Walking Back to Happiness

  Juliet felt awkward again, and very suburban.

  ‘Flo, why don’t you go and get Smokey’s brush,’ he said, ‘then we can start combing the bits that aren’t covered in gunk.’

  Florrie scuttled off, with Roisin in hot pursuit.

  Lorcan glanced down at Boris, now sniffing the fruit bowl curiously, and ruffled his own damp hair.

  ‘They weren’t asking questions about your husband, were they?’

  She shook her head, embarrassed that actually she’d asked, not them. ‘No. Well, not really.’

  ‘You’ve got to tell me if they were,’ he said. ‘It’s a phase they’re going through, especially Roisin. She’d make a great journalist – no sense whatsoever of the inappropriate. Emer explained that he’d died, but they don’t really do angels in heaven with harps in this family. They’re a bit more forensic. I hope they didn’t upset you?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Juliet quickly. Roisin had put her finger on her most sensitive spot – the bins, the shower, all the things Ben had done that she’d now have to do on her own. But that wasn’t Roisin’s fault.

  ‘Shower looks good,’ Lorcan said, changing the subject, but not as much as he thought he was. ‘Did you have a think about the tiling?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been thinking about all the building work.’ Juliet took a deep breath and made a leap. ‘I would like you to do it, but . . . this is going to sound a bit odd.’

  ‘Odd?’ Lorcan did a double-take. ‘To someone who lives in this madhouse? Try me. You want it all papered in zebra stripes? Or you want mirrors on all the ceilings?’

  Juliet blushed and half laughed. ‘No, I’d like to help.’

  ‘Ah, now that is weird,’ said Lorcan, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Most clients want to get as far away as possible when there’s building work on.’

  ‘I don’t. I want to be part of it. Ben and I . . .’ Juliet stroked Boris and didn’t meet Lorcan’s eye. ‘We’d planned to do it ourselves, really get to know the house ourselves. I’d like to honour that, a little bit. Anyway, I suppose if I’m going to be on my own, I need to know how to do basic DIY. Nothing complicated, like extensions or anything . . .’

  ‘But you don’t mind swinging that sledgehammer they always seem to get out on the telly, right?’ Lorcan mimed the reckless lurch of the would-be property developer.

  Juliet looked horrified. ‘No sledgehammers.’

  ‘Fair enough. And are you planning on paying me more or less if you’re volunteering to help and I’m volunteering to teach plastering for beginners?’ he asked, helping himself to the big plastic box of biscuits on the table.

  ‘Oh. Um . . . the same? Unless you think . . .’

  ‘Get out of here,’ laughed Lorcan. ‘I’d be happy to have an extra pair of hands. But it’s like I said on the note, I’ve got various jobs booked in, so I can’t do it all at once and there’s some specialist stuff I’d need to get some mates in to do, like the glazing . . . Tell you what, why don’t we start with the bathroom and see how that goes? I’ll finish the shower, refit your suite. Then we can paint it, tile it, see how we get on.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Juliet. That was a manageable project. She was all about manageable projects, and the neat spaces they filled up in her calendar. Doing the bathroom should take her up to – what? – the end of September? And that left just a few weeks until the anniversary.

  It would be something, to have the bathroom of their dreams completed, at least. Something to share with Ben. Then after that, maybe it would be easier. Maybe once she’d got the year under her belt.

  Lorcan pointed a bourbon biscuit at her. ‘Don’t forget you’ve got your pet-sitting, as well as learning DIY. That’s keeping you pretty busy, isn’t it? You’ve barely been around this week.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Juliet screwed up her face and tickled Boris’s sticky ears. ‘If word gets out about Boris’s little accident, I might have more time on my hands.’

  ‘Ah, come on. What’s the worst that can happen? Eh? So we have to shave the poor bugger. How hard is it to find a fluffy white cat? How can you tell the difference, underneath? Florrie can keep the baldy shaved one. Or you can glue some cotton wool on Smokey.’

  Lorcan grinned his easy grin, and Juliet felt a real smile tickle the corner of her mouth for the first time in ages. A proper dark-edged smile.

  ‘Here!’ Emer burst back into the kitchen, followed by Roisin and Florrie bearing various cat-cleaning implements. ‘We’ll start with the peanut butter, and if that fails, we’ve got some special stuff that Alec got in the States for his motorbikes.’ She checked the label. ‘I don’t think it’s poisonous to cats. It sorted out Spike’s last lot of tar in the hair, anyway.’

  ‘And if that fails, it’s into the freezer for Boris for seven hours,’ said Lorcan, deadpan, ‘and out with the iron.’

  ‘Nooooo!’ howled Roisin and Florrie, so shrilly that Bianca’s face vanished from the wire front.

  It was actually louder than the recorders. Juliet covered her ears without thinking, but as she did, Lorcan caught her eye and winked.

  Chapter 13

  ‘What time’s Juliet getting here?’ asked Peter over his shoulder. ‘ I had a word with the manager at the White Hart and he said if we got there in good time, he might be able to give us the kitchen table, so we can watch them doing the actual cooking.’

  He was standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fiddling with his best cufflinks, the heavy silver knots Louise had given him as a wedding present. He paused, watching her walk in from the en suite, fresh from her cursory shower, and gave her an appreciative smile.

  ‘Are you up for that? Not as romantic as the main dining room, but maybe we can pick up some tips? And I don’t know, there’s something a bit sexy about a busy kitchen. All that steam and hot air and rushing about.’

  Louise felt her first pang of guilt for the evening. It was pretty clear that she hadn’t made as much effort as he had – the back of Peter’s neck was pink where he’d had his haircut that afternoon, and he was wearing a new shirt, a pale lemony-yellow. For years, Peter had gone to work in his jeans and T-shirt, while she’d trussed herself up in a suit. Now he had to wear a suit more often than not, he made a point of leaving his hair a bit too long, and picking non-white shirts.

  Louise had shaved her legs, but that was it. Not even a bikini wax, because that would give him the impression that she was keen to throw herself back into the baby-making, and although she was ashamed of her avoidance tactics, she didn’t think it was fair, in some strange fair-play rules, to send out those signals.

  She sometimes wondered if Ashleigh at the beauty salon speculated about why her once-quite-adventurous bikini waxing had fallen off lately. Whether the therapists could tell the temperature of their clients’ love lives according to their attendance at the hot-wax pot. They must know all sorts, she thought, not just what we tell them.

  She bundled those thoughts away, just in case they were showing on her face.

  ‘Um, Juliet should be here by six thirty,’ she said. ‘She’s got to feed some cats up the road.’

  ‘She’s branching out into cats now? Very enterprising. Well, the taxi’s booked for seven,’ Peter went on, checking his hair, then his watch. ‘Which is . . . twenty minutes.’

  ‘You booked a taxi? I’d’ve driven,’ said Louise lightly.

  ‘What? To a wine-tasting dinner?’ Peter laughed. ‘I don’t want you to miss out on the booze, Lou. It’s meant to be a treat, after all the months you couldn’t because of Toby. Not that you should go mad . . .’ He winked at her, framed in the mirror. ‘I remember all those rules – no coffee, no tight pants, all that malarkey. But since Toby was conceived after Barry Scott’s leaving do, I think we can relax the no-drinking one a bit.’

  ‘So we’re trying for another baby now, are we?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.

  Peter looked surprised, then rather awkward. ‘I thought we weren’t trying not to?’

  Come
on, Louise told herself. A couple of glasses of wine, it’ll be good for you. You just need to relax. Stop thinking so much. Look at Peter in his suit, as if you’re on a date. Look how handsome he is. How hard he’s trying to make this special. You are a lucky woman.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘That came out wrong. I just . . . It’s been a tricky week at work. I don’t want to piss Douglas off by dropping him in it again with another maternity leave. Knowing my luck, it’d take one night this time, not eighteen months.’

  ‘It’s only dinner,’ said Peter mildly. ‘I’m not promising anything after.’

  Louse turned back to the wardrobe and pulled out her stretchy silk dress, the one that always made her feel curvy and confident. It looked smaller than when she’d last had it out.

  ‘Shame Juliet couldn’t have come a bit earlier,’ he said, turning back to his tie. ‘She could have helped with Toby’s bath. Highlight of my day, that is.’

  ‘Really?’ said Louise, lightly. ‘Not the late night feeds? Or the daily ‘‘what’s up Toby’s nose?’’ ritual? Today it was an acorn. Who knew toddlers’ nostrils were so stretchy?’

  Peter gave her a look. ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

  ‘A bit.’

  Louise knew she was being a cow, and hated herself. It didn’t help that she’d just spent four hundred pounds on beautiful porcelain tiles for Juliet’s bathroom, to be delivered to Lorcan who could pretend he’d got them for fifty quid. The way her mother cooed over Lorcan’s tiling abilities made her wonder whether she ought to schedule a surprise visit round there herself.

  Peter wandered over to where she was standing, by the chest of drawers with all her underwear neatly stowed in honeycomb segments. ‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘I want to be there to do all the yucky stuff. It’s just work is mad right now. I’m going to try to get some time off, so you can go away on your own for a bit. Toby and I will manage.’

  You won’t, thought Louise. You have no idea. That had been the great thing about Michael; he didn’t need to ask for nightly updates on Toby’s food intake, or tell her what she should have given him, according to the Internet. Michael knew. He was actually doing it.

  Louise felt Peter’s arms go around her and she stiffened.

  ‘Are you going out in this?’ he enquired, tugging at her towel.

  She clamped her arms against her sides. ‘No, I was going to wear that wrap dress. Listen, Toby’s asleep in his chair, but he’s bound to wake up any minute, so can you—’

  ‘He’s fine. I’ve got the baby monitor right here. And we’ve got twenty minutes.’ Peter’s mouth was against the side of her throat, breathing hot air into the spot that used to make her turn to pure hot liquid inside. ‘Which isn’t long, but long enough for what I’ve got in mind, which is a sort of starter . . .’

  Now it just tickled. Her head was full of tiles and Toby’s sleep patterns. Louise jerked her ear down to her shoulder to stop him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Jools might come early. And I need to get dressed.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’ Peter kissed round to the back of her neck, under her hairline. His hands roamed up and down her waist. ‘At least let me pick your underwear.’

  ‘I’ve already picked,’ she said, yanking out some industrial flesh-coloured Spanx. ‘I need these.’

  ‘Those?’ The roaming stopped abruptly. ‘Absolutely not. Where’s that really nice stuff? Let me have a look . . .’

  He moved her aside, firmly, and began searching through her underwear drawer.

  ‘What nice stuff?’ she asked, thinking he meant a silk set he’d given her for Christmas a few years back. ‘This?’

  ‘No, the cream ones. With the lace and the . . . you know . . . whatever you call those big ties.’

  Louise’s blood went cold. How did Peter know about those? ‘I don’t know which ones you mean.’

  Except she did. She knew exactly the underwear he meant; it revealed more than it covered, but it made her feel like a sex goddess even with her wobbly post-Toby tummy. She’d never actually worn them out, just bought them and thought about where she might wear them, who might see them. Even buying them had made her feel dangerous and new. If she hadn’t come to her senses when she did, though, she had no doubt that they would have been worn and . . .

  ‘You do. They’re not in here; maybe they’re in the airing cupboard. I’ll go and look for them.’ Peter went out, towards the landing. ‘Why would they be in there anyway?’

  ‘Um, they’re hand-wash only.’ Louise winced. That was not the right response.

  ‘I thought you didn’t know the ones I meant?’ Peter’s voice drifted back, but he sounded amused. ‘It’s OK, Lou, I don’t mind you spending money on fancy knickers. So long as I get to see them.’

  He returned holding the wisps of ludicrously expensive Agent Provocateur satin and lace. Louise felt faintly sick. No, actually sick, to see them in Peter’s hands.

  ‘When did you wear these?’ he asked. ‘I can’t believe I missed them!’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t even had them on,’ she lied hastily, taking the knickers from him with hands that were more steady than her voice.

  Little tremors from the one afternoon trying-on session they’d had still flickered in the pit of her stomach, hot flames of guilt and excitement licking away at her, as she remembered how she’d imagined him seeing her, watching her pull the ribbons undone, totally unlike the buttoned-up Louise, or the sick-smelling Mummy Lou. How had she forgotten they were stuffed in the airing cupboard? Why hadn’t she just thrown them out?

  ‘So why were they in the airing cupboard?’ Peter asked, more curious than suspicious. ‘Are you turning into your mum, hiding her sale bargains all over the house in case your dad finds them?’

  ‘No! No, I always wash lingerie before I wear it. You never know who’s had them on in the shop before you,’ she said, off the top of her head. It depressed her a bit that he didn’t even question that; obviously, that sort of hygiene lunacy was so like her.

  ‘Wear those.’ Peter’s eyes were bright with excitement. ‘Please.’

  ‘They’re not really the right kind of knickers, though. I need something smooth under this dress.’

  Peter made a ‘do I care about VPL?’ face, and Louise knew she’d fed him the wrong line. He was watching her, now waiting for her to do just that – try them on in front of him.

  It was what a good wife set on revitalising her comatose marriage would do: she’d drop her towel and slowly pull on the gossamer knickers, keeping her eyes locked on her now wildly aroused husband, and then they’d fall on the bed and have frantic, urgent, honeymoon sex in the minutes before Juliet arrived.

  The only problem was that Louise didn’t even want Peter to see her naked. She was too guilty and ashamed and confused, and above all, the sight of those knickers in particular inflamed every single one of those emotions to unbearable levels.

  ‘Let’s leave it as a surprise,’ she said.

  Peter looked at her, trying to work out what she was up to. Then he grinned, manfully, and nodded.

  ‘Go and see Toby’s OK,’ Louise went on, clinging to her towel. ‘I’ll be down in two minutes.’

  ‘Two minutes,’ he said. ‘Or I’m coming up to get you, knickers or not.’

  There was a pause for them both to hear, preferably not, then he trotted down the stairs. One-two-three. One-two-three.

  Louise kept the smile on her face until he’d left the room and then, quietly, she closed the door and ripped a hole in the pants until they were unwearable.

  She looked at the treacherous purchase in her hands, her breath too painful in her chest.

  A lifetime of knowing right from wrong, being meticulous about details – how had she made so much mess in just a few weeks?

  But what really scared Louise was the way her plan wasn’t working the way she’d intended. She was looking forward, but things from the past kept springing back up in front of her.

  Juliet wondered why she felt so discombobula
ted on her way to Louise’s, but couldn’t put her finger on it till she was walking up the path and knocking on the shiny green door with the ‘subtle’ security-camera thing that they had had fitted the week before Toby was born.

  She didn’t have Minton with her.

  It felt stranger than when she’d taken her wedding ring off for the first time. His small white, watchful presence by her heel, or in the corner of her eye, was a constant she hadn’t thought she could get used to, like the heavy gold band on her finger. When it wasn’t there, she couldn’t stop fidgeting.

  She’d left him curled up on the sofa in the kitchen, with QVC on for soothingly upbeat company. Lorcan had promised to let him out for a wee if she wasn’t back by eleven, or if he heard any barking.

  ‘Or if he starts buying any high-value Diamonique items,’ he’d added, deadpan.

  I should have brought him, she fretted. He could have stayed in the kitchen. What if something happens at home? What if he has a fit? Or a fire starts? Or—

  ‘Hi!’ Louise flung the door open, with Toby in her arms.

  She looked slim in a paisley-patterned silk dress, her hair shiny and freshly blow-dried. Toby was cosy and sleepy in an all-in-one with a Jack Russell on the front. Together, Juliet thought with a twinge of envy, they made a perfect Red magazine photo spread of a working mum with an active social life and a go-anywhere haircut.

  ‘Look who it is!’ Louise went on, pointing rather unnecessarily. ‘Auntie Juliet!’

  ‘Hi, Toby!’ said Juliet, in the same high, baby-addressing tone. She never meant to talk to him like that, but she couldn’t help it. ‘All ready for bed?’

  ‘In the jim-jams you gave him,’ Louise carried on. ‘With the doggy. Who’s this, Toby?’ she asked, squishing the appliqué dog on his fat little tummy.

  ‘Minton,’ said Toby solemnly, and Juliet’s heart melted, despite herself.

  ‘Ah! Here, have a cuddle.’ Louise dumped her son into Juliet’s arms and ushered her through to the kitchen. ‘We need to rush – the taxi’s nearly here.’

  ‘Evening, Juliet.’ Peter was leaning against the counter, flipping through the business pages of the paper. He stopped when she came in, and politely directed all his attention to her.