Falling in Love Again (13 page)

Only then did he turn his attention to the top letter which Garth, who had now finally gone to get that much-needed panino, had been so twitchy about.

He didn’t recognise the name of the sender but the tone was chillingly remote.

‘I would be grateful if you would ring the above at your earliest convenience.’

It was the name of a solicitors according to the wording below. If there was one other thing his father had taught him (and actually, there were several), it was that solicitors were trouble.

Again, he was put through immediately. Why was it that this only happened when you didn’t want to speak to someone?

‘Mr Smith? Thank you for making contact.’

The voice was dangerously smooth and slow. Deep and slightly foreign. ‘I wanted to make contact over a certain contract which your late father entered into. Are you aware of the matter I am referring to?’

Didn’t have a bloody clue, Ed wanted to say. His father had so many fingers in so many different pies that it was hard to keep up. Even now, three years after his death, Ed was still coming across stuff he hadn’t known about.

‘Since this is a matter of extreme privacy, I think it would be best if we met at my office. Shall we say three weeks on Thursday at 3.30pm? I’m afraid I’m unable to fit you in before then.’

The man obviously came from the same school of sweat as his father had. In other words, you tell someone you have something important to impart and then insist you can’t see them for weeks in order to make them sweat. Well, two could play at that game.

‘Sorry. I’ve got the school run.’

The voice sounded mildly amused. ‘I am sure that a man in your position has someone else who can pick up your children.’

Kid actually. And besides, it wasn’t just a school run. He had promised the principal – only a few minutes ago – that he would not only pick up The Kid in person but also see him along with Jamie to promise that his behaviour would change.

But something in this man’s tone made a shiver go down his spine. Listen to your gut instinct, his father had always told him. And right now, his gut was knocking hard against his ribs and spleen and God knows what else. Biology had never been his strong point except in bed. ‘I’m afraid not. I could make 5pm, however.’

‘Very well.’ The lawyer’s tone was grudgingly admiring. ‘However, I feel it is only fair to advise you that you might wish to bring some legal representation with you.’

He’s cool again. Distant. Horribly polite.

When I reminded him we’d been asked to dinner at the Wyndham-Smythes that night, he said he didn’t want to go. I didn’t argue. Just held my breath for the rest of the day and got myself ready. I chose the blue dress with the scalloped hemline which he once said suited me.

He helped me fasten the back and then got changed himself.

It was a nice evening! Thank God  you were there, my darling, although I have to confess that I found it both a worry and a relief. I’m always worried in case you say something.

It would only make it worse, you know.

Let me do it my way.

He won’t  leave. Not really. There’s too much to lose.

Session  Four: How Are You Doing?

This session is for you!

It’s a catch up session at my house - sorry about the last meeting everyone! - to find out how you are getting on.

As well as the practical topics we were going to do before, this session will help you:

Share your tips on how you are re-building your lives.

Tell us what has worked – and what hasn’t.

Over to you!

PS We’re going to try to squeeze in an extra session this month to make up for the last!

18

LIZZIE

Of course, she couldn’t possibly go ahead with the ad in
The
Daily Telegraph
although she’d casually suggested it to Violet, the purple lady, whom Karen had teamed her up with as a buddy.

If she wasn’t careful, thought Lizzie, she’d end up being this woman’s best friend the way Violet kept emailing her. It was the last thing she had time for! Especially when she kept on about having been an actress. Poor thing was delusional.

‘Why
don’t
you
put an ad in?’ the woman had emailed back.

‘Because I am still in love with my husband,’ she had replied.

And it was true. Despite that horrible rebound pathetic evening with Dan which she still couldn’t erase from her mind (thank heavens he had the decency not to mention it, or was it because he took it for granted that he slept with every Sheila who needed her tears mopped up?), Lizzie simply couldn’t imagine a life without Tom.

‘But she’s pregnant with his child, love,’ Mum kept saying. ‘You’ve got to let him go. Put him out of your head. By the way, did you know you’ve forgotten to put mascara on one eye? I did that after George too. Makes you forgetful, doesn’t it? You’ve just got to move on, sweetheart.’

Move on? After nearly fourteen years? Impossible! Especially when every morning she saw Sharon The Slut dropping off her kids and – even worse – Jack skipping happily off to play with them.

‘We’re seeing Dad this Saturday,’ announced Sophie out of the blue one morning when she’d dropped off Jack – without his knitting bag (another crazy National Curriculum idea) – and was on the way to Sophie’s self-defence course.

This Saturday? He hadn’t told her! Then again, they hadn’t spoken for weeks now. Instead, he would email. Or text.

‘He said he’d left a message on the answerphone.’

That explained it. There hadn’t been time to pick up messages. Not with the kids, work and the house. Then there was the leak behind the washing machine that needed fixing. Tom had been so good at that sort of thing and now she’d have to get someone out unless . . .

Lizzie sat bolt upright behind the steering wheel, chucking her empty Bounty wrapper on the floor. How stupid had she’d been. How very, very stupid . . .

When Tom had first gone, she recalled as she waited for the lift to his office, he’d offered to come round to do ‘jobs in the house’. Lizzie felt slightly uncomfortable now to recall how she’d screamed at him about never crossing the threshold again (either hers or the house’s) but then again, wasn’t that a normal reaction when your husband had shagged the school run?

But that was before the night Dan had come over
and
before that little talk with Ed after the group one night when he’d said that one of his stepmothers had actually remarried his father after a divorce. OK, so they’d split up again soon after but at least they’d tried.

Wasn’t there something to be said for taking Tom back? For forgiving him? And wasn’t there some truth in what Tom had said about her working so hard that she never had time for him any more . . .

DING! LEVEL FOUR!

Shit. Sorry. Sugar. She felt sick. Perhaps she ought to leave Tom’s office building right now with its stiff receptionist who had asked who she was, as though she wasn’t a wife any more. She ought to run home, slip out of these heels which were killing her (how daft to dress up for her ex) and . . .

‘Lizzie?’

Her heart jumped. It was as though she was seeing him for the first time. That face she knew so well. A striped shirt that she didn’t. Not good news. Had The Slut chosen it for him? Had . . .

He was frowning. ‘Has something happened to the kids?’

The relief in his eyes when she shook her head was both hurtful and pleasing.  Thank God for Jack and Sophie. Prawns, her father had lisped warningly through his new teeth. Make sure you don’t use them as prawns. Prawns or pawns. It was the only weapon she had left.

‘I need to talk, Tom.’

He motioned to a side office. ‘In here.’ He gave her another look. ‘You’ve changed your hairstyle.’

‘Yes.’

She waited for him to comment but instead he was inviting her to sit down. She’d changed her hair (clearly he didn’t approve) and he’d changed offices. This one had a smart beech desk surrounded by tidily stacked files. When she’d come here before, a year ago, with the children running riot all over the place, he had been further down the corridor. Sharing with someone else. ‘I got promoted,’ he said slightly embarrassed. ‘My solicitor is writing to you. I’ll be able to give you some more money.’

Solicitors. Lizzie’s head began to spin as she recalled the pile of post unopened by the front door, some with a solicitor’s name stamped in a neat red square on the front.

‘Come back.’ She stood up and held out her hands. ‘Please Tom. We need you. You can give this money to Sharon and that . . . that thing inside her. We’re not a family unless you come home. It’s like we’ve all been put in a blender. Please.’

Someone began to cry. Weep. Uncontrollably. A woman’s voice. Her own, she realised with a shock. And then she felt his warmth. His arms around her. His head on hers. Thank God! It was all going to be all right. They could go home. Pretend none of this had ever happened. Go back to playing dyslexic Scrabble at night (a variation they’d made up just for Jack). Go out for dinner. She might even try and cook . . .

‘Lizzie.’ His hands rhythmically stroked the back of her neck. ‘I’m sorry.’

YES, YES, YES!

‘You miss me because of the pattern. The security. It’s understandable.’ His eyes were looking into hers. ‘But we haven’t felt properly about each other for years, have we? We were so young when we met. We hadn’t had a chance to . . .  to explore being with anyone else. And you’ve got to admit that the only thing that binds us together now is the children.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I love Sharon. I’m sorry. But I do.’

NO, NO, NO. She could get the kids to have lobotomies so they behaved. She could do an intensive sex and cookery course combined (like one of Ed’s stepmothers). Or she could lie.

‘Sorry. You’re right.’ She rearranged herself on the chair, hastily wiping her eyes. Blotches had never been her best feature. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry to rush you but I’ve got a meeting.’

‘It’s the washing machine. That leak. It’s got worse. And the plumber can’t come.’

He reached for his Blackberry. ‘I’ll find you another.’

‘It won’t be soon enough. They never are. It’s leaking. Right through the wall as I speak. In fact, I shouldn’t be here speaking at all. I ought to be clogging it up.’

‘Through the wall?’ He turned pale. ‘Not towards my CD collection?’

She nodded excitedly. ‘Exactly. The special ones. I tried to move a few but I’m afraid they might have got cracked . . .’

‘Cracked?’

She nodded. ‘They could be salvageable but I wasn’t sure whether just to sling them out.’

‘I’ll be over tonight.’

‘Great.’ She smiled weakly. School plays had never been her strong point as a kid but Violet had been helping her to rehearse this particular performance and clearly, it had worked. ‘I’ll arrange some supper.’

‘By the way.’ He was smiling and for a second, she caught a flash of the old Tom. ‘Did you know you’ve got odd shoes on? Unless you meant to wear one red with a blue.’

‘MUM. COME HERE!’

Why did they always expect
you
to come to
them
when they wanted something?

Sophie was pointing to the bucket just as
The Best of Grateful Dead
sank straight to the bottom. ‘Just why are you drowning Daddy’s CDs in a bucket of water?’

Because we’ve had a flood? Because Jack peed next to the toilet again?

‘Don’t say ‘toilet’, Mum. You’ve always told us to say loo. Just because we’re a single parent family, doesn’t mean we have to drop our values.’

Sorry. Must try harder. ‘We had a sort of flood.’ Lizzie pointed to the water on the carpet next to Tom’s precious CD player. ‘Just look.’

Her daughter looked up with a
‘Do you think I’m stupid’
stare. ‘You’ve slopped water on the floor to make it look as though we’ve had a flood so Dad can come and clean up. Haven’t you? That’s why you’ve jumped on some of his music too. Look at those cracks!’

Why were almost-teenagers so bloody grown up?

‘Cool, Mum.’ Sophie was already filling up the jug. ‘But if you’re going to do it properly, you need a lot more mess. Come on. I’ll help. As long as you test me for my maths exam tomorrow. And don’t forget it’s Roman soldier day tomorrow for Jack.’

Roman soldier day? Oh God. That meant cutting up yet another pillow case for an outfit. She’d already got through three for the male angel outfit last Christmas.

Sophie’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you don’t, I’ll tell Dad about that photographer who came round the other week. It’s OK. Probably just a rebound thing. Mandie’s mum did the same. But it can’t happen again. Not if you want to get back with Dad. Now hurry up. That’s his car pulling up outside.’

His car? But it was new. A sleek silver job, which probably came with his promotion. Had Sharon and her kids been in it already? Suddenly, a flash of their first car – a Citroen Diane – shot into her head. They’d bought it together, Tom and her, when neither had had much money. It had broken down in the first day and the man they’d brought it from had refused to give them a refund. They’d learned to joke about it over the years but now, looking at Tom’s shiny convertible, she felt sick.

‘Won’t you come in?’

Why had she said it so stiffly? Now he looked even more uncomfortable.

‘The flood’s through here.’

She gestured to the sitting room carpet, fighting back the gasp which was about to escape from her mouth. Jack and Sophie had done an amazing job. Now no one could accuse her of exaggerating. They’d need a new washing machine. And a new carpet. And a new wall. Not to mention a new collection of CDs. Maybe she ought to go into Demolition. Lizzie & Kids. They wouldn’t even need to train.

‘Where did that come from?

He was staring puzzled, first at the ceiling which was clearly dry and then at the radiator which was miles away.

From the tap? She shrugged. ‘No idea. Weird isn’t it?’

As if on cue, Sophie flew in. ‘DAD! We’ve missed you!’

Hugging her father, she turned round and made a face. ‘Better check on the casserole, Mum. It’s in the oven. Remember? Just in case Dad wanted to stay for supper.’

Tom was peeling off his jacket and trying to find the non-existent leak. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t. I promised . . .’

‘Pleeeeese, Dad. Pleeese.’ Sophie had her arms around him still and Jack was  clamping his legs. For a minute, it looked like an ordinary Friday evening when the children had latched on to him the second he got home from work and she – oh God how could she have been so stupid? – had been on the laptop yet again, filing a piece for work. Ignoring the fact her man was home.

‘Here, Dad. Have a glass of wine. It’s OK. Mum’s already opened the bottle.’

Jack was nodding importantly. ‘She’s always drinking . . .’

‘Shut up Jack.’ Sophie was really getting into bossy marriage-mender mode. ‘We’ll go and lay the table. OK?’

Tom’s eyes widened. ‘The kids lay the table now?’

Lizzie swallowed. ‘We’ve all had to learn to do stuff since you left.’

Good. He was feeling guilty. She could see it all over his face.

‘But we’re managing.’

Don’t make him feel needed, Violet had said. But do make him jealous. Just a bit.

It took ages for Tom to mop up the water and wipe his CDs dry as though each one was a baby! It almost made dinner late which would have been a shame as she’d really pushed the boat out.

Until tonight, Lizzie had regarded herself as more of a ‘culinary arranger’ than a cook. Secretly, she wondered if she should have been a doctor since she was a dab hand at doing emergency heart surgery with double cream to patch up pavolvas when they’d cracked, coming out of the packet.

But tonight’s dinner was, if she said it herself, spectacular! The kids – unbelievably – didn’t try to murder each other under the table. The Sainsbury casserole was mouth watering and she’d taken care to hide the packaging in the bin.

‘Need anything else doing?’ he asked after they had cleared away. They were sitting down now in the sitting room afterwards with a cup of coffee – something else they hadn’t done for ages.

‘I think we can manage at the moment, thanks.’ She managed a brave smile. ‘It was great you managed to sort out the leak.’

Tom frowned. ‘I still don’t know where it came from. Better keep an eye on it.’