Which was precisely why she’d come.
She put her handbag on the side and glanced at herself in the mirror. She’d made an effort with her hair and make-up, and her clothes. Those efforts had paid off. Though she said it herself, she looked good – far better than the last time she’d passed this mirror.
Then she’d been in no mood for appraising herself; she’d been too side-swiped. Her exit from The View – with her bags packed and her passport in her hand – had been a grand gesture. To this day she was glad she’d topped off their weeks of exhausting soul-searching with a scene. There had been shouting on both sides. They’d let words and emotions erupt that had been smothered for years. The result had been awful and painful and loud, and very undignified. But surely that’s what the end of a long marriage, the end of a love affair, should be! Going out with a bang not a whimper proved you cared, that you still had feelings – despite everything – for the person who had betrayed you. Not good feelings, of course; not a love strong enough to repel the threat of a younger, prettier, no doubt more biddable, adoring life partner, but passion nonetheless.
In reality, what came after Eloise and Jonathan’s showdown had been far harder to deal with: the knowledge that their connection as a couple was broken, irrevocably, that they no longer shared a life. For while it was incontrovertibly true that it had been Jonathan who smashed their marriage, it was she who had stomped on the fragments, ensuring nothing survived. She’d been very thorough: refusing mediation, fighting him tooth and nail over the divorce settlement, extracting her pounds of flesh, chunk by bloody chunk, until there was only the stripped-down carcass left. The last act, expunging him from her life, had been the hardest of all. It had taken discipline and a rigid adherence to her pride, but she had managed it. To weaken and call a truce, maybe even to have found a way back to some sort of diluted, polluted friendship, would have been to let Megan win – and Eloise would not do that.
So effective had she been in erasing Jonathan from her heart that even when he’d fallen ill, she’d held firm. She’d heard about it all, of course, through the children. How hard the diagnosis had hit him, and how aggressive and unrelenting the progress of his condition was. And she’d felt for him, as you would for anyone who’d been dealt such a cruel blow, but she didn’t contact him directly. Didn’t send a letter or a card, or offer to visit. Nor did his diagnosis change how often she allowed herself to imagine how he was coping, how they were coping – well, not much.
Her face stared back at her in the mirror. She touched her mouth with a fingertip, checking her lipstick hadn’t bled into the corner. She looked composed. She would remain composed. She was here for the children. That was all. It was not the time for reopening old wounds.
‘Mum!’ Chloe appeared on the stairs. She bounded down the last few steps and came to embrace her mother. A tight, long, hungry hug, which Eloise returned, but was the one to end. ‘You came.’ Chloe looked rumpled, her clothes and cheek creased, as if she’d just woken from a nap. A nap in the middle of the afternoon at the age of twenty-six. Eloise tried to suppress the familiar disappointment with her youngest child.
‘Of course I did.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been so upsetting, and difficult. We don’t seem to be getting anywhere and—’
Eloise cut Chloe off before she could get properly started. ‘Do you mind if we talk in the kitchen, darling? It’s been quite a long drive and I could really do with a drink.’
Chloe looked a little crestfallen. ‘Sorry, yes. Of course.’ To Eloise’s discomfort, her daughter took her hand to lead her through into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got so much to catch you up on.’
Chapter 23
AS THEY were heading back along the sea front, Freddie slowed to a stop. ‘Who’s that?’ He pointed at Zoltar – still there, stranded in front of the Coney Island Arcade, locked in his weatherproof box, his pale-gold turban askew on his head.
‘That, young Freddie, is a sultan from the Far East.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He tells fortunes.’
‘What’s a “fortune”?’
Noah hesitated. ‘Well, a “fortune” usually means a lot of money. But what Zoltar does is tell you what’s going to happen – in the future.’
‘Like after Christmas.’
‘Yeah. That kind of thing.’
They wandered over and stared at Zoltar. He stared right back at them, as he had done at generations of day-trippers, his hand poised, ready, on his plastic crystal ball.
‘How does he work?’
‘You cross his palm with silver and he tells you what’s going to happen.’
‘Can we ask him to tell us our fortunes?’ Freddie liked new words.
‘Only if we pay him.’
Freddie’s expression grew serious. ‘But I haven’t got any pennies left.’
Noah relented. ‘Well, it’s a good job I’ve still
