Authors: Tess Stimson
Glancing at the final invoices and red bills in front of her, Nell wondered how that was even possible. ‘So how much do we owe?’ she asked again.
‘Including the overdraft, about thirty thousand pounds,’ Mum said, her voice small.
‘Thirty
thousand?
Jesus, Mum! What did you plan to do, sell a kidney?’
‘It all just mounted up,’ she said plaintively. ‘This recession just keeps going on and on. I didn’t realize how much I owed the bank until we got back from America and I
saw their letter. I’d always thought that if I had to, I could sell the shop when Richard and I got married and pay it off that way.’
For the first time, Nell’s patience failed her. Mum had always been crap with figures, which was why she’d taken over the books herself a couple of years ago, and she’d never
minded. She knew Mum had just been trying to protect her, but in going behind her back like this, she’d put them both in the financial shitter. There was probably just enough equity in the
shop to clear their debts, but it would leave them homeless, and Mum without a job. It was lucky they had Richard, or they’d be stuck renting some crappy bedsit in an even worse part of town.
She hated to admit it, but she couldn’t imagine Harriet ever getting herself in a mess like this.
‘So, sell the shop when you move in with Richard. There’s no other choice.’
‘We can’t.’
‘Mum, I know you’ll miss it, but it’s the only thing we can do.’
Her mother picked at her nails, already bitten down to the quick. ‘Richard and I are taking a bit of a break.’
‘What d’you mean, a
bit of a break?
Since
when?’
‘We just don’t want to rush into anything, that’s all. We thought maybe September was a bit soon for the wedding. There’s no need to make a fuss, darling.’
‘You think ten years together is
rushing
things?’
‘Eight, darling. But we’ve only been engaged five minutes.’
‘Is it just the wedding, or are you actually breaking up with him?’
‘I’m so sorry, darling, but—’
‘This is about Oliver, isn’t it?’ Nell demanded abruptly.
Her mother flushed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Give me some credit. You fancy the pants off Oliver, it’s obvious. You’ve come home all starry-eyed and decided to dump poor old Richard. How
could
you, Mum? After
all he’s done for us?’
‘It’s not like that—’
‘I’m not going to let you do it! Richard loves you, he loves
us!
You can’t break up with him, you just
can’t
!’
Her mother’s eyes filled with tears, but for once Nell felt no sympathy for her. The money thing was bad enough. But fucking things up with Richard was a hundred times worse. She liked
Oliver, of course, but Richard had been her dad in every way that mattered since she was a little girl. She loved him, she needed him. And Oliver was
married.
That might not mean much to
Mum, but it meant something to Nell. You didn’t steal another woman’s man. It just wasn’t right. Men screwed women over enough in this world without women screwing each other over
too.
‘Mum, he’s not leaving Harriet, is he?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So forget about this,’ she pleaded. ‘Marry Richard.’
‘You don’t understand. It’s very complicated.’
‘You’re not kidding,’ Nell muttered.
‘Why d’you think I didn’t want them to come over?’ Mum asked tearfully. ‘I didn’t want to make things worse. I thought if we put a bit of distance between
us—’
‘Did you sleep with him?’ She held up her hand. ‘No, forget I asked. I don’t want to know. Just promise me you won’t screw things up for me, Mum. They’re my
family. I don’t want to lose them.’
‘Your family?’
Suddenly she wished she could bite out her tongue. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘I thought
I
was your family,’ Mum said quietly.
‘You are.’ She sighed. ‘But so is Richard. And I don’t want to lose him, either.’
Mum stood up. ‘No,’ she said coolly. ‘You want to keep all of us, me and Richard and Harriet and Oliver and the boys, and who knows, Patrick James’s family too. I’m
sure his son Ryan is a very nice boy. You want to have your cake and eat it. It must be very nice to be you, Nell. Able to pick and choose, pull all the strings and have us where you want
us.’
‘Mum, that’s not fair.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ her mother said bitterly. ‘For any of us.’
She couldn’t remember ever fighting with Mum like that. She hadn’t been able to sleep, and had apologized repeatedly over breakfast, but even though they’d
made up, it was as if her mother had put up an invisible wall between them. It wasn’t about the money or her accusations about Oliver. It was what she’d said.
They’re my
family.
The one thing guaranteed to cut her mother to the quick. The fact that she hadn’t meant to say it was irrelevant. The damage was done.
‘Excuse me?’
A young woman in her mid-to-late twenties stepped forward as Nell locked the back door behind her. She was wearing an inexpensive but neat grey suit, and her blonde hair was twisted up in a
tortoiseshell clip. She looked like she belonged in the smart part of Islington, not down here.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Are you Nell Sands?’
She frowned. ‘Why? Who’re you?’
The woman extended her hand. Bitten nails, Nell noticed, no rings. ‘I’m Lesley Morgan, from the
Daily News.
I wanted to talk to you about Florence Lockwood.’
It was only when he stepped back onto British soil that Oliver realized how many things he missed about England. A lukewarm pint, instead of cold beer – even in high
summer. Fat, soggy chips smothered in Worcestershire sauce and vinegar rather than bloody cardboard French fries. Tea the colour of new conkers, slopped into the saucer by a stroppy waitress who
would no more dream of telling him to have a nice day than of pole-vaulting over the counter.
Black cabs I can actually fit both my luggage and my damn legs into,
he thought as he climbed out of the taxi and paid the joyously surly driver.
‘Thanks, mate,’ the driver muttered, briefly cheered by the American-sized tip.
Mate, not buddy.
Oh, it was good to be home.
Florence dragged at his hand. ‘Come on, Dad. We don’t want to miss all the good stuff.’
‘It’s not even ten in the morning,’ he said good-naturedly.
‘Nell said all the real pickers get here by seven. Come
on
, Dad.’
He followed his daughter into Camden Passage market, careful not to lose sight of her in the crowds already thronging the narrow streets. This wasn’t Burlington, where people still left
their back doors open and their cars unlocked. Florence had walked home from school by herself since she was ten, and frequently went downtown to Ben & Jerry’s for ice cream with her
friends after dark. But she had no idea how to survive in an urban jungle like London. Even now, surrounded by crowds and in broad daylight, she was attracting second glances from some
dodgy-looking characters, their attention snagged by her youthful prettiness and innocence, not to mention the bag she was swinging casually from her shoulder.
He caught up with her and put his arm around her. ‘Why don’t you strap your bag across your chest, the way Nell does,’ he suggested casually. ‘You’re less likely to
lose something.’
‘I can’t wait to see her,’ Florence enthused, adjusting her bag. ‘She said she’d take me to this vintage shop where lots of famous people like Sienna Miller go.
I’m so glad Mom agreed to let us spend the summer here after all. It’s going to be so cool.’
He winced, thinking how close he’d come to ruining things for everyone, including Florence. Bad enough, Christ knows, that he’d been unfaithful to Harriet; but with
Zoey
? Of
all people! As if their situation wasn’t complicated enough already. What the hell had he been
thinking
?
He hadn’t been thinking, that was the point. It had been the
smell
of her. The citrus scent of her hair, the wind and salt from the beach, the sweetness that was simply Zoey. It
had intoxicated him, blinded him to everything but the need to have her. And then her response when he’d kissed her: as visceral as his own. He hadn’t even tried to walk away.
He’d wanted her too much. It was as simple and as selfish as that.
He’d never felt shittier as he’d sat on the edge of Zoey’s bed and pulled on his clothes.
Was there anything sleazier than dressing to leave while a woman’s loving
was still wet on you?
Turning your shirt the right way out, hunting down your socks, picking her blonde hair from your jacket so your wife didn’t rumble you. He still loved Harriet, no
question – she was his soulmate, the mother of his children, his best friend; and yet the pull he’d felt towards Zoey had been like some kind of lethal undertow dragging him out of his
depth. If he could love Florence with every fibre of his being, and yet still find room to love Nell, surely it was possibly to love two very different women in two very different ways?
Bullshit.
Zoey had known that straightaway, and so had he.
He’d been angry with Harriet, angrier than he’d admitted even to himself, and Zoey had been so sweetly sympathetic, so utterly unlike his wife, listening and not judging. And in
return he’d used her and totally taken advantage of her.
A one-night-stand, for Christ’s sake.
How could he do it to her? He’d treated her as shamefully as he’d
treated his wife. He was a despicable fucking human being. Even if Harriet never found out – and he prayed to God she didn’t – he’d still have to carry the guilt and shame
of what he’d done; and it was no less than he fucking deserved.
‘Dad? Is everything OK?’
With an effort, he cleared his head. ‘Just a bit jet-lagged, Flo-Mo. I’ll be fine when I’ve had another coffee. Where did you say we were meeting them?’
‘Outside the Lamb & Flag. Zoey said she’d never met a man who couldn’t find his way to the nearest pub.’
Despite himself, Oliver laughed. At least she hadn’t lost her sense of humour.
In the aftermath of Maine, Zoey hadn’t even been able to look him in the eye, never mind speak to him, and the last two days of their visit had been a nightmare of fear and guilt, the two
of them treading on eggshells as they tiptoed around each other. He’d been convinced Harriet would put two and two together, but she’d been so wrapped up in making the most of
Nell’s last few days that she’d barely noticed he was there. Naturally she’d been hurt and confused by Zoey’s sudden volte-face on their summer trip to London, but secretly
he’d been relieved. Keeping four thousand miles between them had seemed only prudent under the circumstances.
He’d done everything he could to make it up to his wife after Nell and Zoey had gone, needing to atone even though she had no idea of his betrayal. He’d done his best to help out
around the house, trying to think of small ways to show how much he loved her, doing his best to put aside his previous resentment over Ben and the way she’d gone behind his back and
contacted Zoey in the first place. What she’d done wasn’t even in the same league as his level of deceit. At least she could plead she’d acted from the best of motives. He’d
just behaved like a bastard.
When his wife had begged him to make things right with Zoey, to make their trip to London happen and give him the time with Nell she wanted, how could he say no?
Don’t I deserve that
much?
After the way he and Zoey had betrayed her, it was the very least she deserved.
Zoey had realized it too. They might not want to come within a continent of one another, but what they wanted no longer came into it. They owed it to Harriet to put things right.
‘There they are!’ Florence exclaimed.
His heart thumped painfully as the two girls shrieked and threw their arms round each other. He’d forgotten just how strong the pull towards her was.
Zoey gaped at him in shock. ‘I was expecting Harriet,’ she said faintly.
‘Last-minute change of plan. Harriet’s father was rushed to hospital. They’ve found a shadow on his lung and wanted him in for a full MRI. Harriet’s mother’s in
bits, and she needed Harriet there.’
‘That’s dreadful! I’m so sorry,’ Zoey exclaimed, her own feelings put aside. ‘Harriet must be worried sick.’
‘She is. It’s such a shame. He’s only just got over the last bout of surgery, and now this.’
‘Does Florence know?’
‘Only that he had to go back to hospital for a check-up. No need to worry the children until we have to.’
‘Poor Harriet,’ Zoey said softly.
Nell linked her arm through Florence’s, and the two girls threaded their way through the crowds thronging the Pierrepont Arcade. He and Zoey followed them, tracking them by their laughter
as much as the striking contrast they made together: Florence’s rude blonde health side-by-side with Nell’s slender paleness. Florence had grown up in the past few months, he realized
suddenly. Literally: she’d put on a couple of inches and lost some weight, which had sharpened the soft, childish prettiness of her face, bringing her adult beauty into focus. Emotionally,
too. He’d never seen her so relaxed, at home in her own skin, as if she had finally discovered who she was; which was ironic, given that was precisely what had been called into question over
the past few months. But she no longer seemed eaten up with anxiety around Harriet. It was as if learning the truth about their relationship had let both of them off the hook, releasing them from
their mutual guilt. It was still early days, but now they were no longer mother and daughter, they were free to be friends.
He’d been fully prepared for an awkward and uncomfortable afternoon with Zoey, but within minutes they were laughing and talking as if Maine had never happened. He had no idea why, but he
felt more at ease with her than with anyone he’d ever met. From the first, Harriet had been a challenge – and he’d relished it; they’d matched wits and will, and he
wouldn’t have had it any other way. It was what had sustained their marriage over sixteen years. He couldn’t imagine being married to Zoey for that length of time without getting bored,
sweet thought she was; and yet it would be so much easier to tamp down his desire for her if he didn’t
like
her so much.