As she and the dogs headed into the park, Juliet stuck her iPod earphones in without turning on Lorcan’s Irish folk rock playlist, so she could rehearse what she was going to say to Michael. But she’d barely started up the hill towards Coneygreen Woods when a familiar figure in a Barbour jacket appeared from the depths of the wood and headed down the path, pretty spaniel trotting at his side.
Hector made a lunge forward, stepping up his pace, and Minton followed.
Nerves tightened her chest and she fought the temptation to turn on her heel and avoid the whole embarrassing conversation.
Michael waved at her from a distance, the usual ‘too-far-to-speak’ dog-walker wave, and she forced herself to smile and wave back.
It wasn’t hard to smile at him. He was still the same handsome, unthreatening antiques-expert chap – only now, of course, Juliet couldn’t help imagining him in a clinch with Louise.
Why does everything have to be so complicated? she thought.
Then he was near enough to speak, and she dragged her face back into neutral and racked her brains for something dignified to say.
‘Hi!’ said Juliet, staying far enough back for a kiss hello not to be an option. He seemed to notice.
‘Hello! How are you?’ he said. ‘Saw there wasn’t a note from Damson yesterday – everything OK?’ His eyes were wary behind the dark-rimmed glasses. ‘I wasn’t sure if . . . Did I say something wrong about going out for lunch?’
Juliet took a deep breath. ‘No, but . . .’
‘But . . . ?’ Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, no. Were the photographs that bad?’ He was trying to be light, but his usual confidence seemed more stretched than usual..
‘Oh, this is really awkward,’ said Juliet, ‘so I’ll just say it. I know about you and my sister. Louise. Louise Davies, from your baby group,’ she added, then realised she was probably adding too much information.
Michael’s cheery smile faded, to be replaced with horror, then embarrassment. ‘Louise is your sister?’
Juliet nodded. ‘We don’t look very alike. We’re not very alike. But she is my sister, yes.’
He closed his eyes, mortified – or wondering how much she knew – then opened them and looked at her direct. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can see how you’d find it hard to know where to start.’
Juliet respected him for not denying everything straight away, at least.
‘Before you quite rightly have a go at me, is it rude to ask how you know?’ He frowned. ‘I mean, did she tell you, or has there been . . . ?’ His voice trailed off and he seemed genuinely worried.
‘Do you mean, has there been a gigantic bust-up with her and Peter and now your affair’s common knowledge all over Longhampton?’
‘That wasn’t quite how I was going to put it. And I wouldn’t call it an affair either.’
‘No. No one else knows. She told me herself.’ Juliet walked over to a bench and sat down with a thump. This wasn’t going quite as she’d planned. Suddenly, it felt like a very personal conversation to be having with someone she didn’t really know that well at all.
Michael sat down beside her, and Damson sat next to him. Reluctantly, Minton and Hector trailed over too, unwilling group participants in the counselling circle.
‘So, go on,’ he said, his usual confident tone somewhat muted. ‘I’m sure you’ve got a lot you want to say.’
‘I don’t know if I have,’ Juliet admitted. ‘I’m not sure I want to know much more than I already do.’
‘Which is what?’
‘That you and Louise met at NCT classes, and you enjoyed some long conversations which erupted into woodland passion when my husband’s death conveniently reminded her about the fickle finger of fate. And that it ended when she got her head together and realised what she stood to lose.’
‘Is that what she said?’ Michael sounded wounded by her brutal summary.
In her mind’s eye, Juliet saw Louise’s glow when she’d confessed about her ‘crush’ before Ben had died, and the real distress in her eyes outside the house the previous day. It had meant something to her, and from the strain on Michael’s face, it had meant something to him too. She was being harsh. It wasn’t a nice feeling.
‘No. Not exactly. She said you listened to her, and made her feel interesting. It’s just that . . .’ She struggled to put her thoughts in order. ‘It’s so not Louise. Her marriage is everything to her, and I never had her down for a sneaking-around sort of person. Look, this is none of my business, really. You don’t have to tell me anything.’
Michael stretched out his legs in front of him. ‘How is she?’
‘She’s OK,’ said Juliet cautiously. Last week, she’d have said that confidently. Today, she wasn’t so sure.
‘I haven’t heard from her since she . . . since the start of November last year. It wasn’t her fault, by the way, that my marriage broke up. Don’t blame her for that. And I don’t normally make a habit of chatting up married mothers. We were both going through some messy, confusing stuff – Louise has a great way of cutting through the usual male waffle.’
He shot her a sideways glance and Juliet knew he was dying to ask her whether Louise and Peter were still together.
‘We really did spend a lot of time talking,’ he said. ‘I wish we could have met differently – I really miss her company. Did she ever sign up for the art classes at the college?’
‘Louise? No.’
‘Why do you say it like that?’
‘Because she . . .’ Juliet was about to say, ‘Because she has no interest whatsoever in art,’ but then realised that opinion was based on Louise dropping art at GSCE instead of geography in 1993, whereas she’d taken art and home economics and music. She was the arty one; Louise was the academic.
She heard Emer saying, ‘People change.’ Maybe that was the point. Louise obviously had a secret inner life that no one knew about, and it had escaped.
‘Because she’s really busy with Toby, and she’s gone back to work,’ Juliet said, suddenly feeling sad for the way Louise had ruthlessly shoved that chatty, art-studying woman back into her suit and sent her back to her desk, as if she’d never existed.
‘She went back to work,’ repeated Michael. Obviously it had been something they’d discussed, by the heavy way he said it. ‘Right.’
There was a brief silence, and Juliet wondered what else Louise had been planning that they didn’t know about. Maybe she should ask her.
‘Sorry if this is a leading question,’ he started.
‘Go on.’
‘Is she happy?’
‘I think so. It’s been a tough year for us all.’
Michael didn’t reply immediately. He seemed to be weighing up his response, and because she’d run out of questions herself, with no clear idea of where to take the next, even more awkward, stage of the conversation, Juliet had no intention of rushing him.
Instead she reached into her pocket and found some treats for the dogs. She didn’t have to tell Damson anything before the spaniel had dropped into an obedient sit at her feet.
An awkward pause filled the air between them as a walker they both recognised passed by with her Border terrier. Everyone chirped hello in cheery voices, and Hector had a cursory letch at the dog.
‘I . . . Oh dear. ’ Michael shook his head. ‘I can’t find a good way to say this either.’
‘Go on,’ said Juliet. ‘You’re really a woman.’
He laughed. ‘No. I’m not.’ He turned on the bench, and his hazel eyes searched her face. ‘I really like you, Juliet. I had a great time at that exhibition. I don’t want to rush you into anything you’re not ready for, and I really, really don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but does this mean we can’t have that pub lunch? And just take things as they come?’
The question hung in the air, like a spinning penny. Juliet felt as if she was at a significant moment in her life, where she could start choosing directions instead of letting the momentum take her wherever
. There was no one else to check with now, except herself. Well, and Minton.
Yes? No? Her instinct failed her, but Louise’s face floated up in front of her mind. Crushed. Ashamed.
No. It would be too hard.
‘Michael, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think it’s probably better if we don’t,’ she said. ‘I enjoyed the other evening too, but I don’t think I’m ready to date just yet.’
‘And when you do, you want something more straightforward?’
‘I’m starting to think nothing is ever that straightforward. Not at our age.’ Juliet leaned forward and stroked Damson’s feathery ears.
‘At our age.’ Michael made a rueful noise. ‘Still, I guess a bit of complication means you haven’t led a boring life.’
Was that so bad, Juliet wondered. Ben with no nasty surprises on his laptop. Me with no stamps in my passport. Are we just nice, straightforward people, or have I been missing out on something all these years?
‘Will you carry on walking Damson?’ he asked. ‘I’d hate her to miss out because of human complications.’
Juliet smiled up at him. Michael was the sort of real gentleman her dad had always been on at her to bring home. If she got to know him, they might have their own in-jokes, or discover they liked the same organic cider. But something wasn’t quite there at the moment. There was something a bit ‘researchy’ about it, as if she was edging out into new water.
The year still wasn’t up. It could still change.
‘I’d be happy to,’ she said. ‘I hate breaking up with dogs.’
The trouble was, Louise thought, as she watched Toby splashing around in the bath, Peter sitting on the edge, her husband was a really nice guy.
Compared with the lying, cheating, drinking, fighting, abusive louses who came across her desk like an army of scabby rats, she had married a man who didn’t even exist in their world. So why had she spent three nights that week sleeping on the floor of Toby’s room rather than share a bed with Peter and his enraging snore that ended in a sort of choking whistle?
Her stomach clenched. The previous evening, after she’d come in from work still reeling from her horrible experience outside Michael’s, she’d found Peter already in the kitchen, up to his arms in Waitrose ready-meal packaging. He’d dished up a proper three-course meal again, with candles and Classic FM, and revealed over pudding that he’d booked them into a country hotel in a fortnight’s time for a ‘romantic getaway break’. He’d expected an ‘Ooh’ of delight, but Louise’s first thought had been one of horror, and she’d come out with something about babysitters.
She didn’t want to think about the crestfallen expression on his face. It made her feel nauseous with guilt and shame.
What is wrong with me? Louise screamed inside her head, as Peter squirted water into a delighted Toby’s mouth.
‘Mind the water, it’s got bubblebath in,’ she heard herself say, in her mother’s voice.
‘I know, it’s fine,’ Peter replied mildly. ‘It was just a splash, eh, Toby?’
It was Michael, she thought. Letting Michael back into her head just reminded her that she wasn’t the perfect wife she’d hoped she was, and at the same time, she’d never get to be the free spirit who ran off to do art classes either.
Art classes. She hadn’t even thought about them until she’d seen Michael’s name again.
The phone rang and Louise jumped.
‘I’ll get it,’ she said, unnecessarily, since her son and husband had eyes only for each other.
She picked up the extension in their bedroom and noted irritably that Peter hadn’t put his underpants properly in the laundry basket. They hung off the edge as if they were trying to escape.
‘Hello?’
‘Lou, it’s Juliet. Are you on your own?’
Louise sank onto the bed and kicked the door shut. Her heart had started to bang in her chest. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘I saw Michael today. I met him and—’
‘What did you say?’ Louise demanded.
‘Nothing.’ Juliet went quiet. ‘Well, not nothing, obviously, but he did most of the talking.’ Pause. ‘He’s still separated from his wife.’ Pause. ‘He said you were fantastic.’ Longer pause. ‘He hopes you’re happy.’
Louise tried to ignore the reluctance in Juliet’s voice and let the words sink into her head. Michael had actually done it. He’d broken free, and moved on too, by the sound of it, if he was asking Juliet out.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the metal frame of their big double bed. What was causing this ache in her chest? That Michael had moved on from her, or that he’d done what she couldn’t and got a grip on his life?
‘Louise?’
Louise forced her eyes open, and the first thing she saw was the photograph of her post-birth, exhausted and triumphant, with Toby on her chest.
‘So, are you going to see him again?’ she asked, amazed at the bright voice she managed to drag up from somewhere.
‘No,’ said Juliet. ‘Only his dog. Are you?’
‘No!’
‘Don’t sound so aggrieved. It’s a genuine question.’
‘No,’ repeated Louise. ‘I’m not. I promised myself I’d make things work here with Peter. For Toby. And I’m going to do that.’
‘That’s what he said you’d said.’
‘Do I get extra points for that?’
Juliet laughed at the other end, and then turned serious. ‘Lou, you’ve got so much that’s good in your life. I don’t think you realise just how good it is. Please don’t screw it up. I don’t think Mum could handle a divorcée on top of a widow.’
‘I do realise,’ insisted Louise. ‘I know exactly how lucky I am. I’m just . . .’
Desperate for someone to let her be someone other than boring Louise? Not sure Peter was ever going to ask her opinion about anything other than pasta Bolognese versus lasagne? Her world felt secure again, and she thanked God that her stupidity hadn’t led to her losing it, but it wasn’t ever going to get any bigger.
Juliet made a tsking sound. ‘Well, you know best. As always. Anyway, I’ve got to go.’
‘Are you off out?’ Louise felt a swift burst of envy. Juliet’s social life seemed to have picked up lately, between the pet-sitting and the Kelly family inviting her round for meals.
‘No, I’m babysitting next door. Emer and Lorcan are off out to a pool tournament.’
‘And you’re babysitting? Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound so shocked.’
‘They’re not babies. We’re just going to watch a DVD and then they’ll bugger off to bed, I hope. Anyway, I just wanted you to know I’d spoken to Michael. In case you were wondering.’
‘Thanks. But I’m not wondering,’ said Louise firmly.
I’m not wondering, she repeated to herself, as she put the phone down.
‘Mummy!’ yelled Peter from the bathroom. ‘Can we have a nice warm towel, please?’
I’m not wondering, she repeated, and headed for the airing cupboard.
Chapter 22
The anniversary of Ben’s death arrived like a dental appointment; Juliet lay in bed, waiting for the numbers to tick over to midnight on her clock radio, then lay there staring at the minutes as the day began to eat itself away.
His mother, Ruth, called at eight o’clock. She sounded as if she’d been up all night waiting for the polite telephone-calling hour to come round.
‘I can’t believe it’s a year,’ she began, and immediately burst into tears. Juliet could barely make out the words.
‘I know,’ she said, moving around the room, getting Minton’s breakfast ready before Coco arrived.
She listened as Ruth remembered what she’d been doing when the phone call came – from Juliet’s dad, who’d silently taken the burden of phoning people from her. She murmured sympathetically while Ruth speculated about what Ben would probably be doing now, whether she’d be a grandmother, whether Ben would have expanded the business and moved nearer them. r />
Juliet didn’t want to stop Ruth, today of all days, but the wistful fantasies scraped away at her own wobbly self-control. She wanted to point out that Ben hadn’t been the most dynamic businessman, and maybe she felt devastated that there would be no mini Ben gurgling out from a pram, walking round the park with Minton.
She bit her lip. Juliet didn’t feel like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders today; in fact, a leaden realisation had settled in her stomach that life was going to go on, but with no one to share her jokes or warm her toes in bed when the rain was lashing against the windows.
And even if she did find someone – terrifying though that thought was – they’d never know the teenage her, or the twenty-something with the peachy skin. Her best years had gone, and Ben had taken all the memories with him, leaving her, tired and second-hand, to crawl through the rest of her life.
‘So, you don’t mind if it’s just me and Ray on the bench plaque, do you?’
Juliet had been filling Minton’s water bowl, but now she stood up and concentrated on Ruth’s voice. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘The plaque on the bench. There were only so many characters, and it’s going to say, “In Memory of Benjamin Raymond Falconer, 1979–2010.” New line, “The son who lit up our lives.” New line, “Donated by Ruth and Raymond Falconer.”’
Minton lapped noisily from the bowl and Juliet ignored the splashes of water he was getting everywhere.
‘I thought it was going to be from his friends and family? Wasn’t it bought with the collection money at his funeral? Half for charity, half for a memorial?’
Ruth made a half-tutting, half-sighing noise. ‘I know, Juliet, but Ray and I have organised it, and we’ve put in quite a bit extra ourselves, you know, to get a really good oak bench, so we thought . . .’ She let her voice trail off so she didn’t have to add, ‘We’d be in charge.’
Ben hadn’t moved out of home into a flat with Juliet at nineteen for no reason. Juliet wondered if Ruth had ever forgiven her for that. Whether she thought he’d still be around now if he was in his room in their semi, watching Top Gear with his dad and mowing their lawn.