Chapter Two
One month later
“So this is it.” Harriet tried to inject a note of enthusiasm in her voice that she was far from feeling. “Home.” As soon as she said it, she knew she shouldn’t have. This wasn’t home. This would never be home.
Her kids obviously agreed with her because the only response to her pronouncement was a snort of disgust from Mallory. Slowly Harriet navigated the rutted drive into Willoughby Close and parked in front of number two. She supposed the courtyard, with its four clustered cottages of golden Cotswold stone, was cute, in a holiday rental sort of way. She wouldn’t have balked, perhaps, at spending a half-term in a place like this if something better hadn’t already been booked.
But living? Forever? Not that this was forever. She couldn’t think that way, couldn’t handle any possibility of permanence. Richard kept assuring her he was going to get a job, he had some promising leads, more lunch meetings and conference calls and who knew what else, and things could change for the better at any moment. That was what he said, and she had to believe him. This was nothing more than a pit stop on a bumpy road. Everything would even out… eventually.
“Shall we have a look?” she asked in that same overly bright tone.
She couldn’t seem to turn it off. She’d more or less sleepwalked through the last month, putting up a front at school, ferrying the kids around, chatting and smiling as if everything were normal. She’d thought, very briefly, about telling her friends what was going on, or at least Sophie, who was her best friend.
She and Sophie worked out together three times a week and always had protein shakes afterwards. Their kids played together, albeit a little reluctantly, and they’d all gone on holiday together, both families, to France a couple of years ago, which was better in memory than in actuality, and yet… She didn’t tell Sophie. She didn’t want to tell Sophie. Perhaps because if she didn’t tell her, or anyone, it wouldn’t be real. It wouldn’t become permanent.
She hadn’t told her family back in Birmingham, either. Her mother usually called once a week to chat, a warbling conversation about bridge club and noisy neighbors that Harriet usually only half-listened to while doing something else. Her mother had asked her once a couple of weeks ago, with sudden concern, if Harriet was all right since she seemed a bit quiet.
“Fine,” Harriet had insisted, her bright tone as hard and brittle as glass. She’d suppressed the sudden, crazy desire to start sobbing on the phone. “Absolutely fine.”
As for the rest of her family… her brother Simon lived down in Devon, pursuing a sustainable lifestyle with his wife Jessie. They rented land from a local farmer and lived in a house that had no hot water or electricity. The shower was outside and everything seemed made of hemp. Harriet only spoke to him on holidays.
Meanwhile Richard slept in the spare room and the children didn’t even seem to notice. He’d tried to explain about Meghan, about how it had all happened by accident—they’d fallen into a friendship that had become so intense because of how much he was hiding, but Harriet hadn’t been able to listen. She didn’t want to hear about anything intense with another woman. And an affair did not happen by accident. A choice was made, and Richard didn’t seem to want to own up to that.
So they’d soldiered on, Richard going to London, her managing the children and the house and meals and all the rest. Life was busy enough that she didn’t actually have to think about what was happening. What had already happened, and what was yet to happen.
And then the moment had come that she’d feared most of all—the bank wanted the house back. Richard had promised her they might be able to buy it back, or at least a similar house, eventually, but, for now, they had to move, and so, stonily, she’d gone to look at rentals, and came up with number two, Willoughby Close, because it was the only three-bedroom rental going in the entire village.
When she’d signed the lease she’d felt as if bits were chipping off her heart. Soon it would be nothing but shards and fragments. Her marriage. Her house. Her life was disappearing before her eyes.
Richard wasn’t moving with them. Harriet had made that clear first to him, and then to the children. He’d accepted it in a hang-dog sort of way, said he’d stay in London and look for work. Told her it was better this way, that things would move faster.
“This is the lowest part for us, Hat,” he said, using her old nickname she felt he had no right to use now. “I promise. Something’s going to come through and we’ll be sorted, back to the way we were.”
“The way we were?” Harriet had stared at him, wondering whether he was delusional or she was. “And where does Meghan fit into that picture? You’re still seeing her, aren’t you? Ringing her, talking to her?”
“We’re not… we’re just friends now, Harriet.”
“What a relief,” she said in a clipped voice. “That’s sorted now, is it?” The sarcasm wasn’t lost on him and he flinched.
Harriet wanted him to cringe, grovel, beg.
Instead he lifted his chin and gave her a direct look. “You don’t have to play the martyr quite so much, you know. You almost seem as if you’re enjoying it.”
Harriet had been too furious to reply. Enjoying it? Nothing about this was remotely enjoyable. It was barely endurable. If she seemed self-righteous, it was because she hadn’t done anything wrong.
A week ago she’d sat the children down and told them matter-of-factly that Daddy had to spend more time in London looking for work, and so he wouldn’t be living with them in Willoughby Close.
“Why are we living in Willoughby Close?” Mallory had demanded with a scowl, arms folded tightly against her chest. “Why do we have to move?”
“I told you,” Harriet replied in as patient a tone as she could manage. “Daddy lost his job and so we can’t afford to live in our house anymore. We’ll stay here for a while, and then, when Daddy gets work again, we’ll move back.”
“To our old house?” Chloe asked. She sounded more curious than anxious, as if this was nothing more than a slightly strange holiday.
“Maybe,” Harriet hedged. “Or maybe an even nicer house.” She’d always liked Wychwood House, a mile or two outside the village. A smallish Georgian manor with five acres and a paddock. Maybe they’d move there.
“And what about Dad?” Mallory flung at her. “If we’re so poor, why is he living in London? That’s expensive.”
True, but Harriet could not have him living with her. Separate accommodation was an absolutely necessary expense at this point. She needed space to figure out whether they had a future. “Like I said, he’s there for work.”
Mallory narrowed her eyes. “That’s the only reason?”
“Of course.” She wasn’t going to mention divorce or even separation, couldn’t bring herself to yet.
She didn’t know what would happen with her and Richard, and until she had a better idea she’d leave the children in the dark. The last thing she wanted to do was make them worry.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said quietly, gazing at each of them in turn, trying to imbue them with a self-confidence and sense of security she didn’t feel herself. “I promise.”
Chloe and William had nodded in acceptance of all of this, uncomprehending and obedient, but Mallory had looked at her with obvious scorn before flouncing out of the room. She was old enough to figure out what was going on, and be angry that her parents weren’t telling her the truth. But sometimes Harriet felt she didn’t even know what the truth was.
“Come on,” she said now, as she climbed resolutely out of the car and gave them all as cheerful a smile as she could. “Let’s check it out.”
The movers had already come; Harriet had marked what furniture to take from their house to Willoughby Close, and it had been a depressingly small amount. The big, bespoke kitchen table wouldn’t fit, and the huge dresser with all the pottery she’d collected over the years wouldn’t either. In fact, at least two-thirds of their furniture was going into storage, which was expensive, but Harriet couldn’t bear to lose all of it along with the house. They’d need it when Richard got his job, and they bought something bigger.
She’d spent hours and hours, weeks and months, selecting all the furniture for the house, with the help of the expensive interior decorator who had more or less held her hand through the entire process. She’d bought tasteful antiques interspersed with fresh modern pieces, carpets and kilims from various holidays, watercolors and oil paintings of places that were meaningful to them. Sophie had once said, with admiration that bordered on envy, that Harriet’s house could be featured in Country Life.
And so it would again. This was a blip, damn it. Things were going to get better. Richard was going to find a job, he’d said so, and they’d get back their house or buy an even better house, and she’d live there without him, happy and defiant. Or something like that. She couldn’t picture specifics yet, but she couldn’t stand the thought of the rest of her life looking like… this.
The children trooped silently behind her as she fumbled with the keys and then opened the door to number two. The smell of fresh paint and emptiness hit her like a smack in the face. It was the smell of fresh starts, and she didn’t want one.
She stepped inside, reaching for the lights. Although it was only four in the afternoon it was already getting dark, the skies heavy and low with gray clouds. Spring felt a long way off, despite the fact that it was mid-February, and the spattering of snowdrops interspersed with an early crocus or two that she’d seen on the drive in.
“This is it?” Mallory’s voice rang through the empty space, scornful and incredulous. William kicked at the skirting board, scuffing the pristine white paint. Chloe stuck her thumb in her mouth.
“Yes, this is it,” Harriet said, trying to pitch her tone somewhere between firm and bright. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” And depressingly small, at least compared to their old house. Their real house. The downstairs was open plan, with a low counter separating the L-shaped living area from the kitchen, which had a tiny range compared to the Aga she’d left behind, and the bland blond wood units and black Formica countertops made her miss her distressed oak cabinets and granite counters.
There was a woodstove and French windows overlooking a tiny scrap of garden, and built-in bookshelves that were nice enough, but… it was a far cry from what they’d had, the space and luxury and elegance. But, still. A house. A place to live. And they were together and healthy and she would do her damnedest to count what blessings she had left.
Harriet took a deep breath. “Let’s look at the upstairs.”
Silently the children followed her up the narrow stairs to a small landing with four doors leading off it to three bedrooms and a bathroom.
“William, this is yours,” Harriet said as she opened doors and started allocating rooms. He glanced balefully in the single room with a small window. “And Chloe and Mallory, this is yours—”
“Wait, what?” Mallory’s voice was an outraged screech. “I’m sharing a room… with Chloe?”
“There are only three bedrooms, Mallory,” Harriet said patiently. At least she hoped she sounded patient. “I told you before—”
“No. You didn’t.”
All right, maybe she hadn’t, because she was so tired and she’d wanted to avoid yet another confrontation. And everything with Mallory felt like a confrontation. Back at the Old Rectory, her daughter’s bedroom had been enormous with an en suite bathroom and a walk-in closet that had its own window.
When Mallory had been younger she’d taken her duvet and curled up in the corner of her closet to read. Sometimes Harriet had joined her, snuggling under the duvet and reading from The Magic Faraway Tree. Those days seemed like a very long time ago now.
Harriet sighed. “Plenty of children share bedrooms, Mallory. I know it’s different and difficult, but—”
“This sucks,” Mallory snapped, and stormed downstairs, the front door slamming behind her.
Harriet’s body sagged. It did suck. She couldn’t argue with that. She couldn’t magic money out of thin air, either. This was their reality… until Richard found another high-flying job in finance. Which he would. He had to.
And as for them, their marriage… a pang hit her straight in the heart and she rubbed her chest. She’d been having anxiety attacks at night, when she’d climbed into bed, exhausted and yet frustratingly wide-eyed. She’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, desperate to be asleep, as her heart raced and her palms went slick. It took a huge effort of will to try to calm herself down. No, she couldn’t think about her and Richard yet.
“Let me show you the bathroom,” she said to her two remaining children, who stared at her in stony silence. They were all starting to realize just what this meant.
The bathtub, at least, looked luxurious, with spa jets and a handheld shower that William turned on full force, about to aim it at Chloe before Harriet snatched it from him, soaking herself.
“Sorry, Mum,” William said a bit sheepishly, and she sighed and ruffled her hair. William might not emote in the same way Chloe or Mallory did, but this was hard for him too.
“It’s okay, William.”
After the tour Harriet ordered pizza for dinner and then started unpacking, starting with a dry shirt, while William and Chloe watched a video on Harriet’s laptop and Mallory sulked outside. Harriet had occasional glimpses of her blond head from the window, shoulders hunched and hands jammed into the pockets of her puffa-parka as she kicked at the gravel in the courtyard. Harriet thought about going out there and trying to give her daughter a hug or at least a smile, but Harriet doubted either would be welcome.
And, in any case, she wasn’t sure she was capable of either in that moment. She felt tired in every bone and muscle, every fiber and sinew. She felt like a very old woman. Even the prospect of a long, decadent bubble bath in the lovely tub did little to lift her spirits.
She didn’t want any of this. She didn’t want to unpack her things in this poky little kitchen, didn’t want to figure out where her dishes or pictures or knick-knacks would go. She didn’t want to make the bedrooms cozy or the one bathroom look bigger than it was, or buy a pallet of bedding plants for the weedy little garden.
She certainly didn’t want to think about Richard, and wonder if he was complaining to Meghan about how hen-pecked he was, or perhaps he was just peeling off that slutty, red satin bra with diamante sequins she liked to wear with a white blouse. Classy, that. Harriet put a stop to the montage in her mind before she went into anxiety attack mode again.
No, all she wanted to do was rewind seven months, to before Richard had made his stupid deal, before he’d turned to Meghan, before her world had shattered.
Or, since she couldn’t do that, she wanted to skip ahead to when Richard announced he had a job, handed over his signing bonus for a down payment on a proper house, and she moved in there and shut the door in his face. Or maybe, just maybe, he groveled and wept and promised a week-long holiday to… where did she want to go? Harriet paused in the middle of unpacking a box, trying to think where she’d like to travel. How to make this better.
She came empty. The only place she wanted to go was home. Her mobile rang. It was Richard.
Harriet steeled herself, squaring her shoulders as she swiped to connect the call. “Hello.”
“How are you?” He sounded tired and anxious, which made her both grit her teeth and want to comfort him. Want to share something, even if it was just how sucky this all was.
“As well as we can be, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry…”
“I know.”
He’d apologized again and again, useless, vapid sorrys that didn’t do any good. Harriet didn’t want vapid apologies, especially when they were not accompanied by concrete actions, like cutting Meghan out of his life or getting a job. She moved into the kitchen area in an attempt to find some privacy, but a countertop was all that separated her from her younger two. At least they didn’t seem to be listening. “Where are you?”
“I’m actually coming to Wychwood from London. I was hoping to stop by this evening, to see the kids before they started school. I’ll go back to London tomorrow, maybe…”
“Where are you staying?”
“For now I booked a bed and breakfast in Witney. It’s cheap,” he said quickly, as if she’d protest the expense. Perhaps she would have.
“It’s fine.” She pictured him at a shabby B&B, a single bed, an old TV, and her heart twisted at the words.
This was what it had come to? Custody arrangements and tatty hotels? Her eyes stung and she blinked hard and fast.
“Have you found a place in London?”
“Yes, a studio in Bexley. It’s not too much.”
“I’m glad you found somewhere.” Then she imagined him inviting Meghan over, sharing a takeaway on a makeshift table, and pain ripped through her, savage and unrelenting. She hated this. She hated everything about this.
“Harriet…” Richard prompted when the silence had stretched on.
She was starting to breathe hard, her heart thudding, and she forced himself to sound, if not feel, calm.
“Why don’t you come over after dinner?”
“Harriet…” His tone was both cautious and beseeching, the precursor to a conversation she still wasn’t ready to have.
She couldn’t stand for him to tell her he loved Meghan, or even that it was all a mistake and he wanted her back. She wasn’t ready for either. She wouldn’t know how to respond.
“I can’t talk now, Richard. The children… and everything’s a mess…”
“Okay.” His voice was soft and sad, irritating and touching her all at once.
She didn’t know what she wanted from him, which was incredibly aggravating. “Okay. I’ll talk to you later tonight, then.”
“Can I talk to the kids?”
She hesitated, because a call from Daddy would have emotional ramifications she didn’t have the energy to deal with. But she couldn’t deny Richard his children, even in this small regard. And she couldn’t deny her children their daddy.
“Okay,” she said, and handed the phone to William.
She half-listened to the one-sided conversation as she continued to unpack dishes, trying to cram her sixty-four-piece set of Swedish stoneware into the kitchen’s shallow, flimsy cupboards. She couldn’t decipher much from William’s monosyllabic answers, and when he handed the phone to Chloe she rattled off random descriptions of things Harriet hadn’t even noticed—the fact that the toilet’s handle was gold—do you think it’s real gold, Daddy?—and that a dog had pooed in the garden.
“I don’t like it here, Daddy,” Chloe said matter-of-factly. “When will we go back to our real house?”
Harriet couldn’t hear Richard’s answer, but Chloe seemed marginally appeased, and went back to her mindless chatter. Eventually Harriet stopped listening; it was dark out and Mallory still hadn’t come inside. She needed to get the pizza, and she wondered if she dared leave William and Mallory on their own and take only Chloe with her, something she wouldn’t have considered for a moment a month ago. A lifetime ago. Back when everything felt simple and easy, when she’d been a good mother, brisk and efficient with discipline and scheduling, running their family like a small battalion, smugly sure she was on top of everything.
She felt on top of nothing now.
Mallory finally slammed inside, just as Chloe hung up the phone, shooting her sister a smug smile. “You missed Daddy.”
Something dark and painful flashed across Mallory’s face and she turned away. “I don’t care.”
Harriet put a stoneware cream and sugar set away and felt as if her life were unraveling, thread by precious thread. “It doesn’t matter, Mallory,” she said soothingly. “He’s coming by later this evening to see you before you start back at school.”
Mallory just rolled her eyes, and Harriet turned back to the china. Somehow it seemed important to get their things unpacked. If she just managed to fit their dishes in these cupboards, she’d feel… something. Carefully, she picked up a serving dish and balanced it on top of a cupboard, since it wouldn’t fit inside.
A knock sounded on the door as Harriet reached for a gravy boat.
“Mu-um, someone’s here,” Mallory called in a bored voice.
“Can you answer it, please?” Harriet asked, because her hands were full of china. She had no idea who it could be—the only person she’d met was the caretaker, a sexy cowboy type in faded jeans and battered boots who had made Harriet feel vaguely uneasy, he was so outside her realm of experience.
“I’m busy,” Mallory snapped, and with a sigh Harriet shoved the stoneware onto the shelf and hurried to the door.
“Yes?” she said, her voice a little too impatient. She didn’t recognize the woman and girl standing there, although they looked vaguely familiar. Mallory appeared behind her to inspect their visitors.
“Wait—you live here?” she said in a tone of deep disgust, and then slunk off, leaving Harriet feeling even more baffled as well as a bit embarrassed by her daughter’s behavior.
“Hello, Harriet,” the woman said. “I guess we’re neighbors.” This baffled her even more. How did this woman know her? “I’m Ellie Matthews,” the woman continued. “I helped with the bake sale, although I think I was more of a hindrance than anything else.” She gave a little laugh, and a memory filtered through Harriet’s blurred mind. A bake sale, back in January, and this woman, this Ellie, had done something… She couldn’t really remember.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, and hoped she sounded convincing. “Sorry, I’ve just been manic with moving…” She trailed off, unable to think of anything else to say.
So Ellie lived in Willoughby Close? At least it was someone she didn’t really know. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing someone familiar every day, enduring pity, having to explain, bracing herself for the ensuing gossip.
She hadn’t explained anything to anyone yet, hadn’t said a word about Richard or his job or their house, and certainly not about Meghan. No one even knew they were moving. Logically, Harriet knew she’d have to tell everyone the truth sometime, sometime quite soon, but thankfully that day had not yet arrived.
“So you moved within the village?” Ellie asked, and Harriet replastered the smile on her face.
“Yes.” Was there any way she could gracefully get out of this conversation? Behind her she could hear William and Chloe starting to squabble. She forced herself to continue. “Yes, we’ve moved because…” Harriet reluctantly focused her gaze back on Ellie. “We’re doing some renovation on our house, and moving seemed like the easiest option. Temporarily, of course. This is a temporary measure.” Ellie looked unconvinced and Harriet wondered why she’d offered so much information. So many lies.
Renovation on the house? That was a bald, bold-faced lie anyone, even a stranger like Ellie Matthews, could see through almost instantly. And judging from the uncertain look on her neighbor’s face, she already had. And yet Harriet had said it, because the truth was still too awful to verbalize, even to a stranger.
“Welcome anyway,” Ellie said. “No matter how long you’re staying. Abby and I are glad to have neighbors.”
“Thanks.” Harriet kept her smile with effort.
She placed her hand on the door, willing Ellie to get the message and leave. Now was not a good time. No time, really, was a good time.
“It’s getting late,” Ellie said, dutifully looking at her watch. Message received. “I’ll let you get on. But do tell me if you need anything…”
Harriet nodded, too relieved to manage any pleasantries back, and Ellie finally stepped back.
“Bye, then,” she said, and Harriet closed the door.
“Ugh.” Mallory groaned theatrically as Harriet headed back to the kitchen. “Abby Matthews.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Harriet asked. She stared down at the half-empty box of dishes. She was already running out of space to store things, and in any case she no longer saw the point.
“She’s just such a loser.”
“Mallory.” Harriet turned, surprised by the needlessly vicious comment. “She seemed a perfectly nice girl to me.” Although Harriet hadn’t actually paid her any attention. “And don’t call people losers. It’s rude.” She’d been considered a loser, once upon a time.
Such an awful word… and yet they were all losers now, in a different way. They’d lost.
“Even if they are?” Mallory returned.
“You’re sounding most unpleasant,” she said as mildly as she could. “How would you like it if someone spoke that way about you?”
“They never would.”
Harriet shook her head slowly. “That shouldn’t make a difference. Kindness never goes out of style.”
“Oh, please.” Mallory rolled her eyes and Harriet sighed.
“I need to go get the pizza. Can I trust you and William not to kill each other while I drive to Chipping Norton?”
Mallory folded her arms. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Exasperated, Harriet reached for Chloe’s hand and pulled her, protesting, up from the sofa. “Enough. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” And pulling Chloe after her, she left the house.