is who is mindless enough, and yet clever enough, to go to the effort of sending spam emails to infect other people’s gadgets. But Curtiz with a z? I hesitate before opening it, as it’s probably just trouble. However, the email is entitled, ‘It’s Been Too Long’ which sounds real enough, feasible. It has been a long time. I can’t resist. I open it. My heart thumping. Normally, I skim read everything. I have three kids and a job, my default setting is ‘hurried’, but this email I read carefully. ‘No!’ I gasp, out loud. ‘Bad news?’ asks Ben with concern. He’s moving around the kitchen, looking for something. His phone, probably. He’s always mislaying that and his car keys. ‘No, it’s not.’ Not exactly. ‘I’ve just got an email from an old friend of mine. She’s getting divorced.’ ‘That’s sad. Who?’ ‘Abigail Curtiz. Abi.’ Her name seems strange on my lips. I used to say it so often, with such pleasure. And then I stopped doing so. Stopped talking to her, stopped thinking about her. I had to. Ben looks quizzical. He’s one of those good husbands who tries to keep up when I talk about my friends, but he doesn’t recall me mentioning an Abigail. That’s not a surprise. I never have. ‘We were at uni together,’ I explain, carefully. ‘Oh, really?’ He reaches for the plate of now-cold toast in the middle of the kitchen table and snatches up a piece. He takes a bite and, while still chewing, he kisses me on the forehead. ‘Right. Well, you can tell me about her later. Yeah?’ He’s almost out of the door. He calls up the stairs, ‘Liam, if you want a lift to the bus stop, you need to be downstairs five minutes ago.’ I smile, amused at his half-hearted effort at sounding like a ruthless disciplinarian, hellbent on time-keeping. He blows the facade completely when he comes back into the kitchen and asks, ‘Liam has had breakfast, right? I don’t like him going out on an empty stomach. I’ll wait if needs be.’ We listen for the slow clap of footsteps on the stairs and Liam lumbers into the kitchen right on cue. He grew taller than me four years ago, when he was just thirteen, so it shouldn’t be a surprise that he now towers above me, but it absolutely is. Every time I see him, I’m freshly startled by the mass of him. He’s broad, makes an effort to go to the gym and bulk out. He’s bigger than most boys his age. I wonder where my little boy went. Is he still buried somewhere within? Liam is taller than Ben now, too. Imogen, who is eight, and Lily, just six, are still wisps. They still scamper, hop, and float. When either of them jumps onto my knee, I barely register it. I have to stretch up now, to steal a hug from Liam. I also have to judge when doing so is appropriate and acceptable. I try to get it right because it’s too painful to see him dodge my affection, which he sometimes does. He’s outgrown me. I must respect his boundaries and his privacy; I’m ever mindful of it but I can’t help but miss the little boy I could smother with kisses whenever the desire struck me. Now I wait for Liam’s rare but generous hugs, mostly contenting myself with high fives. Today he looks tired. I imagine he stayed up later than sensible last night, watching YouTube videos or playing games. When he’s docile, he’s often more open to care and attention. I take advantage, ruffle his hair. Even peck him on the cheek. He picks up two slices of toast from the plate I’m proffering. Shoving one into his mouth, almost in its entirety, unconcerned that it’s cold. He takes a moment to slather the second slice with jam. He’s always had a sweet tooth. ‘Thanks Mum, you’re the best.’ I don’t spoil the moment by telling him not to speak with his mouth full; there really are only so many times you can remind someone of this. He turns to his dad and playfully asks, ‘What are you waiting for? I’m ready.’ They’re out the door and in the car before I can ask if he has his football kit, whether he’s getting himself home from training this evening or hoping for a lift, whether he has money for the vending machine. It’s probably a good thing. Me fussing that way really irritates him. I usually try to limit myself to just one of those sorts of questions per morning. The girls, however, are still young enough to need, expect and even accept, a barrage of chivvying reminders. I check the kitchen clock and I’m surprised time has got away. I gulp down my tea and then shout up the stairs. ‘Girls, I need you down here pronto.’ As usual, Imogen responds immediately. I hear her frantic footsteps scampering above. She starts to yell, ‘Where is my hairbrush? Have you seen my Flower Fairy pencil case? Who moved my reading book? I left it here last night.’ She takes school very seriously and can’t stand the idea of being late. Lily is harder to impregnate with any sense of urgency. She has picked up some of the vocabulary that Liam and his friends use – luckily nothing terrible yet, but she often tells her older siblings to ‘chill’ and she is indeed the embodiment of this verb. I drop the girls off at school with three minutes to spare before the bell is due to ring. I see this as a bonus but honestly, if they’re a few minutes late I don’t sweat it. I only make an effort with time-keeping because I know Imogen gets stressed and bossy otherwise. I’m aware that it’s our duty as parents to instil into our children a sense of responsibility and an awareness of the value of other people’s time, but really, would the world shudder if they missed the start of assembly? I wasn’t always this relaxed. With Liam, I was a fascist about time-keeping. About that, and so much more. I liked him to finish everything on his plate, I was fanatical about him saying please and thank you and sending notes when he received gifts. Well, not notes as such, because I’m talking about a time before he could write. I got him to draw thank you pictures. His shoes always shone, his hair was combed, he had the absolutely correct kit and equipment. I didn’t want him to be judged and found lacking. It’s different when you’re a single mum, which I was with Liam. I met Ben when Liam was almost six. Being married to Ben gives me a confidence that allows me to believe I can be two minutes late for school drop-off and no one will tut or roll their eyes. I didn’t have the same luxury when Liam was small. Suddenly I think about Abigail Curtiz’s email and I’m awash with conflicting emotions. There are lots of things that are tough about being a single parent. The emotional, physical, and financial strain of being entirely responsible for absolutely everything – around the clock, a relentless twenty-four/seven – takes its toll. And the loneliness? The brutal, crushing, insistent loneliness? Well, that’s a horror. As is the bone-weary, mind-wiping, unremitting exhaustion. Sometimes my arms ached with holding him, or my back or legs. Sometimes, I was so tired I wasn’t sure where I was aching; I just felt pain. But there were moments of reprieve when I didn’t feel judged, or lonely, or responsible. There were moments of kindness. And those moments are unimaginably important and utterly unforgettable. They’re imprinted on my brain and heart. Every one of them. Abigail Curtiz owns one such moment. When I told Abi that I was pregnant she was, obviously, all wide eyes and concerned. Shocked. Yes, I admit she was bubbling a bit, with the drama of it all. That was not her fault – we were only nineteen and I didn’t know how to react appropriately, so how could I expect her to know? We were both a little giddy. ‘How far on are you?’ she asked. ‘I think about two months.’ I later discovered at that point I was officially ten weeks pregnant, because of the whole “calculate from the day you started your last period” thing, but that catch-all calculation never really washed with me because I knew the exact date I’d conceived. Wednesday, the first week of the first term, my second year at university. Stupidly, I’d had unprotected sex right slap-bang in the middle of my cycle. That – combined with my youth – meant that one transgression was enough. And even now, a lifetime on, I feel the need to say it wasn’t like I made a habit out of doing that sort of thing. In all my days, I’ve had irresponsible, unprotected sex precisely once. ‘Then there’s still time. You could abort,’ Abigail had said simply. She did not shy away from the word. We were young. The power, vulnerability and complexity of our sexuality was embryonic, but our feminist rights were forefront of our minds. My body, my choice, my right. A young, independent woman, I didn’t have to be saddled with the lifetime consequences of one night’s mistake. There had been a girl on my course who’d had a scare in the first year. I’d been verbose about her right to choose and I’d been clear that I thought she should terminate the pregnancy, rather than her education. The girl in question had agreed; so had Abi and pretty much everyone who knew of the matter. She hadn’t been pregnant, though. So. Well, you know, talk is cheap, isn’t it? She’s the chief financial officer of one of the biggest international Fast-Moving Consumer Goods corporations now. I saw her pop up on Facebook a couple of years ago. CFO of an FMCG. I Googled the acronyms. She accepted my friend request, which was nice of her, but she rarely posts. Too busy, I suppose. Anyway, I digress. I remember looking Abi in the eye and saying, ‘No. No, I can’t abort.’ ‘You’re going ahead with it?’ Her eyes were big and unblinking. ‘Yes.’ It was the only thing I was certain of. I already loved the baby. It had taken me by surprise but it was a fact. ‘And will you put it up for adoption or keep it?’ ‘I’m keeping my baby.’ We both sort of had to suppress a shocked snigger at that, because it was impossible not to think of Madonna. That song came out when I was about five years old but it was iconic enough to be something that was sung in innocence throughout our childhoods. The tune hung, incongruously, in the air. It wasn’t until a couple of years later that the irony hit me: an anthem of my youth basically heralded the end to exactly that. ‘OK then,’ she said, ‘you’re keeping your baby.’ Abigail instantly accepted my decision to have my baby and that was a kindness. An unimaginably important and utterly unforgettable kindness. She didn’t argue that there were easier ways, that I had choices, the way many of my other friends subsequently did. Nor did she suggest that I might be lucky and lose it, the way a guy in my tutorial later darkly muttered. I know he behaved like an arsehole because before I’d got pregnant, he’d once clumsily come on to me one night in the student bar. I was having none of it. I guess he had mixed feelings about me being knocked up, torn between, ‘Ha, serves the bitch, right’ and ‘So, she does put out. Why not with me?’ I tell you, there’s a lot of press about the wrath of a woman scorned, but men can be pretty vengeful, too. Anyway, back to Abi: she did not fume that I was being romantic and short-sighted, the way my very frustrated tutor did when I finally fessed up to her, and nor did she cry for a month, the way my mother did. Which was, you know, awful. She made us both a cup of tea, even went back to her room to dig out a packet of Hobnobs, kept for special occasions only. I was on my third Hobnob (already eating for two) before she asked, ‘So who is the dad?’ Which was awkward. ‘I’d rather not say,’ I mumbled. ‘That ugly, is he?’ she commented with a smile. Again, I wanted to chortle; I knew it was inappropriate. I mean, I was pregnant! But at the same time, I was nineteen and Abi was funny. ‘I didn’t even know that you were having sex with anyone,’ she added. ‘I didn’t feel the need to put out a public announcement.’ Abigail then burst into peels of girlish, hysterical giggling. ‘The thing is, you’ve done exactly that.’ ‘I suppose I have.’ I gave in to a full-on cackle. It was probably the hormones. ‘It’s like, soon you are going to be carrying a great big placard saying, I’m sexually active.’ ‘And careless,’ I added. We couldn’t get our breath now, we were laughing so hard. ‘Plus, a bit of a slag, cos you’re not sure who the daddy is.’ I playfully punched her in the arm. ‘I do know.’ ‘Of course you do, but if you don’t tell people who he is, that’s what they’re going to say.’ She didn’t say it meanly, it was just an observation. ‘Even if I tell them who the father is, they’ll call me a slag anyway.’ Suddenly, it was like this was the funniest thing ever. We were bent double laughing. Which was odd, since I’d spent most of my teens carefully walking the misogynistic tightrope, avoiding being labelled a slag or frigid, and I’d actually been doing quite a good job of balancing. Until then. It really wasn’t very funny. The laughter was down to panic, probably. The bedrooms in our student flat were tiny. When chatting, we habitually sat on the skinny single beds because the only alternative was a hard-backed chair that was closely associated with late-night cramming at the desk. The room that was supposed to be a sitting room had been converted into another bedroom so that we could split the rent between six, rather than five. We collapsed back onto the bed. Lying flat now to stretch out our stomachs that were cramped with hilarity and full of biscuits – and in my case, baby. I looked at my best friend and felt pure love. We were in our second year at uni; it felt like we’d known one another a lifetime. Uni friendships are more intense than any other. You live, study and party together, without the omniscient, omnipresent parental influence. Uni friends are sort of friends and family rolled into one. Abi and I met in the student union bar the very first night at Birmingham University. Although I would not describe myself as the life and soul of the party I wasn’t a particularly shy type either; I’d already managed to strike up a conversation with a couple of geology students and while it wasn’t the most riveting dialogue ever, I was getting by. Then, Abigail walked up to me. Out of nowhere. Tall, very slim, the sort of attractive that girls and Guardian-reading boys appreciate. She had dark, chin-length, sleek, bobbed hair with a heavy, confident fringe. She was all angles, like a desk lamp, and it seemed remarkable that she was poised to shine her spotlight on me. She shot out her hand in an assured and unfamiliar way. Waited for me to take it and shake it. In my experience, no one shook hands, except maybe men in business suits on the TV. My dad was a teacher; he sometimes wore a suit, but mostly he preferred chinos and a corduroy jacket. I suppose he must have occasionally shaken the hands of his pupils’ parents, but I’d never seen anyone my age shake anyone else’s hand. Her gesture exuded a huge level of jaunty individuality and somehow flagged a quirky no-nonsense approach to being alive. Her eyes were almost black. Unusual and striking. ‘Hi. I’m Abigail Curtiz, with a Z. Business management, three Bs. You?’ I appreciated her directness. It was a fact that most of the conversations I’d had up until that point hadn’t stumbled far past the obligatory exchange of this precise information. ‘Melanie Field. Economics and business management combined. AAB.’ ‘Oh, clever clogs. Two degrees in one.’ ‘I wouldn’t say—’ She cut me off. ‘That means you are literally twice as clever as I am.’ If she believed this to be true, it didn’t seem to bother her; she took a sip from her wine glass, winced at it. ‘Or half as focused,’ I said. I thought a self-deprecating quip was obligatory. Where I came from, no one liked a show-off. Being too big for your boots was frowned upon; getting above yourself was a hanging offence. Abi pulled a funny face that said she didn’t believe me for a moment; more, that she was a bit irritated that I’d tried to be overly modest. ‘OK, that’s the bullshit out of the way,’ she said with a jaded sigh. She didn’t even bother to introduce herself to the geology students. I glanced at them apologetically as she scoured the bar. ‘Who do you fancy?’ she demanded. ‘Him,’ I replied with a grin, pointing to a hot, hip-looking guy. ‘Come on then, let’s go and talk to him.’ ‘Just like that?’ I know my face showed my astonishment. ‘Yes. I promise you, he’ll be more than grateful.’ She made me laugh. All the time. Her direct, irreverent tone never faltered, never flattened, not that evening or for the rest of the year. We did talk to the hot, hip guy; nothing came of it, I didn’t really want or expect it to, but it was fun. We spoke to him and maybe ten other people. It quickly became apparent that Abigail oozed cool self-belief; she thought the world was hers for the taking, and it was a fair assessment. She was charming and challenging, full of bonhomie and the sort of confidence that is doled out in private-school assemblies. The best bit was, she seemed happy for me to hitch along for the ride. It was Abi who persuaded me to join the debating society and she was the one who insisted we went to the clubs in town, rather than just limit ourselves to the parties that bloomed in the university common rooms. She did all the student things like three-legged pub crawls and endless themed parties but she also insisted we did surprising stuff, like visit the city’s museums and art galleries. Some people whispered that she was pretentious; they resented the fact that she only enjoyed listening to music on vinyl and was fussy about the strength of coffee beans; she refused to drink beer, sticking exclusively to French red wine; she rarely ate. She was, by far, the most interesting person I’d ever met. We became close. She wasn’t my only friend or even my best friend but she was my favourite. I sometimes found it a bit exhausting to keep up with her and while she signed up for the university’s dramatic society, I was content to sit in the audience and watch her play a shudderingly shocking Lady Macbeth. I joined her on the coach to London and protested outside Parliament over something or other – I forget what now – she waved her placard all day, whereas around noon, I slipped off to Oxford Street for a quick look around Topshop. She was the first person I told about my pregnancy. By the time we’d munched our way through almost the entire packet of Hobnobs, Abi commented, ‘Bizarre to think there’s an actual baby in there.’ She was staring at my still reasonably flat stomach. ‘I’m going to get so fat,’ I said, laughingly. Weirdly, this seemed a matter of mirth. ‘Yeah, you are,’ she asserted, sniggering too. ‘And no one is ever going to want to marry me.’ Suddenly, I wasn’t laughing anymore. I was, to my horror and shame, crying. The tears came in huge, uncontrollable waves. I gulped and gasped for air in pretty much the same way I had when I’d been laughing, so it took Abigail a moment to notice. ‘Oh no, don’t cry,’ she said, pulling me into a tight hug. She smoothed my hair and kissed the top of my head, the way a mother might comfort a child that had fallen over. Abigail was beautiful and sensuous – everyone wanted to touch her, all the time – but she generally chose when any contact would happen. ‘Who will want to marry me when I have a kid trailing around after me?’ I hadn’t actually given much thought to marriage up to that point in my life. I wasn’t one of those who’d forever dreamed about a long white dress and church bells, but I’d sort of assumed it would happen at some stage in the future. It frightened me that the undesignated point seemed considerably more distant and blurry, now that I was pregnant. ‘You’ll still get the fairy tale,’ Abi said with her usual cool confidence. ‘I mean Snow White had seven little fellas hanging off her apron and she still netted a prince.’ This caused another round of near-hysterical laughter. I laughed so hard that snot came out of my nose. It was embarrassing at the time. A few months on, I became much more blas? about wayward bodily fluids. She hugged me a little tighter. ‘They will call you a slag, but it will be OK,’ she assured me. ‘Will it?’ ‘Yeah, it really will,’ she said cheerfully. I felt a wave of something like love for Abi at that moment. I loved her and I believed her. That feeling has never completely gone away. 2 (#) Abigail (#) From the moment Abigail saw Rob she found him completely irresistible. It wasn’t an exclusive club; he was to many. Bad boys often were. That had always been their problem. Irresistible. Such a silly word. It didn’t get near it. It tore at her. What she felt for him back then ripped a hole in her and she knew no one could plug it but him. There were several undergraduates vying for his attention in those early days. Nubile, brilliant, interesting, beautiful young women by the bus load. He’d flirted with a whole string of them. At least flirted. She wasn’t someone who was accustomed to being turned down, to being told no, and she wasn’t prepared to settle for what the others did: heady evenings at the pub, one night of fun and thank you, move on. She had to have him. Make him hers. For real. For ever. He was studying for his PhD when she was just an undergrad. He took tutorials. Taught and formed young, willing minds and yet, as he was still studying himself, he was somehow one of them at the same time. He drifted around the university, unique and glamorous, enigmatic and brilliant. There was an element of power, otherness; it was very attractive. Her body leaned into his when he walked into a room, like a compass pointing north. Her throat dried up; everything else was wet. She pulsed, beat like a huge heart. It sounded ridiculous now, so romantic. Too romantic. All these years on. But at the time she thought she’d been peeled back, stripped bare. That she wasn’t anything more than a huge, bloody, exposed heart. Beating for him. It was hard for Abigail to recall that now, that intensity, that certainty. It had been smothered. Years of living together had normalised them. Respectability and maturity had dampened the fire. Put it out. Layer after layer of ordinary things: shopping for groceries, one telling the other they had food stuck between teeth, listening to over-familiar stories, worrying about promotions, deadlines, accolades, choosing wallpapers and cars. Those things build layers around a pulsing heart – at once protecting it and smothering it. And the baby thing. And the other women. Combined, those factors meant it was impossible to recall the unadorned longing, the wanting. But back then, he was everything. She couldn’t see or think about anyone other. The boys that were buzzing around her, undergraduates, she swatted them away like flies. Rob was seven years older than she was. Enough of a gap to make him seem far more interesting than he probably was. He seemed more confident, knowledgeable, erudite. He was athletic and toned although not overly worked out. Tall. He took her to fancy restaurants, the theatre and arthouse cinemas. They talked about politics, novels, travelling. He was fiercely ambitious and focused. She couldn’t deny that ambition and focus had panned out for him. He was, undoubtedly, a success, as he’d always wanted to be, as he’d always said he would be. She couldn’t deny that she’d enjoyed the fruits of his labours. He provided an enviable lifestyle. When they first met and he was messing about with a few undergraduates, he explained to her he was owed a bit of crazy time. He’d not so long since split up from his girlfriend of five years. They’d split because that girlfriend had fallen pregnant and he hadn’t wanted the baby. They’d agreed on an abortion but, afterwards, there wasn’t much hope for them as a couple. They’d both found it hard to move past what had happened to them, past what they’d done. The ex maintained it was an accidental pregnancy. So many pregnancies in those days were. Fertile young people. Rob had never quite believed her story about throwing up the pill after eating a dodgy takeaway. He’d felt trapped. He felt the net fasten around him. ‘She was just about to haul me onto the fishing boat and bash my brains out,’ he’d said, laconically, as he pulled on his cigarette or took another swig of Merlot. ‘We simply wanted different things.’ These words, delivered with a shrug, somehow made it sound as though he was the victim and Abigail ought to feel sorry for him. Which she did. He did choose her in the end; she became his official girlfriend. It took quite some months. Months of strategising, teasing, being in the right place, saying the right thing. But she did it. She was so happy, delirious, although never quite sure why she was the one he’d picked. She wanted to know. She thought if she knew exactly why he had chosen her, she could maintain whatever it was that had attracted him. If only she could pinpoint it exactly. Yes, she was attractive – she knew it then and she remembered it now – but many of them had been attractive. She was also buoyant, and independent, and confident. Those things were harder to recall. Maybe, she was simply the most persistent. The last woman standing. Or just the most foolish. Maybe the others got bored of his petulance, his pretentiousness, his unwillingness to commit. They settled for nice guys in their own year, even if those boys thought a great night was eating pizza from a box while watching Futurama. One day those boys would talk about political affairs and Booker winners. Everyone grows up eventually. So that’s what it was. She saw it clearly now. Her twenty-year commitment began on the back of another woman’s heartache. And now, it had ended in her own. 3 (#) Melanie (#) I don’t work on Mondays, which today I am particularly glad about. I can’t wait to get home from drop-off and re-read Abi’s email. Dearest Mel, Well, I’m sure I’m a blast from the past and the very last person you’d expect to see pop up in your inbox. I know we haven’t managed to stay in touch as much as we’d both perhaps have liked, but we are friends on Facebook and I’ve always enjoyed reading your posts. Although why don’t you post more pictures?! I’d love to see how your family have grown. I flatter myself to think you might have caught one or two of mine over the years and have perhaps kept up with my news. The truth is, I’ve been thinking of you so often, recently. I just had to reach out. It felt like the right time. Things aren’t going as well for me as one might hope. In fact, things are bloody awful. Naturally, when things are bloody awful you turn to your old friends, don’t you? Rob and I are divorcing. There. I might as well just say it (or at least write it). I’ll have to get used to admitting it, I suppose. I imagine it will get easier to do so, although right now my heart is breaking. I mean that sincerely, no hyperbole. I can feel it crack. Have you ever felt that, Mel? I hope not. It’s the usual story. Tragic only in its repetitiveness. He was having an affair. With his (much!) younger PA. I found them together in our bed. Can you imagine? It’s not like he couldn’t afford a hotel, it was just cruelty. I can only assume he wanted me to find out. I am at a loss. I can’t go into work as he is, to all intents and purposes, my boss. I’m sure you know about our careers. I find most of my English friends keep up with what’s going on with me. He exec-produces my show; practically owns the channel, as a matter of fact. The humiliation. Everyone must have known before me. The wives are always the last to find out. I’ve decided to travel home to England. Maybe find some work there. I need a change of scene. I have nothing to keep me here in the States. We never had children so I’m not tied by schools or whatever. My plans are vague. I’ll call in on my mother – my father died four years ago. I wanted to look up my old friends. I thought perhaps we could meet for a drink. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Reminisce over old, less complicated, days. I’ll be arriving in London on 20 Feb. Where do you live now? I’m guessing London, everyone does. Let me know. Phone number below. Love, Abigail. The kettle has boiled by the time I’ve read the email through twice. I make myself a cup of tea, add a spoon of sugar, which I rarely take. I need something sweet. She is right, I have never imagined I’d see a note from her in my inbox. True, we are Facebook friends – I remember sending her a request on impulse one evening a few years ago. I’d had a glass of wine or two, otherwise I’d probably never have done it. Her name was suggested to me because I’m Facebook friends with a few people from my days at uni. I’d been a little surprised when she accepted it. Surprised and flattered. Abigail Curtiz’s attention is still to be coveted. Perhaps more so now as she is famous. Not A-lister movie-star famous but someone who makes her living by appearing on TV – that seems glamorous enough to me. As far as I’m aware she has never ‘liked’ any of my posts. I haven’t liked hers either. Doing so would seem impertinent, pushy. She’s right about something, though: I have kept abreast of her news via Facebook. And Google. And Wikipedia. And the occasional celeb mag search, if I’m honest. Of course, I looked her up. She married Rob Larsen. They’ve been together since we were at university. A good innings, some might say. An absolute tragedy therefore that it’s ended the way it has. I’m sorry for her. Truly. Her heart is breaking. She aches. The confession, so bold and frank, moves me. It shows a level of trust and confidence in our old, neglected friendship. I wonder whether Rob has had affairs throughout their marriage. Perhaps. I’ve long since thought he was arrogant. Cold. It must be a dreadful position to be in. Abi isn’t exaggerating in her letter. Her career is entirely wrapped up in his, I know from all my searches. They are a golden couple of TV, with the Midas touch, stronger together, bigger than the sum of the parts. Until now, I suppose. When we were undergraduates, he lectured in business studies with an emphasis in marketing while he was still studying for his PhD. A peculiar position to be in, straddling both roles – a staff member and a student, albeit a postgraduate one. He was fast on the uptake with new media and positioned himself as a bit of an internet and digital marketing expert, the things that the older lecturers were afraid of. I didn’t pick the media module so I was never taught by him, but he was a bit of a legend within the university. Charismatic, bold, far younger than most of the other members of staff. Lots of girls had a crush on him, Abi included. They started hooking up at the end of our first year. It was a clandestine affair to begin with. A chaotic on-off sort of thing. She never knew where she stood with him or the university. What were the rules? Them having a relationship wasn’t expressly forbidden, but it was certainly frowned upon. Truthfully, I think Abi enjoyed the sneaking around, the drama, his inaccessibility, his power. This, combined with his good looks meant he was irresistible. I gather from Wikipedia that they emigrated to America a couple of years after she graduated. He was offered some fancy job in a big advertising agency. Then, in a move I don’t quite understand (but no surprises there as I’m hardly the big businesswoman), he somehow managed to get involved in TV production. He now owns an enormous and extremely successful production company. He seems to have shares in actual TV channels and investment in several other media companies. The photos I’ve seen online always show them both to be more groomed, wealthy and glossy than anyone else I know. Shrouded in success. She’s become much thinner, not that she was ever heavy. He’s got bigger, broader, more substantial. This is not just a case of a pretty woman piggy-backing on her successful husband’s career. She’s worked hard. Chosen that life over a family life. Yet, it seems her career belongs to him. What a mess. Now she has nothing to tether her if she floats away. Nothing to cushion her if she crashes to the ground. That bit in the email about her father dying. That’s sad. I met Abi’s dad two or three times. He was very nice. Surprisingly unassuming, considering the daughter he reared. Luckily, my parents are in hail health, Ben’s dad died before I met him but his Mum, Ellie, is well. Abi’s bad luck makes me feel oddly guilty about my own good fortune. I haven’t seen Abi for seventeen years. She came to visit me once when Liam was a couple of months old, which was more than most did. It was an awkward visit, even though we both did our best for it not to be. Liam was born in June, around the time most of my friends were finishing second-year exams. Most of them had plans to be backpacking around Europe that summer, so I didn’t invite them to meet my baby to spare them the embarrassment, and me the hurt, of them refusing. Abi wasn’t backpacking though. She didn’t want to leave Rob alone in Birmingham. She just showed up. She brought Liam a cuddly goose. It was one of his favourite things for a few years. He inaccurately called it ‘Ducky’. I kept it. It’s at the bottom of a box in the attic, along with his first romper suit and a few other bits and pieces that I’ve hung onto for sentimental reasons. She chatted about our friends and tutors, brought me up to date on who was house sharing with whom, who was dating whom, who had done well in their exams and who had just scraped a pass. I was still talking about going back to uni and maybe if my degree had been a three-year course, I might have done. But it was a combined course, four years. I was only halfway through. Despite what I said, I think I already knew I wouldn’t be going back. My boobs leaked milk during her visit because I did not want to feed Liam in front of her. I didn’t mind getting my baps out – I was already becoming accustomed to that. It was more complicated. I didn’t want her to go back to uni and remember me as a feeding mother, pegged to the sofa, stewing in front of daytime TV, someone whose best friends were the six New Yorkers on the sitcom of that name. My breasts became miserably heavy, and I could smell my own milk leak on to my padded bra, then my T-shirt. Eventually, Liam woke up screaming. He was blissfully unconscious of my need to preserve some fragment of the old me in my friend’s memory. He hungrily rooted around my chest, staring at me with confused and furious eyes. Why wasn’t I feeding him? In the end, his loud and insistent crying drove her away. She made vague promises that she’d visit again but I didn’t hold her down to a date. The moment the door closed behind her, I collapsed into the chair and pulled out my boob, fumbling. I squirted milk into Liam’s eyes and nose before I found his mouth. Do I want to dredge all that up again? Is it wise? The 20th, that’s tomorrow. A small part of me would like to meet her for a drink. I’m not sure which force is driving me the most. Curiosity or kindness. It doesn’t matter, because I don’t live in London. Funny that she should think I do. She clearly hasn’t read my Facebook profile in any detail. I’m based in Wolvney, on a housing estate that’s sprouted up halfway between Coventry, where my parents live, and Northampton, where Ben works. I suppose it’s not entirely out of the question that I go to London to see her for an afternoon. It’s only just over an hour on the train. We sometimes take the kids there for a daytrip at the weekend but we tend to only do so for a special occasion. The last time we went was to see Matilda the musical. It was Imogen’s birthday. We all loved it, even Liam. Bless him. It would take a bit of organisation to hoof down there on my own but I’m sure Ben wouldn’t mind holding the fort up here if it was something I really wanted to do. But is it? It’s been a long time. Too long? Long enough? I don’t know. Suddenly I have a better idea. Or is it a worse one? I could invite Abi to come and see me here in Wolvney. That way she’d meet the kids and Ben. I’ve never had the urge for her to meet my family before, quite the opposite, but now she’s made this move, and under these circumstances, it seems the right thing to do. She probably won’t accept anyway. I can’t imagine her coming all this way out of London. Not that it’s far but there are certain types that think anywhere out of zone three is abroad. Is she that type? I won’t know unless I invite her. Before I change my mind, I draft a quick email back to her. Hello Abi. Wow, it’s so lovely to hear from you although I’m sorry it’s under such awful circumstances. I would love to meet up. Actually, I don’t live in London, I live in Wolvney, urban sprawl outside Northampton. It’s just a zip on the train. It can take as little as 51 minutes if you get the fast train, no changes. I was wondering, would you like to come here? You could meet my family. I could pick you up from the station or you could get a taxi – there are always plenty available. You could come for the day or stay for a weekend. Well, whatever works, stay as long as you like! Love Mel I read through my message once and wince at the slightly needy, girlish tone I fear it strikes. I feel disloyal referring to Wolvney as urban sprawl; it makes it sound much worse than it is. It is in fact a very well thought-through, quite attractive housing estate, a mile from a pretty village. I guess its biggest crime is that it’s ordinary. I find a certain comfort in conforming; an unplanned teenage pregnancy can do that to you. Our house was built ten years ago and is identical to seven others in our street; a four-bedroom (well, three and a box room) semi-detached, its best feature the quite spacious walk-through kitchen diner. Still, I like to think it has warmth and integrity. However, for some reason, I feel I need to undersell it so that when she sees it, she’s more likely to be pleasantly surprised. If she ever sees it. Also, do I sound desperate? All that detail about the travel arrangements. Possibly, saying ‘stay as long as you like’ is a bit over the top. A bit keen. I hope she doesn’t think I’ve turned into the sort of person who is being particularly nice because she’s famous now. I’m really not. I’m being particularly nice because she’s going through a difficult time. I’m not some nosy curtain-twitcher, desperate for the gory details on the death of her marriage. I consider redrafting but don’t. I press send without over-thinking the invite. She probably won’t accept. After all, she is famous, I don’t doubt she has countless people she would rather stay with. More exciting people than me. Trendy, waiflike women, men with groomed beards and abs. Don’t get me wrong: I love my life, I adore my family and am proud of our home, our own little enclave but, when all’s said and done, we’re not especially interesting to anyone other than each other. We like it that way. I have loads to do today even though I’m not working. My at-home days are far busier than the ones in the shop. Even though I have two full-time members of staff and three part-timers reporting to me in a thriving store, it’s never as much work as being at home. However, I find that as I am cleaning the kitchen floor, loading and unloading the washing machine and scrubbing the hard water marks off the shower door, I can’t get Abi out of my mind. I have thought of her often enough over the years but usually, when I’ve done so, I’ve deliberately pushed thoughts of her away. She is intrinsically linked with such a difficult time. No matter how fabulous the result of that time is (and Liam really is a fabulous son) it isn’t easy thinking about being pregnant and having to leave university. I’ve never wanted to think about her. Her path was so different to mine, I just found it easier not to dwell on what might have been. But everything is different now. Throughout the day, I keep checking my phone to see if she’s responded to my email at the same time as telling myself she absolutely won’t have. A shiver of excitement skitters through my body when I see her name once again in my inbox and I feel jubilant when I read her reply. Mel, Angel! I’d love to visit! Send me your address. I’ll be with you on 22nd Feb. All love, A A. Just A. I remember that’s how she’d sign off her notes when we were at uni. Assumptive and intimate all at once. The twenty-second. Thursday. Just three days away. Wow, I’m flattered and excited. She’s coming to see me more or less straight away. A pit-stop in London and then up to see me. I can hardly believe it. Thursday isn’t an ideal evening to have guests – the girls have ballet. Oh well, I suppose they can skip a week. My eyes dart around the hallway where I happened to be standing when I checked my phone for emails. There is a jumble of boots, shoes, sandals and wellingtons tumbling out of an over-full wicker basket in the corner; they look as though they’re making a bid for freedom. We have five coat hooks on the wall, one each. There are about five coats hung and slung on and over each hook. The light grey carpet was a mistake. Who chooses light anything for a family hallway? Well, I did because I saw it in a lifestyle mag and it looked amazing. In all the time we’ve lived here, we’ve never had the carpets cleaned. That’s probably a mistake, too. The paintwork could also do with a freshen up. We’ve got cats – they rub against the walls which, over time, leaves grubby marks. In fact, because of grimy handprints or general wear and tear, most of our rooms look like they’ve been stippled, an effect that hasn’t been popular since the 1980s – and with good reason. I’d better get to work. 4 (#) Abigail (#) Abigail was always honest with herself. She’d had enough life experience and counselling to understand and appreciate the value of developing a high level of self-awareness. It was essential to be completely truthful with herself because there was no one else with whom she could ever be completely so. She found people were less enamoured with the truth than they believed themselves to be. So, as she packed her suitcases, she had to admit he had never lied to her or misled her. Not about the baby thing. He’d always been very clear, laid out his stall. No babies. Not then, not ever. She’d accepted as much, even told herself it was what she wanted, too. She decided to work hard at her career instead. That was fulfilling. Very much so. For a time. Quite some time. But that hadn’t panned out exactly as she’d thought it would. How she deserved it to. A gap had opened up in her life. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, puffy eyed, gaunt. She really needed to pull herself together, put some make-up on. She was likely to be recognised at the airport. She was a face. Someone. Maybe not a name – people didn’t always remember her name – but certainly a face. People were forever saying, ‘I know you from somewhere. No, don’t tell me.’ She’d smile, wait a beat and then she would tell them because it got awkward if they really couldn’t place her or, worse still, mistook her for someone who worked in their hair salon, or whatever. That had happened once or twice. So, she’d smartly say, ‘Oh, you’ve probably seen me on TV.’ Although she’d say it in a way that suggested nonchalance, as though she couldn’t think of anything more obvious, more dull, than the fact she worked in TV. Then they’d whoop, or hug her, squirm, self-conscious about their own ordinariness and her extraordinariness. They’d invariably ask for a selfie. People would kill for a job as a chat-show host, a TV presenter. Admittedly, it was only state-wide TV, not nationwide. Abigail’s show ran in the afternoons, rather than at primetime – breakfast or evenings – but still, people would do anything for that job. You had to, in fact. Do anything. And she had. Anything and everything Rob had asked of her. When Abi arrived in the US, she was seen as nothing more than Rob’s wife: a young, extremely attractive, clever-enough wife. Even if she’d had the combined IQs of all the CEOs of the FTSE 100 she probably wouldn’t have been noticed for anything other than her looks – Rob and Abigail didn’t mix with the sort of people who wanted anything more from women than beauty. They thought she was charming. That’s what they said, often: ‘she’s so cute’, ‘so charming’, ‘so sweet’. It was a good thing that the Americans had always loved British accents. It gave her an edge. Stopped her falling into obscurity. Rob’s colleagues and their wives lapped it up. Say, ‘vite-a-min,’ they’d demand. ‘Say sked-ual – no, say tuh-may-toe.’ And she would. She was doing her job. Cute, charming, sweet corporate wife. Even though it wasn’t the 1950s. ‘Vitamin, schedule, tomato.’ ‘Isn’t she just adorable? She should be on TV. Rob, put her on TV,’ they’d say. They never asked Rob to perform like that, yet they hung on his every word. So, he wrote the scripts, she read them. She didn’t resent that. She loved it. She was grateful when he did as they suggested, when he put her on TV. The higher he rose, the higher she did. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. She was always telling herself as much. He wrote the script for their private lives with the same autocratic approach, and she regurgitated it. Now, with hindsight, as she scrabbled around his desk drawer to retrieve her passport, she wondered whether she was overly willing to be repressed. It worked, for quite some time. But then it stopped working because her time ran out. To have had a chance at longevity she would have had to secure an anchor job with one of the five major US broadcast television networks by the time she was thirty. She didn’t manage that. There were younger, thinner, leggier, keener women waiting in the wings. Always. She couldn’t resent it; it was a system she’d played. She’d given it her best shot. It hadn’t panned out. Suck it up. Rob was doing very well for himself. He was not subject to a time limit; men could get old and stay successful, interesting. At that point, he was concentrating on syndicating out his shows, although her particular show was never picked up. On occasion, she privately wondered how much effort he put into selling it. He often reminded her that it didn’t really matter whether her show got picked up or not – they didn’t need the money and he did need her at home. Or at least, she liked to think he did. She’d have had to have been way bigger for the chance to grow old gracefully in front of a TV audience. Katie Couric, Barbara Walters, and Diane Sawyer had been allowed. That was about it. It was her own fault. Sometimes she’d lie awake at night, alone, even though he was sleeping next to her, and she’d admit that she’d never had the necessary commitment to her career. Not one hundred per cent. She’d drawn lines. She had principles. She wouldn’t, for example, appear on TV shows that were solely designed to humiliate people. She hadn’t gone to university to rip the shit out of those with less education, money or fewer chances than she had. She played fairer than that. And although she did watch her weight (that was just common sense, right?), she wasn’t prepared to starve herself. Eating tissues was not her idea of fun, and while she’d had Botox, that was to help with her migraines (mostly). She’d resisted plastic surgery (at least on her face), and had only had a little augmentation to her breasts. She was not prepared to sleep with anyone other than Rob, because she loved him and respected herself. But it limited her career options in a business where the casting couch was still being bounced upon. In the past couple of years, she’d found she was not even willing to go to absolutely every party she was invited to, to make small talk with strangers, on the off-chance one of them (out of, say, fifty thousand) might offer her an opportunity. It was exhausting. Soul destroying. She found that neither the canap?s nor the conversation ever quite filled her up. She used to do that sort of eternal mingling and mixing willingly, hopefully. She couldn’t really explain it, but more and more, she found she preferred to stay at home and snuggle up with a good book (which was handy really because there was rarely the option of snuggling up with Rob – he still seemed to like the parties). Now, as she pulled the door of her luxurious LA home shut behind her and clumped down the path towards the waiting taxi, she wondered whether maybe she should have gone to the parties. Dragged herself there. The question of other women had raised its ugly head time and again throughout their relationship. As he became increasingly successful, increasingly powerful, she became increasingly paranoid, increasingly jealous. He said there was no reason for her to be like that. To check through his emails, his phone records, to hire private detectives. But he would say that, wouldn’t he? He would say that she was the only woman he’d ever truly loved, or wanted. It didn’t have to be true. Just convenient. It sometimes felt it was like an incredibly fast version of that arcade game, Whac-A-Mole, where moles appear at random and the player must use a mallet to hit them back into their holes. Other women kept popping up. She’d have to slam them down. Bash them back into their places. Thwack, thump, slap. Take that. It was exhausting. She’d had enough. 5 (#) Melanie (#) ‘What are you doing?’ asks Ben as he carefully edges in the door, through the hall, past the paint-splattered sheet that I’ve put on the floor to protect the carpet. It’s a thoughtful act. Lily walked right over it and inadvertently stood in some wet paint; paint that is now trailed throughout the kitchen and sitting room. I’ll get a wet cloth and sort that out later. He loosens his tie, a gesture I always think of as sexy. At least, part of me thinks that he looks sexy, another part of me clocks that he looks worn out; unfortunately, both of those things are overwhelmed by my own sense of panic and exhaustion. Ben is a financial director in a small software company. I’m certain what he does is important, crucial maybe – it’s just not very comprehensible, at least not to me. Even so, I do normally ask how his day has been. Today I snap, ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ ‘Painting the hallway.’ ‘Give the man a prize.’ ‘But why?’ ‘It needed painting.’ ‘Have the kids been fed?’ ‘I asked Liam to do some fish fingers and beans for the girls.’ Ben makes his way into the sitting room. I hear a blast of CBeebies as the door opens and then the excited shouts of the girls as they fling themselves at him, demanding cuddles, desperate to off-load their news. I wasn’t very receptive to their chatter about the trials and tribulations, triumphs and trade-offs that occurred at school today. When I picked them up, I more or less frogmarched them home, then stuck them in front of the TV until Liam arrived back and could take over. He’s a good kid. I feel a bit guilty that neither my kids nor my husband got the welcome they deserve today. I have nearly finished a first coat on the hall walls. The jackets, scarfs, hats, gloves, shoes and other debris from the hallway are now in the sitting room in a huge untidy pile. I’m at the stage of the job when you just wish you hadn’t started. Ben knows me well enough to leave me to it. He takes over from Liam with looking after the girls. He listens to them reading, gets them bathed and into bed. Liam does his homework, then goes out to meet his girlfriend, Tanya. While the paint in the hallway is drying I start to thoroughly clean the sitting room. This largely involves picking up an endless stream of newspapers, books, toys, stray socks, hair clips, Lego, cups, and plates, etc. looking at these items helplessly for a moment and then throwing them into the kitchen sink, a cupboard, or the girls’ bedroom. I run out of paint halfway through the second coat. I’m a little snow-blind anyway. It’s late, there’s no natural light and in the electric light it’s hard to see where I have layered the second coat and where I haven’t. I admit as much to Ben and he comments, ‘That suggests a second coat is unnecessary. Come on, love. I’ve made you a cheese and pickle sandwich. You should eat something. Come and sit down for five minutes and tell me what the rush is.’ It’s too welcome an invite to resist. I collapse into a kitchen chair. Ben squeezes my shoulder and I lay my cheek on his hand. He feels warm, smooth, comfortable. ‘We’re expecting a guest,’ I explain. ‘We are?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘My mother?’ He looks a bit aghast as he places the sandwich in front of me. ‘No.’ ‘Who, then?’ ‘My friend, Abigail Curtiz.’ He sits opposite me, scrunches up his eyes the way he always does when he’s trying to recall someone. ‘Oh, the woman who emailed this morning?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘When is she coming?’ ‘Thursday.’ ‘This Thursday?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you’re redecorating because someone is coming to dinner?’ ‘She’s staying with us for a few days.’ ‘How long is a few days?’ he asks suspiciously. Ben is a social man, he’ll accept pretty much any invite that comes our way and we reciprocate, too. However, he has his limits. He likes waking up in his own bed and he doesn’t like entertaining before breakfast, so he’s not a big fan of stayovers. ‘I’m not sure. As long as she needs,’ I reply, vaguely. ‘But why?’ ‘I told you, she’s getting a divorce.’ I realise this doesn’t address the question he is asking. Why would I invite someone he’s never heard of until today to stay with us? We rarely have house guests. Theoretically we have a spare room but it’s incredibly small and currently stacked with boxes full of Christmas decorations, old clothes, files and photo albums as well as unused gym equipment and the ironing board. ‘I think it will be nice,’ I say breezily. ‘How will it be nice? It will be cramped.’ ‘Cosy,’ I insist. I start to devour my sandwich. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until I stopped painting. Besides, with my mouth full I can’t answer any difficult questions. Ben studies me. ‘Will it be OK, her staying here for a few days?’ ‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it be OK?’ ‘It’s just I haven’t heard you talk much about this Abigail Curtiz over the years. At all, actually. I didn’t realise she was a particular friend, not the sort you offer our spare room to indefinitely. I mean, who is she?’ ‘Well, we were once very close. People lose touch.’ I hope Ben won’t push. I can’t bring myself to articulate exactly why we had to go our separate ways. Why me having Liam made it impossible for me to continue to be her friend. He must understand our lives went in very different directions. While I was trying to secure a place for Liam at nursery, Abi was stepping onto the stage to receive her certificate that confirmed her first-class honours degree. While I was spooning goop into Liam’s mouth, Abi was being interviewed for her first job in TV as the assistant to Piers Morgan’s assistant. ‘No big thing. We just drifted,’ I say with a shrug. ‘You’ll like her. I promise. Everyone does.’ I stand up, lean across the table and kiss him briefly on the lips. He stands too and puts his hand on the back of my head, kisses me hard and long. Even after all these years, that particular manoeuvre makes me melt. ‘I have cleaning to get on with,’ I mumble, breaking away. ‘We’ll be quick.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Liam’s out and the girls are asleep. Why wouldn’t we?’ He’s kissing my neck now. ‘What’s got into you?’ I ask, giggling. ‘It’s a Monday night.’ ‘It must be the paint fumes,’ he replies. He slips his hand up my T-shirt and works his thumbs under my bra strap. My body leans into his; instinct, habit, pleasure. I’m aching from painting and tidying all day but suddenly I realise this is what I need, what I want. It delights me that Ben knew as much before I did. ‘You are not suggesting doing it on the kitchen table, are you?’ ‘I thought that was why you cleared the clutter.’ ‘Are you mad?’ I ask, laughing. ‘About you,’ he replies, cheesily. We compromise and do it on the sofa in the sitting room. 6 (#) Abigail (#) Tuesday 20th February Neither airports nor aeroplanes particularly excited Abigail; she’d become accustomed. She didn’t bother looking at the tax-free luxury products that were available because she could afford to buy them at full price, if she pleased. She didn’t grab the in-flight entertainment brochure and get excited by the movies that were showing because often she’d been to early screenings, even premieres. She wasn’t interested in the glass of champagne that was complimentary in business class, because alcohol was dehydrating and it was important not to look drained after a flight. Today she visited duty-free, bought the first perfume and lipstick that came to hand, put it on his credit card; she’d have bought more but they were calling her flight. And while she did still ignore the in-flight entertainment, she put herself in danger of becoming it, as she helped herself to four glasses of champagne and knocked them back swiftly, ignoring the slightly concerned looks on the flight-attendants’ faces. Abigail felt cheated. He’d stolen from her. Her dignity, her youth, her opportunities, her time. Him, and that woman. She wasn’t going to take it lying down. She was going to even up the score. She was owed. And she was going to collect. 7 (#) Melanie (#) Thursday 22nd February Abigail insisted that she’d get a cab to ours rather than allow me to go out of my way to pick her up. I’m grateful because it gives me a bit more time to dash around the house, making last-minute adjustments. The box room has been cleared to the extent that it is now at least possible to see the sofa bed. The musty old boxes have been shoved into the attic. I promised Ben that I would sort them one day, maybe when all the kids leave home and go to university. I’ve put the exercise bike, which I insisted upon buying about a year after I had Lily, into Liam’s room. He wasn’t best pleased but I pointed out he could throw his clothes over the handle bars, rather than on the floor, which means I won’t have to stoop so much when I’m picking up his dirty washing. I’ve squirrelled away the rest of the rubbish wherever I could. Along with the house, I’ve benefitted from a mini makeover. I’ve taken care with my make-up, I had my hair blow-dried and I’m wearing a new shirt. I’m wearing accessories: hooped earrings and multiple bracelets. I’m now worried that rather than channelling hippy chic, I’m more gypsy fortune-teller. I’ve bought scarlet gladioli, because they’re dramatic and impactful but don’t break the bank. I’m just hunting out a long thin vase – I know we used to have one; I think it may be in one of the boxes that I’ve just moved up to the attic – when the doorbell rings. Abigail. She is even more glamorous in the flesh than either I remembered her or the photos on the internet revealed. She is five foot eight, four inches taller than I am, and yet seems somehow dainty, frail. Maybe it’s because she’s been through something so awful recently. Her skin is pale, cool and smooth. No spots, no freckles, no lines or creases. She looks brand new. I fight an urge to caress her cheekbones. They are so sharp, I might prick my finger and draw blood, like people do in fairy tales if they touch a spinning wheel. Her hair is sleek, slightly longer than she wore it at university, blunt cut at the shoulder. Glossy. With her arrives a waft of something exotic, a shiver of something exciting. After all this time, it’s good to see her. ‘Darling.’ She flings her arms around me and hugs me close to her. I feel her collar bone and can smell her perfume and cigarettes. I’m surprised she smokes. I thought it was practically a criminal offence in LA. ‘You look amazing,’ she gushes. Her voices oozes – I think of amber syrup sliding off a spoon. I almost believe her. I mean, she sounds sincere but I have mirrors and ‘amazing’ is a stretch. She holds me at a distance, her hands on my upper arms and her head tilted to one side. ‘Amazing,’ she repeats. Breathily. And now. Yup, despite the evidence, I believe her. She flicks her eyes at my newly purchased bay trees that stand proud and neat in pots, either side of the door. Yesterday, when I dragged the girls to the local garden centre to purchase them I’d thought they were the most perfect things. Now, under her gaze they look a little try-too-hard. My fault, not hers. ‘Come in, come in,’ I say. ‘Go right through to the kitchen. I’ve baked.’ ‘You’ve baked!’ She repeats this as though it’s the most astonishing thing she’s ever heard. In truth, it is quite astonishing. I only bake about half a dozen times a year and four of those occasions are to make birthday cakes. The scent of dough, butter, and cream drifts through the hallway. Tempting and comforting. Suddenly, I feel a little shy about admitting to baking. It seems like too much of an effort; I doubt Abigail ever eats cake, anyhow. She can’t possibly, not with a figure like hers. Still, she makes all the right noises; she insists it smells like heaven and that she can’t wait to try them. Lily is bouncing around her like a puppy. Imogen is holding back a little but is clearly transfixed. Abigail is possibly the most glamorous and beautiful woman they have ever seen in real life. ‘Where shall I put this?’ The taxi driver startles me. He’s coming up our garden path pulling the most enormous suitcase. ‘Oh, I’ll take that,’ I say. ‘That’s twenty-eight fifty.’ ‘Right, right.’ Abi is already in the kitchen. I can see Lily has climbed onto her knee. It would be a shame to disturb her when she’s just got settled. I reach for my purse and pay the man. I pull the enormous case into the hallway and leave it at the bottom of the stairs. Ben or Liam can move it later. In the kitchen, I turn to Abi with a beam. ‘I can hardly believe you are here, in my house,’ I say excitedly. ‘Nor can I.’ She has a hint of an accent now. Of course she does. She’s been living in the States for over a decade but as a result I can’t quite read her tone. Obviously, the circumstances that have brought her here mean she’s not going to be feeling ecstatic. ‘Have you paid the taxi?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Did you ask for a receipt?’ ‘Oh, no. I didn’t think.’ I’m not in the sort of business that you can claim back expenses so it never crossed my mind. ‘Never mind.’ She bends to root in her bag and I expect her to reach for her purse to reimburse me; instead she pulls out a packet of cigarettes. I should tell her about our non-smoking policy. I don’t. I’m not exactly sure why. I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. I don’t want to seem unwelcoming. I rummage around in a cupboard until I find a saucer that will act as an ashtray. ‘What would you like to drink?’ I glance at the Krups coffee machine which I’m disproportionately proud of. Ben bought it for me last Christmas and it makes a mean cup: Americano, cappuccino, espresso, caffeinated, decaffeinated. It’s pretty cool. However, just in case Abi isn’t a coffee drinker anymore I’ve also bought a variety of herbal teas: chamomile, peppermint, lemon and ginger. ‘Oh, I don’t mind. I’m happy with red or white. Or a G&T, if that’s your thing. Whatever.’ My eyes compulsively slide to the clock on the wall. It’s just after four. I don’t know what to do. I have a rule that I don’t drink before seven. It’s something I introduced when Liam was a baby because otherwise there was a danger I’d start drinking at eleven a.m. or something. I also limit myself to just one glass during a week night. Suddenly, these rules seem a bit shaming and provincial. I pull a bottle of white from the fridge and pour two glasses. I hope it is still OK -I think we opened it on Sunday. I place one glass in front of her and nurse mine self-consciously. Imogen whispers in my ear, ‘I’m going to tell Daddy.’ I bat her away. ‘So, tell me everything,’ I say with an expansive wave of my arms. ‘Like I said in my email, I found out Rob was having an affair, the bastard. I couldn’t stay with him for another moment.’ I glance nervously at the girls. They are wide-eyed, agog. ‘Oh yes. You must tell me everything about Rob, but I meant other things, more general things.’ Abi looks confused. Clearly for her there aren’t any other conversations to be had right now. There is nothing else on her mind. I try to give her some prompts. ‘What was it like living in America?’ I regret the question immediately. I sound so naive. It’s not like I don’t know anything about the States. We have been there. To Orlando. Once. Although, obviously, I realise that Disneyland isn’t representative. It doesn’t cover it. It’s a big place. Huge. Abi shrugs. ‘I couldn’t possibly say. I don’t know where to start.’ It’s odd because I know more about her than she’s told me. Well, she hasn’t told me much. That’s the weird thing about googling people. It forces a false one-way intimacy. I glance at Abi and am shocked to see she is pressing the bridge of her nose, dewy-eyed – she’s obviously trying to stem tears. ‘Oh no, Abi. You poor thing. I’m sorry.’ I want to kick myself. I always say the wrong thing. I’m nervous. It’s odd having her here after so long, and exciting, too. My demand that she ‘tell me everything’ was far too flip. Now she’s crying. I’ve made her cry. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I’m embarrassed and sad for her, yet also flattered that she’s letting her guard down in front of me. Her emotions are so real, and expressing them is a true testament to our friendship. It’s as though the long years, since we last saw each other, have been swept aside. ‘No, I’m sorry.’ I should have been more careful, more tactful. Just because she looks stunning doesn’t mean she’s not suffering. I sit forward in my seat. I want every ounce of my body to demonstrate that I’m here for her, that I want to help her. ‘It’s just been so hard. Such a shock,’ she mutters, staring at me, her big black-brown eyes filled with incomprehension. How could this have happened to me? she’s asking, as about a zillion women before her have asked. Ben is a faithful sort of man, and for that I’m infinitely grateful. His father played around and then eventually left Ellie when Ben was fourteen; he swore he’d never cause the same hurt. But just because my husband is faithful it doesn’t mean I don’t have a clue about men who are not, of which there seem to be very many. Working in a dress shop gives surprising insight; once women are inside the changing room they think they’re in a confessional box. People tell me stuff. A lot of stuff. It’s rarely good. But Abigail is surprised it’s happened to her. I reach towards her and gently put my hand on her arm because I’m not capable of finding the correct words. ‘Married affection,’ she corrects herself, ‘married love, is often undervalued just because it’s reliable. That’s a tragedy, isn’t it?’ I nod. ‘It’s a tragedy that we don’t value reliability. If our fridge breaks, we throw it out; we don’t try to fix it and we don’t care what becomes of that fridge, if it’s left to rot, if it makes the earth bulge. Landfill.’ She’s warming to her metaphor. ‘People treat their marriages like that a lot of the time. I think I’m an old fridge. He’s got himself a new model, the sort that dispenses ice and has a fancy drawer to keep vegetables fresh.’ ‘You’ve lost me,’ I murmur. ‘Yeah, I’m dragging out the comparison, but you see my point. I’m on the scrap heap.’ ‘Don’t say that.’ ‘Why not? It’s true. It was Valentine’s Day. Did I tell you that?’ I gasp and shake my head. Ouch, that’s cruel. ‘He hadn’t mentioned any plans for the evening, which was unusual. Normally we make quite a thing of Valentine’s night, a celebration, you know?’ ‘Mmm,’ I mumble, not committing. To be honest, Ben and I are not big celebrators of Valentine’s Day. We might remember to pass one another a card across the breakfast table, or we might not. Valentine’s Day often falls in the half-term holiday, and we’re usually more wrapped up in balancing childcare. The most romantic thing Ben can do for me around then is work from home. ‘Last year, we went to Hawaii. It seems like five minutes ago. I can still smell the flora and fauna. I can still feel the warm, tranquil waters. It really is a breathtaking place. We had a candlelit dinner on the beach, prepared by the islands’ top chef and served to us by a butler.’ ‘Wow.’ I know she’s telling me about the romantic gestures of a man she found with his pants around his ankles, but wow. It’s hard not to be a tiny bit impressed. ‘One year, he flew me to New York and we went ice-skating in Central Park, then drank hot chocolates in a cutesy log cabin caf?. Another year we had a helicopter tour of LA at night. He always sent me two dozen red roses. We always did something. This year he hadn’t mentioned what we’d be doing. I just thought he’d planned something extra special. I wanted to be prepared, so as soon as I finished at the studio I dashed to the beautician. Had the usual: a manicure, pedicure, a Brazilian. You know?’ I do not know. I mean, of course I know in theory that this is what women do to prepare for a special night but I can’t remember the last time I went to a beautician. I can paint my own nails and, as for the other business, well let’s just say Ben has learnt to love the retro look. He’s lucky if I pluck my eyebrows. I just find life busy and tricky enough without having to inflict extra pain on myself for an aesthetic that precisely one person is going to benefit from. I mean, I’d never ask him to put hot wax on his best bits. Ben has never complained about my lack of grooming in that area; it’s not as though he needs help finding his target. I don’t interrupt Abigail to tell her as much. I know she’d be shocked and think I’m slovenly. ‘I popped to the salon for a blow dry and it was just chance that my stylist was running ahead of schedule. What were the odds, on Valentine’s Day? Normally there’s a backlog. I was just going home to get changed, and then my plan was to return to the studio so that he could meet me there. I wanted to look fresh and fabulous but without admitting to making the effort. When I saw his car on the driveway I was excited. That’s the worst of it, Mel, I was actually excited to think he was home. I thought maybe we’d have a little afternoon delight, sod the blow dry.’ I realise that she means the sex she was planning would be the sort to mess up her hair. It’s a bit more detail than I need. ‘I knew there was something wrong the moment I went into the house. I could smell her.’ I glance nervously at the girls. Ostensibly they are playing with their Aquabeads, making coasters or something, caught up in their own worlds, but I’m never certain – they both have big flappy ears and love eavesdropping on my conversations. I throw a significant nod in their direction to give Abi a warning to be careful of what she says in front of them, but I don’t think she catches my drift. ‘I could smell her perfume. And there was music playing. Unfamiliar music. Rob usually listens to Oasis or Blur, stuck in the 1990s, hasn’t bought a track since, but I could hear this heavy pounding beat. Hip hop or something. I didn’t call out, I carefully closed the door behind me and crept up the stairs. Knowing what I was going to see but praying that I was wrong.’ ‘But you weren’t wrong,’ I murmur gently. I reach for the cake plate and offer her a chocolate brownie. I hope that’s enough for today – she can tell me more later. I’m dying to hear more, I’m so flattered that she’s being open with me, but I’m also terrified that she doesn’t have a filter and the girls are going to hear too much. ‘I sneaked up the stairs, like a criminal in my own house. The bedroom door was open, and I could see clothes on the floor. They were at it like animals.’ I glance at the girls again. It’s unlikely they understood that. ‘He was taking her from behind.’ Or that. ‘Her breasts were swinging, practically in my face.’ But that I think they got. ‘He didn’t even notice me until after he climaxed.’ ‘How about another glass of wine?’ I say, jumping to my feet. Abi’s eyes follow me. Dejected. Distraught. Hearing about Rob’s infidelity isn’t pleasant but it isn’t a surprise to me, as it is to her. I’ve long since thought that he’s an arrogant, untrustworthy creep. One of the reasons Abi and I haven’t stayed in touch is that I really didn’t like being around Rob. I get no pleasure in being proven right. The girls have abandoned the coaster making and migrated towards Abi and me. I can’t decide if it was the lure of the brownies or if they did hear enough of her conversation and feel curious. It’s awkward. Obviously, Abi isn’t used to being around kids and self-censoring. They stare at her, transfixed, somehow able to sense – even at their young ages – that they are in the presence of something, someone, truly exciting. Abi watches them as they cram cake into their little pink and pouty mouths. She can’t help but be enchanted, too. Even in their little sweatshirts, grubby from a day at school, they are adorable. ‘I should have brought gifts,’ she says with a sigh. ‘No, no,’ I insist. I didn’t expect gifts. Although the girls might. They shouldn’t. It’s not something I approve of or encourage. However, we are pretty lucky. On the whole, when people turn up for dinner or lunch, they invariably arrive with a bottle of wine for me and Ben, and chocolates or sweets for the kids. It doesn’t matter that Abi hasn’t thought to bring a little something. Yes, she’s staying with us for – well actually I’m not sure how long she is staying for, it hasn’t been discussed – some time at least, but that doesn’t mean we should expect gifts. All that said, the girls hover, none too discreetly, over her handbag. They are clearly hoping she’s bluffing and that she might produce something any moment now, like a magician produces a rabbit from a hat. She does seem rather magical. Abi sees them loiter with intent and takes the hint, but it’s obvious to me that she really hasn’t brought anything. She roots around her handbag, pulls out a half-eaten packet of nicotine chewing gum. ‘I was trying to quit. Until all this happened,’ she explains. For a moment, she seems to consider gifting the gum to them but then thinks better of it. ‘Ah, here we go!’ She pulls out a duty-free plastic bag and then passes Lily a Clinique lipstick and hands Imogen a bottle of Chanel No. 5. The girls look stunned, not because of the brands, which mean nothing to them, but because someone has just handed them make-up. ‘Oh no, they couldn’t accept those,’ I say hastily. ‘Why not?’ I don’t know how to reply. I can’t explain that the gifts are inappropriate and clearly unintended for the recipients; those objections seem rude. Nor can I say they’d be more greatly appreciated if she gifted them to me. I get new perfume once a year, Christmas, off my mum and dad. They buy me Eternity by Calvin Klein. They’ve bought the same one for years. I love it but can barely smell it on myself anymore, I’m that used to it. I suddenly imagine the excitement of wearing a new scent and want to grab the box off Imogen. But the objection that the gifts might be more dearly appreciated by me is null and void, since Imogen and Lily are openly ecstatic. They are both wearing a gash of scarlet lipstick somewhere in the vicinity of their mouths. Imogen has ripped the perfume box open and is liberally spraying the scent around the room as though it’s air freshener. ‘Don’t waste that, Immie. It’s expensive.’ ‘Oh, they’re happy,’ says Abi. Again, I can’t quite compute her tone. Maybe she’s making a delighted observation or she could be inferring I’m a nag and that I should leave them alone. ‘What do you say, girls?’ I hate it that I have to prompt them. They are normally quite well-mannered but I think the adultness of the gift has overwhelmed them. They mumble none-too-convincing thank yous. Embarrassed, I mutter, ‘You know how kids are.’ I wonder, does she? How much contact has she had? Other than the people who turn up on her chat-show sofa, does she have any interaction with kids? Is she a godmother to anyone? She must be, right? She’s perfect godparent material. At that moment, I hear the front door bang against the hall wall and a rucksack being dropped. I look out of the kitchen window and notice that the street lamps are on, the sky has turned a deep indigo; it will be black as a bruise in another hour. ‘Liam’s home,’ I announce. ‘He’s been at football practice.’ Liam lopes into the room and I am, as always, so very pleased to see him. Liam has an easy, cheerful manner, besides which he manages his two younger sisters with flair and effective ease; he’ll probably be able to retrieve the lippy and scent. I know Abi will be impressed by his height and his manners – all my friends always are. ‘Liam, come and meet a friend of mine.’ I jump up and rush to him. I thread my arm through his, just resisting presenting him with a ta-da. ‘This is Abi – we went to university together.’ He was expecting her, or at least he should have been; the house has been turned upside down by her imminent arrival and yet he looks surprised. Typical boy. It’s possible that he’s forgotten we’ve a house guest staying for a few days. Still, his manners are as perfect as ever. He leans forward and extends his hand for her to shake. She reaches for it and at the same time gracefully pulls herself up to standing. ‘Oh my God. I wouldn’t have known him.’ ‘Well, you haven’t seen him since he was about two months old,’ I point out, laughing. ‘He’s—’ She pauses, remembering that he’s in the room. ‘You’re all grown up,’ she murmurs, obviously shocked that in a blink of an eye my baby has turned into this. Looking at Liam no doubt makes Abi feel old in a way that even birthdays can’t. I totally understand. Kids are like egg-timers. Times slips through your fingers like sand, as you stand back and watch them grow. ‘A-levels this year,’ I say proudly. ‘Really? What subjects?’ ‘Maths, philosophy and politics,’ Liam reels off his subject choices. ‘Wow, clever as well.’ I’m grateful that she hasn’t spelt out exactly what he is, besides clever. He’s handsome. There’s no doubt about it. Quite particularly so. But he’s young and absolutely hates it when my friends say as much, even though they are only trying to pay him a compliment. Even now, under her gaze, he blushes a little bit. He keeps his head down, his blond, sleek, straight fringe falling over his eyes. His eyes are arguably his best feature. Deep, dark blue pools. Framed with long, thick lashes. I already pity the girls who are going to feel the heat of his gaze once he fully understands the power of it. I suppose there will be quite a few. He has been seeing Tanya for eight months now; it’s serious but it can’t be it. He’s too young. There were girls before her, and there will be others after. ‘Yeah, he’s smart,’ I say, not being able to hide my pride. ‘Wants to change the world, does our Liam. Don’t you, love?’ Liam shrugs. He thinks I’m being flip about his ambitions to become a politician, to champion the rights of those without voices, to find a way of doing the right thing in a world where doing the wrong thing seems to pay, but I’m not. I’m proud of him. A little daunted, to be honest. His ambitions seem so big. Liam turns to his sisters, engaging with genuine interest. ‘What have you got on your face?’ ‘Lipstick,’ they chorus, giggling proudly. They fling themselves at him, and cling like limpets. Although he is too old to comfortably accept a hug from his mum, I’m pleased to say he still cuddles his younger sisters with genuine zeal. Well really, they don’t give him any choice. ‘Have you two had your tea?’ he asks. I glance at the clock guiltily. It’s past six. I normally feed the girls by quarter to five. I’ve been distracted by Abi’s arrival. ‘Wow, no, no they haven’t. You must be starving, girls.’ Although probably not – Abi hasn’t touched the brownies and yet there’s only one left on the plate. ‘What do you want?’ I ask. Liam sees my panic and somehow senses my desire to stay put and chat with Abi some more. He waves his hand. ‘I’ll do it. No problem. What’s it to be, girls? Scrambled egg or beans on toast?’ ‘No, honestly love, I’ll do their tea but if you could just go and see they wash their hands. Perhaps listen to them reading for school, while I put something on for us all.’ Liam leads them out of the room. Abi and I smile at one another as we listen to their chatter and laughter trail upstairs. ‘He’s quite something.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘You did a fine job, Mel.’ She looks me in the eye and nods. ‘Thank you. I didn’t do it on my own. Ben is a brilliant dad and my parents have been such a help.’ ‘Yup, I don’t doubt it, but it’s mostly you.’ I nod and accept her compliment because it’s what I like to believe. Not that I mostly did the bringing up. But that he is mostly me. He’s a fine boy and he is mostly mine. Nothing to do with the boy I had a one-night stand with, someone I hardly knew; he is irrelevant. Suddenly Abi looks serious and intense. She reaches for my hand, looks me in the eye and says, ‘Thank you for having me. You’ve saved my life.’ ‘Don’t be daft.’ It’s an expression, right? I mean, I know it is, except that her eyes are all dewy. ‘I’m not being daft. I’m one hundred per cent serious. If you hadn’t responded to my email, I don’t know what I would have done. I really don’t. You, inviting me here, it gave me a purpose.’ I pat her hand and mumble about being ‘Happy to help. It’s the least I can do.’ And it is. It really is. 8 (#) Abigail (#) Abigail lay in the funny box room on the lumpy sofa bed and wondered how her life had come to this. It was humiliating, unfair. Her suitcase barely squeezed into the room. There certainly wasn’t space to hang everything she’d brought with her, even though she’d only brought a fraction of what she owned. She hadn’t known what to expect. Not exactly, but whatever it was, it was not this. On her plane journey to England she had thought of the last time she saw Melanie Field, now Melanie Harrison. She was a nursing mother. Drab, tired, strangely ashamed. Abi hadn’t known what to say to her then. It had seemed easier not to say anything at all. For years. But here she was, invited back to the very bosom of Melanie’s life, on the back of just one email after seventeen years. It was almost too easy. So, Mel hadn’t been able to resist throwing her doors wide open, despite holding them fast shut for so many years. Was it because Abi was famous? People loved her celebrity. Or was it pity? Guilt? Abi had laid herself open in the email. It would have taken a hard woman to ignore the plea for friendship and support, at such a difficult time. Mel had never been hard. She’d been determined, resilient, sometimes even selfish, but not hard. Abi had counted on it. Yes, here she was, in the very heart of the family. Naturally, Abi had friends in Los Angeles who had families, but they also had nannies and pools and space. Melanie had none of that. Abi’s senses had been assaulted all evening as she was absorbed into their home. The house was shabby, cluttered, noisy, chaotic. There were things everywhere. Just so many things. Toys, books, ornaments, cushions, candles, pens, cards, pictures and clothes, which came in every variety – clean, dirty, ironed, crumpled. Hilariously, Ben said Mel had been manically tidying in anticipation of Abi’s visit; she couldn’t even imagine what it must have looked like before. They didn’t have much money to throw about, that was obvious. With the notable exception of the hallway, which had been recently (badly) decorated, every other wall was in dire need of a freshen. Carpets were worn thin on the stairs, there was a stain on the sofa, the crockery was pretty but she’d spotted two bowls with chips. Also, it was so loud. The TV was always on, even when no one was in the sitting room, the same went for the radio in the kitchen; besides that, the girls squealed, shouted, sang, argued or laughed pretty much all the time, literally non-stop. Mel and Ben took it in turns to yell up the stairs as they tried to capture someone’s attention; only Liam had any sense of serenity. And the smells. Obviously, Mel had lit a few candles before Abi arrived but underneath that were the scents of the family bashing and clashing up against each other in the house. She could smell the baking that had taken place in her honour, the tomatoes, basil, fried mince in the bolognese sauce, the substrate in the hamster’s cage, the urine in the cats’ tray. She could also smell the people. The little girls’ bubble bath, Ben’s aftershave, Mel’s hairspray, Liam’s youth. Abi was dizzy with the energy in the family home. The mystery as to why Melanie didn’t post much on Facebook had been solved though: there was nothing much to brag about. Except. Well, they all looked good. Not Mel. She had once been pretty but was now diminished; she didn’t take care of herself as she ought. Ben, however, was quite something. Undeniably handsome. And the son. Beautiful. Youthful. Perfect. The girls were a treat to look at, too. Adorable. And while the house was shabby, cluttered, noisy, chaotic, it was also so obviously fun. Happy. Loving. While it was noisy, the sound that was heard most often was laughter. And the smells: a vibrant, potent contrast to the sterility of her own home, that rarely smelt of anything other than cigarette smoke or cleaning fluids (on a Tuesday and Friday when the maid visited). Melanie’s house was ugly. Yet, on some level Abi loved it. Melanie’s house was beautiful on so many levels. Abi hated it. 9 (#) Melanie (#) I was never ashamed that I had sex. It wasn’t like Liam’s father was my first – he was my third as a matter of fact, if you’re the type that counts. I was more ashamed at the carelessness I’d demonstrated by having fruitful sex. There was no need for an accidental pregnancy in October 1999. It was the turn of the millennium. We had science and everything on our side. ‘Haven’t you heard of condoms?’ My brother spat out this question, unable to meet my eye – whether through anger or his own embarrassment, I was never certain. It was a fair question. I was also ashamed that I couldn’t soften the blow by introducing a lovely boyfriend into the mix, someone who was willing to stand by me and at least show up at the prenatal scans or, better yet, make an honest woman of me as my mum so blatantly wanted. And it was awful, the way it happened. I hate thinking about it. Even now, all these years on when the result of the dreadful night has turned into such an overtly wonderful thing: a decent, intelligent, kind young man. Just thinking about that night always makes me start mentally humming random tunes so that I don’t delve too deeply into my thoughts. Into my memories. He didn’t force himself on me or anything awful like that. Liam wasn’t a product of rape. He was the product of selfishness and irresponsibility. On both sides. Honestly, he deserves a better providence story. I was drunk. And, he – well, he was hot. It was as simple as that. So drunk and so hot that I thought that withdrawal seemed a reasonable option. I was the one to suggest it. He’d have been happy with a blow job. Of course he would: biology is designed to give men a leg up and to stomp on women. It was me who pushed for more. I wanted him inside me. However fleetingly, I wanted it absolutely. I remember my dad pleading, ‘But you must have a name. Can’t you tell us his name?’ I really wished I could. On about the hundredth time he asked, I finally replied, ‘Ian.’ I know my tone was snippy. Awkwardness often manifests itself that way with me. ‘A surname?’ He probed gently, fighting his frustration, yet sensing a breakthrough, sniffing at it like a bloodhound. Aware if he moved too suddenly, he might scare me off; a terrified rabbit. ‘I didn’t catch it. It was a loud club,’ I muttered sulkily. Dad hung his head in his hands. Rubbing his eye sockets with the heels of his palms, he aged in front of me. Suddenly, his head snapped up, fortified by a new idea. ‘But he’s studying at your university. We could get in touch with the chancellor, or what have you, and demand they look at their records. We could track down all the Ians that are registered.’ He seemed momentarily hopeful. It was sad, in the true sense of the word, not the way Imogen uses it now. ‘What and do an identity parade?’ I snarled, sarcastically. ‘Do something!’ Dad yelled. Dad is not a shouter, so this upset me, but I couldn’t let him pursue this warped version of Cinderella, chasing across the kingdom of Birmingham University to see if the shoe fit. I did the only thing I could think of that would put an end to the business. ‘He doesn’t go to my uni. He said he was visiting a friend. Freshers’ week, you know. It’s packed. People float through. He came from down south somewhere. I don’t think he ever said exactly where.’ It was safe telling my father that the man responsible for my downfall was a southerner. An intelligent man and reasonable in most ways, largely devoid of prejudices, my dad was and is irrationally unsettled by the south: its size, its smugness, its slickness. It suited him to believe all forms of trouble came from down south. Why would this trouble be any different? Still, he pursued the matter. ‘What friend? Did he at least give you the name of the friend?’ ‘No. He didn’t.’ Dad sighed – it was like all his breath was coming out of him. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been much talking,’ he commented sadly. ‘No, not talking,’ said Mum, eyeing my tightly-rounded belly with poignancy. I couldn’t drag my gaze to meet hers. In fact, I spent months looking at people’s shoes. Abigail also thought we ought to pursue my partner in crime. She insisted on returning to the club I’d said we met at, in the hope he’d be there or, at least, I’d recognise his friend. It was mortifying. It was loud, thumping, strobe lights sweeping the room, making me feel dizzy. It was packed, heaving with noisy, sweaty gangs of people looking for a good time. Dancing, kissing, drinking, laughing. They seemed alien to me. I held my hands in front of my belly, protecting my bump from the raucousness. ‘Where do we start?’ yelled Abi, above the throb of music that was banging and thrashing through the club. Even she looked slightly defeated. I couldn’t believe she’d ever held any hope. She must have been expecting crowds this large and dense. We’d come here together often enough. I sighed, looked up and gave a cursory look around. ‘Nope, he’s not here – we might as well go.’ ‘Not so fast. You can’t just give up like that. This place is huge. We need to have a good scour about. You do want to find him, right? That’s what you said.’ I nodded. Yes, that’s what I’d said. That’s what everyone had expected me to say. But I knew I would not find him there. I was one hundred per cent sure of it. ‘It’s been months. He was visiting a friend.’ ‘Yes, you’ve said.’ Abi’s stare was penetrating. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?’ ‘Can we just go home? My back is aching.’ This was all a long time ago. I do not associate Liam with that mess, that anger and disappointment of those early months. Not anymore. He’s nothing but a joy. A funny, good looking, bright kid. He’s turned out just fine. So why have I invited this reminder of that time into my home? Someone who knew me from before? Abigail Curtiz in particular. Why am I pressing the bruise? 10 (#) Abigail (#) Friday 23rd February Abi was pleased that Melanie had taken the day off work. It wasn’t popular with her boss, apparently, as Friday was a busy day at the dress store. Abigail said she really didn’t have to inconvenience herself but Mel insisted, as Abi knew she would. Being with Melanie reminded Abi of how things had been when she was at the peak of her career, when she was twenty-eight, twenty-nine, and people liked doing things for her. Then, they sent her invitations to their parties, and cars to ensure she got to the said parties in comfort, then they’d send flowers the day after, a thank you for her attendance. The attention had been dwindling for some time, but Abigail hadn’t realised how much she missed it until Mel started to make a fuss of her. Although Mel’s motivations were quite different from those who used to fawn around Abi back in the day. Mel didn’t want a job, or an introduction to Rob or even the chance to be snapped at her side by the paparazzi. What did she want? Abigail believed everyone wanted something. They caught the train to Stratford-Upon-Avon. It was a chilly but dry day, which was as much as you could hope for the last week in February in England. They wandered about, visiting the notable houses of Shakespeare’s womenfolk, his wife and daughter. They dipped into tiny boutique shops and bought small treats: handmade chocolates, a lime green scarf, a bottle of organic grapefruit tonic. They then went for a cream tea at a smart hotel. Abi noticed that Mel was bright with excitement. She was easy to seduce. ‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ commented Abi, glancing around the dining room, which was tastefully decorated in light greys and awash with a sense of gentry: white linen tablecloths, the clink of a spoon against bone china, delicate cakes stacked on tiered plates. ‘I adore your family. But just the two of us having this time together is such a treat.’ Mel agreed with more enthusiasm than was seemly for a woman who loved her husband and kids to distraction. She admitted, ‘I can’t remember when I last did anything so intrinsically indulgent.’ Abigail insisted that Mel eat the last salmon sandwich, and have both the little chocolate cakes; when Mel demurred – making embarrassed, reluctant comments about her weight – Abi tutted, swept them away and insisted that Mel was beautiful. Blushing, Mel tucked in. ‘I’d forgotten quite what it’s like to have a bestie girl friend,’ she giggled. Obviously Mel meant she’d forgotten what it was like to be picked out as Abi’s friend. Abi had a talent of bathing those she singled out in a unique sense of importance. She knew the power of her intense interest. She knew it was flattering and motivating. Look what her attention had done for Rob. Without her, he probably would never have gone as far as he had. In Abigail’s company, Mel unfurled, as she always had. She became more vivid, stronger and wittier than usual. More daring. More entitled. ‘Oh, come on, you must have loads of friends,’ Abigail insisted. Although she wasn’t sure. If Mel did have friends, would they have let her become so dowdy? Real friends would surely have encouraged her to visit one of those women who told you which colour suited you most. Beige was not Mel’s colour. ‘I’m friendly enough with the people I work with, but mostly they’re young.’ ‘We’re young.’ Mel laughed. ‘You, maybe. You look about twenty-seven. I’m wearing all my thirty-seven years; these girls I work with are just out of college. You know, eighteen. They work for a couple of years at the shop and then move on. Mostly, I feel motherly towards them, as they’re closer to Liam’s age than mine.’ ‘Don’t mums make friends at playgroups and such? I always thought that’s why we lost touch, because your life was so full of new people. New mums.’ Mel’s colour intensified. ‘I did join a couple of mother and baby groups when I had Liam, but people kept assuming I was the au pair. As such, they thought I couldn’t relate to them, share their conversations and experiences, so largely they ignored me. When they did discover I was his mum, they were shocked at my youth.’ ‘And presumably your lack of partner?’ said Abi, bluntly. ‘Well, yes, that too. So, they continued ignoring me.’ Mel shrugged. ‘But it must have been different with the girls.’ ‘Yes, then I could have made friends and – to an extent – I did. However, people generally assumed that Imogen was my first baby. Once they discovered I had a son nine years older, the playdates tended to dry up.’ Abigail forked the tiniest scrap of Victoria sponge into her mouth. ‘Why?’ ‘Nine-year-old boys are energetic, cheeky. Sometimes hard going. Mums of newborns don’t appreciate that; they thought Liam was a pain. I never could stand to be anywhere where it was obvious other people would prefer him not to be.’ ‘Which mum could?’ Mel smiled. ‘Thanks Abi.’ ‘For what?’ ‘For getting that. Ben and my mum always thought I was being overly sensitive and that I should cut the first-time mums some slack. But I became bored of the endless comments such as, ‘Gosh, he doesn’t know his own strength, does he?’ Or, ‘If only little boys came with volume control buttons?’ Liam, for the record, was a perfectly normal little boy in terms of energy levels, and probably slightly better than average when it came to obedience. I will admit he was pretty noisy.’ Abigail laughed. ‘Should we upgrade this afternoon tea?’ ‘Upgrade?’ Mel looked at the array of goodies spread in front of her, and no doubt thought of the ones she’d already chomped her way through. She probably couldn’t imagine how it could possibly be made any better. ‘Let’s order a glass of champagne. What am I thinking about? We’re on the train. Let’s order a bottle.’ Mel demurred for less than five seconds and then agreed, as Abi knew she would. As she sipped, Mel talked more about her friends, or lack of them. ‘My closest school-gate friends are Becky Ingram and Gillian Burton. They’ve daughters Imogen’s age and I’ve known them a few years now, since reception class. We sometimes car pool, we sit through adorable but clumsy ballet performances together. That sort of thing.’ ‘Fun,’ said Abi. Mel gave her a look which suggested she doubted Abi could mean this, but Abi did. What could be dreamier than watching your daughter skip about in a tutu? ‘We go to a book club together once a month. They also go shopping and to the tennis club on a weekly basis.’ ‘I know the type.’ ‘They’re very kind,’ said Mel, defensively. ‘We bail one another out if there’s a problem with childcare at pick-up time. Truthfully, they bail me, as neither of them have jobs, other than the one of raising a family, which seems like a luxury to me. They’re never late for pick-up.’ ‘They sound lovely,’ commented Abi, although she withheld any conviction from her voice, because she secretly wanted Mel to understand – and then confess – that they were quite ordinary friends. Mel obliged. ‘They are kind to me but ever since Taylor Swift and her bunch of leggy girlfriends started promoting themselves as the ultimate girl gang – you know, arms slung across each other’s shoulders, snaked around one another’s waists – I’ve had a niggling feeling that I’m missing out on the whole female friendship thing.’ Abi smiled, encouragingly. ‘Girlfriends are cool.’ ‘They are,’ said Mel firmly. ‘How had I forgotten that?’ She sipped her champagne and became more confessional. ‘I guess because I spent my twenties wiping various baby fluids, and singing nursery rhymes, the friendship rituals – that I know other women enjoy – took a backseat.’ Abi reached forward and squeezed Mel’s hand. Mel necked her glass of champagne and Abi quickly refilled it. ‘I’ve never had a friend who would drive a hundred miles, armed with chocolate and wine, to avert my personal crises.’ Mel paused. Something hit her, not just the alcohol content of the Moet. ‘At least, not since you, Abi.’ Abi had never actually had to drive one hundred miles – they’d shared student accommodation when they were young – so it was an untested theory but it was a lovely idea. ‘I have held back your hair as you’ve said a second hello to your dinner and cocktails. Twice, I think,’ said Abi. She wasn’t certain. She had a strong stomach; she had done this for many friends at university; Mel might have been among them. Or maybe not. Mel laughed and didn’t contradict her, so Abi assumed she must have. ‘I suppose you have a lot of close friends.’ Mel sounded almost sulky. ‘Absolutely!’ Abi lied. ‘I need them to help me forgive my embarrassing mistakes and appalling faux pas.’ ‘I can’t imagine you have many of those.’ ‘I’ve had my share.’ Abi shrugged. ‘That’s what friends do though, don’t they? Forgive your moments of crazy recklessness or selfishness,’ Mel declared with intensity. ‘If they can,’ said Abi. For a moment, there was a silence between them. Heavy and layered. Mel gulped back the champagne and looked longingly at the bottle. Then she seemed to shake herself. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I mean even if, in some alternate universe, Gillian or Becky were interviewed for Hello! magazine I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t use the opportunity to declare that their very survival is dependent on my friendship, the way Taylor Swift’s friends might,’ said Mel, with a sad sigh. Abi remembered this about her now. She became emotional on alcohol. Abi leaned across the table. ‘Maybe not, but you know I would, right? I mean, what you’ve done for me, scooped me up, invited me into your home. It’s so generous. Above and beyond. I’m more than grateful.’ Mel smiled and blushed. Abi had thought Mel might have grown out of the blushing by now; it was almost cute on a teen, but a little dispiriting on a woman who ought to be more confident. ‘Well, if anyone is going to be interviewed by Hello! it’s you!’ pointed out Mel, laughingly. Then, more soberly, she added, ‘I know it’s crazy because we’ve only been reunited for twenty-four hours, but Abi, it’s like we’ve never been apart, isn’t it? And you know, I’d do anything to make things better for you. I really would.’ ‘People say anything, but they don’t really mean it,’ said Abi. Mel looked crushed. ‘Well, I mean it. Anything at all,’ she insisted. Abi smiled and nodded. It was exactly what she wanted to hear. 11 (#) Melanie (#) I’ve never fallen in love at first sight. I’m a slow-burn sort. My boyfriends before Liam’s father were mates before they became dates. I was never in love with Liam’s father; just in lust. And Ben? Well, he had to woo me in the old-fashioned way because, basically, I was terrified he was going to hurt me – or more importantly, Liam – by bouncing in and then out of our lives. His good looks worked against him; it took a long time for me to trust him. Yet, I remember back to that first moment I met Abi, I had flutters in my stomach. An instant spark, a feeling that we were meant to be together. And now, I feel it all over again. I’m not coming out here. I don’t fancy her. I’m just saying being with her is intense, wonderful, uplifting. I’ve missed her. I can’t wait to get the girls to bed. They sense it and play up. Ben’s no help because he sees Abi’s visit as an excuse to pop to the gym and then no doubt he’ll undo the good work as he’ll nip to the local for a cold one; he rushes out the door at seven thirty. ‘You’ve got yourself a good man there,’ says Abi as she waves to him from the sitting-room window. Ben waves back and grins at her, as he dashes down the path. ‘Where is he from?’ It’s a strange non-sequitur comment. ‘Newcastle.’ ‘His parents?’ ‘Newcastle.’ I know what she’s getting at and even when it’s Abi asking, it’s annoying. It’s hard to see her enquiry as anything other than outright prejudice. There’s an implication that he’s somehow not exactly British, even though he was born here and his parents were born here. ‘His grandparents are Jamaican,’ I add, because this is what she’s asking and because we’re proud of the fact. ‘How fascinating. How wonderful. Do you ever go there for holidays?’ Her obvious enthusiasm makes me relax a little. I feel a bit ashamed that I thought she was being off. It’s just that mixed-race couples still raise an eyebrow and we shouldn’t. But I should never have imagined Abi would be so small-minded. ‘No. His mother once went to visit her aunt and uncle but Ben doesn’t know anyone there,’ I explain. ‘I’d love to go one day. Take the kids, so they get to know a bit more about their heritage.’ ‘You certainly don’t have a type, do you?’ she muses. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask carefully. I’m smiling because I don’t want this to be a thing but I sense it is. ‘Well, Liam’s father, what was he called? Dean?’ ‘Ian.’ ‘Yes, Ian. Well, he can’t have looked much like Ben. Liam is so blonde.’ ‘I think he gets that from my mother,’ I reply, not prepared to confirm or deny whether Liam’s father was blonde. It’s been a long time since I’ve had these sorts of conversations. I start to head towards the kitchen. ‘Maybe. They do say certain genes skip a generation.’ ‘Shall we try that grapefruit tonic?’ I offer. ‘I hope you mean with gin.’ ‘Absolutely.’ ‘Then yes.’ As I pass her the drink she asks, ‘Does Liam mind?’ ‘Mind what?’ ‘That he doesn’t look anything like the rest of you. Does he feel separate? Isolated?’ What an odd question. It’s true that the rest of us all have brown hair and eyes. Ben is black and the girls have beautiful sepia brown skin. I pick up quite a good tan in the summer although I’m a ghostly white right now, my hair has a definite kink to it, the girls and Ben have big, confident afros. Liam’s hair is poker straight. He’s pale and blonde, as Abi mentioned. Blue eyed. ‘We’ve never really dwelt on the matter.’ I know I sound prickly. I’m trying not to be but I am. I nervously flick my gaze at Abi. I don’t see any likenesses between him and his biological father, but then I can hardly remember the face of the young man who impregnated me. For me, Liam’s providence is an ancient story, a closed book. Ben is his dad. And an exceptionally good one. I never feel comfortable talking about the man who brought him into being. It reflects badly on me. I worry that Liam thinks it reflects badly on him, too. Obviously, it doesn’t. But kids see things weirdly. They blame themselves for things that are way out of their control. Abi looks abashed. ‘No, no, silly of me to have brought it up. You do know I didn’t mean anything odd.’ She reaches out and grabs my hand, squeezes tightly, like a child might. Impulsively, I bring our hands to my lips and kiss her knuckles. Weird, but she permits intimacy, somehow demands it. ‘Of course,’ I reassure her. I want to move on. Get off this topic. She smiles at me, eyes glistening with relief. I matter to her. My good opinion matters to her. The evening races by, shimmering with laughter and shared confidences. Our lives are obviously very different, yet we find things in common. We find we watch a lot of the same TV shows and we have the same view on them, we’ve read some of the same novels and I make a note of others Abi recommends. Abi has been to several places on my bucket list and it’s fascinating to hear all about them first hand. She strengthens my resolve to travel more, when the kids are all a bit older and when there’s a bit more spare cash floating about. Abi shows me her Instagram account. It’s full of stunning, glistening, gleaming images. Her in exotic locations, in fabulous restaurants, at gigs, shows and the theatre. ‘Don’t you have an Insta?’ she asks, not even self-conscious about the casual use of the abbreviation, as though she was sixteen. She is so confident. ‘No, but maybe I should get one.’ I don’t really mean this. Or at least I do, right now, but I won’t in the morning after I’ve slept off the effect of the G&Ts. What would I post? I think about the food I prepare. Liam wolfs it down – there would be no time to photograph it. The girls pick and poke; in the end, everything I prepare looks like a Jackson Pollock on a plate. ‘Oh, don’t bother,’ says Abi, sounding bored. ‘It’s so time consuming.’ ‘That’s what Ben says. He’s not a fan of social media. He thinks it’s desperate and deadening. Basically, I think he just doesn’t like his boss knowing too much about his personal life.’ ‘Is that why you never post photos?’ ‘I suppose.’ I take a sip of my G&T. Abi nods, thoughtfully. ‘Ben’s quite right. Very dignified.’ Hearing her compliment Ben encourages me to add, ‘I’ve always been careful with what I post. Liam didn’t grow up in an era where social media dominated childhoods. When he was very tiny, I still had photos developed at Boots. By the time every Tom, Dick, and Harry were equipped with smartphones and everyone fancied themselves to be the next Annie Leibovitz, Liam was at the age where he point-blank refused to let me take his photo, let alone allow me to post pictures of him.’ Abi smiles and nods. ‘I never got into the habit. I still prefer printing the shots and putting them in albums. The girls grumble about this on a regular basis. They’d love to be plastered all over the internet.’ ‘You’re a very special person to have such standards. It’s unusual, Mel, to have such a high regard for privacy. You know the thing I don’t like about social media?’ ‘What?’ ‘The fact that no matter how many photos I post of me meeting pop stars, politicians or the Dalai Lama—’ ‘You’ve met the Dalai Lama?’ I interrupt excitedly. She nods, smiles and carries on. ‘Yes, but even so, I’m in a competition I can’t win.’ ‘You can’t possibly suffer from FOMO.’ ‘It’s more FOMOOM. Fear of missing out on motherhood,’ she says sadly. ‘Oh.’ ‘Social media is nothing other than an echo chamber. People are forever posting pictures of their children. Just children doing perfectly normal things, often as not – but I can’t join in. Here’s little Elliot or Harriet in a sand box, or in a hat, in the bath. It’s so ordinary, there’s a plethora of these shots, at any and every point, on my feed.’ Abi sighs then straightens her back, which was unusually bowed, sniffs bravely and admits, ‘It’s exquisitely, painfully inaccessible for me. From bump to junior school, people post practically every moment.’ ‘I’m so sorry, Abi. I had no idea you felt this way.’ Why would I? She shrugs and then tries to make a joke. ‘Although I do notice the photos tend to drop off once a kid gets a bit older. I guess the cute factor wears a little thin then. Not quite so appealing.’ ‘They do go through an ugly stage,’ I say, with a laugh. I don’t mean it. I think my babies are and were beautiful, every single step of the way, but I feel a sudden need to detract from their perfection. It makes no sense but I suddenly feel aware of my glut and her lack and I’m drenched with a wave of guilt. Stupidly, I think of that fairytale – Sleeping Beauty – where the witch left off the invitation list swoops in and brings all sorts of trouble. I stare at my G&T glass. It’s empty. I need to slow down. My thoughts are bonkers. If anything, Abi is the Fairy Godmother who gets Cinderella to the ball, not a bad fairy. ‘Did you hear about that man who photographed his son every day from the boy’s birth to the day he turned twenty-one? He made a time-lapse video with the 7,500-odd photos. That’s what I’m up against,’ declares Abi. ‘Baby worship. It’s an epidemic.’ ‘It must be hard,’ I admit. I love Facebook – even though I don’t post pictures, I love to read other people’s euphoric posts. The ones wishing the ‘sweetest, kindest, funniest boy/girl a happy birthday’. Oblivious to the fact that everyone else is claiming the same of their child. These utter and complete testaments of love have always delighted me. Now, I see it from Abi’s point of view. The vanity behind the posts. The insensitivity. Abi shoots me a look that suggests she is irritated, if not outright angry. It is difficult to know what the right thing to say is, exactly. She juts out her chin and says firmly, ‘Still, I’m an absolutely awesome PANK.’ ‘PANK?’ I ask, not certain I want to know the answer. ‘Professional Aunt, No Kids.’ ‘Oh yes you are, the girls are already totally under your spell.’ ‘And Liam too, I hope.’ I’m not sure Liam has actually noticed Abi’s existence; teens live in their own very small world but saying so to Abi would only sound as though she’s ignorant of how big kids tick. The last thing she needs to hear, right now. I nod, and then ask tentatively, ‘Did you and Rob ever try for children?’ ‘Rob was the biggest child in his life. He didn’t want kids.’ ‘Oh. I see.’ ‘He hated the idea with a vengeance.’ I shift uncomfortably in my seat as she starts to brew up a new wave of invective. I wish I hadn’t brought Rob up. What was I thinking? I try to cut her off. ‘You have plenty of time for a baby,’ I say, encouragingly. ‘I don’t have plenty of time. I’m thirty-eight. But I do have some time. Friends of mine are getting pregnant in their forties; there are options. But first I need to divorce Rob and then meet someone new. Then get pregnant. Let’s not pretend. It’s not going to be easy.’ We sit in silence for a moment. Both sobered by the truth of her words. Suddenly, Abi laughs. ‘Oh, listen to me. I sure know how to kill the mood, right?’ Coughing, I say the most honest thing I can. ‘You’re entitled to.’ She stares at me for the longest time. ‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’ Then she asks, ‘How did we ever lose contact?’ I feel warmth seep through my stomach at her comment, the meaning implicit: how could we have let something so important fall by the wayside? Simultaneously, I feel sadness, guilt, grief. It’s confusing. ‘Well, I had Liam. You had your studies,’ I murmur, scratching the surface. Abi brightens. ‘Bring me up to date. What have I missed?’ she says with a burst of enthusiasm and excitement. ‘Where to start?’ ‘Show me the pictures. Take me through every lost year. You said you have albums, right?’ ‘Well yes, but—’ I can’t believe she’d be prepared to sit through them. I mean, how interesting can they be to her? ‘Come on. You get the albums, I’ll fill the glasses.’ 12 (#) Abigail (#) Despite her suspicions that Rob sometimes strayed, dallied, Abigail had never felt so inclined. She told herself that he wasn’t being unfaithful, it was at worst, just sex. Someone once told her that sex was like drinking a large G&T. Pleasant at the time, forgotten once swallowed. She didn’t imagine there was ever any emotional commitment to these women, therefore there wasn’t any emotional betrayal of her. Overall, he was careful, discreet. There were hints, whispers but no evidence, no facts. Anyway, even if he was indulging himself that way, then she certainly wasn’t going to compound the issue by also doing so. She had opportunities. If not endless then certainly countless. But a marriage was a marriage. Vows were vows. If they weren’t taken seriously, then what was the point? You could just buy a white dress and throw a party, you didn’t need the solemn oath bit. That’s what she’d always thought. But now she was questioning her own decisions, mourning the opportunities she’d missed. Now, she knew just how deep the betrayal ran. When she found out, was faced with indisputable evidence, facts, she’d howled. She wanted to kill him, rip him piece from piece. A bolt of visceral violence surged through her being. She’d been lied to and cheated upon. It was wrong, it was cruel, it was unfair. She screamed, roared. Like a lioness. Rob was passive, almost sanguine. That hurt her more; he couldn’t see why she was so devastated. He said their marriage was dead anyway. ‘No fucking way is it dead. Don’t say that,’ she’d yelled. ‘It is,’ he insisted. ‘You killed it with wanting a baby more than anything else. You stopped wanting me ages ago. I was a means to an end and when that didn’t work out for you, you didn’t want me at all.’ ‘No, no, that’s not true. That’s not true!’ ‘When did we last have sex, Abi?’ She wasn’t sure. It was months, probably, maybe a year. She didn’t like to think about it. That wasn’t how she saw herself, how she saw them. She was sexy. He was sexy. People assumed there was a lot of sex. But the truth was she’d started to go off it a while back. She glared at him. How dare he say ‘when that didn’t work out for you’, as though their childless state was some awful dollop of unluckiness. It wasn’t that way. She felt fury swirl through her body, gushing like blood. She knew when she’d started to go off sex. She could give him an exact date. He should be able to work it out, if he cared to. It was the day he came home with a slight limp, told her he’d been to the hospital and had a vasectomy. Just like that, without even discussing it. When she threw a dinner plate at him, he’d been surprised. ‘We agreed no kids, we agreed that forever ago.’ He’d said it as though it was no biggie. No one understood. She had been thirty-six at the time, he was forty-three. When she complained to her girlfriends, they commented that he was being thoughtful, considerate, taking away the burden of responsibility from her. One or two of them leaned in and whispered to her that a man getting a vasectomy was an indicator that he wasn’t planning on throwing over the first wife and starting again with a younger one. She should be pleased! She just saw a full stop. An end. A blank. If their marriage was dead it was because he killed it when he had that operation. Indiscreetly fucking other women? No longer being considerate enough to try and be careful? That was just a matter of scattering the ashes. Besides, she also suspected that the vasectomy was not a considerate act designed to take the burden of responsibility away from her, it was so there would never be the chance of an accident. Either with her, or she supposed, with any of his other women, who all had the potential to turn out to be gold-diggers. He’d always been disproportionately concerned about unplanned pregnancies. She was on the pill and she took it regularly, never daring to skip a day because he was right, they had agreed no kids, and it wouldn’t be decent to try to trick him. Now, she regretted playing so fairly. Even though she had always known it was unlikely she would get pregnant while she was taking contraception, she always believed there was a chance, an infinitesimal hope. Then, after the vasectomy, she knew it was all over. She cried in the bathroom every month that she had her period. So yeah, maybe things had become a bit snoozy in the bedroom, maybe even comatose. It would be impossible to exist in that crazy mental early stage, when all they wanted to do was grab one another and rip each other’s clothes off. Truthfully, she could barely remember that stage when they couldn’t see anything other than each other. When nothing else existed. She wanted more. And he wasn’t allowing her to have it. He was blocking her. It was only when she walked in on him, discovered his horrid, dirty little secret and started to yell at him – really scream, swear, shout – that she remembered feeling passion. Her indignation was so violent, her fury, her hurt so absolute that she felt something like passion. She couldn’t remember wanting to rip off his clothes. She couldn’t remember thinking the world was populated by just the two of them. It was a relief, in a way. It would hurt so much if she could. She wished he was dead. Then people would have sent cards and flowers. They’d have respected her, sympathised with her. As soon as news of their split leaked out, people started to avoid her, cancelled coffee dates, didn’t listen to her at production meetings, scattered to the corners of a busy room when she walked into the centre of it. They were embarrassed for her. She was drenched in shame and it should have been him. He was the shameful one. She’d been robbed. Opportunities had been stolen from her. Years had been squandered. She’d been a fool. But she wasn’t going to be anybody’s fucking fool again. 13 (#) Melanie (#) Saturday 24th February On Saturday evening, Abi offers to take Ben and me out for dinner as a thank you for our hospitality. She even thinks to invite Liam along, which is so kind. He declines, preferring to spend the evening with Tanya, but it was nice of her to think to include him. We pay him and Tanya to babysit the girls and the three of us set off to Golden Orchid for Thai – it’s the nicest place in the local area. As we leave the house, Abi giggles, ‘Isn’t that weird for you?’ ‘What?’ ‘The fact you’ve basically just paid them to have sex on your sofa.’ ‘Oh my God, Abi. That is not what I have done,’ I laugh. ‘It sort of is,’ Ben points out as he climbs into the front of the taxi and Abi and I scramble into the back. ‘No, I paid them to see that Imogen and Lily clean their teeth and go to bed. If they have sex on the sofa, that’s their business. There are some things it’s best not to think about too closely.’ ‘I just can’t believe you have a son old enough to be in an adult relationship,’ says Abi. ‘I still feel like we’re eighteen, don’t you?’ I nod and smile. I guess I do, when I’m around Abi at least, I get glimmers of it. But until this weekend, I’d say I felt the full weight of my years. I’m not complaining, I’m just saying, I’m a mum of three. Tanya is slight, blonde, clever and generally calm and smiley. I see her as a very positive addition to the family dynamic. The girls adore her. Almost as much as Liam does. Liam has had girlfriends before Tanya. Interchangeable, pretty, feral girls in tiny denim cut-off shorts and thick black tights, the sort who couldn’t look you in the eye but could certainly roll their eyes. None of them lasted longer than six weeks and they all came with a huge dollop of teenage emotional trauma and drama. There isn’t any of that with Tanya. They are simply content and confident in one another’s company. They go to the same sixth-form college and see each other most Friday and Saturday evenings – she often stays over and joins us for Sunday lunch. She does wear the same uniform as his previous girlfriends though, denim and denier. I sometimes wonder what’s going to happen to their relationship when they go to university. Tanya wants to be a vet and really must go where there are courses, which are few and far between. Liam wants to go into politics and is very keen to study in London – he already has a place confirmed at UCL, providing he gets the right grades. Their one chance of avoiding a long-distance relationship is if Tanya gets accepted at the Royal Veterinary College, University of London. She won’t find out for another month or so. I’m crossing my fingers for her. If that doesn’t work out I don’t know how they plan to manage. It’s their business and not mine. If Liam, or even Tanya, decides to discuss the matter with me then it becomes my business but until then I’ll keep my nose out of it. We have a great night at the Golden Orchid. Again, it flies by. Again, I get a little bit drunk, I don’t know how. It sort of creeps up on me. I wonder whether it’s down to that thing Abi was saying in the cab? There’s something about being with her that makes me feel as though I’m eighteen again and can knock back drinks without any consequences. I want to use chopsticks in front of her, and not resort to a fork, so I don’t manage to line my stomach as efficiently as I should. Abi is a little worse for wear, too. When we are drinking our second bottle of wine, she reiterates the story of finding Rob in bed with his PA, for Ben’s benefit ostensibly. Although, the way Ben squirms on his chair, I think he’d have been happier not to get the details. I discover that Abi did indeed self-censor when she told me the story in front of Imogen and Lily. In the Golden Orchid, she is less discreet, which is a little tricky because it’s not a big place and the tables are quite tightly packed. ‘Sneaked up the stairs,’ she slurs, ‘like a criminal. In my own home. At it like dirty animals, they were. Tits practically hit me in my face. Slapping her arse as he came. Filthy bastard.’ Ben shifts uncomfortably, coughs and then suggests we might want coffee, in much the way I offered cake when I first heard the sad story. Ben and I are not prudish. We have a good sex life. There just comes a point when that sort of thing doesn’t seem appropriate conversation. My conversations with Gillian or Becky centre around OFSTED reports, not orgasms. Honestly? It’s often the same conversation at the school gate; we use one another as a check and balance. Are we doing enough as parents? I suppose Abi talks more openly. More honestly. Abi accepts the coffee and stops talking about sex but can’t seem to get away from the subject of Rob’s infidelity. ‘The problem is, I’m left exposed, financially and emotionally. What a fool I’ve been.’ She shakes her head, still stunned. ‘Everything I’ve ever done was for him. The move to America, the type of work I took on, the size of our family – or rather the non-existence thereof, were all his decisions.’ Ben and I murmur sympathetic noises but don’t quite commit to words. ‘How has it ended up like this?’ Abi wails, disbelieving. ‘You know I had such promise,’ she says, eagerly grabbing Ben’s arm. ‘There was such possibility when we first met at university. I could have had anyone. Been anyone. Couldn’t I, Mel? Tell him.’ I nod because it’s true. ‘There’s nothing more heartbreaking than squandered promise,’ she adds. I glance at Ben, and indicate, with an almost imperceptible shift of my head, that it might be time to get the bill. I don’t feel comfortable with her laying this all out in this tiny restaurant, in this small town; I know that big ears are always flapping. ‘My mother never liked him,’ Abi tells Ben. ‘Said that he’d turned my head.’ Ben smiles. ‘What?’ Abi demands. ‘Nothing. It’s just a funny turn of phrase.’ Abi laughs but she doesn’t sound amused, more bitter. ‘You are right,’ she says, poking his arm, one jab per word. ‘I always imagine a cartoon character with its head spinning, comically. But it’s not so funny now because that’s how I feel. Foolish, distorted. Two dimensional.’ She pauses and then adds. ‘Terrified.’ Abi starts to cry. Tears curl and swell; her long lashes can’t harness them. They trickle down her face. She’s a very beautiful crier. Ben looks about and grabs a clean napkin from a nearby unoccupied table, offers it to her. She takes it and dabs her eyes. I rub her back and try to stare down the rubberneckers. I can’t intimidate them – Abi is too much of a draw. It is impossible to hope that they’ll even pretend to stay in their own conversations. ‘I just want to undo the moment. To just rewind, or wipe it out. You know?’ Abi sighs and adds, with a stale air of defeatism. ‘I’d even settle for it happening but me not knowing about it,’ she admits. ‘How pathetic is that? I want to be an ostrich. I’m willing to bury my head in the sand.’ But, it’s not possible to do such a thing. She can’t scrub it out, she can’t unknow. That’s why it matters so much what you tell people, what you do to people. Some things can’t be undone. Not ever. Abi suddenly turns from upset to angry. She’s always been mercurial, and drink doesn’t help. Nor does an adulterous husband. ‘I’ve always feared it might happen. I’ve never really trusted him. He wasn’t the sort you could trust.’ She stares at me, fuming. ‘How had I forgotten that?’ ‘I guess because you’ve been together for a long time,’ comments Ben, gently. ‘Obviously, this is really hard.’ ‘Yes! Eighteen is no age at all to make a decision as gargantuan as who you should spend the rest of your life with, but I did.’ Abi is swaying on her chair slightly. ‘The thing was, besides my mother, who doesn’t really like anyone, everyone adored him. Didn’t they, Mel?’ I shrug, unsure I can agree but feeling she really expects me to. ‘You know her husband?’ Ben asks, surprised. ‘Yes, absolutely she does,’ confirms Abi. ‘He was studying for his PhD when we were undergrads. He tutored some of our classes.’ ‘Not mine,’ I chip in. ‘His power was very magnetic. Plus, he was absolutely beautiful. Wasn’t he, Melanie?’ She nudges me with her elbow. ‘Erm, well you remember him far better than I do,’ I mutter, embarrassed. I don’t want to fortify the image of Rob as an astoundingly sexy, desirable but ultimately unobtainable man. It’s too sad. ‘He was!’ she insists. ‘Irresistible.’ I nod – it’s just easiest to go along with her. ‘You know what you need, Abi,’ says Ben, lightly. ‘You need to get back in the saddle.’ ‘Nice thought,’ I mutter, glaring at him. He ignores me. ‘Seriously. Give yourself a treat. Even the score,’ insists Ben. Abigail stares at him from under her damp eyelashes but doesn’t comment. I put my hand in the air and wave at the waiter, make the universal sign that asks him to bring the bill. Ben doesn’t mean to be insensitive but at the risk of generalising, women just aren’t like men. We don’t move on so easily. It’s a long night. When we finally get home, Abi suggests we all have a nightcap. Tanya says she can’t stay but will come back for Sunday lunch tomorrow. Liam walks her home, just ten minutes away. I don’t want to be rude – Abi so obviously wants company – and so agree to a quick one. Ben stays up with us as well. It’s a relief when Abi stops being maudlin and instead makes us laugh with stories about her old colleagues; the way she tells it every one of them was a marvellous character. Liam returns and delights me by not shuffling off to bed but instead settling down to hear Abi’s stories and drink with us, although he sensibly stays off the hard stuff, and just sips on beer. We only call it a night at two in the morning. I can’t remember when I last stayed awake until that time, let alone stayed up drinking. We polish off the whiskey Ben got from my parents at Christmas. I think I suggested we start on the brandy, but Ben says he can’t find it. I’m pretty sure it’s in the kitchen, in plain sight, on the tray where we keep spirits. I wonder if he is really drunk and honestly can’t see it or if he wants to pull the night to a close? I’m too drunk to bother to look myself and something in the back of my head is saying it’s probably a good thing since, if I drink the brandy, I’ll feel even worse tomorrow. Ben and I haul ourselves upstairs, Abi says she’s going outside onto the patio to smoke a cigarette. I see Ben, an avid anti-smoker, shake his head but I’m just relieved she hasn’t lit up in the sitting room. Liam, the angel, starts to clear away the glasses. ‘You’re a good kid,’ I say, but am surprised that it comes out as a bit of a slur. ‘I’ll increase your pocket money.’ This is a joke we still run. Liam doesn’t have pocket money anymore – he has a part-time job in Costa and earns a bit through babysitting – but whenever he does anything helpful or kind, we joke that he’s doing it for economic reasons and that we’ll increase his pocket money. ‘Do I get extra if I bring you water and paracetamol in the morning? I think you’re going to need it.’ There’s nothing a teen likes more than teasing a parent because they’re handling their alcohol poorly. ‘I’m on it,’ laughs Ben. Holding up a glass of water. Abi stumbles back into the kitchen. ‘God, he’s amazing, isn’t he? Tends to your every need.’ Then she suddenly pulls me into a tight hug. ‘I love you, guys’ she says with the absolute conviction of a drunk, I don’t care if this affection is alcohol induced. I feel warm and glowing when she adds, ‘You are the best.’ She hugs Ben and then Liam too with equal ferocity. I go to bed knowing all is right with the world. 14 (#) Abigail (#) Abigail lay on the sofa bed, her long, tanned limbs stretched out in front of her. The room was not dark enough – the girls preferred the landing light to stay on during the night and the bedroom door didn’t quite fit as snugly as would have been ideal, so light flooded under and over. Also, the room was too hot. She’d tried turning the radiator down but it didn’t seem to make any difference. She got out of bed and flung open the window. The cold night air rushed in, a relief. Ben’s words floated around Abigail’s head. ‘You know what you need, Abi. You need to get back in the saddle.’ Back in the saddle. Giddy up. People wanted her to move on. They were bored of her mooning. Rob had stopped loving her and, chivvy along now, she had to stop loving him. Giddy up. The thought made her smile. It was a good idea. He was right; there was no time to waste. No more time. You know what you need, Abi. You need to get back in the saddle. She wondered, just briefly, was it a suggestion or an offer? They seemed like such a happy couple but who knew? No one ever really knew what went on in a relationship. Abigail checked her emails. Even though it was a Saturday, Rob had sent her two: one from him and one from his lawyer. He must have his lawyer working on this around the clock. Naturally he had; he knew he was in trouble. Being caught having sex is pretty damning evidence of fault. She planned to take him to the cleaners. Make him pay in every way she could. His email suggested they could make this divorce quick, clean, and as painless as possible. Fuck that. She saw that offer for what it was: a man who knew he was going to be paying through the nose, running scared. She opened the email from the lawyer and looked at the details of the proposed settlement. It was fair enough, some might say, not exactly generous, but reasonable. She typed her response. Fuck you. She was drunk enough to think this was hilarious and bold. She was sober enough to regret it the moment she pressed send. She wondered whether it was possible to recall emails and Googled it. She wasn’t sure, even after she’d read the chat forums debating the issue. It seemed it was but the recipient would know you’d done so. That was just as bad. Worse. She’d rather Rob think she was bold and rash than cowed and insecure. She started to cry. She hated crying, it was ageing and hopeless, defeatist. She heard a quiet knock at the door, so quiet she hardly dared call, ‘Come in.’ Slowly the door opened just a couple of inches. He put his head around. ‘I thought you might need water, too?’ Abi hurriedly brushed the tears away; she didn’t want him to see them. ‘Oh, thanks, yes.’ He handed her a glass of iced water. Thoughtful, not tepid from the bathroom tap. Their fingers brushed together. You can’t make some things up, you can’t imagine them, even if you want to wish them away or even if you plan to ignore them. There was a flicker of electricity. It shot through her arm, her shoulder, her chest and then down into the pit, the core of her body. She hadn’t felt anything like it for years. She met his eye, acknowledging the flash that had just lit between them. Those things were always two-way, weren’t they? She felt it, he must have. A bee sting of sexual attraction. He looked her in the eye and no doubt noticed she’d been crying. ‘Get some sleep, Abi,’ he instructed, as he closed the bedroom door behind him. And she did sleep. She dreamed she was riding a horse over a prairie. She was riding it hard, could feel its size and strength beneath her; between her legs, she felt its muscles ripple next to her thighs. She was breathless and free. Excited and able. It felt real, as she bumped up and down on the warm, leather saddle. 15 (#) Melanie (#) Sunday 25th February I look up from chopping carrots as Ben walks into the kitchen. He’s wearing the Paul Smith shirt that I got him for his birthday, like I told him he should, with new jeans (that still look a little stiff) and his Ted Baker brogues, which he normally keeps for the office as he generally prefers Adidas trainers at home. He’s handsome, no doubt about it. When I’m walking in the streets with him, out shopping or whatever, I always feel secretly pleased, smug. I often see women check him out. He either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, for my sake. Bless. Today he puts me in mind of the new, neat bay trees outside our front door. A little too formal, out of place and stiff. ‘Maybe you should put on a T-shirt,’ I suggest. ‘You told me to wear this,’ he replies with a confused and slightly frustrated shrug. He glances about. I have the lunch ingredients out of the fridge but nowhere near in the oven. Even though I’ve been up since six thirty when Lily came into our room and asked if I wanted to see a puppet show. There are approximately a hundred things – including toys, homework, stray socks, breakfast pots and a hairbrush – scattered across the table. I’m obviously not what anyone would describe as on top of things. My head aches and I’m so pale I’m transparent. I’m too old to stay up drinking until two a.m. One of the very many lovely things about being married to Ben is that we are a partnership. I don’t have to nag him to help out or do his share. If he sees something needs doing, he invariably does it. Maybe not exactly as I might have done it, but he gives it a go and I’m grateful. Normally, he lends a hand with notable affability; right now, he gathers up the debris from the kitchen table and then clatters down the cutlery in a distinctly irritated manner. He didn’t like me suggesting what he should put on today and, having complied, he likes me changing my mind even less. I can hear his frustration in the clinking of the knives and forks. ‘I know I did but—’ I’m about to say it looks a bit over the top, when Abi interrupts. ‘You look fabulous Ben, ignore her.’ ‘Oh, Abi, I didn’t realise you were there.’ I’m embarrassed that she’s caught our conversation and wonder whether she noticed the slight testiness in the air. I want everything to look effortless, seamless and – most of all – blissful. Nagging my husband about the formality of his wardrobe is none of those things. It’s too late to get Ben to change now. I shouldn’t even expect it. Her compliments make me feel shallow. I’m also embarrassed that she’s here before I’ve managed to transform the kitchen. I wanted to have set it with a vase of tulips, a bowl of olives and wine. I have a very specific image of how I want to present things for Abi. Clearing the breakfast pots would have been a start. She looks around too. Her gaze is unreadable. She might be thinking we’re charming, or she might be thinking we’re revolting. ‘Can I do anything to help?’ she asks with convincing gusto. ‘Oh no,’ I reply automatically, although why? When another pair of hands would obviously be useful. Instead I find myself saying, ‘Ben, why don’t you show Abi our holiday photos from last summer?’ Turning to Abi I add, ‘We visited the Edinburgh Fringe.’ Ben looks startled. ‘Are you interested?’ he asks Abi with some scepticism. ‘It’s a bit throwback. People haven’t actually thought it was entertaining to show others their holiday snaps since circa 1979, have they?’ ‘Yes, yes, she is interested,’ I insist. Abi backs me up. ‘I love the way Mel still goes to the effort of printing photos and putting them in albums. With the tickets of the places you visited, and maps and such. Works of art, really. History in the making. Who does that?’ ‘Who indeed?’ says Ben, mildly amused. He thinks my photo albums are a bit of a waste of space and money and prefers keeping things digitally, but he indulges me. He has even promised that if there is a fire or flood, after the kids and the cats, he’d save my albums. Exactly how he’d do that isn’t clear, since I have about two dozen. ‘I’ve shown Abi loads of old albums already,’ I say. I’m eager to encourage them both to get out of the kitchen, so that I can rush about and pull the place into some semblance of order. I want the kitchen to myself. I don’t feel up to coordinating making lunch and having a conversation. Somehow, when the doorbell rings at one o’clock, lunch is almost ready and the table is dressed with our best glassware and pretty paper napkins. ‘Will someone get that?’ I yell. No one reacts. ‘It will be Tanya.’ I hear Liam gallop down the stairs with enthusiasm. ‘Someone’s keen,’ says Abi, amused; she and Ben have wandered back into the kitchen, ready to take their seats or at least refill their glasses. ‘I’ll say. The only other person who can get him to move as quickly as that is the pizza delivery man,’ jokes Ben. Lunch is loud and lively. I’ve put the meat and multiple vegetables in bowls on the table so everyone can help themselves. There is the inevitable hassle when Lily says she’d rather die than eat peas but I put them on her plate anyway. Again, Abi entertains us all. This time with stories about famous people she’s met and interviewed. Her stories are hilarious, informative and sometimes risqu?. The girls – giddier than ever because they have both Tanya and Abi to play to – are near hysterical when she tells them she’s met Selena Gomez. They squeal at a constant, high pitch and, for fun, I join in. Ben jokily covers his ears and yells at us all to shut up. ‘I can’t hear myself think.’ Quick as a flash I say, ‘You think with your head? Wow, you are quite a special man.’ This gets a big laugh from Abi and Tanya, the girls too, although they probably didn’t even hear the joke, let alone understand it. Smiling, Ben turns to Liam and bemoans the fact they’re outnumbered. ‘More than ever. We’re going to need to get soundproofing.’ ‘You can’t say that,’ says Liam with a distinct note of embarrassment. ‘You two are so politically incorrect.’ He can be an outspoken kid and his opinions are generally quite well researched but normally he keeps his discussions and deliberations for the college debating society; today he seems to want to peacock in front of Tanya. ‘Can’t say what?’ asks Ben, genuinely mystified. ‘Mum can’t say that men think with their . . . ’ he glances at his sisters, who are hanging off his every word. He corrects himself. ‘She can’t say men think with anything other than their heads. It’s sexist.’ ‘It was a joke,’ I say, still giggling. Quite pleased with myself. ‘It’s a clich?,’ replies Liam. ‘What are you saying? All men are dumb, led by instinct rather than intellect. Clich?s always lead to sexism.’ I sigh because this may be true but it’s so damned sad. ‘Clich?s used to lead to jokes, I’m pretty sure of it. We used to be better at laughing at ourselves,’ I comment, defensively. ‘Sexist jokes. I’m surprised at you, Mum.’ Teens do have occasional forays into bouts of self-righteousness. Normally, I ride them out. Today, I wish Liam hadn’t decided to so abruptly change the atmosphere. We were having fun. I pick up the tureen that still has some roast potatoes left in it and offer them to him – he can usually be side-tracked by roast potatoes, but he shakes his head impatiently. ‘And Dad, you’re no better, implying that women are nothing but pointless chatter and noise.’ Ben looks horrified. ‘Mate, I’m pretty sure that’s not what I said.’ ‘The thing about soundproofing.’ ‘I’m not being sexist. I’m being accurate.’ Ben winks at me and I throw a balled-up napkin at him. ‘The women in our family are more garrulous and the men more circumspect, on the whole.’ Although not right now. Liam seems determined to make his point. Ben is walking the thin line of taking him seriously and yet fuelling the debate that would be better closed down. ‘We work in a world full of clich?s and assumptions but there’s nothing wrong with that. Those things are stabilising, helpful. We need to be able to categorise and order,’ adds Ben. Liam shrugs because he can’t bring himself to agree. He’s too young for such heavy-handed certainty. He still sees nuance and complication everywhere. His world is delightfully in flux. ‘I bet you never relied on clich?, Abigail, when you were interviewing and stuff,’ Liam declares. I smile inwardly. He may be feeling argumentative with his parents but he’s remembered to be polite to our guest. ‘I’m sure I’m guilty of slipping one in on several occasions,’ admits Abi, diplomatically. ‘Abi used to be a TV presenter in the States,’ I explain to Tanya, in case Liam hasn’t told her. ‘Less of the past tense, if you please,’ says Abi. I can hear that she’s trying to sound amused but isn’t. ‘Oh, sorry,’ I mutter, colouring. ‘You’ve gone red,’ Imogen points out, unnecessarily. ‘It makes the stripe in your hair look totally and absolutely white,’ declares Lily. I want to kill her. Instead I run my fingers through my hair and try to sound unconcerned. ‘I meant to pick up a kit yesterday when I was in town but work was hectic; I only got a thirty-minute lunch break.’ ‘A kit?’ asks Abi. Then she understands. ‘Oh. Wow. Do you dye your own hair?’ Her tone is incredulous. I’m embarrassed but maybe my expression comes across as one of irritation because Abi quickly changes her tone. ‘Oh my God, that is so impressive. I honestly thought you must pay a fortune in some fancy salon. You look amazing.’ I do not enjoy the process of dying my hair. I don’t like the smell or the waiting around, plus I’d like to be the sort of woman who can afford to go to a salon for the job, but mostly I feel cheated that I’m already turning grey, even though I’m still in my thirties. It doesn’t seem right. Grey hair is for grandmas and I am nowhere near that stage. No rush at all. I’ve no desire to age gracefully; I do what I can to push back the inevitable. Tanya, bless her, picks up the conversation. She asks the girls which is their favourite Disney song. Soon, everyone joins in. My grey hair and home dye kits are forgotten as people shout out, ‘Let it Go,’ ‘A Whole New World’, ‘Circle of Life’. The rest of the lunch passes without incident. My sore head is easing but probably only because I’ve had two glasses of wine. ‘A Sunday roast: just what the doctor ordered,’ comments Abi as she puts her knife and fork together and leans back in her chair. This is the first hint she’s given that she might have been even a tiny bit hungover; I’m in awe, she’s superwoman. She’s the last to finish – she had the most stories to tell and besides, she eats the tiniest bites. Lily and Imogen have been waiting patiently, nailed to their seats through years of training that you can’t leave the table until everyone finishes. Lily immediately seizes the opportunity to hop down from her seat and climb on Liam’s lap. I see Tanya melt when he wraps his big arms around his tiny sprite of a sister. Lily likes sitting on his knee because when the adult conversation gets too boring for her to follow, but she doesn’t feel ready to slink off on her own, he keeps her amused by whispering in her ears. Silly jokes and sounds that send her off into peals of giggles. ‘I was wondering, how long are you staying, Abigail?’ Ben’s question is shot over the clatter of my gathering up the used plates. I shoot him a quick look of reproach, one I hope he sees but no one else does. He doesn’t catch it because he’s determined not to; he’s staring at Abi, not me. He’s smiling. He looks affable enough. There’s only me who would know he’s asking her to pack her bags. I get it. I know what he’s thinking – it’s been a fun weekend but tomorrow is Monday, we should get back to being normal. ‘We have a busy week ahead of us,’ he adds, as though it’s a simple observation. Abi smiles – if she’s picked up on his hint, she doesn’t seem bothered by it. ‘Really? What’s going down?’ Ben must have checked the family calendar before we sat down to eat because he rattles off our commitments with impressive confidence. ‘It’s Imogen’s Brownie investiture.’ Abi pulls her face into a picture of awe to show she’s impressed, Immie beams back, thrilled to be centre of attention. ‘Lily has a school trip to a working farm and Mel is a parent volunteer, so is going along too.’ Abi gasps excitedly and claps her hands in glee, as though she can’t imagine anything more fun. ‘Liam needs to practise for his internship interview.’ Ben’s list obviously isn’t simply a point of information; he’s hinting she needs to get out of our hair. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I wish he’d drop it. ‘Mel has also got an extra shift to do at the shop because she needs to make up the time from Friday.’ ‘OK Ben.’ He’s being rude now. ‘And I’m in the middle of a big audit at work.’ He turns to look at me, reminding me of as much, I suppose. I assumed Abi would stay for the weekend but she hasn’t made any noise about catching a train tonight or tomorrow. I suppose we do need to know her plans so that we can make our own, but I can’t stand the idea of shooing her out the house. ‘I haven’t quite decided,’ says Abi. ‘Mel, so sweetly, said I could stay as long as I needed.’ ‘Of course, you’re so welcome,’ I gush. I mean this, at the same time as I know it really isn’t a helpful thing to say. I throw Ben a look that’s begging for his understanding. He relents. ‘Yes, absolutely. I’m just saying we’ve a very busy week next week. I hope you don’t think we’re rude if we’re not around too much to look after you.’ ‘Not at all,’ Abi assures him with the broadest smile. It’s inscrutable. ‘I’m pretty self-sufficient. So, Liam, what is this internship?’ ‘I’m hoping to work in the Houses of Parliament.’ ‘Wow.’ ‘But it’s really competitive.’ ‘Well, you are gorgeous and principled and have the confidence to question your parents’ passive, institutionalised sexism – I’d say you’ll cut through the competition.’ ‘Abi!’ I squeal, laughing as I know she’s joking. Liam reddens. ‘Just kidding.’ She turns back to Liam, ‘Maybe I could help with the interview practice,’ Abi offers. ‘Really?’ I ask. ‘I’m not saying I’m an expert but . . . ’ she laughs. ‘But my entire career is based on interviewing people. I do know how to carefully solicit particular information, even when a person doesn’t want to give it.’ She beams encouragingly at Liam; he’s looking at the table. ‘I know how to then present that information to make someone look erudite, original. I can coach you.’ Of course she’s an expert. This is great news. What an advantage. I glance at Liam to see if he hates the idea of Abigail helping but he shrugs, seemingly OK with the suggestion. I have a feeling Abi might be able to provide the zing and edge; help him stand out. I’m grateful. ‘That’s so kind,’ I gush. ‘Well that’s settled then, I’ll stay until after Liam’s interview,’ she says enthusiastically. I daren’t look at Ben – the interview is not until the week after next. Instead I say, ‘Now who’s for pudding?’ ‘Oh, me please, I can diet tomorrow,’ Abi says with a careless giggle. Everyone, even Lily, says in unison, ‘You don’t need to diet, ever!’ 16 (#) Abigail (#) It was vital to behave perfectly normally, not to alert Mel in any way to whatever it was that was bubbling. Because something certainly was bubbling. Was it in her imagination? Was it one way? She watched him carefully. When he smiled at Mel it was an oblique, faintly perplexed smile. When he smiled at the girls or Tanya it was uncomplicated, amenable. When he caught her eye, he didn’t smile at all. He looked like he wanted to lick her. Taste her. So, she was almost certain. While Mel tidied away after lunch and put the kitchen to rights, something about having to iron the school uniforms too, Abi spent the afternoon playing Barbie with the girls. They sat on the floor in the middle of the sitting room, surrounded by tiny plastic shoes, handbags and semi-clad dolls with tangled hair. If she had daughters she would not buy them Barbies. To be fair to Mel, the girls had Doctor Barbie and NASA Barbie, but even so, her physical proportions were crazy and were probably the root cause of all sorts of unrealistic body expectations. Ben, Liam, and Tanya were sprawled out on the two sofas watching sport with varying degrees of enthusiasm. There wasn’t much room for six people. She was just centimetres away from his feet. She was aware of him. His proximity. If she moved just a couple of centimetres to the left, she could bump up against him. What would he do? Move away? The girls were forever getting up, walking in front of the TV, causing everyone to move around them to get a view, stumbling as they sat down again. On one occasion Abi took advantage. She reached for the box of Barbie accessories and allowed her shoulder to bang up against his knee. He didn’t flinch; if anything she thought he moved towards her. An infinitesimal transfer of energy and focus but she was sure of it. She waited a few more moments to see if he would yet move away. He didn’t. The heat from his leg could be felt through her shirt. She became emboldened. She spilled out the Barbie accessories onto the floor and under the cover of all the mess she ran her hand over his foot, tentatively. A move that she could deny, could be dismissed as an accidental brush. Or not. She dared to glance at his face. He continued to stare at the television; he did not say, ‘Oh sorry, am I in your way?’ and move. She was pleased. Professional. Unfazed. She squeezed his foot deliberately. Boldly. It had begun. Abi liked being part of a family. She had imagined it often enough. Back in America she found herself looking at other people’s babies. Not just babies, their children too, and wondering what it was like to have such a mass of noisy energy living in close proximity all the time. If a woman pushed a stroller past her in the street, she’d strain her neck, as surreptitiously as possible, to see if the baby was asleep or gurgling; did it have a pacifier in or thumb? She’d gotten into the habit of sitting near mothers and children in coffee shops. That was almost certifiable – the chances of spillages increased tenfold. What was wrong with her? She lingered outside playparks (she’d told herself she had to stop, it was only a matter of time before someone made a complaint). She thought her adult-only gym sleek and stylish – with state-of-the-art Olympic-size pool, divided into neat columns to allow the most efficient length swimming – was soulless because she wanted to see kids splash around, to make noise and play on inflatables. It wasn’t just the cute and smiley ones she liked. If she heard a baby scream she didn’t want to run in the opposite direction, she wanted to pick it up and comfort it. Once she had gone so far as to swap seats with a passenger on a flight from LA to NY to move closer to a mum with a toddler in tow. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/adele-parks/i-invited-her-in-the-new-domestic-psychological-thriller-from/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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