Day 1
Erica
‘Why are you doing this? You don’t even like dogs.’ Henry’s voice echoed in Erica’s head as she scooped up her rucksack and boots from the bedroom floor. In a matter of minutes the sky outside the window had turned from inky blue to light grey, picking out the bedroom furniture in dull shadow.
Anger stirred inside her. Sudden and sharp – like heartburn – a remnant of last night’s fight. Erica glanced at the sleeping form of her husband. The hump of his long lean body was cocooned inside the red covers. Only his feet and his mop of pepper grey hair were visible.
The air was thick with the smell of sleep and the lingering menthol scent of Olbas oil from Henry’s cold earlier in the week.
Erica peeled open the bedroom door and tiptoed across the hall. ‘Or cold.’ Henry’s caustic voice again, just before he’d swigged back a mouthful of red wine. ‘And you’re going to the bloody Arctic, Erica.’
So much for the romantic evening they’d planned. So much for a farewell dinner together, just the two of them for a change; without Isla distracting them; without the murmur of TV news in the background. But by the time Isla had finally settled, the steaks had lost their succulence and neither of them had had the energy to be kind.
Henry was right about the dogs and the cold, of course.
‘They’re not fun dogs,’ she’d tried to explain, tried to placate the argument he’d been gunning for by that point. ‘They’re huskies. They’ll be doing their thing, and I’ll be doing mine. Other than shout “mush” at them, I’ll be leaving them alone. And, yes, it will be cold but I’ll probably be too busy and too tired to notice.’
As for why – why was she going? She was going for Molly. She was going because she needed time away to think, to find her way out from under the lies threatening to bury her. All of a sudden the anger dissolved leaving only a twinge of regret. She had no right to be angry.
It was darker in the hallway. There were no windows, no fingers of daylight creeping in. Just four closed doors – the study, the bathroom, the master bedroom, and Isla’s room. Erica ran a finger over the smooth edges of the four colourful wooden letters stuck to their daughter’s bedroom door as she passed.
‘I don’t understand why it always has to be you who goes on these things, Erica,’ Henry had said as they’d cleared the plates from the table. ‘I get that Channel 6 like their employees to take part in charity events, but surely one of the fame-hungry presenters or a less experienced producer at the station could go?’ Even in a haze of wine and resentment Henry had chosen his words carefully, but Erica had known what he’d meant. He’d meant younger. Surely someone younger could have gone in Erica’s place?
If only he knew.
The shhh of the boiler humming into life spurred Erica to keep moving. Six a.m. She had to get out of here. Erica shifted the weight of her rucksack further onto her shoulder and, avoiding the creaks, she zigzagged silently down the stairs.
Daylight slipped through the porthole glass in the front door and the gaps in the living room curtains. The light illuminated the polished wood floor stretching across their open-plan living room – the colourful plastic toys heaped to one side, and the empty wine glasses on the coffee table.
Erica slipped her feet into the fluffy wool of her thermal socks and stuffed them into her boots. She caught her reflection in the mirror and smiled. For once it wasn’t the lines crinkling around her green eyes that Erica focused on, it was the excitement dancing inside them. She touched the brittle edges of her dark red hair where it skimmed her shoulders.
Did she really look any different than when she was twenty-nine? Her hair was a shade darker, thanks to the addition of a colour at the salon she visited every six weeks, and no thanks to the appearance of more than a few grey hairs. Her hair and skin were a little duller than she remembered. A trick of the light perhaps, or just a decade of long hours making her way up the career ladder to the Senior Producer of daytime news at Channel 6.
Erica blinked and for the smallest of seconds she saw her mother’s face staring back from the mirror. Erica shook her head and stepped close enough to see the spattering of freckles across her nose. The past ten years had disappeared in the blink of an eye. She’d got married, she’d bought her first house, she’d had a child, and yet time seemed to be perpetually on fast-forward. She was still the same person though. Twenty-nine or thirty-nine, she was still the same.
It grated her insides that not everyone could it, see her. Was she just a number now? Erica had just as much ambition as she’d had ten years ago. She was just as motivated, just as hard-working. She was just as smart; except now, she was experienced too. Erica was good at her job. One of the best. That counted for something. At least it should. More than any number counted, anyway.
Erica sighed and with a final glance in the mirror she stepped to the front door.
The old wood stuck in its frame for a moment as she tugged the handle. Then it opened with a shudder, blasting fresh cold air onto her face, and with it came a burst of adrenaline. She was going. Finally.
‘Hang on,’ Henry’s voice shouted from above her.
Something dropped inside Erica’s stomach. Could she pretend she hadn’t heard? Erica pulled the door open wider and made another step towards freedom. She didn’t want to leave with last night’s argument hanging between them, but she didn’t want to say goodbye either. She hated goodbyes. Besides, what difference did it make if she left now? If she stayed they’d only argue again.
Who’s fault is that? The voice came from nowhere. His voice in her head, or her own conscience, she couldn’t tell.
‘Erica, wait,’ her husband bellowed.
She sighed as Henry’s blue-check pyjama bottoms appeared at the top of the stairs. Too late now.
Erica pushed the front door shut and leaned against it for a beat before fixing a smile on her face and turning around.
Isla unleashed a squeal of delight at Henry’s jiggling run down the stairs. The wide-eyed joy of their thirteen-month-old daughter melted Erica’s heart and suddenly it didn’t matter if she argued with Henry; Erica got to see, hold, be with her daughter one last time.
Isla was wearing a bubble-gum pink Baby-gro covered with red strawberries – one of a dozen garish gifts Henry’s mother had given them in the last year. The curve of a smile poked out from either side of Isla’s orange dummy and spread across her chubby cheeks.
‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ Erica asked, allowing her rucksack to slip from her shoulder and drop to the floor with a light thud.
‘No, but you should have done. I thought your flight wasn’t until this afternoon?’ Henry replied, reaching the hallway and shifting Isla’s weight onto his other hip before using a free hand to smooth down tufts of his wayward hair.
‘It’s not, but I thought I’d pop into the office first and make sure everything is set for my week away,’ she lied, lifting Isla out of Henry’s arms and into her own. ‘Anyway, you know I hate goodbyes.’ She buried her face in the creases of Isla’s neck, as much to breathe in the precious scent of her daughter as to hide her face from Henry.
He smiled then, the tension in his face gone. ‘Have breakfast with us first. Isla will be grouchy all day if you go without a proper goodbye.’
Erica glanced down at the shining eyes of their daughter, staring across at Henry’s face with a mix of wonder and adoration, and doubted she’d be missed.
‘Erica,’ Henry said. The one word spoken just so – half pleading, half warning – in the way only her husband seemed able to do.
She nodded and wriggled out of her boots. So much for freedom. So much for escape.
***
The house – a four-bed Victorian terrace on a tree-lined street in Walthamstow – was the perfect family home, according to the estate agent who’d sold it to them eight years ago. And with the kitchen extension they’d added, it really was perfect.
Even with Isla’s toy collection growing larger, noisier, and more colourful by the week, the high ceilings and large rooms still had a spacious feel to them. Erica loved their home; loved being a tube ride away from the city during the week, and a short stroll to the park and high street at the weekend. The house didn’t fill her with the same sense of peace she got from sinking into the chair behind her desk for another long day in the studio, but it was close.
In the kitchen, spring sunshine fought through the clouds, and streamed like spotlights through the French doors that led into a long narrow garden. The bottoms of the glass doors were smeared with Isla’s handprints and the oval shape of her lips where she’d kissed the glass. Erica fought the urge to dig out the window cleaning spray and wipe them away.
Fifteen minutes, thirty max, and she was gone. The smudges would no doubt be back again when she returned. Cleaning them now would only piss Henry off, and she didn’t want that.
‘Mummy, Daddy, woof, porri,’ Isla gabbled, pointing to the high chair.
‘That’s right, honey, porridge.’ Erica smiled, placing Isla’s feet to the floor a metre away from the high chair. ‘Go on,’ she said as Isla let go of Erica’s arms and stood statue-like for a moment. ‘You can do it, baby. Go on, walk.’
Isla lifted a foot from the floor and held it in the air for a moment before her legs gave way and she dropped onto her bottom with a soft thud.
‘She’ll do it when she’s ready,’ Henry said, scooping Isla up into his arms and strapping her into her high chair.
She’ll do it when you give her the chance, Erica thought. ‘I know,’ she said instead.
Erica stepped to the coffee machine, moving around Henry as he heated porridge for Isla, and she made the coffee.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ Henry said, stopping for a moment and touching the side of Erica’s arm. ‘I didn’t mean to pick a fight. Too much wine and … we’re going to miss you, is all.’ He shrugged.
She nodded. ‘I know. I’ll miss you both too.’
‘I still don’t know why you’re going,’ Henry said, his tone light and devoid of the anger she’d heard last night.
‘Because I said I would. And anyway, it’s not for me – it’s for Molly.’
‘Seriously, Erica. After the way she treated you at the funeral, you don’t owe her anything. When was the last time you even spoke to each other?’
An image of the pale wood coffin with its ornate silver trim flashed in Erica’s mind. Sadness swept through her. It covered her thoughts like dust on a forgotten shelf. She thought of Billy’s body inside, still and lifeless, as the burgundy curtains lifted and the coffin moved out of sight. She could hear the guitar intro of the Arctic Monkeys song that had played on the speakers. The volume too low to drown out the noise of Joyce’s wrenching sobs in her ears.
‘She’s still my sister. Molly needs me. I know she does,’ Erica said, forcing the memories away and wishing she could believe the confidence in her voice. The truth was, she didn’t know what Molly needed. Erica could still feel the penetrating glare of Molly’s eyes as Erica had rested her hand on her humongous belly and gasped her way through a Hemingway poem.
Molly hadn’t replied to a single message, or answered her phone for months. The challenge was the only thing Erica could think of to reach Molly, and even now she wasn’t entirely convinced Molly would show up at the airport.
‘We need you,’ Henry said, dragging Erica’s thoughts back to the present.
For a paycheque and a womb. The thought shot through Erica’s head and landed on her lips. She bit it back. Ten minutes and she was out the door. Just get through breakfast without an argument and you’re free.
Henry opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again and turned towards the fridge instead.
‘What?’ she asked over the vibrating hum of the coffee machine now dripping rich black liquid into two cups.
Henry turned, his features contorting into a sad frown. ‘Don’t hate me, OK? But have you thought about what we talked about?’
Erica swallowed back a wave of annoyance. Don’t fight, she reminded herself. ‘The baby?’
Henry nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing up then down as he swallowed.
She shook her head, killing the hope creeping onto his face. ‘I just don’t think it’s the right time. Work is crazy –’
‘It’s always crazy.’
‘Isla’s still so small.’ Erica reached over and tickled her daughter’s chin causing Isla to squirm and giggle.
‘Tiggle, Mummy,’ Isla said, waving her hand and the spoon she was gripping at Erica.
A blob of creamy porridge fell from the spoon in her hand, landing on the tiled floor with a splat.
‘She’s trying to eat her breakfast,’ Henry said, stepping between Erica and Isla, and repositioning Isla’s bowl in front of her.
Erica sighed and stepped back to the coffee machine to retrieve her mug. ‘You want me to spend more time with her, but then you hover over me, criticizing my every move.’ So much for not fighting.
‘I wasn’t criticizing. It’s just if she doesn’t eat her breakfast, she’ll end up napping this morning and this afternoon, then she’ll never go to sleep later.’
‘Right.’ Erica touched the mug to her lips. The black bitter liquid was too hot, and numbed the taste buds on her tongue, but she didn’t care.
‘About the baby,’ Henry said.
‘Please, don’t do this now. I’m about to go away for a week.’
He held up his hands in defeat. ‘All I was going to say, is that –’
‘I’m not getting any younger. You don’t have to remind me.’
Henry laughed sending another wave of annoyance shooting through Erica’s veins. What did he find so funny? Why did he get to be the one who laughed, and she the one who angered? ‘That’s not what I was going to say, but on that note, I’ve put a present in the bottom of your rucksack. Don’t open it until your birthday, promise?’
‘Did you?’ Erica’s mood softened a fraction. Maybe they could get through breakfast without a fight. ‘You didn’t need to do that. I don’t think there’ll be much time for celebrating.’
‘You’re turning forty, Erica. You have to have something to open.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘What I was going to say is that right now our lives are working. Tricon are happy with me being a part-timer so I can be here for Isla, and my parents are still healthy and young enough to lend a hand now and again when Isla has to miss nursery. If we leave it another year to have a baby then I’ll be back full-time, and who knows if I’ll get the chance to drop my hours again. Plus, I was close in age with Kate and we were really good friends growing up. We still are close. It’s what we’ve always talked about isn’t it? Two babies close together, then a third if we’re up for it.’
Erica sighed inwardly and fought to keep the annoyance from showing on her face. Was Henry really trying to hold her to something she’d said once a million years ago when they’d been drunk on wine and love? ‘One baby, great. Two babies, of course. Three? Why not?’ She remembered laughing.
Erica loved Isla with her whole heart. She loved her more than she knew it was possible to love anyone. Wasn’t that enough?
Erica opened her mouth to say something. Another protest, but Henry spoke first: ‘All I’m asking is for you to think about it whilst you’re away, OK? I know how busy you’ve been at work these last few months, and some time away to clear your head will do you good. So please just think about it.’
A needle of guilt pricked the inside of Erica’s gut. She turned to the sink, tipping the dregs of the coffee away and hiding her face from Henry. He knew her better than anyone, and she couldn’t allow him to see the truth blurring her vision.
‘I’ll think about,’ she whispered, before turning back to him. ‘I’d better go. I said I’d –’
‘Go into the office,’ Henry finished for her. His face was a mix of hurt and acceptance, and for one crazy moment all Erica could think about was stepping into his arms and confessing everything.
She took a step towards him. Henry’s deep brown eyes bore into her. The eyes of her husband – the man she’d chosen to marry. The man she’d fallen in love with, and had been in love with for the best part of a decade.
What was she doing?
Say it. Say it now – I never meant to hurt you. Her heart drummed in her chest as the lies she’d told him flashed through her mind. One after the other, after the other. ‘Henry, I –’
The clatter of Isla’s spoon on the tiled floor shook the sense back into Erica. After everything she’d done, now was not the time for honesty. ‘I’d better go,’ she finished over Isla’s wails.
‘Bye, baby girl,’ Erica said, dropping a kiss onto her daughter’s head and breathing in her smell one final time. ‘I love you so much. Be good for Daddy.’
‘See you next week.’
Erica stood on her tiptoes, planting a kiss on Henry’s cheek.
At the last second she felt his arms cup around her body and pull her into a tight embrace that smelt of yesterday’s aftershave and sleep. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘Please be careful.’
Erica stepped into the hall, pushed her feet into her boots, scooped up her bag, and flung open the front door. The guilt she’d felt flew off with a gust of wind leaving only the flutter of excitement dancing in her stomach again. It was an effort not to run towards the station.