Chapter Twenty-Three
“You seem happy.”
Harriet looked up from the shopping list she’d been doodling on. It was early June and she was sitting in Olivia’s teashop, enjoy a latte after the morning school run and wondering, rather dreamily, what the future held.
“I am happy,” she said to Olivia.
The last week, since she and Richard had returned from the lake district and reignited their marital relationship—which caused a host of lovely and blush-inducing memories to play through Harriet’s mind—had been quite wonderful.
The children had taken Richard’s continued presence at Willoughby Close in their happy stride, although, when he’d come downstairs Monday morning, whistling, looking a little too much like the proverbial cat in regards to the cream, Mallory had done a double take and then visibly shuddered. Harriet had poured coffee and avoided her daughter’s gaze.
Richard had returned to London that morning, ringing Harriet to say he’d had a request for a second interview with the startup investment firm. Harriet had tried to ignore the queasy feeling that bit of news gave her. She was going to concentrate on all the positives in their relationship—the companionship, the newly restored trust, and yes, the sex.
“How’s the dinner lady job going?” Olivia asked and Harriet looked up with a laughing grimace.
“Fine, actually. It’s not the most scintillating work but, in an odd way, I enjoy it.” She liked the camaraderie with the other kitchen workers, as well as seeing all the children, even if only from behind a lunch counter. And, funnily enough, working in the cafeteria had opened up a whole new range of possible friendships to her—women who didn’t have gym club memberships or million-pound houses. Women like her. And women who were the way she had been, mums who had revolved around Sophie’s and her circle, but who now were starting to peel off. Harriet almost felt as if she’d birthed a movement. Next weekend, she was planning a drinks night for year one mums at The Drowned Sailor.
“What did you do before kids?” Olivia asked, her elbows propped on the counter.
The café was empty save for Harriet; an elderly woman had left a few moments before with a box of macaroons—apparently she bought them every Monday morning, like clockwork.
“I was in publishing, the marketing side. Seems like a lifetime ago, though.”
“Oh? Well, if you’re looking for work, I wouldn’t mind a bit of freelancing. I don’t have a huge budget, mind.”
“Freelancing?” Did Olivia want her to waitress?
“I need to boost the profile of this place, now my mother is retiring. If I’m going to be able to afford to keep it open, anyway. Build a website…”
Harriet grimaced. “I’m afraid I’m terrible with the tech side of things. Digital stuff had barely started being an issue when I was last in the business.”
“Oh, I can manage the tech side fine,” Oliva assured her. “I was thinking more about special events—I want to offer parties, you know, for hen nights or children’s birthdays… but I’m rubbish at that sort of thing and I’d need helping organizing and marketing it. Making it fun and different.”
“My experience was in publishing…” Harriet began dubiously, although Olivia’s ideas had sparked her interest.
“I don’t care about that,” Olivia answered with a laugh. “It’s not your publishing experience I’m after. It’s your mum experience. You organized the school fete last year, didn’t you? Everyone said how brilliant it was.”
“Oh.” Harriet let out a laugh, surprised and pleased. That kind of experience she did have, in spades. “Okay. Well, then, yes, I’d love to help you.”
“I don’t have a lot of money, though…”
“Don’t worry,” Harriet reassured her. “I’m making minimum wage on my other jobs. I don’t think this one should be any different.”
After her coffee, Harriet strolled back to Willoughby Close, humming under her breath, feeling happier than she had in a long time. Lady Stokeley had the week off chemo so there were no drives to Oxford, and when Harriet had stopped by to visit her, Dorothy had admitted, gruffly, that the consultant seemed to feel she was responding to the treatment.
“That’s really wonderful news,” Harriet had enthused and Dorothy had let out a harrumph.
“I suppose, but at my age you become leery of false hope.”
“Maybe this hope isn’t false.”
“We won’t know, will we,” Dorothy shot back, “until it’s too late?”
“And how was Ava Mitchell?” Harriet asked, deciding not to indulge Dorothy’s acerbity too much. “She drove you last week? That went all right?”
“I suppose.” Dorothy sniffed. “She’s quite a glamour girl, isn’t she?”
“Very fancy,” Harriet agreed. “Did you get along?”
Dorothy glanced at her shrewdly. “I am not your child, my dear. You do not need to fuss quite so much, or so openly. I have, in all of my eighty-six years, perfected most social niceties so I can get along with just about anyone.”
Harriet suppressed a smile. “I’m sure you have.”
Now, as Harriet turned up the drive to Willoughby Close, she wondered how Ava Mitchell was getting on. She hadn’t seen much of her new neighbor save for the cherry-red Mini parked outside.
She should be more welcoming, but she’d been so busy with children, puppy, work, and Richard that she hadn’t. Now she decided to knock on the door and say hello.
She had to wait for several uncertain minutes before Ava came to the door, wearing a dressing gown of fuchsia satin, her hair in a glorious, golden tangle about her face.
“Oh. Hello.” She looked decidedly unenthused about seeing Harriet.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” It was ten in the morning, but Harriet supposed that was early for someone who appeared neither to work nor have children.
Ava yawned. “Sort of. I was lying in bed wondering if I should bother getting up.”
“Oh. Well.” Harriet tried for a bright smile. “I wanted to welcome you to Willoughby Close—”
Ava arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Are you the welcoming committee, then?”
“No, not officially.” Harriet couldn’t quite gauge her tone, whether it was snarky or simply amused. “Anyway, perhaps you’d like to…” She paused, wondering whether she really wanted to invite Ava over. Then she decided she did. “Come for dinner one evening? It’s a bit mad at my house, but we’d love to have you.”
Ava cocked her head, her gaze sweeping slowly over Harriet, so she blushed. What on earth was she thinking, inviting someone like Ava into the madhouse that was her home?
“Perhaps,” she said. “When I’ve settled in.” She paused and then added, as an afterthought, “Thank you for the invitation.”
“Oh, well, sure. Okay.” That hadn’t gone quite as Harriet had hoped.
And now Ava was closing the door, so she had no choice but to step back with a cheery little wave. Harriet walked back to number two, wondering if Ava would ever take her up on her invitation, and also wondering if she wanted her to. The sound of tires on gravel had her turning her head, and she blinked in surprise at the sight of Richard’s beat-up Toyota coming down the lane. He’d sold his beloved Beamer along with everything else, back in February.
“Hey,” she said as he clambered out of the car, a near-exultant look on his face. “What’s up?”
“I got the job!”
“You… did?” Harriet tried to smile.
Why, oh why, did she not feel nearly as excited about this as Richard did?
“Yes, I did. They’re really keen to have someone experienced on their team, someone who knows how to take risks.”
Harriet refrained from pointing out that, based on previous experience, Richard did not know how to take risks. At least, not successful ones. Clearly that kind of comment would not be helpful now.
“Wow,” she said, feeling inadequate to the moment.
“Come on.” Richard reached for her hand. “I want to show you something.”
“Okay.” Harriet got in the car, deciding to ride Richard’s wave of success as best as she could. He was happy and excited, and that could only be a good thing. Right?
They drove out of Willoughby Close, and then out of Wychwood-on-Lea. Harriet had no idea where he was taking her, but as they headed down the road towards Burford she started to get a feeling.
“Where are we…” she began, only to have Richard cut her off with a firm shake of his head.
“Wait and see.”
Another couple of minutes of driving and then they were turning up the sweeping drive, rolling fields on either side, and towering stone pillars topped by lions in front of them. Richard drove through the pillars and parked on the circular drive, in front of the massive front door.
Wychwood House.
Slowly Harriet unbuckled her seat belt and got out of the car. The house was bigger and more intimidating than she’d remembered—three floors of golden stone, with eight long, sashed windows on each floor.
“Come inside,” Richard said.
Harriet paused in front of the house. “Can we…”
Richard brandished a set of keys. “Yes, we can.”
“You have the keys?” Her stomach swooped rather unpleasantly. “You haven’t…”
“No, I haven’t. I had a viewing this morning and the real estate agent let me keep the keys. We’ll turn them in after you have a look.”
“And then?”
“And then we’ll make an offer,” Richard said as he unlocked the front door. “The agent thinks the seller will accept a million five. They’re desperate, apparently.”
Desperate. With a feeling of dread seeping into her stomach, Harriet followed Richard through the now-open door.
“Isn’t it amazing?”
She’d been the one who had been excited about Wychwood House, once upon a time, and now Richard sounded thrilled. The foyer was huge, with black and white marble tile, and several sets of double doors leading off it.
“It is amazing,” she said, because of course it was. It was enormous and elegant, a dream house of majestic proportions.
“Come and see,” Richard said as he opened a set of doors that led to a huge drawing room, a fireplace with a stone-carved mantel on one end. He was like a little boy at Christmas, unwrapping present after present. Harriet didn’t have to say much, simply follow where he led—drawing room, dining room, library, second, smaller sitting room. A huge kitchen with an adjoining breakfast room that only looked somewhat more updated than the kitchen of Willoughby Manor.
“It needs a lot of work,” Richard said, “but can’t you imagine it? And look, two pantries and a boot room, and a utility room.”
After that they went upstairs, and saw the six huge bedrooms. “There are no en suites,” Richard said, making a face. “They’ve definitely done the minimum of modernizing. But we could turn one of the bedrooms into an en suite, easily, for us. And the top floor could be for Mallory… she’d have her own space, acres of it. We could put a bathroom up there, as well. No more queuing for showers.”
The last thing Mallory needed was her own floor. She’d done better sharing with Chloe, forced into socializing with her family rather than retreating into the world of her phone. Richard knew this, Harriet knew he did, and yet he seemed to have a determined blind spot about so many things right now.
“Now the garden,” Richard said, and they headed outside. The garden was beautiful—a Victorian walled garden for a vegetable plot, an apple orchard, and a winding stone path through a very overgrown rose garden. It was all so gorgeous, and it made Harriet ache, because who wouldn’t want this house? It was incredible. And it came with too high a cost—a cost that had nothing to do with the million five price tag.
“So, what do you think?” Richard asked, and then continued on blithely, without waiting for her answer. “We could put an offer in this morning, when we return the keys. Have the deal done by the end of the week, move in over the summer. We’d have to do it up slowly, I’m afraid. My signing bonus isn’t that big.” He let out a laugh, sounding so happy, and Harriet felt her stomach hollow out.
This was not going to be an easy conversation.
“Richard,” she said quietly. They were standing in the marble-tiled foyer, sunshine pouring through the sunburst-shaped window high above. He turned, his eyebrows raised in query, his mind still going a million miles per hour.
“I don’t want to buy this house.”
“What?” He frowned, her words clearly not computing.
And why would they? For so long she’d made it clear that she wanted their old lives back. Their old house back and, if they couldn’t have that, she’d wanted this house. But she didn’t anymore. She didn’t want any of it.
“I don’t want to buy this house,” Harriet repeated. “It’s amazing and gorgeous and all the rest, but I don’t want to go back to the way we were.”
“But we won’t,” Richard said, his expression clearing. “I’ve told you that. We’ve learned, haven’t we? This has been a good thing for us, in a way, because of how we’ve grown.” He reached for her hands. “Moving into Wychwood House won’t change that. It won’t change us.”
“I like Willoughby Close.”
He stared at her in surprise, letting out a laugh Harriet didn’t quite like. “Willoughby… are you joking? I mean, I know it’s nice enough, but it’s a rental, Harriet. A tiny rental.”
“You said what a nice place it was before.”
“That was when things were different! Come on. Willoughby Close was never meant to be forever, no matter what happened. You knew that.”
“Maybe,” Harriet allowed, “but we’ve been happy there.” And she wasn’t willing to toss that aside so easily.
“And we’ll be happy here.”
“Will we?” She tugged her hands from his. “Richard, we have just dug ourselves out of massive debt. We’ve lost our house. How would we even get a mortgage for this place?”
“I’ve looked into it. We’d need a bigger down payment, but I think the bank would be willing to…”
“It’s far too much risk,” Harriet insisted. “The mortgage, the updating, even the furniture. We sold it all. We ended that life.”
“But I always said I could get it back—”
“I don’t want it back. Not any of it. I don’t want to live here.” She spoke firmly, knowing she meant every word.
“Fine.” She could tell Richard was trying not to show his hurt. “I thought you liked this place, but we can look somewhere else. Maybe one of those modern places on that estate in the village…”
“No.” Harriet took a deep breath. “There’s more.” Richard’s eyes narrowed as he waited. “I don’t want you to accept this job.”
The ensuing silence was like the calm before the storm—Harriet heard a bird twitter outside, the rustling of the breeze in the trees. Somewhere a floorboard creaked as the house settled. And still Richard stared.
“What are you talking about?” he asked in a low, even voice that signaled an almighty row was about to happen.
“I don’t want you to take this job. It’s too risky. A startup firm and one that wants you to take the kind of chances that caused this in the first place?”
“Of course you throw that in my face now. They appreciate what I have to offer, Harriet—”
“Richard,” Harriet continued doggedly, “if it made you happy, I might think about it more. But I don’t think this kind of high finance work makes you happy.”
His face settled into a deep frown but he stayed silent, listening. Fuming.
Harriet plowed on. “Do you really want to go back to commuting to London, barely seeing the children, or me for that matter? And do you remember what you said about the pressure? It will be even more intense with a firm that hired you to take the risks that got us into this mess in the first place.” She held up a hand to staunch his protests. “I’m not blaming you. I see, more than ever, how I added to the pressure and stress. I don’t want to go back to being that person, and I don’t want you to go back to being the person you were, either. I don’t want this house, not with the price tag it comes with… what it would mean for us, as a couple, as a family.”
Richard stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tight. “You tell me this now?”
“It took me a while to realize it. To not want what we had. I’ve changed, Richard, and that’s a good thing. I understand it was important to get this offer, to feel validated after what happened, to know you could go back if you wanted to. But it doesn’t mean you have to take it.”
Richard’s jaw was still bunched. “Then what am I supposed to do, Harriet? I’ve been looking for a job like this for a year.”
She took a deep breath. “What about doing something else?”
“What? What on earth am I supposed to do if not this?”
Harriet took another deep breath, feeling dizzy. “What about doing something completely different? You could retrain—”
“Retrain?”
“As a teacher. You love history, Richard—”
“It pays peanuts!”
“Let’s forget about the money for the minute.”
He folded his arms. “It’s kind of a big thing to forget about. In fact, you had trouble forgetting about it for quite awhile—”
“I know, but money never made us happy. It made us comfortable, yes, very comfortable.” She would miss their holidays in Provence and Verbier, no question. And the spa days, and the regular trips to the hair salon, and everything else. “But when I first moved into Willoughby Close,” Harriet continued determinedly, “I kept remembering our early days, at that grotty flat in Camden Town. Do you remember? It was awful, and we furnished it with plastic crates and a futon, but we were happy.”
“We were also young.”
“If the money didn’t matter, what would you rather be? A history teacher or a high-flying finance guy?”
“Hedge fund manager is the proper term, actually,” Richard said stiffly.
“Whatever.”
Richard blew out a long breath, raking a hand through his hair before he turned away. “I’ve been working for this for a year. My whole life, really.”
“I know you went into finance because your father did. I remember you saying in uni that if teaching paid better, you’d do it—”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t you? I know this is radical, Richard, but we’ve had a lot of radical changes. It’s not just about the money, either. It’s not really about the money at all. It’s about us. What we want out of life. What kind of people we want to be—”
“I don’t see how making a million pounds a year could be a bad thing.”
“I do. You know how it would be. You’d have to spend several nights a week in London, work some weekends, always be on your phone or laptop. That’s how these jobs are. And we’d start to live separate lives without realizing it. We might say we’ve changed, we’ll be different, but how can we really be different when everything else goes back to the way it was?”
“We just can,” Richard insisted, but he sounded anguished rather than resolute. “I don’t know what else to be, Harriet. This is who I am.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
He stared at her, his eyes snapping with frustration and even fury. Harriet held her breath and his gaze.
“So is this an ultimatum?” he finally asked. “Become a history teacher or we’re through?”
“I don’t want to make ultimatums.”
“Answer the question,” Richard said in a hard voice.
“It’s not an ultimatum, not exactly…”
He rolled his eyes. “Brilliant.”
“You don’t have to become a history teacher, Richard, of course not. I don’t care what you do—”
“Really? Because you’re certainly acting like you do now. You’re acting like you care a lot.”
“Within reason, I mean. I don’t want you to commute to London. I don’t want to live a high-pressured life of financial risk and too much money, a life where we never see each other and we build separate existences. Separate friendships.”
“I wouldn’t do that—”
“I’m not just talking about Meghan. I mean the whole package.”
Richard stared at her, his eyes hard, his jaw bunched. “And if the alternative is no money at all?”
“We’ll survive. We already are surviving, aren’t we? And if you leave the flat in Bexley, that will save us plenty. You could go to school part-time—”
Richard spun away from her. “This is crazy.”
“Maybe, but not as crazy as jumping right back into the snake pit we just clambered out of.”
Richard remained with his back to her, silent and fuming. This wasn’t about money, not really. This was about who they were as people and where they wanted to go—either together or alone. And if it was alone, her heart would break and, far worse, her children’s hearts would break. Again. But it had to be better than going back to something that didn’t work, not in the long term, not at all.
“Maybe you should think about it,” she said quietly.
“Yeah,” Richard answered, his back still to her. “Maybe I should.”
*
Harriet spent the next three days in a ferment of indecision, second-guessing her conversation with Richard, calling herself an idiot, wishing she could gobble it all back. What kind of crazy woman turned down that kind of money? That kind of life? Not to mention poured cold water all over her husband’s dreams.
Richard returned to London the afternoon after they’d seen Wychwood House, and later texted her to say he was “taking some time.” Whatever that meant. His absence made the children uneasy, with Mallory darting her pointed, accusing looks and William having more energy than usual, which was saying something. At one point, Harriet had to stop him from using the salt and pepper shakers as drumsticks on his sister’s head.
Chloe started following her around, as puppy-like as Daisy, so Harriet tripped over her as she turned from the cooker to drain the pasta for dinner.
“Chloe.” She took a breath and clung to her patience. “Out of the way, darling, please. I’m holding something hot.”
“Why isn’t Daddy here?” Chloe demanded, and then, almost defiantly, stuck her thumb in her mouth.
Harriet felt as if they’d all taken an awful giant step backwards. Rewind three months and here they were. Again. It was a terrible, terrible feeling.
“Daddy’s in London, settling a few things about his work.”
“What work?” Chloe’s forehead crinkled. “I thought he was looking for a job.”
“Well…”
“Is that what this is about?” Mallory’s head popped up over the sofa. “Did Dad get a new job?”
“Maybe,” Harriet hedged, and Mallory’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Maybe?”
“He’s thinking through his options.”
“Which are?”
“Leave it, Mallory, please,” Harriet answered tiredly. “I don’t have any answers right now. I wish I did.” And miraculously, her daughter left it for once.
The next morning Harriet was still feeling gloomy and wracked by nerves when she picked up Lady Stokeley for her last chemo treatment of the week.
“What’s got you in such a dither?” Dorothy asked as Harriet turned onto the A40.
She glanced across to the passenger seat, noting Dorothy’s better color. She definitely seemed to have bounced back from the effects of the chemo, which was one shining bright spot amidst the darkness of her own personal life.
“I’m not in a dither,” she lied. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you have been in a bad mood all week,” Dorothy answered. “And I usually count on your good cheer.”
“Oh.” Now she felt even worse. “Sorry. It’s just… I think I might have made a mistake.”
Dorothy arched an eyebrow. “A mistake you can rectify?”
She made it sound simple. “I suppose I could, but I’m not sure I want to.”
“Then it doesn’t sound like it was a mistake, simply a choice with some unfortunate consequences.”
Harriet laughed out loud. “True.”
“What was it, then?” Dorothy asked on a sigh, as if Harriet’s troubles were sure to be nothing she hadn’t heard or endured before.
So Harriet told her the bare bones of it, from Richard’s job to Wychwood House to the ultimatum she hadn’t exactly meant to give.
“Hmm.” Dorothy pursed her lips as Harriet navigated past a construction lorry. “Your mistake was in telling him what to do. Never make a man think his idea isn’t a good one. It emasculates him, poor thing.”
Harriet suppressed a choking sound of surprise. Dorothy’s advice sounded as if it came straight from a 1950s guide to being the perfect housewife.
“I remember when Gerald wanted to turn Willoughby Manor into an adventure park. Thought it would keep the place afloat financially. I pretended I thought it was a lovely idea, and I listed all the work that would need doing… not to mention the elephants we’d have cavorting on the croquet lawn, a helter-skelter in the topiary…” Dorothy shuddered. “Still I acted as if I thought it would be wonderful. Eventually he came to his senses.”
“Ah.” Considering the state of Willoughby Manor now, Harriet wasn’t sure Lord Stokeley’s idea had been a bad one.
“It’s tiresome, of course,” Dorothy continued, “and I’m quite sure it goes against your undoubtedly modern feminist sensibilities, but the fact is men and women haven’t changed, not fundamentally.” She paused, reflecting. “They’ve just become better conditioned.”
“Maybe so,” Harriet allowed. “But what should I have done? Do you think I was wrong to say what I did? About his job, I mean?”
Dorothy sighed. “It is hardly for me to say.”
Harriet couldn’t recall a time Dorothy had not volunteered her opinion on a matter. “But what do you think?” she pressed.
“I think,” she said after a moment, “that if you love a man, then you love him no matter what the circumstances. For richer or poorer and all that.” She gave Harriet a shrewd look. “In most cases, it’s the ‘for poorer’ that is the sticking point. Funnily enough, in your situation it appears it might be the ‘for richer.’”
Which really made her sound insane. Harriet sighed, wondering if she should phone Richard or even go to London and talk to him face-to-face. Tell him that whatever job he wanted, whatever life he wanted, she would share it with him.
Wasn’t that the right thing to do? Why did it not feel like it?
Another day passed with Harriet dithering, just as Dorothy had said she was. She tried to talk to Ellie, but Ellie had had some kind of spat with Oliver and somehow Harriet didn’t feel like she could burden her with her concerns. She saw Ava once from a distance, getting into her Mini, and didn’t think that that was a friendship that was going to develop naturally.
On Friday night she lay on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling and feeling miserable. The children were in bed, and all evening they’d been just as mopey as she was. Chloe had even pulled a few tears, crying noisily when her milk had spilled.
It felt as if everything was going wrong.
Then a knock sounded on the door. Harriet sat up, her heart starting to hammer. It was ten o’clock at night. This was either going to be a very good thing, or a very bad thing. Unless it wasn’t Richard at all.
Another knock and she hurried to the door. It was Richard, and he smelled like a brewery. Again.
“Are you drunk?”
“No,” Richard answered indignantly. “I had a pint with Colin, that’s all. Some spilled on me.” He sniffed his jumper. “That’s what it is. Can I come in?”
“Okay.” She stepped aside, her heart starting to hammer. “Maybe you should just put me out of my misery,” she blurted when Richard didn’t say anything.
He bent down to scratch Daisy’s ears; she’d roused herself at the sound of the knock and now rolled over onto her back, presenting Richard with her fluffy white tummy.
Harriet watched in deepening apprehension as he straightened and looked around the house. The living area was a bit of a mess; she hadn’t had the energy to tidy up after dinner, and so William’s trainers and dirty socks were by the TV, Chloe’s elaborate pink Lego construction half-formed on the table. There were dirty dishes in the sink.
Slowly Richard surveyed the room, and Harriet started to get annoyed. Almost. She was still holding hard onto hope, even now. Especially now.
“Richard…” she finally said, a pleading note entering her voice along with the exasperation.
“I was just wondering where my desk will go,” he said. “Now that I’m going back to school.”
“What…” Harriet’s breath came out slowly as she blinked at him, hardly daring to understand. To believe…
“Does that mean what I think it means?”
“I turned the job down, Harriet.”
“But I was just thinking that maybe you shouldn’t—”
“What!” He looked appalled. “Tell me you’re joking, please.”
“Not for my sake,” she clarified quickly, brushing at the tears that were already starting in her eyes. “For yours. Because, if this job really is your dream, I don’t want to squash it. I don’t want to demand something from you that would kill your spirit…”
“Kill my spirit?” A wry grin tugged at Richard’s mouth. “Not managing other people’s investments won’t do that, trust me. But losing you would.”
“But you won’t lose me,” Harriet said. She was properly crying now, tears of pure emotion streaking down her face. “That’s what I’m trying to say. I never should have presented it like that. Like some kind of deal…”
“But it was a deal. Two deals, one good and one bad. And after nearly twenty years of making deals, I should know the difference.”
Still Harriet felt she had to persist, to make it completely clear. “But you’re not the only one who should change or compromise. If the job in London is what you really want, if it will make you happy, we can make this work. I know we can. I’m willing…” She took a deep breath. “Whatever you want. Whatever you need to be…”
“I know,” Richard said gently. “You’ve always been behind me, Hat, even when I was a total screw-up.”
“I was just as much of a screw-up.” She sniffled, trying to stem the tide of tears. “All I’m saying is, you don’t have to become a teacher for my sake, Richard.”
“No, I’m becoming one for my own. I did a lot of thinking over the last few days. A lot of hard thinking, because the easiest thing in the world felt like saying yes to that job. The money alone…” He let out a shaky laugh. “I’m still finding it hard to give that up, if I’m honest, but I know it’s the right thing to do. Because you were right, Hat. It wasn’t making me happy. I was turning into a stressed out, arrogant prat. I knew that, but I thought I could handle it. I needed to, because I wanted to show that world that I was still somebody. Not just turn my back on it.”
“You don’t have to…” she whispered.
“Why are you crying?” He reached for her, and she went into his arms, grateful for his hug that she so desperately needed. “Please don’t cry. I know I couldn’t see the wood for the trees for a while, but I’m seeing clearly now, I promise. And I know life’s not going to be easy, not by a long shot. But we’ll be together, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?”
“That is the definitely the main thing,” Harriet agreed, her cheek pressed against Richard’s shoulder. She felt so relieved her knees were watery. She swayed and he caught her in his arms.
“Easy there, Hat.”
She let out a trembling laugh and then, from the stairs, she heard Mallory’s drawl. “Finally.”
Mallory was standing on the stairs, her arms folded, Chloe and William peeking out from around her. Although Mallory was trying to rock the bored teenager look, she wasn’t quite managing it. William and Chloe were grinning like loons.
“Daddy!” Chloe cried, and hurled herself down the stairs and into Richard’s legs, wrapping her arms around his knees.
Richard hoisted her up in one arm. “Group hug?” he suggested, and then turned to Mallory and William with a raised eyebrow.
Mallory snorted in disbelief but, with a bashful grin, William came hurtling towards them. His hug was more tackle than embrace, but Harriet took it. She’d take it all.
And then Mallory came, with a deliberate eye roll. “Oh, whatever,” she said, and patted them both on the arm before Richard grabbed her in a headlock and drew her, protesting feebly, into the hug.
Harriet laughed out loud. Daisy was the last to join the circle of love—pressing her little head between Harriet’s ankles and wagging her tail frantically. It felt like the most perfect, complete moment of her life—and then Daisy weed on the floor.
“Ew!” Mallory tried to wriggle away but Richard wouldn’t let her. She squealed and then she started laughing, and William tackled Richard again, so he gave a startled oof.
It was normal life in all its glory, and Harriet wouldn’t change a minute of it. Not one nanosecond.
Laughing, Harriet sidestepped the wee and put her arms around her family.
The End
Read Ava Mitchell’s story in Kiss Me at Willoughby Close, out in May 2017!