was the pregnancy – she didn’t normally get queasy from her mother’s Elizabeth Arden.
After Chloe had made her verbal slip that morning, her mother had continually tried to talk to her about the pregnancy as they progressed through town, until Chloe had had to say quite rudely, ‘Can we just stop,’ at which point Margaret had taken umbrage and stopped talking about anything at all, which meant the rest of the shopping trip had passed in a rather blissful silence. They hadn’t got back until late afternoon, and so it had seemed a rush to turn around and get ready for their trip out this evening. Chloe just prayed that her mother would be able to keep quiet. Why had she entrusted her with something so important?
June and George’s house suddenly rose to greet them as they topped a hill, and Chloe slowed and pulled into the driveway. The huge farmhouse door was open within milliseconds – June must have been watching for them through the letterbox, Chloe mused, as she got out of the car, waving and smiling.
June and Margaret greeted each other as though they were two old Dames reunited at the BAFTAs, and everyone watched and waited from the wings till the performance had finished. Then Chloe spotted George in the doorway and walked over to him.
‘How are you, Chloe?’ he greeted her warmly, kissing her cheek. ‘And Alex.’ He extended his hand and they shook firmly. George looked across at his wife and rolled his eyes. ‘You wouldn’t think those two saw each other every Wednesday at the gardening club. Come on in.’
George led the way and they followed, Alex gently placing a hand on the small of Chloe’s back as she moved forward. She was immediately aware of his touch and turned to him. He was watching her, an odd intense look on his face, but as she smiled so did he.
This is unbearable, Chloe thought as she turned away. Why am I trying to read his every expression? This is my husband: we’re best friends, soul mates – we instinctively know the other. How on earth has this suddenly become so hard?
Two hours later, after a feast of roast lamb and veggies and conversation dominated by gardening-club gossip from June and Margaret, they had all retired to the lounge. The men were swirling whisky around their glasses, listening as the older women held court. Chloe was exhausted. She kept watching Alex to see if he exhibited signs of tiredness, but he appeared fine. Mind you, she thought grumpily, he’d had a lie in, while it felt like she’d been up shopping since dawn. She’d managed to abstain from alcohol over dinner by saying she was driving. Normally she would still have had a glass, but she’d said she was tired so didn’t dare indulge, and everyone had accepted that.
‘So, Chloe -’ Chloe snapped out of her daydreaming as she heard her name – ‘getting clucky yet?’
Damn you, June, Chloe thought, noticing that her mother was watching intently. She glared at her, wondering if Margaret had been unable to keep her mouth shut for even half a day, but the woman gave an almost imperceptibly small shake of her head in reply.
‘A little…’ she said hesitantly.
Alex came to life immediately. ‘Are you?’ He leaned forward, leather chair creaking as he did so. ‘That’s news to me.’
‘Happens to us all, Alex, sooner or later,’ Margaret chipped in breezily.
‘Well, maybe, but we’re not ready for that yet, are we, Chloe?’
‘Aren’t we?’ Chloe, stunned, looked at Alex.
‘Well, no. I need to establish my business more – and you’ve got stuff you want to do in the practice – there’s no need to rush it.’
‘I suppose -’
Margaret cut in. ‘But there’s never a perfect time, Alex. Remember that.’
‘I know.’ Alex sounded irritated. ‘But Chlo and I need to feel solid and secure in our lives before we complicate everything with a kid. I’m just not interested at the moment.’
Margaret, her jaw slack, looked at Chloe. And Chloe, horrifyingly, felt tears spring to her eyes. She stared down at her tepid mug of tea. ‘Well, then,’ she said, fighting her tears and the hot blush she could feel staining her cheeks.
When she glanced up, Alex was watching her in surprise, and she was sure he’d guessed. There had been an awkward silence for a number of excruciating seconds now, and he opened his mouth to fill it just as June said, ‘Well, poor Jeanna can’t have any children. It breaks my heart that our son won’t ever be a father.’
‘June!’ George scolded crossly. ‘It’s actually none of our business, and besides, our girls have produced enough between them to keep a primary school from going under.’
Alex’s attention was still on Chloe, but he didn’t seem shocked now so much as intrigued. Maybe he hadn’t guessed at all.
Chloe avoided meeting his gaze, then sat back and closed her eyes. June was still talking about how Jeanna and Michael were planning to travel for six months next year, now that they’d come to terms with the news. Lucky old Jeanna, Chloe thought to herself, then immediately rubbed her tummy superstitiously and said silently,
13
Mark arrived at the house in a foul mood. An hour’s journey on a winter’s night had taken him more than twice as long as it should have done. Had he not felt so tired, he would have been furious and vowing to write to somebody important over this disgrace of a transport system. Leaves on the line, snow on the line – even bloody bodies on the line, according to one whispered remark behind him. There was something utterly repulsive about the mindset of a commuter, that now, every time he heard of a body on the line his only thought was, ‘Well, get it off the bloody line, then, and let’s be on our way.’
In actual fact a train had broken down ahead of the one Mark was on, so he had to get off and board a bus between Orpington and Sevenoaks. At that point he’d tried to call his parents to collect him rather than suffer the indignity of bus travel with a plague of hyperactive adolescents, the boys’ low-slung waistbands beginning on roughly the same portion of their bodies as the girls’ tiny skirts ended. However, the house phone at The Willows rang out without even the answering machine clicking on, so Mark endured the bumpy, windy bus ride with his head stuck determinedly behind his paper, not reading a word, but checking his watch every two seconds until the bus pulled up outside Sevenoaks Station.
Thank god there was a cab there. He pushed his way through the throngs on the platform and raced along the walkway with his arm outstretched and a silent plea that no one would claim it first. The cabbie nodded as he got in and said, ‘Barnfield Drive, please’, then they were off. Mercifully, the driver was a silent let’s-get-you-there type rather than one of the let’s-get-it-all-off-my-chest-on-the-way cabbies Mark dreaded. Cab time was vital court- prepping time, and you didn’t need someone asking your advice about importing their underage Thai girlfriend.
When he finally arrived he was somewhat disconcerted to find the house in total darkness. It wasn’t a major problem, he had a key, but still – as they had invited him over, they should at least be home.
He let himself in and switched on a few lights. The answering machine on the Edwardian rosewood table in the hallway showed a resolute 0 messages. The curtains to the front rooms were still open, so he went around closing them, wondering where on earth his parents could be. The house seemed so quiet now, since the dog had died a few years before.
He peeked into his father’s study, feeling like a trespassing child, hearing his father saying to his ten-year-old self, ‘The law is the foundation upon which society stands, and also upon which it falls. Ergo, to uphold the law is the most important job that one can do,’ as Mark was allowed to handle legal books reverently as though they were lost covenants. But the room was absolutely still.
He went back to the lounge, poured himself some Glenmorangie and sat down on one of the leather armchairs, idly picking up a nearby
Two hours and a few more glasses of whisky later, he was exhausted. He had tried both parents’ mobiles, but they were off. He briefly thought about ringing hospitals or checking the news for car accidents, but he couldn’t
