‘Anything you need?’ she had asked.
‘No, just, um, thanks…’ he said, and unexpectedly gave her a hug.
Then he turned and scooted up the stairs.
She had cleaned the kitchen, washed up their wine glasses and stood for a moment at the kitchen sink looking out over the dark yard outside. The lights were still on in the cottage. She couldn’t leave things the way they were. Without thinking about it any further, she had gone over there and knocked on the door.
They hadn’t spoken much; there wasn’t anything to say.
It’s easy to do these things, she thinks; it’s only afterwards that she starts to worry that she’s doing it all wrong. Is she using him? Is she in love with him? It doesn’t feel as though it ought to matter that much, but it does.
With a sigh she gets up and pulls on her dressing gown; it’s chilly up here. She opens the door and looks out into the dark hallway. Kitty’s door is firmly shut.
She steps across the creaky floorboards into the bathroom and locks the door behind her. She doesn’t turn on the light; the moon is shining in, lighting the bath like a stage set. She doesn’t flush. The cistern, a high Victorian one, makes enough noise to wake the whole house. She lowers the lid and reminds herself to do it first thing in the morning.
When she opens the door again it’s hard to see anything at all; the hallway is dark. She can just about make out the square of grey light bisecting the landing from her open bedroom door.
She goes back into the bedroom and closes the door firmly, making sure it’s properly fastened, before climbing back under the warm duvet and curling up into a tight ball with a sigh.
Even so, in the darkness, the warmth, in the silence, it takes her a long time to fall asleep.
Aiden
You have spent the last half-hour on the phone making plans for next week, and when you end the call it rings again almost immediately. Your heart sinks; you had been about to turn it off.
But, when you look at the number, you see it’s Sophie.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi. Sorry to ring so late. Is it a bad time?’
‘Well, I was just about to go to bed…’
‘It’s important. Look – hold on a sec.’
She is whispering, as if someone else is there, someone who shouldn’t hear their conversation. You can hear a door opening and closing, footsteps, and then a moment later she is back on the line.
‘Sorry about that. I’m back.’
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yes, fine. Look – have you had a chance to talk to her yet?’
‘No, not yet. Kitty’s home this weekend.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘I just – I think you need to get it over with, Aiden.’
You have been through this in your mind, many times. You are not quite sure of the reason why you are holding back. It’s not easy, this, and the reason is that it matters. It’s important. If you get it wrong, it’s likely things will never be the same between you.
‘It’s not that straightforward,’ you say.
‘I don’t like subterfuge.’
‘Sophie –’
‘It’s not a threat. Just please think about what you’re doing. The next chance you get, yes?’
‘Fine.’
‘So either you tell her, or I will, okay?’
Sarah
In the morning Kitty and Oscar take the dogs on a long walk. They intend to hike over the other side of the hill, and follow the course of the river to the lake – some seven miles in total. Sarah has promised to go and pick them up when they phone her. They are planning to have a pub lunch somewhere, possibly meet up with friends later.
It’s all suitably vague. Sarah had almost forgotten what it was like having Kitty here; the memories are flooding back now.
The house is echoingly empty with everyone gone. She tidies up and then finds herself standing in the kitchen looking out over the yard.
Aiden’s car is not there.
She had begun to think she was falling in love with him. It’s not hard to think like that when the man you’re with has taken the time to develop a deep understanding of your body and how it works; how to give it the greatest soaring pleasure you’ve ever experienced. There are moments, following the prolonged eye contact, the slow, deep kisses, the hand-holding, when it feels like love. But how can it be, when he has been here less than two weeks?
But now, with the wind causing dry leaves to dance and spin through the yard, she reminds herself that he has given no indication that he feels the same way about her. He has secrets, things he has not been able to divulge. He and Jim met up without telling her. Jim gave him money. She feels as though she has only just felt the edges of something vast, buried between them like an unexploded mine.
Is it a bad thing? Can she sustain a relationship when there is no trust?
It’s all right for now. But one day it will break her, and she knows that when that happens it will hurt far worse than it does now.
So: this has to end.
And she has to end it, because he won’t. At the end of the weekend, she decides, when Kitty has gone, she will tell him.
The clock ticks; the house waits, listening to her breathing.
Sarah is just in that difficult, chaotic moment when all the elements of a Sunday roast dinner are coming together at the same time when there is a knock at the door.
This in itself is surprising, and the dogs bark and begin scrabbling at the door which doesn’t help, so Sarah shouts, ‘Come in!’ and then, when nothing happens, yells for Kitty, who is laying the table in the dining room.
She thinks it is probably Aiden, who still can’t manage to walk in without being invited.
She carries the roast potatoes through, oven gloves on, the heat still searing through to her fingers.
But it isn’t Aiden.
When she gets back to the kitchen, it’s Louis being hugged by his sister, the dogs jumping up at both of them in ecstasy.
‘Louis!’
And this time – maybe because Kitty’s there – he actually gives her a brief hug.
‘Hi, Mum.’
She has a moment to look at him – he looks well, and he’s smiling, actually here in her kitchen and smiling at her… then she remembers the vegetables still boiling and going soggy.
‘I’m just dishing up,’ she says. ‘Kitty – can you take this through? And go and introduce Louis to Oscar…’
A few moments later they are all seated around the dining table and helping themselves to roast potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, vegetables. Sarah loves him for coming, for putting his issues to one side to see Kitty.
‘Let’s start before it gets cold,’ Sarah says.
‘This looks great,’ Oscar says.
‘What are you studying, Oscar?’ asks Louis.
‘Civil engineering, same as Kit,’ he says.
Sarah notes that he doesn’t ask what Louis studied; Kitty must have briefed him. That’s good of her. The conversation flows naturally as they eat and drink, and afterwards there is apple pie, or a slice of chocolate cake with tea. Everyone has cake.
They move to the living room and Sarah begins to stack the plates.
‘I’ll help you, Mum,’ Kitty offers.
‘Don’t be daft, it’s your last day. Go and relax.’
‘I’ll help, then,’ Louis says.
Sarah is about to instruct him to go and sit and talk to his sister but, actually, the opportunity to have a moment alone with him is too good to pass up. ‘Thank you,’ she says.
‘No probs.’
‘No – thank you for coming. I’m so glad you did.’
‘Well, you invited me.’
He takes the plates through and comes back for the empty vegetable dishes while Sarah puts clingfilm over what’s left of the cake.
‘Will phoned me. Again,’ he says.
‘Oh?’
‘He told me you’re in trouble.’
Sarah stops what sh
e’s doing and looks at him. ‘What?’
‘He says you’re thinking of selling the house.’
Where did that come from? How on earth would Will know that? It can’t be from Sophie; she’s never said anything to her about it. Sarah is too shocked to speak.
‘Is it true?’
She can’t lie to him, not now that he’s seen the expression on her face. ‘Yes. Maybe not just yet – I’m waiting to hear if the stuff I’m working on will make me enough to carry on. But yes, things are… a bit tight.’
‘I can help,’ he says. ‘If you’ll let me.’
She is not about to let him see her cry, so she concentrates on the cake again, stretching another piece of clingfilm across and trying not to squash the icing. He can’t possibly have any idea of how bad the debt is – a couple of grand isn’t going to scratch the surface.
‘That’s a very kind offer. You don’t have to,’ she says.
‘I know that. But I can help if you’re desperate. If you’re going to sell up.’
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Really. Thanks.’
‘Let me know. We can talk about it again. After all, this house is Kitty’s and my inheritance. I don’t want to see it going for a pittance and you pissing away the proceeds, do I?’
The sudden cruel twist of his words, when she had thought he was being kind, makes her feel sick. As she goes through to the living room a few minutes later with the fresh pot of tea she feels a little drunk, in fact, as if the ground has shifted under her feet.
But it’s all about to get much worse.
Louis is sitting on the arm of the chair as if he’s ready to leave – which he probably is. Lord knows he wouldn’t want to get comfortable, would he?
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Kitty says, moving cake plates out of the way. ‘So what happened to Aiden today?’
‘Aiden?’ Sarah asks. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Didn’t you ask him?’
‘Ask him what?’
‘To lunch.’
‘No,’ Sarah says. ‘I expect he’s doing something.’
‘Did you know Mum’s got a new tenant?’ Kitty asks Louis.
Louis frowns. ‘What? Who’s this?’
‘Aiden Beck,’ Sarah says, trying not to sound defensive. ‘He was a friend of your dad’s – well, and mine, really. We were all at uni together. Anyway, he’s just come back from living abroad, so I offered him the cottage for a bit.’
Sarah looks up and catches Louis’s eye. He is staring at her, frowning. ‘Well, I bloody hope he’s paying you rent,’ he says.
‘Louis!’ Kitty says. ‘Mum’s being really kind.’
‘He is paying rent,’ Sarah says. Not that it’s any of your business.
Louis gets to his feet. ‘I’d better get going,’ he says.
‘Already?’ Kitty asks.
Sarah says nothing. She has the sense that if Louis stays longer he will say something else, worse, in front of Kitty.
‘Thanks again for coming. You’re an ace big brother,’ Kitty says, tiptoeing to wrap her arms around Louis’s neck. He shakes Oscar’s hand, heads for the kitchen.
Sarah follows.
He is rubbing Basil’s ears and fussing over Tess.
‘Louis –’ she says, not quite knowing what it is that she wants to say but just that she must say something.
‘Don’t,’ he says. There is a tone to his voice, low, angry. ‘It’s fucking bad enough that you’ve spent all Dad’s money. That’s one thing. And now you’ve moved your new bloke in as well? Jesus.’
‘What?’ Sarah is genuinely horrified at the thought. ‘Aiden’s just a friend, for goodness’ sake.’
‘That’s not what Will said.’
‘Will?’
Louis’s lip is curled into a snarl. ‘You know what else he told me? About your so-called friend?’
‘Look, this isn’t –’
‘He’s a male prostitute.’
Sarah opens her mouth to speak, horrified. ‘He’s not – I mean – for God’s sake, Louis, this is crazy.’
‘He has sex with people for money.’
‘No, of course he doesn’t!’
‘What does he do for a living, then?’
‘He’s – he does something setting up franchises, therapy, I don’t know.’
‘Right. Perhaps you should ask him.’
Sarah’s hand flutters over her mouth. What can she say that can possibly make this better? He’s not going to listen if she tries to explain. He is not going to understand the subtleties, the nuances of this new relationship she explored and has now decided to end.
He stands up, pulls on his coat. Sarah feels suddenly faint, the room lurching sideways. ‘Louis, please.’
‘You’ve got form for this. Shagging around. Haven’t you?’
‘What?’
‘I saw you,’ he says, his voice icy. ‘I saw you, in the garden with Will at my birthday party. You complete slag. Dad wasn’t even cold in his grave, and you were drunk, shagging a kid half your age.’
Sarah stares, unable to move.
‘Not got much to say now, have you? No. And you wonder why I find it so bloody difficult to be anywhere near you? Well now you know. You disgust me,’ he says, and slams the door behind him.
Sarah rinses the plates, slowly, and puts each one carefully into the dishwasher, while breathing in gasping, jerking breaths and trying not to cry. If she cries, even briefly, Kitty will see and ask and she doesn’t know what she can possibly say.
She cannot even think about what he said to her. How could anyone have misread the situation so completely?
Her hands are shaking.
She puts a plate slowly back into the sink before she drops it, leans against the work surface, looking out of the window. Deep breaths. Slowly. You can do it. She mustn’t cry. Mustn’t spoil Kitty’s last day. She has to keep it together.
When she feels strong enough, she goes back into the living room. Kitty and Oscar are watching the rugby. Kitty is sitting sideways on the sofa, her legs across Oscar’s lap.
‘I’m just going to have a bit of a lie-down,’ Sarah says lightly.
‘Are you okay, Mum?’ Kitty asks, craning her neck over the back of the sofa.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache. It’ll go away if I have a nap. You don’t mind?’
‘Of course not. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Don’t let me sleep too late? Call me if I’m not up by four. I don’t want you to miss your train.’
‘Will do.’
Already she has turned back to the television.
Sarah goes upstairs and the dogs follow her, confused when she shuts the bedroom door. She stands for a moment, stunned, wondering what she’s doing here, what she can do next.
This isn’t me, she thinks. This isn’t the person I am. I am better at holding things in.
If Aiden’s car had been outside when Sarah returned from dropping Kitty and Oscar at the station, she would have gone in and spoken to him there and then.
As it is, she sits in the car for a while, looking at the cottage, thinking about Will and Aiden and what a complete mess she has made of everything.
‘He’s a male prostitute…’
He can’t be, he just can’t. He would be going off to meet women, perhaps bringing them home with him. She’s not seen him with anyone. She would know, she would be able to tell – wouldn’t she?
It’s rubbish – just another thing Louis has made up, to hurt her.
Isn’t it?
The shock of the confrontation with Louis left her unable to sleep, this afternoon. She lay still in the darkness, trying not to cry, trying not to make a noise, trying to think of something else to distract her. In the end she gave up and went downstairs, sat in the living room with a cup of tea trying to make sense of it all while Kitty and Oscar were getting their things together.
Louis saw her, with Will.
The thought of it is horrible, but now it’s out there she can t
hink of nothing else.
Louis hadn’t even wanted a party for his twenty-first; it was Kitty who persuaded him. She told him that his dad would have thrown him the biggest party he could imagine, which was true. It had been the worst possible year for all of them and nobody felt much like celebrating, but Sarah knew they had to start somewhere. And Jim’s death wasn’t Louis’s fault – why should he miss out on his special birthday?
And in the end it had been okay. Kitty had organised it all through Facebook with Louis’s friends and hers; everyone had been drunk. At Louis’s insistence, there was no food more elaborate than pizza. The dogs were staying at Sophie’s house. The music was loud, it was dark, and Sarah had retreated out into the garden.
And Will followed her, with his guitar. She remembered talking to him about nothing much. He was kind. He said she was a beautiful person, and that made her want to cry. He put his arms around her, and he kissed her.
She hasn’t thought about this bit in detail for years; perhaps she has blanked it out. She has always told herself that she was drunk, that it was a one-off, that it was a bit of a mistake.
The truth is, she had needed it. She had needed someone to hold her – even awkwardly, lying on the grass at the back of the garden – and tell her that she was doing okay. That she wasn’t bad. That, whatever Louis thought, none of it was her fault. In fairness she could happily have stopped at the gentle hug and the kind words, and maybe at the bristly bearded kiss that tasted of cider and weed, but when he put his hand under her top she didn’t stop him.
At first it was the shock of it, coming out of nowhere – what did he think he was doing? And then it was almost funny – this is Will, I’m old enough to be his mother! And then, seconds or perhaps minutes later, when his hand moved inside the waistband of her jeans and she still hadn’t stopped him, still hadn’t pulled away, she thought, perhaps, oh, well… and, I’m drunk. I’ll say I was drunk. It’s too late to back out now.
In the past few years, when she has thought of it, it has been with the clouded fondness of an event you’ve decided you cannot allow yourself to regret. She has pretended it was nice. She told herself she needed it, needed to feel human again, to remember that she was a woman and still young enough to do spontaneous, foolish things.