They lived in a townhouse in Muswell Hill, north London, just a few minutes’ walk from the bus stop where Pete started his journey to work each morning. He hadn’t wanted to live there at first because there wasn’t a Tube station nearby, but she had immediately fallen in love with the ‘impressive four-bedroom house in an enviable location’ pitched to them by the slick Greek-Cypriot estate agent. When they went to view it, Kate, clutching their eldest daughter Lily’s hand while cradling a newborn Maggie in her baby carrier, could imagine them putting down roots here. She could already hear their children’s laughter echoing around the rooms as they ran through the halls, growing up, playing with their friends and making memories. They would be so happy here, she thought.
So, just as she had always done so well in her old job in public relations, she had prepared her best pitch to Pete, painting the picture of an idyllic family life in the house, sending him links to nearby restaurants and cafés that she knew he’d like and eventually persuading him that this property was exactly what they needed. Four years on and he still moaned about the damn commute. But she knew he loved the house really and the girls, now seven and five, had got into the popular local primary school. Plus the renovation, while stressful, had given her a much-needed project to distract her from the relentless and overwhelming job of being a stay-at-home mum to young children.
Now all that was left to do was the overgrown garden and recently she had been feeling like she was almost there, that Project Family Home was nearing completion. To her that symbolised the start of a new, better life. She was slowly inching ever closer to having created the ideal home that she had dreamed of for her family, a place constantly filled with people, life and laughter for many years to come.
But this morning, as she sat in silence at their handmade pine kitchen table, listening to the monotonous sound of their beautiful clock ticking in their immaculately designed kitchen, she had never felt more alone. Her mind drifted back to the previous day and the last words she had said to her husband before he left.
The morning had started like any other. The girls had bounded into their rooms at 6.30am, snuggling under the covers for a few more blissful moments in bed before they all had to face the day. Kate had got up with them and taken them off to get dressed while Pete checked his emails. Downstairs she had made them breakfast and waited for Rachel, their nanny, to collect them and take them to school. She had asked her to come earlier than usual so that they could go to a breakfast fundraiser organised by the parents committee. Once they had left, Kate had started cleaning up the kitchen as she waited for Pete to come down, then they’d had a quick breakfast together before he left for work.
Had he acted any differently over breakfast, she wondered, casting her mind back? She didn’t think so. Nothing she could put her finger on anyway. What was the last thing she had said to him as he headed towards the front door? She tried to think but she couldn’t remember exactly now. It wasn’t ‘I love you’, they’d stopped saying that to each other every day years ago. But everyone knew that was par for the course when you’ve been together forever and you’ve got children. It was a given that you loved each other.
That evening, she hadn’t been surprised when he wasn’t home to help put the girls to bed. He was a workaholic and in the nine years she’d been married to him she’d become accustomed to his late nights and business trips. As a director at a large media company there was always a client to schmooze or a crisis to handle. She had carried on with the usual evening routine – bath, bed and stories with the girls – before kissing them goodnight and padding wearily down the stairs, pouring a glass of red wine and collapsing on the sofa. Turning the TV on, she sent Pete a quick text to ask if he’d be home for dinner before scrolling through the channels and choosing an episode of EastEnders. Pete loathed soaps but she loved them, and she always indulged in her guilty pleasure whenever he wasn’t around. She relished the mad, over-the-top drama of other people’s fictional lives, secure in the knowledge that hers was reassuringly mundane in comparison.
At 3am she woke up on the sofa with the empty bottle of wine next to her, a horrible taste in her mouth and the immediate sensation that Pete wasn’t in the house. She climbed the stairs and glanced into their empty bedroom, then pulled her phone out of her jeans pocket and called him, nearly jumping out of her skin when the sound of ringing downstairs pierced the still of the night. Pete never went anywhere without his phone. She followed the sound to the coat rack by the front door and rummaged through his jacket until she discovered his mobile nestled in a pocket, next to an envelope with her name on it. It had clearly been there all day, but she hadn’t heard it go off. Looking at the screen she could see just two notifications – her own text message that she’d sent him earlier that evening, unread and unanswered – and her missed call. Putting the phone in her own pocket for now and feeling the grogginess of the red wine wearing off rapidly, she turned her attention to the letter.
She couldn’t remember the last time her husband had written her an anniversary card, let alone a handwritten letter but the writing
