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The Choir on Hope Street: A gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy to make your heart sing!
Annie Lyons


‘I loved every minute of this fantastic story!’ Christie BarlowIt’s time to face the music…Natalie’s husband has just dropped a bombshell she never expected. Six little words no women ever wants to hear – ‘I don’t love you anymore’ – and her whole world has been turned upside-down.Caroline’s difficult mother has been kicked out of her nursing home! And with no one else able to take her in, she’s going to have to put the past behind her and invite her to stay.Nat and Caroline might live just a few doors away from each other but the two neighbours couldn’t be more different! Yet when the beloved Hope Street community hall is threatened with closure, only the community choir can save the day – if they can just find the perfect song in time…A gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy to make your heart sing! Perfect for fans of Debbie Johnson and Kat French.Praise for The Choir on Hope Street:‘An absolute gem of a book… I loved every minute of this fantastic story.’ Christie Barlow‘Wonderful! Uplifting! Delightful! A must read!’ Mandy Baggot‘A must read this spring!’ Laurie Ellingham‘An utterly beautiful, feel-good story.’ Holly Martin‘A fantastic read.’ Crafty Marie (top 500 reviewer)‘Emotional and heartwarming in equal measure!’ Rae Reads













ANNIE LYONS

Having worked in the worlds of book selling and publishing, Annie Lyons decided to have a go at book writing. Following a creative writing course, lots of reading and an extraordinary amount of coffee, she produced Not Quite Perfect, which went on to become a number one bestseller. Her second book The Secrets Between Sisters was nominated in the best eBook category at the 2014 Festival of Romance and Life or Something Like It was a top ten bestseller.

Her latest book, The Choir on Hope Street, is a story of power ballads, community, cake and hope. She tries to write stories which make people laugh and cry, although hopefully not at the same time. Annie lives in a shambolic money-pit of a house with her husband and two children plus a cat, who she pretends not to like. She enjoys channelling her inner Adele as part of her own beloved community choir and trying to grow cauliflower.


Available from Annie Lyons

Not Quite Perfect

The Secrets Between Sisters

Life or Something Like It


For The Churchfields Community Choir

– I can think of no finer people with whom to bless the rains.




CONTENTS


Cover (#ue0bb1ad9-b809-599b-846d-0d4a758887fe)

Title Page (#u9001d53b-fe0d-54ca-8f38-2bf4d5c701e5)

About the Author (#u9001d53b-fe0d-54ca-8f38-2bf4d5c701e5)

Booklist (#uc4f340e5-21a9-5219-b665-c06e0e065d8d)

Dedication (#ub9e3a6ea-e76e-5d2f-afe0-6f7441cc8a4f)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_6b3db3a8-41d7-5d45-9108-831d142de8b4)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_4ce7c6e8-33a1-5757-9c8d-1840649d9bc7)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ab1f43d1-c5a0-5a47-b37f-49ba845edf8a)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_dcd2cc4d-7652-589b-a77a-74da47c439be)

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_6264387b-5b05-5d3d-9129-6c1fd89e0043)

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_cb6c2ea2-3167-54ed-8555-bd4ee013891c)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_9cb0d975-9536-59b2-8323-e48959ff9542)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_62404ed7-a8ff-53e2-81cd-09e86539b638)

NATALIE


‘I don’t love you any more.’

That was it. Six words delivered so simply, as if he were reading the news.

‘Good evening and here is the news. The marriage of Natalie and Daniel Garfield, which lasted for fifteen years, is over. In a statement today, Mr Garfield said, “I don’t love you any more.” Mrs Garfield responded by punching him in the face and trashing the house.’

At least that’s what I wished I’d done later but at the time an odd sensation of calm descended. It was as if this wasn’t really happening to me. It was at best some kind of joke and at worst something that could be sorted.

This wasn’t in the plan. This kind of thing was never going to happen to us. Other people split up, their marriages disintegrating like a swiftly disappearing desert island, but that was never going to happen to us. We were rock-solid – a steady ship; Nat and Dan, Dan and Nat. It had the ring of one of those American teen shows that Woody loved to watch on Nick Jr.; all jazz hands and sparkly teeth.

We were a great couple. Everyone said so. We were the kind of couple that others looked at with awe and secret envy. Everybody loved Dan. He’s just one of those men who people like – old ladies, babies, men, women, children have all told me over the course of our marriage, what a really great guy he is.

I would go on nights out with my female friends as they ripped apart their partners and husbands, picking over their faults like vultures feasting on carrion. I would nod with sympathy but never really had anything to add. They would often turn their sleepy, drunken gaze to me, pat me on the shoulder and slur, ‘Course you’re lucky, Nat. You’ve got Dan. He’s such a lovely guy.’

And he was. Possibly still is.

Dan was my husband, my soul mate. Of course he had his faults. The underpants on the floor and the toilet seat in the perpetual ‘up’ position were an irritation, but not exactly a major crime against domesticity. He was, is a good man – a good husband and father. He was my happy-ever-after.

Naturally, we had disagreements and wobbles. Who doesn’t? We didn’t spend as much time together on our own as we would like but that’s to be expected. We’re busy with work, Woody and life. Obviously it would be lovely to go on the odd date-night or even have sex but frankly, we were usually too knackered. I’d always thought that the shared bottle of wine on Friday night with a movie was good enough. Clearly I have been labouring under a major misapprehension.

Initially, I went into full-on denial mode when he dropped the bombshell. I wondered later if my body had actually gone into shock in a bid to protect myself from the truth. Certainly at the time, my brain sent me a quick succession of messages to counter his statement: he didn’t mean it (he did), he’d been drinking (he hadn’t), he was tired (true) and angry (not true). It wasn’t until I’d picked over the remnants of that evening with various friends (my turn to be the vulture now) that I’d fully taken in the order of events.

It was a Tuesday evening. I hate Tuesdays. They make me feel restless and impatient. Monday is supposed to be the worst day but for me, it has always been Tuesday. I can deal with the post-weekend slump and Monday is usually my most productive day but by Tuesday, I am longing for the week to move ‘over the hump’ towards the downhill joy of Thursday. I often long for a glass of wine on Tuesday evenings but on this particular day I was disappointingly sober because I was having a so-called healthy week. At least I was before he said it.

It was around 8.30 and we had just finished dinner. Woody was reading in his room before lights-out and I had been about to go and tuck him in. I normally love this part of the day: the feeling that another episode of motherhood is successfully complete; no-one died. Everyone is safe.

If I had been paying attention, I would have noticed that Dan was particularly uncommunicative during dinner. Again, it wasn’t until later that I recalled the details: his downward gaze and hands fidgeting with the cutlery, his water glass, the pepper mill.

I had been telling him about a problem with my latest book. I am a children’s picture-book writer and have enjoyed some success with my series of books about ‘Ned Bobbin – the small boy with the big imagination’, as my publisher tags it. There have been six books so far and my editor wants another three but I was struggling with ideas and wondering whether to take him down the super-hero route.

When I recalled the conversation later, I realised that I had done all the talking; posing and answering my own questions with just the odd ‘mhmm’ or nod from Dan. That was the problem with being a writer – you spent too much time at home on your own with no-one to talk to.

I talk to myself all the time when I’m working. I read back what I’ve just written, talk to the radio or hold imaginary conversations with all manner of people, including Ned. I read somewhere that adults have a certain number of words they need to say in a day and that the word quota for a woman is higher than a man’s. I believe this. It isn’t unusual, therefore, for me to unpack my day to Dan when he gets home. I thought he liked it. Maybe I was wrong about that too.

I had finished my dinner: an unimaginative stir-fry containing any vegetable-like items I’d found in the fridge on opening it at 7.30. Woody had eaten earlier. He was eight years old and always starving when he returned home from school so I tended to feed him straight away and then either Dan or I cooked our dinner later.

I stood up to clear the plates, reaching out for Dan’s. He looked up at me and only then did I notice how pale he looked – his face, slightly pinched with age, but still handsome. He stared at me, unsmiling and I realised he was nervous.

‘What?’ I asked with an encouraging smile.

He swallowed and bit his lip. Then he said it.

At first I assumed he was joking.

‘Yeah right, and I’m having an affair with James McAvoy.’ I shook my head and made for the door.

‘Nat.’

I paused, turning to look back at him. He was crying and that was when I knew it wasn’t a joke. It was the first rumble of a threatening storm. Still, my brain told me to keep going, carry the plates out, kiss Woody goodnight, come down and sort this out. It was just another thing to be sorted, like pairing the socks in a basket of washing.

I could hear my heart beating in my ears as I padded upstairs, pausing outside my son’s bedroom door. I focused for a moment on the wooden letters stuck to the upper panel, spelling ‘WOODY’. Each letter was represented by an animal with the same corresponding first letter and I reached out a hand to stroke the wombat’s cheery face. I will sort this out. I’m good at sorting. All will be well.

I pushed the door open, blinking into the half-light, feeling immediately reassured by the sight of my son. He was sitting up in bed, reading by the light of the twisty snake-lamp we had given him last birthday, propped up by the patchwork cushion my mum had made him when he was born. His chin was resting on his chest, that customary frown creasing his perfect face. He flicked his gaze in my direction and then back down at his book.

‘How’s Mr Fox doing?’ I asked, as if nothing had happened, as if my world was still intact.

Woody sighed. ‘Not good. Boggis, Bunce and Bean shot him.’

‘Ooh, that’s not good.’

Woody shook his head in agreement but kept reading, his eyes darting left and right. I looked around his room at the dog-eared football posters, the framed prints of scenes from my Ned Bobbin stories, the Lego models and the shelves stacked with books. Woody was a bookworm. He had learnt to read at the age of three and not really stopped since. He had probably read Fantastic Mr Fox at least fifty times. I felt a sense of calm descend. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to nestle down at the end of Woody’s bed, to pretend Dan hadn’t said what he had just said and hope that it all went away. I felt safe there.

‘Time for lights-out, fella,’ said Dan’s voice from the doorway. I jumped, jolted back to reality. I couldn’t see his face properly but his voice was throaty from crying.

Woody glanced at him and then me. ‘Can I just finish this chapter, please?’ His expression was wide-eyed and impossible to resist.

Dan stepped forwards and ruffled his hair. ‘Okay, but then straight to sleep.’

‘’Kay,’ replied Woody. ‘Night, Mum.’

I leant down and kissed him. ‘Night, darling boy. Love you. Sleep well.’

‘Love you. Sleep well,’ repeated Woody like a robot. ‘Night, Dad.’

‘Night,’ said Dan. He turned towards the door and paused, looking back over his shoulder at me. ‘Coming?’

I stared down at my son as if he might offer a solution. He sensed my hesitation and looked up. ‘Night, Mum,’ he said again with a trace of impatience.

‘Night,’ I answered, turning and following Dan out of the room and down the stairs. We didn’t speak again until we reached the dining room.

‘I’m going to get a glass of wine,’ I said. ‘Want one?’

‘No,’ sighed Dan. ‘Thanks. We do need to talk, Nat.’

‘And that’s why I need a glass of wine,’ I said, making my way to the kitchen. I poured a polite helping and then doubled it. Taking a large gulp, I refilled it and carried the glass into the dining room. Dan was sitting at the table, his hands in prayer position.

I slid into the chair opposite. ‘So,’ I began, trying to stay calm and matter-of-fact. ‘What’s this all about?’

Dan ran a hand through his neatly parted hair and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I’m leaving.’

I was surprised to learn that two gulps of wine could inflame immediate righteous anger. ‘Because you don’t love me any more?’ I almost spat the words.

‘I think so.’

‘You think so?’ I snapped. ‘Because that’s a fucking big statement if you’re not sure. Do you love me or not? Simple question.’ My voice was increasing in volume and it unnerved me. My childhood had been punctuated by anger between my father and mother. As an adult I had made a monumental effort to keep mine under control but all bets were off now. Red was the new black.

Dan stared at his hands, unable to look me in the eye. ‘No, I don’t and I’m sorry.’

The sarcasm devil took control of my brain. ‘Well that’s all right then. If you’re sorry then I forgive you. That makes it all just fine.’ I folded my arms and stared at him.

I couldn’t get a grip on my brain somehow, couldn’t work out what I was supposed to say or how I was supposed to feel. I had no point of reference for this moment. It felt like somebody else’s life.

Dan tried to be reasonable. That was one of his greatest strengths. He was eternally reasonable and always took other people’s opinions seriously. We rarely argued and this was largely down to Dan. He was able to defuse a situation like the most practised of bomb-disposal experts. ‘I understand that you’re angry, Nat, and you have every right to be, but if you’ll let me, I’ll try to explain.’

I took another deep gulp of wine before holding up my glass as if proposing a toast and saying, ‘Please. Be my fucking guest.’

Dan swallowed. ‘It’s nothing you’ve done or said. You have always been the perfect wife.’

‘If you’re about to use the words, it’s not you, it’s me, I will get violent,’ I retorted.

Dan looked at me, tears brimming in his eyes. ‘I have tried to stay in love with you but I just don’t have those feelings for you any more. I love you but I’m not in love with you.’

My head was spinning from a combination of wine and fury. I stood up. ‘So you’re planning to leave?’

Dan nodded. ‘I want to speak to Woody first.’

‘Very decent of you, but you’ll have to come back to do that another time because I want you gone.’

‘Nat.’

People talk about a red mist and others talk about an out-of-body experience but for me it was neither. I thought nothing and felt nothing but pure white-hot fury as I smashed the wine glass to the floor and screamed, ‘GO! NOW! I WANT YOU FUCKING GONE!’

Whether out of self-preservation or respect for my feelings, Dan left the room. Moments later he reappeared with a bag, which I realised he must have been hiding in the back of his wardrobe for goodness knows how long. Waiting for the right moment. He had clearly been waiting for the right moment for a while.

He didn’t try to speak to me again before he left and I was oddly grateful to him for this. I heard the front door close like a full stop to my life so far. I looked around the room, numb with anger, unable to cry. I looked at the shards of broken glass and swore.

The annoying thing about a burst of righteous anger is that you have to clear up afterwards. I went to fetch the dustpan and another glass of wine.




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_4e0b553f-859f-5ca6-8f51-07e80e14d4d8)

CAROLINE


I actually thought that I was going to kill her. It was as if she had some kind of death wish. She just stepped into the road without even looking just as I was turning the corner. It was incredible. If I hadn’t stood up on the brake, I would have hit her much harder. Luckily, I was able to swerve so that I merely touched her and she sort of sat backwards onto the kerb. Of course, it had to be right outside the school, immediately after drop-off. Typical. I had to park on the hazard lines right outside the school, which obviously isn’t allowed until 9.30 a.m. The headmaster was standing at the gate and he glanced my way as I leapt from the driver’s seat.

‘Apologies, Phil!’ I cried, giving him a cheery wave. I noticed a gaggle of school mums who I knew from the PTA and tried to give them a reassuring nod as I hurried round to check up on her. I hoped they would just disperse but they had seen what happened and one of them was already on her way over. I recognised her as an annoying woman called Nula, who had been particularly disparaging about my idea to sell ‘Loom Bands’ at the summer fair.

‘They’re an absolute nightmare,’ she had moaned. ‘My cleaner is forever getting them stuck in the Dyson. And Alexis nearly took her little brother’s eye out with one last week.’

She was one of those mothers who attends every PTA meeting, criticising each idea and failing to offer any of her own. She also insisted on running the Pimm’s stall every year and drinking most of the profits. Her daughter had spat at Matilda when they were in Reception and I had obviously been on her hate list ever since I’d complained to their teacher. I didn’t care though – you have to learn to rise above these things when you’re the Chairwoman of the PTA. She was simply jealous that I had been elected to the post for a third consecutive year.

It took all my powers of control not to poke her in the eye as she rushed over, ignored my presence except for a haughty flick of her hair and sat down next to the woman, putting an arm around her shoulder.

‘Are you all right, Natalie?’ she asked in soothing tones. ‘I saw the whole thing and can act as a witness if you need me to?’ She flicked her gaze in my direction, her nostrils slightly flared. ‘What were you thinking, Caroline?’

Trouble-making viper. Luckily, Phil had arrived on the scene. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Garfield? Mrs Taylor. Would you like to come inside?’

‘I think she’s in shock,’ said Nula. ‘We should probably call an ambulance. And the police.’ A shadow of smug satisfaction passed over her face as she uttered this last sentence. That’s it, I thought, no Pimm’s stall for you this year. Three hours of Splat the Rat, you interfering shrew.

The woman had been staring at the ground all the while but now she seemed to come to her senses. She looked up at us all, her face wide-eyed and fearful. I noticed with distaste that she was wearing pyjama bottoms and a hoody with trainers. To the untrained eye, the trousers could have just about passed as a pair of those awful floral things that everyone insists on wearing these days but she didn’t fool me. I can spot M&S nightwear a mile off. Her eyes were heavy with dark shadows and her hair was scraped up into a loose bun. Many people think you can achieve this hairstyle in a matter of seconds but many people are wrong. The wispy-haired look takes practice and effort. This woman hadn’t applied either.

I don’t mean to sound judgemental but I despair of playground mothers sometimes. Where is their self-respect? We’re all pushed for time in the mornings – the least we can do is apply a little eyeliner and make ourselves presentable. We’re supposed to be role models for the next generation, after all.

I realised that I needed this problem to go away and fast. I knelt down in front of the woman and took her hands. I also remembered that you should never apologise in an accident situation. It makes you culpable. I leant forwards and smiled. ‘It’s Natalie, isn’t it? How are you? Is there anything I can do?’ I felt Nula’s grip tighten around her shoulder but I pressed on. ‘Are you hurt at all?’

Natalie stared at me. I gave her a reassuring smile, which she seemed to accept as she squeezed my hands. ‘I’m okay,’ she murmured. ‘I just want to get home.’

‘I can take you!’ I cried.

Nula pursed her lips in irritation. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? Shouldn’t we get you checked over, Natalie?’

Natalie shook her head. ‘No, really, I’m okay. It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going, but if you could take me home, I’d be grateful,’ she replied, looking up at me.

Nula dropped her arm from Natalie’s shoulder, barely able to mask her disappointment.

‘Of course!’ I said, helping her to her feet. ‘No problem at all. Thanks, Phil. Thanks, Nula,’ I said, flashing a particularly saintly smile at the latter.

Phil nodded. ‘Take care, ladies,’ he said, before disappearing back through the school gate.

Natalie walked towards my car and opened the door. ‘Let me know if you need anything, hon,’ called Nula, squeezing Natalie’s arm as she walked past. ‘Bye, Caroline.’

I acknowledged her with a nod before jumping into the driver’s seat. Natalie climbed in alongside me and slammed the door shut. ‘Ooh, mind the paintwork!’ I cried, trying to keep my voice light.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, reaching over for her seatbelt.

‘So, where to?’ I asked.

‘Hope Street, please, number thirty.’

‘Oh, I live on that road,’ I said. ‘Number 232.’

‘Ahh.’ Natalie nodded. ‘The posh end.’

Some people might have taken this as a criticism but I didn’t. That house was my pride and joy. It had been a shell when Oliver and I had bought it in pre-Matilda days. We had worked hard to restore and rejuvenate it and it was a labour of love, particularly for me. We’d converted the loft, restored the brickwork, opened up the kitchen and made it into the perfect family home. I made no apology for the money spent or the effort made. We worked hard and we deserved it. Jealousy was a cheap and easy emotion.

However, I could tell that Natalie was only teasing as she made the comment with an almost-smile. I rewarded it with a breezy laugh. ‘What a start to the day!’ I remarked as we made the short journey back to her house.

She didn’t answer so I looked over and noticed that her shoulders were shaking. At first I thought she was laughing until I noticed her tear-stained face. It was like something from a soap opera. She was nearing hysterics. Two thoughts entered my head; how am I going to stop her doing that and how can I deposit her back home as quickly as possible?

I scanned the numbers and pulled up outside her house. It was a pleasant enough terraced Edwardian. Oliver and I had looked at a couple of these during our property search but had found them too poky, at least that was what I felt. Oliver was happy to go along with me. He’s good like that. I remember when we first viewed our house, it had been dark and shabby, the overwhelming stench of old person lingering like rotting stew.

The estate agent, an upright impeccably dressed woman in her late fifties, who had reminded me of my wonderful headmistress, Mrs Biggs, had chosen her words carefully.

‘This was a treasured family home but it needs to be updated, of course.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Oliver, taking in the peeling wallpaper, damp stains and alarming orange-swirl carpet. ‘It could do with being condemned and re-built, if you ask me.’

The estate agent had shot him a look not unlike one Mrs Biggs might have given one of the cheekier girls at our school – amused but firm. ‘It just needs a little TLC. Mrs Brown hadn’t been able to undertake any home improvements in recent times.’

I had adopted my best Kirstie Allsop persona and walked from room to room, trying to avoid deep breaths because of the smell, opening my mind as one word emerged from the back of my brain.

Potential.

‘I think it has great potential,’ I observed, keeping my expression neutral. That’s one thing my father had always taught me. ‘Keep a poker-face, Caroline. Never give anything away.’

Oliver was watching me now. Unlike the estate agent, he could read me like a book. ‘I saw your eyes light up like a child’s on Christmas morning,’ he observed later. ‘I knew we’d found the one – resistance was futile.’ He kissed me on the nose as he said this. ‘My girl must have exactly what she wants.’

He was always so sweet like that back then. It was different when we were both working at the bank. We worked hard and partied even harder. They were very happy times, working all week, doing up the house at the weekends. We had builders in to start with but we finished it all ourselves. I can remember Saturdays, listening to cheesy music on the radio while we decorated. I feel as if I know every inch of that house.

I smiled at the memory but my thoughts were interrupted by a loud, gasping sob. I stared at Natalie. I’d almost forgotten she was there. She looked truly awful, her face red and blotchy. I watched with disgust as she used a sleeve to wipe one eye. I reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a tissue as I might do for Matilda. I held it out for her and she seemed so touched by this tiny act of kindness that it brought on a fresh round of tears.

‘Thank you. Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘You must think I’m a nightmare.’

Of course I did but I’m never rude. ‘Not at all,’ I lied. ‘We all have off days,’ although of course I rarely did.

‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’ she asked, dabbing at her nose with the tissue.

‘That would be lovely but I’m afraid I have an appointment.’ This was only a half-lie as my cleaner was coming at ten and I always liked to be home to make sure she did her allotted two hours. I’d caught her leaving ten minutes early once.

Natalie nodded and smiled. There was an awkward pause as if she was waiting for me to say something, possibly ask her what was wrong, but I wasn’t going to do this. I barely knew her and I had a policy never to get involved with strangers’ problems. People loved to be so dramatic these days, longing for others to notice them, to affirm their existence with a ‘poor you’ or a Like on Facebook. It was all very needy. I don’t want to sound harsh but I can’t bear needy people.

Happily, there was a tap on the car window. It was our postman and he was smiling in at Natalie. He was one of those men who insist on wearing shorts whatever the weather and he always seemed to be tanned and relentlessly cheerful. I couldn’t recall his name until Natalie opened the passenger door and greeted him.

‘Hey Jim. How are you?’

‘Fine, thanks Nat. You look a bit down. What’s up?’

I took this as my signal to escape. ‘I’ll let you get on then, Natalie,’ I said.

She turned her head towards me. ‘Okay then. Thanks for the lift, Caroline,’ she replied, climbing out of the car. She shut the door with a slam. Again. ‘Sorry,’ she winced, holding up a hand in apology.

I smiled and shook my head, pretending it didn’t matter before driving off. I glanced at Natalie and Jim in the rear-view mirror. They were already deep in conversation as he handed over a pile of letters, his face creased with concern. Natalie was obviously unloading that day’s drama. I couldn’t believe that she would be telling her troubles to the postman. The world had gone mad.

As I reached home and opened the front door, I exhaled with relief – another crisis averted. I noticed a plug of fluff hanging from the bottom of the radiator. I made a mental note to ask Rosie to give them a good clean and check the skirting boards while she was at it. I always took pride in keeping a clean and tidy house. Appearances are everything, after all.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_fd8991d3-65c7-5ab5-98ed-bc2c81058bf2)

NATALIE


‘So are you sure there isn’t someone else involved?’ asked Ed.

‘I’m as sure as I can be,’ I replied.

‘Has he actually said that though?’

‘Woody asked him.’ Ed looked surprised. I sighed. ‘I know. He came round so that we could tell Woody what was happening and it was only when he said it, that I realised I’d forgotten to ask.’

‘You forgot to ask?’

‘Don’t judge. I was really busy being very, very angry.’

Ed shrugged. ‘Fair point. So what did he say?’

‘He did the reasonable Dan thing, denied it vehemently, told Woody how much he loves him, that it’s not his fault, that he’ll be there for him whenever he needs him and that he’ll be staying at his mum’s for now. Blah, blah, textbook reassuring estranged father stuff.’

‘How did Woody take it?’

‘He asked for a biscuit.’

Ed surveyed the almost-empty tub of brownies. ‘Takes after his mother. Has Woody talked to you about it since?’

I shrugged. ‘Not really. I don’t think eight-year-old boys do heart-to-hearts and, to be honest, he probably doesn’t know what to think. I know I don’t. I keep wondering what I did wrong, searching my brain for the moment when it all went belly-up.’ I reached for another brownie.

‘You won’t find the answer in the bottom of a carton of cakes.’

‘Hmm, what about a tub of salted caramel ice cream?’

‘Na-ah.’

‘Jar of peanut butter?’

‘Food of the devil – definitely not!’

‘Shame, because that has basically been my diet since Dan left.’

‘Well, I have to say, you’re more together than I thought you would be.’

‘I did cry in between dropping Woody at school and you arriving.’

‘But you’re not crying now.’

‘I could start at any minute.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll slap you if you do.’

I laughed. ‘What would I do without you?’

‘Don’t start – you’ll set me off.’

‘No, seriously, Ed. I needed a dose of your straight-talking no-nonsense today. Thank you.’

He grinned. ‘Any time, sweet-cheeks. So what are you going to do?’

‘I’m sort of waiting for Dan to tell me what he wants.’ Ed grimaced. ‘What?’

He shrugged. ‘Just that I’m a bit surprised, that’s all. I thought you’d be firing up the sass machine, fighting for yo man, getting a little fierce, sister!’ He clicked his fingers and fixed me with a head-swivelling look.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Once more in English, please?’

‘You know what I’m saying, Nat. You’ve got to stand up and fight for your man!’

‘Who am I fighting? According to Dan, there’s no-one else involved.’

‘Which makes it so much easier! Think about it. You’ve been married for like a hundred years, haven’t had sex for six months.’

‘More like nine,’ I muttered.

‘Jeepers, it’s worse than I thought. You’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’, darlin’.’

‘If you’re about to break into song, I’m leaving.’

‘I’m serious, Nat. You’ve just become incredibly boring.’

‘Wow. I’m so glad we had this chat.’

He grabbed my arm. ‘I think you just need some proper time together, sweet-pea. Get dressed up, go out on a date, reacquaint yourselves a little.’

‘Do you think that’s all it is?’

‘Of course! You know I’ll have Woody any time – he is my godson, after all.’

‘Thank you. I just don’t know if a couple of dates is going to solve it though.’ I remembered the look on Dan’s face when he told me he didn’t love me any more. He didn’t look like a man whose problems would be solved by sharing a Wing Roulette with his wife at Nando’s. He looked like a man who wanted to get away. Fast.

Ed seemed to read my mind. ‘I know what Dan said but everyone says things they don’t mean sometimes. He may have thought it at the time but I’m sure it won’t last. I mean, there was a time when he didn’t love you at all and then he fell in love with you, so there’s no reason why he can’t just do that all again, is there?’

‘I guess,’ I frowned, doubting his reasoning but grateful for his attempts to reassure me.

‘It’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it? I know how much you still love him.’ I could feel tears mist my eyes. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart. He’s not going to fall back in love with a puffy-eyed snot monster.’ I laughed. ‘And you do look hot when you get dolled up on our nights out, so you should make the effort for Dan, don’t you think?’

I gave him a weak smile. He put an arm around my shoulder and kissed the top of my head. ‘Can’t I just marry you?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘That would be fine in terms of the no-sex thing but trust me, I’m a bitch in the morning. You deserve better, my gorgeous girl.’

I smiled. Maybe Ed was right about Dan and me. Maybe I’d been neglecting my own husband, forgetting that we needed to go out and have some fun. Plenty of couples hit these kinds of bumps in the road, so maybe I just needed to up my game a little. I started to think about where we could go – somewhere special with history. Perhaps we could go to the pub where we’d first met.

It had been just down the road from my college in town, a dark cavernous place with a huge bar on one side and uncomfortable tables and chairs on the other. I’d gone for a drink after lectures with a boy I fancied but who spent most of the time looking either at my breasts or over my shoulder for someone more interesting to talk to. In a desperate attempt to get his attention, I’d put ‘Truly Madly Deeply’ by Savage Garden on the jukebox with the intention of singing it to him. Yeah, I know. I’m one classy chick but desperate times and all that.

Just as the intro began, he’d downed his lager and declared, ‘Need a slash,’ before disappearing to the toilets. I took a large gulp of the cider I was drinking, even though I hated it and tried desperately not to look like Norma No-Mates.

Suddenly I was aware of a guy next to me at the bar. He was singing along to the track and much to my surprise, was looking straight at me as he did. I wasn’t used to this kind of attention from men so I looked away, pretending that it wasn’t happening, at which point, he grabbed my hand and continued with his full-on serenade. His singing was terrible but I was impressed that he knew all the words. Plus, he looked a bit like the guy from Savage Garden and he grinned at me with such dark-eyed intensity that I felt an unexpected urge to snog his face off. It was one of those moments when you find yourself thinking, I’m starring in the movie of my life here. When he finished singing, he kissed my hand and offered to buy me another drink. I accepted, ordering a glass of dry white wine because I detected that my life was about to change and I needed to assume a more grown-up persona. Fortunately, the other boy had found someone more interesting to talk to at the back of the pub and never returned. I woke up the following morning with Dan next to me and a hangover of epic proportions. I never usually slept with boys after a first date, much less a first meeting, but it just seemed to happen as if it was meant to. We’d barely had a night apart since. Until now.

So maybe that was the answer. We had to re-engage with our past, to remind ourselves of the feelings that had brought us together, to recapture some of our wasted youth.

‘Thank you, Ed. I appreciate your advice and support. You’re a good bestie,’ I told him, planting a kiss on his cheek.

‘Always here for you, angel.’ He smiled.

I sighed. ‘What a loss you are to the heterosexual female population.’

Ed grinned. ‘If I had a pound for every time someone has told me that.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘You’d have a pound?’

‘Har-de-fuckity-har. Now are we going to do any work today or what?’

I popped another brownie into my mouth. ‘Ab-fer-lutely,’ I said through a mouthful of chocolate deliciousness. ‘Fo me wha yoo got.’

Ed shook his head. ‘If only the fans of Natalie Garfield could see her at this moment.’

‘I fink you’ll find vey’d be very understanding – ’specially ver muvvas,’ I sputtered.

Ed shot me a disapproving look. ‘Are your fingers clean?’ he asked, picking up his large black art case.

‘Courth,’ I answered, wiping them hastily on my trousers.

‘Go and wash them,’ he ordered, unzipping the case.

‘’Kay, Dad.’ I carried our mugs into the kitchen. ‘Want another cuppa while I’m out here?’

‘No thanks, I’m all caffeined out.’

‘I’m just going to have one more,’ I said, flicking the kettle into life. I stared out of the window. It was early May and the garden was just beginning to bloom its way into colour. The apple tree looked particularly beautiful as it emerged into blossom.

I could remember the day we’d bought that tree. Woody had been three years old and Dan had decided that supermarket fruit and veg were poisoning his son. One Saturday morning, he had suggested a trip to the garden centre so that we could start to plant our own. It had been a beautiful spring day and I could remember Woody toddling happily between the rows of plants, pausing to point or shout, ‘Dat!’ at anything that interested him. It was one of those rare family outings where everything had gone to plan. Woody had napped in the car so that he was smiling and laughing throughout the visit, we had enjoyed carrot cake and coffee in the café (always a necessary pit stop for me) and Dan had been excited about the possibility of becoming the next Monty Don. He had filled our trolley with all manner of plants – courgettes, peas, sweetcorn, peppers, tomatoes and aubergines – before heaving three large bags of compost onto the space underneath. He had put his arm around me and kissed me and I remember feeling the sun on my face, hearing the gentle hiss of a sprinkler and the sound of Woody giggling with delight at a porcelain garden frog. It was a tiny moment and then Dan had disappeared with a wink.

‘Just got to get one more thing.’ He returned five minutes later, grinning and struggling with the tree in his arms. ‘I’ve always wanted an apple tree,’ he explained.

‘How are we going to fit it in the car?’ I laughed.

We drove home, singing along to ‘I Gotta Feeling’ on the radio, with our new tree poking out of the boot of our tiny VW Polo. I felt my heart sink at the memory as I gazed out at the tree, now festooned in cloud-like blossom.

‘You’re not moping are you?’ called Ed from the dining room. ‘You’ve gone very quiet.’

Damn him and his insightful perception. I had known Ed for over ten years and he knew me almost as well as Dan did. My publisher had paired us as a writer-andillustrator team for the very first Ned Bobbin book and we had worked together ever since. He was a bit like a favourite brother, collaborator and best friend all rolled into one. He was the first person I’d called after Dan left too. Admittedly, I didn’t call him until the next morning. I hadn’t wanted to speak to anyone before that. The ‘almost getting myself killed’ aspect to that morning had made me realise that I needed someone to talk to and, as was often the case when life got tricky or sad, it was Ed that I called.

‘I’m not moping. I was waiting for the kettle to boil.’

‘Very well,’ answered Ed. ‘Anyway, come and look at Ned in his super-hero outfit. I think he looks rather dashing.’

‘On my way,’ I replied, pouring boiling water into my mug. There was a knock at the door. I could tell almost immediately that the person on the other side was impatient. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they knock at a door. We have one of those very loud metal door-knockers that always makes me jump. I would have liked a doorbell really but we’d never got round to installing one and at least the knocker got my attention. Whoever it was tapped it loudly and rapidly so that I slopped my tea at the sound.

‘Damn, blast and bollocks!’ I cried.

‘Shall I get it?’ offered Ed.

‘Would you mind? Thanks.’ I reached for a cloth. I heard Ed talking to someone whose voice I didn’t recognise. They were speaking very loudly as people often do when they meet for the first time and are trying to size each other up. I heard Ed say:

‘She’s just in the kitchen, come through.’ I hastily wiped the tea splodges from my top before turning to be confronted with Tilly’s mum, Caroline, holding out a bunch of scarlet peonies.

‘Oh, hi, Caroline,’ I said. I was surprised to see her. We hadn’t spoken since the incident with the car, even though I’d seen her in the playground. Woody and Tilly were in the same class and I’d heard him mention her from time to time but I don’t think Caroline realised this. I got the feeling that I wasn’t her sort of person. She had been the Chair of the PTA for years and to be honest, women like that terrify me.

I had baked some cakes for a sale once and something had gone wrong with the buttercream icing so that they sort of slumped overnight. Added to this, I had topped each bun with a Malteser. My friend Mel had sidled over and snorted with amusement, ‘They look like boobs, Nat!’ just at the moment I was handing them over to Caroline. She had stared at the nipular cakes and then back at me before accepting the Tupperware box with obvious disdain and muttering, ‘Thank you but please make sure you bake something more appropriate next time.’ Obviously there hadn’t been a next time.

She was beaming at me now as if we were old friends. ‘Hi, Natalie. These are for you,’ she said, handing over the flowers.

‘Thank you. They’re lovely.’

‘My pleasure. I just wanted to check that you were okay after our little bump the other day?’

She said it like it was a fun thing – a mutually shared treat. ‘I’m fine, thanks, and you didn’t need to buy me flowers.’

‘Well, I was in Waitrose and I saw them so I thought I would, plus Matilda told me that your son is in her class and that you write the Ned Bobbin books. I had no idea, so I thought I would pop in on my way home, say, “Hi,” and just check that you’re all right. You seemed very upset the other day.’ She creased her face into a grimace of sympathy.

I realised then that she had only called in because of who I was. I get this from time to time. People are often very interested when they find out you’re a writer.

‘Wow! That must be fascinating!’ they say. It isn’t really. It’s a job like any other and it involves staring at a blank piece of paper, desperately trying to think of some words, so it can be quite stressful too.

Or they’ll smile at me with obvious envy. ‘You’re so lucky. That’s my dream job.’ Really? Because my dream job is to be Mary Berry’s official cake taster. You should aim higher, my friend.

‘You must earn millions,’ is another one I hear occasionally. Hmmm, not especially. Although I am waiting for the Hollywood version of Ned’s life to propel me towards retirement. It’s turning out to be quite a long wait.

I did love my job but it was as frustrating as any other and often quite lonely. Dear old Ned had become quite popular amongst pre-schoolers and contributed towards the mortgage but man, he could be demanding.

So it was clear that Caroline had just discovered a new fact and decided that she wanted a writer as a friend. Still, there are worse crimes and I am pretty fantastic, despite now being a single mother with a worrying brownie addiction. ‘It’s very kind of you to pop by,’ I said.

She smiled and nodded at me, glancing over at Ed and then back to me, waiting for an introduction. ‘Sorry.’ I said. ‘This is Ed Jarvis.’

‘Oh, my God! You’re the Ed Jarvis. You illustrate the Ned Bobbin books. We love those books. They were basically the only thing that would get Matilda to sleep,’ chimed Caroline. She shook hands with Ed. He gave her his best modest but charming smile. Caroline looked from Ed to me and back to Ed. ‘This is so exciting! I can’t believe I’m standing here with Natalie Garfield and Ed Jarvis – it’s amazing!’

Ed and I exchanged glances. ‘It is overwhelming,’ he joked. ‘To be honest, Nat and I rarely get any work done due to the overpowering nature of our awesomeness.’

I rolled my eyes whilst Caroline snorted with delight as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. ‘Soo, are you working on something at the moment?’ she asked, eyes fixed firmly on Ed.

I shot him a look, which I hoped would say, ‘No.’

‘Actually, I was about to show Nat my roughs for the new Ned book. Would you like to see?’

‘Oh, my God, I would love that!’ gushed Caroline, pressing her hands to her heart as if he’d just offered her a date with Ryan Gosling.

I shook my head in disbelief. The problem with Ed was his ego. He loved to show off and he loved to get approval for his work. I know this is a normal human thing but he was basically a three-year-old when it came to his artwork and I was his mum. Today. Caroline was the auntie who only visits on occasion and Ed knew he had a captive audience. ‘Follow me,’ he said, grinning, leading Caroline into the dining room.

‘Oh, wow!’ breathed Caroline, taking in the sketches. ‘These are gorgeous.’ Ed stood back, basking in the glory.

Actually, they were pretty magnificent. He had given Ned a super-hero make-over, complete with mask, cape and dinky boots.

‘You are so talented,’ declared Caroline.

‘Well, Nat?’ asked Ed, looking at me. Bless, I thought. He still needs approval from his mum.

‘They’re wonderful,’ I smiled. Ed beamed. I almost wished I had a gold sticker to give him. ‘Just one thing, do you think he should have his pants over his costume like that? Maybe he should have a belt with the NB logo instead?’

Ed’s face wrinkled into a frown as he took in the illustrations again. ‘I thought the pants thing made it more fun,’ he said.

‘I think it’s perfect,’ declared Caroline.

‘See? Caroline thinks it’s perfect and she’s an actual, real-life reader,’ said Ed in a know-it-all voice.

I knew he was teasing but I was irritated by Caroline’s interference. What did she know about books and writing? This was my world. She should stick to PTA cake sales and Farrow and Ball paint charts. I kept my voice calm. ‘Let’s see what the art director thinks, shall we?’

Ed glanced at me. He could tell I was riled. ‘Whatever you think, angel-cake.’

I smiled with gratitude. ‘Anyway, Caroline, thanks for dropping by and for the flowers.’

She looked at me in surprise. If she thought she was staying for a cuppa, she was mistaken. ‘Oh yes, no problem at all. It was great to see you and lovely to meet you, Ed,’ she cried with a sycophantic smile. I followed her to the front door. She paused, turning back to face me. She was one of those women who knew how to make the best of her features. She wasn’t necessarily beautiful but she wore the right make-up, clothes and hairstyle to make herself effortlessly attractive and therefore rather intimidating to me. ‘Actually, Natalie, there was something I wanted to ask you.’

Oh gawd, here it comes. She’s got a brilliant book idea that she wants me to look at or she’s going to enlist me to write all the copy for the PTA. And I’m too weak to say no. Damn you, Dan – this is all your fault.

‘Did you know that they’re planning to demolish Hope Street Community Hall?’

I was shocked. I had fond memories of the place. It was a fairly dilapidated building but it was much loved and used by the busy, chaotic toddler group, which provided a haven for new mothers on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings. I had found this a godsend when Woody was a baby. It was run by a group of retired ladies, who were basically like clucky, kindly hens, always willing to make you an industrial-strength coffee whilst they rocked and cuddled your fractious baby. On more than one occasion, during the intense early years, I had arrived looking like a character from A Nightmare On Elm Street, but returned home feeling almost human and reassured by their kindness and insistence that I keep up my strength by devouring at least twenty-five chocolate bourbons.

‘Oh, that’s really sad,’ I said, feeling my eyes mist at the memory and then hating myself for being so bloody emotional at the moment.

‘I’m glad you feel like that,’ said Caroline, thrusting a flyer into my hand. ‘Save Hope Street Community Hall’ was printed on it in large red letters with details of a forthcoming meeting, which I noted with increasing dread was due to be held at Caroline’s house later that week. I avoided her gaze by staring down at the flyer. ‘So you’ll come? I’m going to leaflet this street and the surrounding ones today. I think we’ll get a huge response.’

I swallowed, ready to make my excuses. Single parenthood wasn’t a status I wanted but it was a trump card today. ‘Oh, I don’t think I can make it. There’s no-one to look after Woody,’ I explained.

‘Won’t your husband be home?’ she asked.

‘Not any more,’ remarked Ed, appearing behind us.

I glared at him. To his credit, he recoiled in horror, mouthing ‘Sorry’ to me.

Caroline’s eyebrows were raised and I realised that I would need to explain before she cranked up the rumour-mill in the school playground. I sighed. ‘My husband and I are having a few problems,’ I said, feeling annoyed that despite my writer’s credentials, this was the best I could come up with.

‘Oh. Oh dear,’ she said in a way that sounded to my ears like, You’ve clearly failed. I’m pretending not to judge you, whilst judging you. ‘Well, I do hope you manage to sort it out and persuade him to come home. I don’t know what I’d do if Oliver ever left. Not that he would, of course.’

‘You can never be too sure,’ I retorted.

‘I know my husband,’ said Caroline with a thin smile.

‘I thought I knew mine too,’ I replied with narrowed eyes.

‘Anyway, ladies!’ cried Ed, detecting the start of a bitch-fight. ‘I love the sound of your campaign, Caroline, so I’m more than happy to baby-sit for you, Nat.’

‘Thank you,’ I said through clenched teeth.

‘Thank you,’ repeated Caroline, beaming at Ed in adoration. ‘See you on Thursday then, Natalie. 7.30 sharp. Lovely to meet you, Ed.’

‘You too.’ Ed said, nodding with a grin.

Caroline gave us both a neat little wave as she skipped down the steps into her stupidly large, gas-guzzling car. ‘Byeee,’ she trilled before driving off in a haze of planet-destroying fumes.

‘Judgemental cow!’ I cried as I slammed the door behind me.

‘I thought she was nice,’ teased Ed.

‘Shut up,’ I said, jabbing him in the chest. ‘You like anyone who admires your pictures. You’re basically a three-year-old in a man’s body.’

‘Guilty as charged,’ he laughed, holding up his hands. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, as I pulled on my coat and grabbed my bag from the kitchen.

I fixed him with a look. ‘I’m not having that prissy tiger mother judging me. And you’re right. I need to be more proactive if I want to save my marriage.’

‘So-o?’

‘I’m going to surprise Dan at work and take him out for lunch, get the campaign rolling.’

‘Good for you, honey,’ he smiled. ‘Good for you.’

An hour later, I was standing outside Dan’s offices, checking my appearance in the window of the glass-fronted building. Ed had encouraged me to slow down, change into something ‘casual but sexy’, as he called it. My options had been limited but the blouse and jacket looked pretty good. ‘And brush your hair,’ he instructed. I had even put on lipstick. Usually, I just applied foundation and a dab of blusher so as not to frighten the Reception children in the school playground but actually, it felt good to make more of an effort. I did my best to stride with confidence into the building. This is always tricky where revolving doors are concerned but I managed to make it to the reception desk without having to go round a second time or falling over.

The woman behind the desk was immaculate with perfect hair, nails and teeth. A fleeting concern that Dan was having an affair with her leapt into my mind. I could feel my heart thundering as I approached the desk and said, ‘Please could you call Dan Garfield for me. It’s his wife.’ I watched her face carefully at these words. No flicker of recognition, guilt or jealousy. Calm that imagination, Nat, you crazy fool.

‘Just a moment, please.’ She smiled, putting through a call. ‘Dan Garfield? I have your wife here for you.’ She listened to the reply. ‘Er, okay, well she’s standing right here. Do you want to speak to her?’

I frowned with confusion as she held out the receiver. ‘Hello, Nat?’ said a voice. ‘This is Dan’s colleague, Penny.’ I could vaguely remember meeting her on a trip to the office with Woody once. She was pretty but I recall Dan saying that she was a bit annoying. Maybe that was a red herring, maybe she was in fact his dream woman and was about to confess to me.

‘Hello?’ I said, keeping my voice guarded. ‘Is Dan not available?’

‘He’s left for the day,’ she explained.

‘Oh. Right.’

‘Yes, sorry. He had another hospital appointment.’

‘Pardon?’ The world seemed to blur in and out of focus.

‘Another hospital appointment?’ said Penny but with less certainty this time. ‘Sorry, Nat, I assumed you knew and had just forgotten.’

‘Erm, yeah, of course, the hospital appointment,’ I stuttered, not wanting to seem like more of a fool than I already felt.

‘It’s at St Peter’s and he only left about ten minutes ago so you can probably catch him up. I’m sure he’ll be glad of the company. He said how boring it was waiting last time.’

‘Yes. Great. Thanks, Penny.’ I handed the receiver back to the receptionist. ‘Thanks. Thank you very much,’ I said, needing to fill the air with words as a rising tide of panic swept over me.

I wasn’t sure who was making my body walk out of the building, onto the street and along the road. All I knew was that I had to get to Dan. I had to be with him because suddenly I realised why he had left me. He was ill and he was going to die and in his ever-reasonable, ever kind and gentle way, he was trying to spare my feelings by facing it on his own. But I wasn’t going to let that happen. I was going to go to him, comfort him and offer him all the support he needed. He wouldn’t have to face it on his own. I would be there with him, right until the end.




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_cb689c93-ae91-5b20-a4d2-011d4e2d4f9b)

CAROLINE


‘Okay, everyone, thank you for coming. Let’s make a start, shall we?’ I gave the group seated in my kitchen a warm encouraging smile. I remembered running meetings from my years at the bank and I’d always loved that dynamic buzz of people coming together, sharing their ideas and making things happen. Admittedly this was small beer compared to the deals I’d been involved with at Sheridan’s but still, it was important.

Life was very different since I’d given up work but I told myself that it was a good different. Oliver went out to work, I stayed home and worked for Matilda – a demanding but nonetheless rewarding employer. Since she’d started school, I’d had time to take on worthwhile projects within the community, whether it be the PTA or this campaign to save Hope Street hall.

I had always thrown myself into life, done my best and aimed for excellence. I know some people feel intimidated by me. I can’t blame them. I try to live up to my old school motto, Ad summa nitamur – ‘Let us strive for perfection’. I know this isn’t for everyone. Perfection is such a final word, but I believe you have to try. Anything else is just giving up.

Besides, I know people value me because I get things done. I’m on first-name terms with Julie in the school office and Mr Metcalfe, the Head, publicly thanked me after the summer fair last year. That’s the thing, you’re either a doer or a moaner. I never moan, I learnt that from my dad. He grabbed life by the throat and got on with it, even when he was ill.

‘I’ll go down fighting, Caroline,’ he’d told me right at the end when he was in that awful place. I’ve never forgiven my mother for letting him die in there, surrounded by strangers. I insisted on staying by his side. I even slept on the floor one night whilst my mother went home to her comfortable bed. Dad had told me not to judge her, that it was hard for her, but I didn’t see it.

My mother and I never talked about it, not even after he died. In fact, we hardly saw each other for a while. It was better that way. My grief was very different to her grief. Sometimes, I wonder if she felt anything at all – I certainly never saw her cry. It might have been different if I’d had a sibling to talk to but it was just her and me. We didn’t have anything to say. I did try on a couple of occasions but she would always change the subject. It was as if Dad hadn’t existed somehow, as if he were gone and that was that.

I took out a folder and handed copies of the agenda I had typed earlier to Phil, Head of Matilda’s school, who was sitting to my left. ‘Please take one and pass them on,’ I beamed. I was pleased with the turn-out. There were six of us and I had received several e-mails offering additional support too. ‘So, shall we go round the group and introduce ourselves?’ There were nervous murmurs of agreement so I decided to take the initiative. ‘I’m Caroline Taylor. I’m chair of the PTA at Felmingham Primary.’ I shot a smile at Phil, who nodded in reply. ‘And I’ve started this campaign because I think we all feel that Hope Street hall is an important part of our community.’

‘Yeah, and we don’t want the bloody Tories selling it off to some property developers to build posh houses that no-one can afford!’ cried a large bald man, who I recognised as our postman. I shot him a look. I noticed that he was still wearing shorts. ‘Sorry, Caroline,’ he added. ‘Didn’t mean to jump in.’

‘No, it’s fine. We were going to go round the room one at a time but I’m glad you feel so strongly. Please, go on.’

He smiled at the group. He reminded me of a bear – he had a huge chest and a broad smiling face. ‘I’m Jim the postie – you all know me. I live on the next street over in my parents’ old house. I’ve lived here all my life and I can remember us celebrating the Silver Jubilee in that hall. My old mum used to tell me about the dances they had there during the war to keep up morale.’

I nodded my encouragement, already thinking about the flyers I could ask him to deliver on his rounds. ‘So the hall has history. Phil, do you want to go next?’

Phil had been sitting back in his chair but he sat bolt upright as I spoke. He had swapped his sharp headmaster’s suit for a casual-smart jumper and jeans. I appreciated Phil’s style. He was well dressed and always professional. I think that’s why we got on so well. ‘Hi, I’m Phil, Head of Felmingham Primary. I agree with Caroline that the hall is an important part of our community. We’ve always had links to St David’s Church, which I believe has used the hall in the past. I had a word with Father George, but sadly they only rent it from the council and they don’t have the money to take it on.’

‘Is that what it’s all about?’ asked a woman who I didn’t know. ‘I’m Pamela Trott, by the way. I run the Brownies and help with the toddler group. It strikes me that all these councils care about these days is money. What about the people? What about the kiddies and the mums and the old folk? Where’s the sense of community?’

There were murmurs of agreement. ‘Well, I see the community coming into my store every day,’ said a school mother, who I recognised from the shop at the end of the road. ‘I’m Doly and I run the shop with my husband Dev. We know most people on these streets and we know they don’t want the hall to close.’

‘But what can we do?’ asked Pamela, looking worried.

‘Shall we finish introducing ourselves and then have a look at the agenda?’ I said, keen to get us back on track. ‘Natalie?’ I noticed her jump as I said her name. I also noticed that she was already on her second glass of wine and had nearly finished working her way through a bowl of root-vegetable crisps. Apart from Doly, she was the only school parent present. I had hoped that my school-mother friends, Zoe and Amanda, might appear but they had sent me texts about half an hour earlier with their excuses. It was fine, I knew I could count on their support when it was needed. I gave Natalie a smile of encouragement. ‘So, Natalie is the children’s book author, Natalie Garfield,’ I said. She looked embarrassed. ‘It’s a shame Ned can’t come and save us from this,’ I joked. Natalie gave a feeble smile. I wasn’t quite sure why she’d come if she wasn’t ready to take part. I ploughed on. ‘So do you have any ideas for the campaign?’

‘Er, fundraising?’ offered Natalie vaguely. I could tell that she wasn’t taking this seriously.

‘Well, yes, that might help but I think we need to be more focussed. If we could turn to the agenda, I have drawn up what I think needs to happen. I’ve done some research and the council are asking for offers in the region of half a million for the land. They say that there’s room for three properties. I am proposing that we raise the money to buy it ourselves and run it as a local community project.’

‘We’re going to need to have lot of bake sales to raise that kind of cash,’ observed Natalie, who had topped up her glass and was starting to slur her words a little. I noticed Doly raise her eyebrows in agreement.

‘There used to be a choir,’ said Jim, his eyes sparkling at the memory. ‘They were pretty good, as I remember. My dad used to sing tenor.’

There were murmurs of approval. ‘I remember that,’ smiled Pamela. ‘They won prizes, didn’t they?’ Jim nodded. ‘I do love a sing-song,’ she added. ‘And the hall would be a lovely place to hold it.’

‘The Hope Street Community Choir,’ I offered. ‘I love the sound of that.’

‘Sorry, Caroline,’ interjected Natalie. ‘But how is that going to save the hall?’

I could see that Natalie was going to be a challenge. She was clearly one of those people who wore the issues from their personal life like a badge. She might as well have been wearing a T-shirt with the slogan, ‘My husband has left me and this is now your problem.’ I couldn’t comprehend this kind of attitude. Everybody has problems. You can’t foist them on all and sundry. That was plain selfish. Put up, shut up and get on with it. That was the only way.

I gave her a business-like smile. ‘Choirs are the big thing at the moment, particularly community choirs. It will give our campaign a focal point. We can hold concerts, get the local media involved, really show the council that the hall is needed. What do we think?’

‘Who’s going to run it?’ asked Doly. ‘We need a choirmaster.’

‘I think I know just the man for the job. Excuse me for a second,’ said Phil, taking out his phone and leaving the room.

I was excited at the thought, as if we’d hit upon a really strong idea. ‘So, can I count on everyone to join?’ I asked.

Pamela, Doly and Jim nodded, with smiling enthusiasm.

‘I’ve got nothing else to do,’ sighed Natalie with a ‘woe is me’ look. She took another large gulp of wine. I made a mental note to only hand out the cheap stuff next time.

I heard my phone buzz from the counter with a call. I picked it up and glanced at the ID, feeling irritated as I recognised the number. They were always phoning me and to be honest, it was getting a bit much. I paid them enough, I didn’t see why I should have to solve whatever problem they were having. They were the professionals and should get on with the job I’d employed them to do. I would be calling them in the morning to tell them exactly that.

I cast the handset to one side and turned back to the room, noticing with annoyance that Matilda was out of her bed and standing in the middle of the kitchen, grinning at everyone.

‘Ahhh, bless her, what a poppet,’ gushed Pamela, reaching out to pet Matilda’s cheek.

Matilda was in her element. ‘I just saw Mr Metcalfe,’ she observed proudly, ‘and you’re our postman and you’re Sadia’s mum,’ she said to Doly, ‘and you’re Woody’s mum,’ she added to Natalie.

‘Matilda, what are you doing out of bed?’ I asked, adopting a stern tone.

Matilda frowned at me. ‘Couldn’t sleep. You’re too noisy,’ she declared. Everyone laughed and she joined in. She loved an audience. ‘When’s Daddy coming home?’

This was a good question. I had called him earlier in the hope that he might make it home for bedtime so that I would get a moment to prepare for the meeting. I could tell he was in a bar. I heard someone order a large Sauvignon Blanc.

‘Sorry, darling, just had some figures to finish,’ he said.

‘I know you’re in the pub,’ I replied. ‘I’m not an idiot, Oliver.’

He had tried to sweet-talk me then, he could tell I was cross. ‘I just popped in for one, my love. And anyway, I knew you had your thing so I thought it might be best if I stayed out of the way. I’ll be home soon. Love you.’

I had hung up, swallowing down my fury. My thing? What was my thing these days? Running the PTA, ferrying Matilda to whichever social event was lined up and now this community hall campaign. I used to run a department of over one hundred people, delivering profits in excess of twelve million pounds and now, I was trying to persuade lazy mothers to bake cakes whilst negotiating with my cleaner about the removal of limescale from the shower screen. If I thought about it for too long, I would probably explode so I tried not to think about it. I got on with my life.

‘Daddy’s working late,’ I replied, more for the benefit of the assembled company than Matilda. ‘And you need to go back to bed, otherwise you’ll be tired in the morning.’

Matilda scowled and folded her arms. ‘Don’t want to. I want to see Daddy first.’

I folded my own arms in reply. She stared back at me in defiance. I get this with Matilda. She’s always been her father’s princess and milks it for all it’s worth. I can’t blame her. I used to do the same with my dad.

I could remember snuggling on his lap, watching television while my mother was in another room. I can’t ever remember hugging my mother. I must have done but she always seemed so remote and forbidding.

I do recall one time when a child had been unkind to me at school. I can’t remember exactly what had happened but I remember being very upset. My mother was standing in the playground waiting for me. I approached her in tears but instead of reaching out her arms and pulling me to her as I would do with Matilda now, she had waited until I was by her side and then turned away and walked towards the gate. I had been incensed by her lack of feeling and my crying grew louder. At that moment she had grabbed my arm, ushering me out of the gate, hissing under her breath, ‘Caroline! You’re making a scene. Stop it at once!’ I had stopped out of shock but it had started again when we got home, whereupon my mother had sent me to my room until dinner time. I was still upset by the time my father came home. He had appeared at the door and my tears began afresh.

‘Hey, hey, what’s all this then?’ he asked. I told him everything including how my mother had sent me to my room.

He tried to make excuses for her. ‘Your mother has a lot on her plate at the moment. I’m sure she just didn’t understand.’ He comforted and consoled me and we went downstairs to eat dinner in silence, my mother’s face fixed and severe. Later that evening, I heard them arguing. I crept out of my bedroom and sat at the top of the stairs, trying to pull my nightie around my freezing legs and feet. They were in the dining room with the door closed but I could hear my father’s voice.

‘She’s just a child! All she wanted was some sympathy.’

There was a pause before my mother replied. ‘That’s all anyone wants, Charles.’ Then she opened the dining-room door, picked up her coat and bag and left the house. I sat a little longer, my heart beating in my ears, and then I heard my father crying. I’d never heard a grown-up cry before so it was unsettling. Part of me wanted to go downstairs and comfort him but part of me felt appalled. Parents weren’t supposed to cry. However, I was more furious with my mother. She had made my father cry and left him alone. I crept back to bed and lay awake for hours until I heard my mother return and my parents go up to bed.

I am very aware of my relationship with Matilda when I think of my own mother and I have tried my hardest to ensure that I’m always available for her. We get along well enough, bake together, read together, all the things a parent is supposed to do with their child, but when her father comes home, it’s as if I fade from her line of vision. I tell myself that it’s because I’m the one who’s here the whole time doing the boring stuff – school runs, homework, cooking and of course dishing out discipline but still, I would like her to look at me as she looks at Oliver sometimes.

I suppose I should just be happy that she loves her father so much. Fathers are the keepers of their daughter’s hearts and I know mine fractured when my dad died. If I’m honest, it’s never healed.

‘How about I tuck you in, poppet?’ asked Pamela, holding out a hand to Matilda. ‘I remember when my daughter was little and she couldn’t sleep, I’d sing her a lullaby. Would you like me to do that?’

Matilda looked up at her and nodded shyly. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘If you’re sure, but no more nonsense, young lady.’

Matilda pursed her lips. ‘Why don’t you give Mummy a kiss before you go up?’ suggested Pamela.

I held my breath and felt my heart sink as Matilda turned on her heels and headed for the stairs. ‘I’ve already kissed her goodnight,’ she replied without looking back.

I glanced at the other mothers in the room. ‘Children, eh?’ I cried, laughing off my hurt and embarrassment. My phone rang again. It was the same number as before. I seized the handset and turned it off just as I heard the doorbell ring. ‘Please, help yourself to more nibbles and wine,’ I said to everyone before heading down the hall.

I opened the door and was surprised to find a man of around thirty, clean-shaven and smartly dressed, smiling at me. He seemed familiar somehow.

‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I hear you’re in need of a choirmaster. I’m Guy Henderson. I’m the new music teacher at Felmingham Primary. Phil just called me.’

‘Goodness!’ I exclaimed. ‘That was quick. Come in.’ I led him down the hall to the kitchen. He nodded to the group and smiled at Phil as he entered the room.

‘Everyone,’ I said. ‘This is Guy Henderson and he’s the new choirmaster of Hope Street Community Choir.’ There was a small cheer.

I noticed Natalie nudge Doly and whisper, ‘I’m definitely going to choir now.’

‘Lovely to meet you all. I’ve only just moved back to the area but I’d be delighted to help your cause. I’ve always wanted to set up a community choir,’ said Guy, smiling.

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘That’s wonderful – thank you. Why don’t we hold our first rehearsal next Thursday – Pamela, would you be able to book the hall please? It seems like a fitting venue.’

Pamela nodded. ‘Course, ducks – can’t wait to get singing!’

‘Fantastic – thanks so much. May I suggest that we all try to get as many people as possible to sign up?’ Everyone murmured agreement. I reached for my glass. ‘I would like to propose a toast. To the Hope Street Community Choir!’

‘The Hope Street Community Choir!’ we chorused.

‘I’ll drink to that!’ cried Natalie, raising her glass with some gusto and almost falling onto Guy. ‘Oops, sorry,’ she said, giggling. ‘Maybe I should have a glass of water.’

Or maybe you should lay off the free booze, I thought as I followed her over to the sink. ‘Let me get that for you,’ I insisted, fetching one of Matilda’s plastic beakers from the cupboard and filling it with water. I was not about to risk my Dartington Highballs. They were a wedding present.

Natalie accepted the cup with a lop-sided grin. ‘I bet you think I’m a complete mess, don’t you?’

Not far off. I pursed my lips into a thin smile, thinking it might be best if I didn’t answer.

‘Well, you would be right, Caroline,’ she slurred, gesturing towards me with her cup and slopping water onto the floor in the process. ‘Whoops. Sorreee,’ she cried.

Unbelievable. It was like having another child in the house. ‘It’s fine. I’ll get it,’ I said, reaching for the kitchen towel.

‘No, no, no, let me,’ she offered, lurching forwards and wresting it from my grasp. ‘My mess. I’ll clear it up.’ She knelt down and made a half-hearted attempt to wipe up the spillage. She remained kneeling on the floor for a moment, gazing up at me like a child hoping for a biscuit. ‘So anyway, guess what I did last week. Go on, have a guess.’

‘Erm, you wrote another book?’ I offered, glancing around the room in embarrassment, willing her to stand up.

‘Haha! Very good. No. Last week, I thought my estranged husband was dying.’

I stared down at her. ‘Oh, my goodness. How terrible.’

Natalie gave a drunken nod. ‘Yes. Very terrible. And so I followed him to hospital, to offer my support and be there ’til death us do part and all that.’

‘Well, that was very good of you.’ I could see Phil looking over, a frown of concern on his face. I gave him a reassuring smile.

‘I know,’ slurred Natalie, staring down at the balled-up paper towel in her hand. ‘I am basically a saint. So I turn up at the hospital ready to do my weeping wifey bit and guess what he was there for?’

‘I have no idea.’

Natalie held my gaze as she delivered the punchline. ‘A hernia.’

‘A hernia?’

She nodded gravely before her face dissolved into hysterical laughter. ‘A bloody hernia! I thought he was dying and he’s just got a hernia.’ She hugged herself, rocking back and forth as she laughed. Pamela and Jim smiled over at us, wanting to share the joke. I felt a rising sense of panic. I have to get this crumbling wreck of a woman on her feet and out of my house. Fast.

‘How about you drink some more of that water before you head home?’ I suggested with a breezy smile, trying to help Natalie to her feet. She was surprisingly heavy.

She staggered to a standing position and patted me on the chest. ‘Thank you, Caroline. You’re a pal,’ she declared, patting my shoulder, her breath ripe with booze.

I took a step back. I wanted to extricate myself as quickly as possible. Fortunately, Guy had made his way over and was smiling at us both. ‘Caroline, I’m going to shoot off but I just wanted to say that I’ll see you next week and here’s my number,’ he said, handing me a card.

Natalie raised her water glass drunkenly at him. ‘Looking forward to it, Gareth Malone,’ she giggled. He grinned.

‘I’ll show you to the door,’ I said with relief, hoping that Natalie would take the hint and follow Guy’s lead soon. ‘So, you used to live round here?’ I asked as I led him down the hall.

‘Yes, I grew up a few miles away.’

‘We might know some of the same people. My maiden name was Winter – Caroline Winter.’

Guy froze as if he’d remembered something before turning to me and shaking his head. ‘No, sorry. I don’t think we’ve met before.’

‘Funny,’ I said. ‘You look so familiar.’

‘Yes, I get that sometimes – people are always saying that I remind them of someone. I have an everyman kind of face. Anyway, I must go. Good to meet you, Caroline. See you next week.’

‘Thanks Guy. Bye!’

When Oliver came home later that evening, I was buzzing with excitement. He had bought me an enormous bouquet of creamy white roses and was slightly drunk but full of smiles and apologies for being late.

I kissed him on the lips. I was too euphoric to be cross any more. ‘That’s a lovely welcome home,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I deserve it though,’ he murmured as he started to kiss my neck and run his hands over my body. ‘How was the meeting?’

‘It was great,’ I replied, moaning with delight at his kisses and wandering hands.

‘That’s good, that’s really good,’ he replied, as I reached my hand down the front of his trousers and felt him stiffen at my touch. I still had the power, you see. We still desired one another and that meant the world to me. For all his working late and my stay-at-home status, we still had the connection from when we were young and carefree. We still found each other attractive, we still wanted each other but it was more than just desire.

We remembered what it was like when we both worked; how we would meet after work for drinks or dinner, return home to our flat in Dulwich, make love and then fall asleep facing one another, connected by all the things we wanted in life. This connection remained. Whatever else has happened since, Matilda and all the joy and heartbreak we’d shared, that connection was still there. We wanted the same things and it was a pretty simple wish list – a happy child, a beautiful home, nice holidays, a good bottle of wine. We loved our life and we loved each other. It was as simple as that. People over-complicate things but I know what’s important.

So as he parted my legs and nudged his way inside me, as we moved together as one, I felt that connection again. All was well in that moment. Everything was perfect.




CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_cb689c93-ae91-5b20-a4d2-011d4e2d4f9b)

NATALIE


I nearly didn’t go to choir. Ed had promised to babysit again but had phoned earlier that day full of sheepish apology. Some guy he’d been lusting after for months had asked him on a date. Could I get another babysitter and he promised that he’d do the next one? I brushed it off.

I wasn’t that bothered about going. I’m not sure why I’d agreed. Actually, I am. I’d knocked back one too many glasses of Caroline’s delicious wine. I saw the label and knew it had come from Waitrose. Anyway, I’d got a warm feeling from the wine and the assembled company. I like Jim. He’s been the local postman forever and he is a kind man. Dan used to joke that he fancied me but he’s fifty if he’s a day and I’ve never seen him look at me in that way. He’s like the street’s uncle. I also remember Pamela from toddler group. She’s got a good heart and I’ve always liked Doly from the shop. Woody and her daughter Sadia are good friends too and we sometimes help each other out with school pick-ups. The whole group had a lovely feel and when Guy turned up and Caroline proposed a toast, I got carried along by it. Plus, I thought it would be a new hobby, something to make me more interesting in my bid to save my marriage. Singing was sexy – people love singers. Look at Taylor Swift and Rihanna – they had more men interested in them than I’d had jaffa cakes and I’ve eaten a lot of jaffa cakes.

However, one week later, in the sober light of day and with a viable ‘get-out’ clause, I felt complete relief. To be honest, I hadn’t felt like going anywhere much since Dan left. I felt vulnerable, as if everyone could see through my skin to the raw pain just below the surface. I knew that Caroline already had me down as a complete fruit-loop and I wasn’t ready for another dose of ‘my life’s so much better than yours’. Plus, I’d really gone off brushing my hair and making an effort. I figured I could get away with it. Writers are supposed to be pasty-faced weirdos with an aversion to socialising. They’re too busy creating to bother with other people or deodorant.

So it was something of a shock when I opened the door just after seven to find Dan standing on the doorstep, a lop-sided smile on his lips. I glanced down at my bobbled bunny pyjama-bottoms, tracing my gaze up to my oh-sobaggy but oh-so-comfortable hot-pink hoodie. No-one could pull this look off and call it style, not even Kate Moss.

‘This is a surprise,’ I ventured, offering the understatement of the year. I realised at that moment that a fortnight had passed since Dan’s departure. This time two weeks ago, we had been happily married. Everything had been fine. What a difference a bombshell makes.

I felt a sudden surge of panic that he was coming round ‘to talk’. I didn’t want to be dressed like this when we talked. I wanted to be wearing something smart and sexy – those jeans he’d always liked with that top he said made my breasts look magnificent. I wanted to look magnificent as he told me why he wanted our marriage to end. I wanted him to be sure because I felt certain that if I reminded him of what he would be missing, he would change his mind. It would be like cooking bacon for a conflicted vegetarian and watching them drool. I definitely didn’t want to have this conversation with unwashed hair whilst dressed like a sloven.

‘Ed called me,’ he explained. ‘Said you needed a babysitter?’

This made me cross, firstly because Ed had called Dan without asking me and secondly because Dan had described himself as a ‘babysitter’. I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to babysit your own son. I think it’s just called ‘being a parent’.

We were still standing on the doorstep and Dan was peering past me, inching forwards. I was on the brink of telling him that he was mistaken and shutting the door when I heard Woody say, ‘Hey, Dad.’

I stood back, defeated, and allowed Dan to pass. I looked down at the floor as he did so. I didn’t want the awkwardness of that moment when we were supposed to look each other in the eye and kiss. I couldn’t bear it.

‘Hey, fella,’ said Dan, approaching his son and drawing him into a hug.

‘What are you doing here?’ The question was simple but heart-breaking at the same time. It had only been a fortnight and yet Woody seemed used to the fact that Dan was now a visitor to our house.

Dan glanced at me. He heard it too. ‘Well,’ he replied. ‘Your mum is going out so I thought I would come by and hang out with you for a bit, if that’s okay?’

Woody shrugged. ‘Okay. Do you want to see my new Match Attax cards? I swapped Diego Costa Hundred Club for Daniel Sturridge Star Player.’

‘Cool,’ said Dan, ruffling his son’s hair. He transferred his gaze to me. It was a look that said, You’re good to go.

I was thinking, Don’t make me go. I don’t want to go. Let me stay. Please. I’ll be no bother. I want to sit with you both, to just hang out and be. I want to keep hold of my family, to keep us together somehow.

But they had disappeared into the living room, already lost in their chat about over-paid footballers, and I was left in the hall doing my best not to cry.

No-one was more surprised than me when I found myself standing in the draughty community hall, forty minutes later, with twenty or so mostly female would-be singers. It had been the call from Ed which had finally persuaded me to come. I snatched up my phone as soon as I saw his ID.

‘I hate you,’ I answered.

‘Well, I love you,’ he replied. ‘And I’m not sorry. You need to get out of that house, and you can always talk to Dan when you get home. You can have a calm chat, instead of a hysterical, please don’t die, oh you’ve only got a hernia, type conversation.’

‘Ha bloody ha. You basically made me do that.’

‘How so?’

‘You told me to go get my man.’

‘Yeah, “Go get your man.” Not, “Blatantly misunderstand the situation.”’

‘Whevs. Did I mention that I hate you?’

‘Except you don’t. Now I’m off to flirt outrageously with the beautiful Mark. Go, sing your heart out and I’ll call you tomorrow for a de-brief, ’kay?’

‘O-kay.’ I hung up feeling a little cheered. He was right. Annoying, but right.

There was an air of anticipation but also excitement, matching my own, as I walked into the hall. The chairs had been arranged in rows and people stood with their friends, eyeing Guy with interest and chatting nervously. I already knew a few faces. Caroline gave me a nod of acknowledgement with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She was there with her school playground clique. Pamela gave me a cheery wave and Doly looked up and smiled too. Jim the postman wandered over to greet me.

‘Hello, Jim, I didn’t have you down as a choir man,’ I said, grateful to see a friendly face.

‘Actually, I used to be in a band in the nineties,’ he replied with pride.

‘Oh, wow, anyone I’ve heard of?’

‘So you know Take That?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I replied, ready to be impressed.

‘Well, I was Robbie Williams in a tribute band called A Million Love Songs.’

‘Oh. Wow. That’s pretty impressive.’

Jim looked sheepish. ‘Yeah well, it was until, you know, Robbie left the real Take That. So I had to go too.’

‘That’s a shame.’

Jim shook his head. ‘Nah, Gary was a dickhead so I didn’t mind really. We had creative differences.’

‘Art imitating life,’ I added, swallowing down a giggle.

‘Exactly,’ nodded Jim earnestly.

‘Right everybody, shall we make a start?’ The voice was direct and no-nonsense. We turned as one. ‘My name is Guy Henderson. Thank you for coming along tonight to the first rehearsal of the Hope Street Community Choir.’

There was a small cheer. Caroline and her entourage gave a cheerleader ‘Yay!’ of approval.

Guy’s mouth twitched into a smile. ‘Caroline, would you like to say anything before we begin?’

Caroline rose to her feet and turned to face us. She placed her hand on her heart. ‘I just wanted to say thank you so much for coming. It means a great deal to me and I know it will mean a great deal to our community.’ It was starting to sound like an Oscar speech. ‘I am sure that with Guy’s help, we can make this choir into something vital for us all and that with the money we raise, we’ll be able to save Hope Street hall!’ Her clique whooped and cheered whilst everyone else clapped politely. ‘Over to you, Guy.’ Caroline bowed like a news reporter handing back a live-link.

I thought I noticed a raised eyebrow of amusement on Guy’s face but it was fleeting. He gave Caroline a gallant nod of thanks before turning back to the assembled company. ‘So, I want this to be fun and something we can be proud of but it’s going to be hard work too. For tonight, we’re going to do some warm-up exercises and get to know our voices. I’ve got a couple of songs to try and next week we start in earnest. Pamela here –’ Pamela waved her hand like the queen and we all laughed ‘– is going to collect subs and organise a tea and coffee rota because apparently that sort of thing is very important.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘And I shall do my best to teach you the songs. Okay, find yourself a seat – those who like to sing “high”,’ he singsonged this word with an impressive falsetto, ‘please sit to my left, and those who prefer to sing “low”,’ he added in a trembling tenor, ‘place yourselves to my right.’

I found a seat next to Doly, who rewarded me with a nervous smile. ‘Can you sing?’ I asked.

She gave a little side-to-side nod. ‘So so,’ she replied. ‘My husband says I can but my children tell me to stop!’ I laughed, feeling a fraction more relaxed.

‘Right,’ began Guy, taking his place behind the keyboard. ‘Let’s warm up our voices, shall we? Standing with your feet apart, relax, drop your shoulders. Don’t look so worried – I’m not going to make anyone sing a solo. Yet.’ His humour had the desired effect and as we laughed, we relaxed a little more. ‘That’s better,’ he grinned. ‘So, we’ll begin by humming up and down an arpeggio, like this.’ He played a chord and echoed the sound with four notes. ‘La-la-la-la, la-la-laaaah,’ he sang in a beautiful, clear voice. ‘And now it’s your turn.’ Several people cleared their throats nervously. Guy played the same chord and we joined in.

It felt strange at first to be singing in public, even though we were just going, ‘La, la, la.’ Apart from belting out tunes in the car and shower, I’d never sang and certainly never in public. I got the feeling that I wasn’t alone. I glanced around the room. Pamela was frowning with concentration, whilst Jim was singing with an impressive tenor voice.

Guy played the next chord up. ‘Now try this one.’ We did as we were told. ‘Good! And now hum this one,’ he instructed, playing the next chord.

‘Hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmmmmm.’

‘Excellent! Let’s see how high we can go. And!’

We hummed and la-ed our way through each new set of notes. I could hear Caroline’s voice getting louder with each arpeggio. We laughed as the notes became too high for us and one by one we stopped singing. Soon, only Caroline and Doly were still going. Guy fixed his gaze on them and grinned with encouragement. ‘Last chord,’ he declared. ‘You sing first, Caroline, and then would you like to try—’

‘Doly,’ whispered Doly, her neck flushed red with embarrassment. ‘Okay.’

Guy played the chord and Caroline sang the notes with pitch-perfect trembliness as if giving an opening-night performance at the Royal Opera House. Guy smiled as Caroline’s friends clapped noisily. He turned to Doly. She gave a small nod and he played it again. Her voice was completely different to Caroline’s. Soft and gentle and completely sublime. There was a pause after she finished. Guy stared at her for a moment as if he’d forgotten where he was before clapping his hands. ‘Thank you, ladies. That was very revealing. So, it’s clear that we can all sing the notes. Now let’s see if we can sing the songs.’

I squeezed Doly’s elbow. ‘Your voice is amazing,’ I whispered. She gave me a shy smile.

I watched Guy as he handed out sheets of song lyrics. He couldn’t have been more than thirty and yet he was completely confident in his abilities. He was tall and neatly dressed; a man who obviously took care of his appearance. I wouldn’t exactly call him handsome but there was something about the way he carried himself – assured and in charge – that was disarming. I noticed Pamela gazing up at him, wide-eyed and trusting, obviously already smitten. He had the room in the palm of his hand.

‘So let’s try “California Dreamin’”, shall we?’ suggested Guy. ‘A relatively straightforward one to get us started.’ He pressed Play on the backing track, raised his hands and we were off. I could remember singing this song as a teenager and loved its sixties folk feel. I felt my body lift as we began to sing. There were a few bum notes but actually, it sounded pretty good.

‘Not bad for a first go,’ said Guy. ‘Now, let’s up the ante and try it again with the lows taking the opening line and the highs replying, shall we?’ He re-started the backing track.

‘Well done,’ smiled Guy when we finished. ‘I see a bright future ahead of us. And as we’re on something of a roll, let’s try the next song. It’s a bit trickier but I think we can do it.’

My heart sank as I turned to the next song-sheet. ‘Something Inside So Strong’ had always been a favourite of mine and Dan’s. Whenever this song came on the radio, we would duet in a hammy, fist-pulling rendition, which often left us helpless with laughter.

‘Oh, I love this song,’ murmured Caroline from the row behind. ‘So powerful.’

‘Okay,’ said Guy. ‘Let’s give this a go, shall we? A straight sing-through and we’ll worry about harmonies later.’ He pressed Play. As the intro filtered through the speakers and we joined in with Labi Siffre’s unmistakeable voice, I could feel my body start to tremble.

Get a grip, Natalie, it’s just a song. But I couldn’t help it. I tried to brush away the tears and power-ballad my way through but it was no use. There was something inside but it wasn’t very strong and seemed to consist mostly of tears and mucus. I turned away so that Doly wouldn’t notice and spotted Caroline behind me. She was lost in the song, her eyes closed, possibly performing to one hundred thousand people at Wembley. I decided to cling on to my last shred of dignity and take my sobbing outside.

It was starting to get dark, the sky glowing pink and orange. I tried to feel cheered by its beauty but it only made me more depressed. I wanted rain, thunder and if possible a little snow to mirror my own cold misery. I fished into my pocket for a tissue and pulled out an old shopping list. It included items for a Thai curry, which I had made for Dan as a Friday-night treat a few weeks back. Inevitably, this brought fresh tears and irritation at the shambolic woman I had become. I considered making a run for it. No-one would miss me and I could make my excuses another time. I started to head towards the street.

‘Natalie!’ called a voice, which I immediately recognised as Caroline’s. Bugger. Maybe I could pretend I hadn’t heard and keep going.

‘Natalie!’ she repeated with increased volume. That’ll be a no then.

I turned to face her, hoping that my eyes weren’t as red and puffy as they felt. ‘Oh, hi, Caroline,’ I said, pretending that I’d only just noticed her.

‘You’re not going are you? We’re only halfway through.’ Either she’d been too caught up in powering through the song to notice my outburst or she had chosen to ignore it. Or possibly a little of both.

‘I just—’ I began. I just what? I just need to run home to a man who doesn’t love me any more and won’t tell me why? I took a deep breath. ‘I’m just not sure if it’s for me.’

‘Is it the choice of songs?’ she asked, moving closer. ‘Because if it is, I know exactly how you feel. I used to sing in choir at university – it was all classical – Verdi, Brahms – wonderful,’ she smiled, dewy-eyed at the memory.

‘No, it’s not that—’

‘Oh, but you must stay. You’re going to be such a valuable addition to the team with your profile and assets.’ Praise indeed. I sound like a Page Three model. ‘And I know how much you care about the hall, what it meant to you.’ She stared at me. Damn her. She knew which buttons to press. I am a nostalgia queen at the best of times but at this moment, I was clinging onto anything that reminded me of my happier past life.

Caroline’s phone buzzed with a call. She fished it from her bag and frowned as she saw the caller ID, pressing a button to silence it. ‘Please stay,’ she implored. Her phone rang again.

‘Someone is keen to talk to you,’ I observed. That’s it. Distract the bossy lady and then make your escape!

She sighed. ‘And someone needs to just get on with their job and stop bothering me,’ she said, switching off her phone. ‘So is the lovely Ed looking after your son this evening?’

‘Er, no, actually. Dan is with him.’

‘Oh, well, that’s good news, isn’t it?’

I guess our definitions of ‘good’ differ somewhat, I thought as I scuffed one shoe across the ground. ‘I’m glad he’s spending time with Woody,’ I replied.

Caroline regarded me for a second. ‘May I speak frankly, Natalie?’

I’d really rather you didn’t but I fear you’re going to, whatever I say. We all know that offering to speak frankly comes second only to ‘Don’t take this the wrong way’ and ‘With the greatest respect’. It is merely code for ‘I am about to insult you and validate that insult by asking your permission first’.

Still, I was at a low ebb and starting to get desperate. ‘Go ahead,’ I replied, bracing myself.

She looked me in the eye. ‘You seem like a good person and an attractive woman too.’ Wait for it. Wait for it. ‘But from what I’ve seen, you’ve let things slide.’ A killer glance at my hair. ‘It’s important for a woman to keep her husband’s interest.’ I winced with feminist indignation. ‘I mean, take Oliver and me, for instance.’ Oh, please, I wish someone would. ‘I know how to keep him engaged in our relationship and it’s not just to do with sex, although of course that’s important.’ Yeah, just a warning, Caroline. If you start giving me details of your week-long tantric love-making sessions, I will vomit. ‘Whenever I feel that we’ve lost track of our relationship, I’ll make a grand gesture, do something special, just to keep things fresh and interesting.’ She made it sound like a trip to the supermarket. ‘For instance, last year I booked a sky-dive because it’s something we’ve always wanted to do together.’

‘Well, I’m afraid of heights so that’s not really going to work,’ I joked.

She narrowed her eyes. ‘No, but you have to find something that does because it’s so easy for things to change after you have children – to lose sight of you as a couple.’ Bloody know-it-all – bloody know-it-all with a point. ‘I’m more than happy to give you some suggestions if you would like?’

Visions of Caroline making Dan and me do a tightrope walk across the Thames popped into my head. ‘Thank you, Caroline. I’ll give it some thought.’ She was a preachy cow but she meant well.

She nodded with satisfaction. Our conversation was interrupted as Guy appeared in the doorway. He smiled at us both. ‘Hello, ladies. Are you enjoying it?’ he asked.

‘Oh very much, Guy, thank you so much for everything you’re doing,’ gushed Caroline.

He nodded and turned to me. ‘And how about you? Sorry, we met briefly at Caroline’s house but I don’t know your name.’

‘Natalie, Natalie Garfield.’ Although who knew if this would be my name for much longer. ‘Yes, it’s been very emotional.’ I’m not sure why I said this. I think it came from a movie but it was an honest answer.

He fixed me with a look. ‘Music is a powerful weapon.’

Yeah, one which can knock you sideways if you let it, I thought.

‘So, Guy, you didn’t tell me where you grew up. I’ll bet we know some of the same people,’ interjected Caroline. ‘Where did you go to school?’

‘Kelsey Wood School,’ he murmured. He seemed cowed by Caroline’s interrogations. Join the club, Guy.

‘Oh, my goodness! That’s where my father taught.’

‘Oh, really?’ he replied without any real interest.

‘Yes. Mr Winter? He was the Headmaster.’

Guy shook his head. ‘I don’t remember him.’

Caroline narrowed her eyes. ‘No, you might be too young.’ She was about to ask another question but Guy cut her off. ‘Sorry, Caroline. If you’ll excuse me,’ he said. ‘I really need to fetch something from the car for the next half of the rehearsal.’

‘Of course.’ Caroline beamed. ‘I can grill you another time.’ Guy looked scared. Poor man. I wondered if he knew what he was letting himself in for. ‘He’s marvellous, isn’t he?’ she remarked after he’d gone.

I shrugged. ‘He seems nice.’

One of Caroline’s friends appeared in the doorway. ‘Caroline, do you want a cup of tea?’ she asked.

‘Thanks, darling,’ replied Caroline. ‘By the way, Zoe, this is Natalie Garfield, remember I told you about her – the children’s book writer?’

‘Oh, wow,’ cried Zoe. ‘We love Ned Bobbin in our house,’ she said, showing me an impressive set of chalk-white teeth.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Are you coming?’ asked Caroline, turning to me.

I nodded with a feeble smile. ‘Yep, I am,’ I replied, following her back into the hall. I was coming to realise that you couldn’t run away from Caroline Taylor.

As I walked home after the rehearsal, I had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that I’d enjoyed myself. Despite my outburst, it was friendly and fun and even Caroline wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. As I reached the front door, I felt my heart rise and dip with the thought of a) seeing Dan and b) having to talk to Dan.

‘How was it?’ he asked as I appeared in the lounge doorway.

‘A bit emotional,’ I replied, watching his face. ‘We sang “Something Inside So Strong”.’

He nodded. Is that it? I cry my eyes out over a song and a shopping list for kaffir lime leaves and lemongrass. And you nod.

‘Do you remember when I nearly got the words from that tattooed on my arm at my stag do? I thought it was the perfect wedding present for you.’ He laughed. So you do remember.

‘I forgot about that,’ I smiled, the seed of an idea forming in my mind. I stared at him. I miss you, Dan. I miss you so much. ‘Woody misses you,’ I said. Actually, Woody hadn’t said this but I was sure it was true.

‘I miss him too,’ he replied. But do you miss me? Even just a little? Actually, I don’t want to know. It’s probably better if I don’t. ‘Why don’t I come round every week while you’re at choir? That way, I’ll get to see him while you go and do something for yourself.’

‘My new hobby?’ I suggested. I brightened at the idea. At least it would mean that I saw him regularly and we might have a chance to sort this mess out.

‘Exactly. Did you enjoy it?’

‘I did. I think it was good for me. I spend too much time at home with my own thoughts, you know?’

He reached out a hand and touched my hair. ‘You deserve to be happy, Nat.’

I smiled at him, at the man I’d married, the man I loved. Yes, I do deserve to be happy. Happy with you. That’s what I signed up to when we got married. Please don’t go. Please stay. Please pretend none of this has happened and let’s try again.

‘I better make a move,’ he said.

‘How’s your hernia?’ I asked. Wow, Nat, great conversation starter.

He smiled. ‘It’s fine. I’m just waiting on the date for my op.’

I nodded. ‘Sorry for my outburst last week, by the way. My brain went into overdrive.’

He shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry. I should have told you but what with everything …’ His voice trailed off. ‘Listen, I know we need to talk and I promise we will soon. We’ll sort everything out.’

I nodded. ‘We usually do.’

He put his arms around me and kissed the top of my head before he left. I stood for a moment in the hall watching the shape of him disappear, listening to his car drive off and then my hand felt where he’d left the kiss and I hugged myself. I stayed like that for a moment as if movement would disturb the feeling. Dan was still in my life and I could tell he still cared about me. All I had to do was to prove that this was a mere bump in the road, that I was the one – the all-new, all-singing, sexy, interesting wife, who he’d lost sight of. I was going to get Dan’s attention again and I knew exactly how to do it.




CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_55e9d31a-c631-5503-ab8a-118a07964deb)

CAROLINE


As I drove to the nursing home on a bright spring morning, I sang along to the Adele song on the radio. I wouldn’t normally sing in the car but last night’s rehearsal had rekindled my love of singing, leaving me feeling refreshed and ready to face the inevitable adversity of today’s visit. Goodness only knows that I needed a little positive energy for what lay ahead. I was fully expecting an argument but I was ready too.

I couldn’t have been happier with our first choir rehearsal. It would be a challenge to transform us into a proper choir but all in all, it had gone much better than I’d expected. The standard of singing was reasonably high and I could see that Guy was the perfect man to run it. I had even found talking to Natalie a surprising pleasure. She was something of an emotional train-wreck and I was happy that I’d been able to help her with a little marriage guidance.

When I got home from choir, I had flicked my phone into life to see that I’d had three missed calls and a voicemail message from the home. I recognised Peter Jarvis’ humourless tone immediately.

‘Mrs Taylor, we believe you’re coming in to see your mother tomorrow. We need to have an urgent meeting to discuss her care options.’

Care options? It sounded so innocuous. I knew what they were going to say.

‘Your mother’s behaviour is increasingly challenging, we’re no longer able to cope with her frequent outbursts. We may need to re-think.’

Re-think all you want. You knew the deal when you took her in and I pay you an extortionate amount to care for her. Take the money and get on with it.

The sun was shining as I pulled into the drive and one of the gardeners was planting some geraniums, begonias and snapdragons ready for the summer. All looked calm and lovely. I made my way through the door into the bright entrance hall. St Bartholomew’s corridors bore the sharp tangy smell of old age underpinned by the cabbagey whiff of whatever meal had just been consumed. I loathed everything about the place but especially the smell. I always breathed through my mouth when I visited but could still detect the stench on my clothes when I got home.

The home itself was a pleasant enough chalet-style building with wide corridors and lots of windows looking out towards a lovely garden. Apart from being a nice enough place to live, I had chosen it because they had a specialist team who could deal with people with dementia. At least that’s what they’d told me. However, given the number of calls I had to field because my mother was being difficult, I was starting to wonder.

I visited once a month because to be honest, that’s all I could take. Quite apart from the shifting sands of my relationship with my mother, I couldn’t bear to spend any more time than necessary in this place. It made me consider things I didn’t want to think about – Zimmer frames, wrinkles and the pervasive stench of urine. This wasn’t my world. I was young and fit and didn’t want to be reminded of the inevitability of old age. Call me shallow, call me unfeeling but spend an hour in the company of my mother and you would feel the same.

The receptionist looked up at me from behind black-framed glasses that didn’t suit her. She acknowledged me with a brief smile of recognition. There was judgement behind that smile.

‘Good morning, Mrs Taylor. If you could just sign in, I’ll let Peter know you’re here.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, taking the pen from its holder. I wrote my name before taking a step back into the waiting area, doing my best to ignore the neat piles of Saga magazines.

‘Mrs Taylor,’ said a voice behind me. I turned to see Peter Jarvis, manager of the home. He didn’t even try to smile. ‘Shall we go into my office?’

I followed him along the corridor. When I first came here to look round, they had offered me tea and cake. I could remember rooms full of snowy-white-haired old ladies and well-turned-out gentlemen doing stimulating activities, smiling and happy. This time, there was no offer of tea and all I could smell was that day’s lunch, which reminded me of cat food. My stomach flipped.

Peter ushered me into his office and heaved his large backside onto the chair behind his desk. I took my place opposite him, noticing the certificates rewarding ‘excellence in care’ on the wall and a framed photograph on the desk of his similarly fat wife and two chubby children.

He pressed his fingers together and looked at me. ‘Mrs Taylor, I have to tell you that we have a problem. Did you get my call last night?’

I was irritated by his accusatory tone. How dare he talk to me in this way? I decided that attack was the best form of defence. ‘We most certainly do have a problem,’ I replied. ‘I pay a great deal of money for my mother’s care and I do not expect to be called in the evenings because your staff are unable to do their job.’

He blinked at me in surprise before regaining his composure. ‘Your mother tried to stab one of our staff with a pair of nail scissors.’

It was my turn to be surprised now. My mother had certainly been trying in the past but it was mostly verbal abuse. She had never tried anything physical. ‘I see.’ I wasn’t sure what else to say.

‘So you can understand that we have a problem. I appreciate that your mother requires specialist care but I cannot have my staff placed in danger.’

‘Where is she now?’ I asked. I had visions of her locked in a padded cell.

‘In her room. We had to call out a doctor to sedate her. It took two nurses to restrain her. She’s very strong.’

I felt an odd sense of pride at this, even though I knew it was wholly inappropriate. ‘I take it she didn’t actually hurt anyone?’

He shook his head. ‘Our staff are well trained and fortunately the nurse in question saw what was happening and reacted quickly. She managed to get the scissors from her but your mother kept trying to fight them, which is why we had to call the doctor, unfortunately.’

‘Can I see her?’ I asked.

‘She may be a little sleepy but I can get a nurse to take you to her, of course.’

‘I meant the nurse,’ I replied. ‘I want to apologise on behalf of my mother.’

Peter looked confused. ‘There’s really no need.’

‘All the same, I’d like to.’

‘Okay, and then we can take you to your mother.’

‘Well if she’s sleepy, there’s probably no point.’ I knew I was trying to wriggle out of it. Peter Jarvis knew this too. He gave me a grave look.

‘Mrs Taylor, I really think you need to see your mother. Forgive me if I speak out of turn but I think she needs to see you. The nurses tell me that she calls your name at night sometimes.’

Anger and guilt washed over me. ‘You are speaking out of turn, but seeing as we are laying our cards on the table, I will try to reason with her if you can promise to continue with my mother’s care as you see fit. Confiscate anything dangerous, sedate her if necessary but please, don’t cast her into the street.’ I stared him down, noticing how he shifted with discomfort in his seat. See? I can layer on the guilt and drama too.

He pursed his lips and smoothed his tie. ‘We will continue to care for your mother but please take this as a first and final warning. If anything like this happens again, we may need to exclude her.’

My cheeks burnt red with humiliation but I took it. I had to. St Bartholomew’s was my only hope. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your honesty and commitment to her care.’

He nodded, raising his hefty bulk from the chair. I followed him back along the corridor. Two nurses were walking towards us. ‘Oh, Laurie,’ said Peter to one of them. A woman of about my age with an open, friendly face stopped and smiled at us. ‘This is Mrs Winter’s daughter.’

I watched her face and saw no flicker of reaction to the incident. In fact, she held out her hand to me. It was small and cool to the touch. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘Shall I take you down to see your mum?’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Peter, turning away. ‘I’ll be in touch, Mrs Taylor. Thank you for your time.’

Laurie nodded to her colleague before ushering me along the corridor. As we reached the door to my mother’s room, I stopped and turned to her. ‘I just want to say sorry—’

Laurie held up her hand. ‘There’s really no need,’ she smiled. ‘Your mum would never hurt me. It’s a stage of her disease, although I am concerned that something has upset her lately. She seems more het up than I’ve seen her before.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘I’ve only been working here for about three months but she seemed a lot calmer back then. Have you noticed anything?’

I stared at her, unable to think what to say. I only saw her once a month so honestly had no real way of knowing. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I’m very fond of your mother. She thinks the world of you.’ She smiled again.

‘Does she?’ I asked with genuine surprise. Unlikely, given our history.

Laurie nodded. ‘She says your name all the time. I think she’s lost in memories from the past but you’re always in them.’

I felt my chest grow tight as she opened the door and I saw my mother lying in her bed. She looked tiny, like a child. Her face was grey, her hair matted and thin. I thought she was asleep at first but she turned her head towards me, a confused frown creasing her expression.

‘Hello,’ I said in a croaky voice.

Her face flickered with recognition but she didn’t speak. She just gazed at me as if searching for the answer to a question.

‘How are you, Mrs Winter?’ asked Laurie. ‘Are you feeling better today?’

My mother’s gaze transferred from me to Laurie. She raised her eyebrows and then smiled in reply.

‘That’s good,’ said Laurie. ‘And lovely to have your daughter visiting too.’ My mother glanced at me and then back to Laurie, like a spectator at a tennis match. ‘I’ll let you have some time together,’ she said, giving me an encouraging smile before she left.

I stood by the side of the bed and took in my surroundings. I didn’t usually come in here. My mother was normally sitting in the lounge area, staring into the middle distance, whilst activities such as bingo or singing went on around her. She reminded me of a lonely person at a party and I felt sad that she couldn’t seem to take part in her own life any more. Then I would remember how she had barely participated when she’d had her marbles and dismissed the thought.

The room was very pleasant, with two windows looking out over the garden and apart from the adjustable bed, it felt much like a miniature version of her old home. There were fresh flowers on the table by the window and a bowl of fruit as well. She had brought one of her chairs, her bookcase and quite a few of her knick-knacks. She had liked to collect miniature Wade figures and these were all arranged on a little wall-shelf in one corner.

I could remember loving these as a child but never being allowed to touch them for fear of breakages. One day, I had crept into the dining room where they were kept and picked up a tiny porcelain hedgehog that I liked the look of. I made him jump from surface to surface but had accidentally chipped his perfect black nose. My mother appeared at that moment, turning white with anger when she saw what I had done. She sent me to my room but I had been happy to hide there until my father got home, whereupon he had done his best to quell her anger.

I stared at the figures now, noticing the replacement hedgehog my father had bought, resisting a childish urge to knock it off the shelf. I turned away.

My mother was looking at me again now, so I pulled up a chair and sat next to her bed. I wanted to get this over with. ‘Do you remember what happened last night?’ I asked. She seemed to shrink into the bed even more. I should have felt sympathy but I was still heavy with childhood anger. ‘I’ve had to beg Mr Jarvis to let you stay here.’ My mother mumbled something. I frowned and leant in closer. ‘What did you say?’

‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

I was taken aback. Perhaps the sedation was still having an effect. My anger started to dissolve. ‘Okay, well, I’m glad you’re sorry.’ She stared up at me with huge eyes made all the more pathetic by her shrinking frame. I transferred my gaze to the garden and was surprised to see Guy Henderson wheeling an elderly lady in a wheelchair. My mother’s eyes rested on them too. There was a moment’s silence before she started to pound her fists on the bed, her face enraged.

I leapt up from the chair. ‘What’s the matter?’ I cried. She lashed out a fist in my direction but missed and slumped down onto the bed, before looking up at me. She seemed twice the size all of a sudden, her eyes narrow and angry. I recognise you now, I thought.

‘Fuck off,’ she hissed.

‘I beg your pardon?’ I cried. I had never heard my mother swear before.

‘Fuck off,’ she repeated. ‘Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.’

I pulled the emergency cord and within seconds Laurie and a colleague were there. ‘All right Mrs Winter, let’s try to breathe and calm down, shall we? Jem, call the doctor,’ said Laurie, taking my mother by the shoulders in an attempt to soothe her.

‘I have to go,’ I said, heading for the door, not looking back. ‘I’m sorry,’ I added, but I’m not sure to whom. I hurried along the corridor, signed out and fled back to my car.

Once inside, I realised that I was shaking. I could hear my heart beating, a sense of panic coursing through my body. I could not believe what I had just witnessed and my urge to flee had taken over. I contemplated going back, to check if my mother was all right but I realised that I didn’t want to. I simply didn’t want to know. This woman was a stranger to me. She’d always been a stranger in that she never seemed like the mothers of picture books or films. There was no softness or gentle kindness in our relationship, no lap in which to snuggle or shoulder on which to cry.

Why should I care about her now if she had never cared about me? Why should I pick up the pieces of her shattered life? What was the point? She barely knew me.

The people at the home claimed that she asked for me but they could be making it up. There were flickers of recognition but it was fleeting. She was trapped in her own world, like she had trapped me in my room for every minor indiscretion as a child.

She hadn’t wanted anything to do with me back then so why should I bother now? I didn’t need her. I had carved out a life away from this ageing and decay. I didn’t need it in my life. I could simply drive away and not come back.

And yet, there I remained. Silently cursing my indecision. Why couldn’t I just leave? Go back to the order and harmony of my real life? There was a tap on the glass and I jumped in surprise at the sight of Laurie’s concerned face. I wound down the window.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I just couldn’t take seeing her like that.’ It sounded as if I cared and I felt immediate guilt for being disingenuous.

Laurie gave me a reassuring smile. ‘Of course. It’s very hard sometimes. Do you have any idea what brought it on?’

I shook my head. ‘We were just sitting, looking out into the garden. I saw someone I knew – Guy Henderson with an elderly lady in a wheelchair.’

Laurie nodded. ‘Mrs Henderson has only recently arrived at the home. Sometimes, people with dementia react badly to change, a new face or someone who reminds them of something from their past.’

‘I only met Guy this week, so there’s no connection between my mother and his.’

Laurie smiled. ‘Well, your mother is much calmer now, so we’ll monitor the situation and keep in touch, okay?’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much.’ I gave her a final wave before starting the car and driving off, feeling relieved that my mother was someone else’s problem for the time being, tucked away where I didn’t have to think about her, her illness or the pain of the past.

Run away, Caroline. Run back to your place of safety and don’t look back.

I switched on the radio. They were playing ‘Weather With You’ – a Crowded House song that Oliver and I used to sing along to while we were decorating the house at weekends. I turned up the volume and sang at the top of my voice, drowning my worries with happier memories.




CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_af520377-4e37-5fb3-848a-8d48230d7e56)

NATALIE


‘Mum! Pizza’s ready!’ yelled Woody.

‘Okay,’ I replied. ‘Just finishing up.’ I glanced back at the blinking cursor. I’d always thought that would be a good name for my writing memoir – The Blinking Cursor by Natalie Garfield. I smiled. I was in a good mood tonight. I was about to officially embark on the campaign to get Dan to fall in love with me all over again and I was excited.

I practically skipped down the stairs. I felt like a natural woman, every woman and a woman in love. Choir had obviously had a positive effect on me. We had a rehearsal tonight and I was in two minds as to whether I would go. The next hour would decide that for me, depending on Dan’s reaction to my surprise.

I had contemplated telling Doly about it when I popped into the shop earlier but she wasn’t on her own so I decided to keep it to myself for now.

‘Are you going to choir tonight?’ she asked with a smile.

‘I’m planning to,’ I replied. ‘Have you been practising?’

‘Only all the time. Never stops singing, this one,’ said a man who was carrying a box from the back of the shop. ‘She has the voice of an angel,’ he added, his eyes glittering with pride.

Doly beamed at me. ‘This is my husband, Dev.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ smiled the man.

‘Oh, is this your singing thing?’ asked another, younger man, who was re-stocking the fridge. I could see a family resemblance to Dev. His dark-brown eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘I bet it’s all Abba and Spice Girls – a zigazig ahh! Am I right, brother?’ he added, glancing at Dev.

Dev laughed but then noticed his wife glaring at him and adopted a serious face. ‘I’m sure they sound wonderful,’ he replied diplomatically.

Doly rolled her eyes at me. ‘Pay no heed to my fool of a brother-in-law,’ she declared.

‘I’m Hasan,’ said the young man, wiping his hand on his jeans before offering it to me.

I grinned. ‘Good to meet you,’ I said, accepting it.

‘And you,’ he replied, smiling, holding my gaze for a few seconds.

‘Right, stop harassing my customers,’ said Doly, shooing him away before turning back to me. ‘Sorry about him. He likes to flirt with all the pretty ladies,’ she added.

I felt a bit giddy as I walked home. I had been called pretty, received attention from a handsome young man, all without brushing my hair.

I’ve still got it and it’s only a matter of time before Dan realises this too.

I walked down the hall into the kitchen, humming the tune to ‘Everybody’s Changing’. Guy had sent us a list of songs he wanted to try along with the music files so that we could practise. I loved this song. It reminded me of when Dan and I were first married, before we had Woody – simpler times. Not happier necessarily. Just simpler and more carefree.




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