Walking Back to Happiness (12 page)

‘Do you want to come with me and see Emer’s bathroom?’ he asked. ‘I could show you better than I can describe it.’

‘Lorcan . . .’ The little girl tugged his T-shirt.

‘No, it’s OK,’ said Juliet. ‘I’ve . . . I’ve got to take Minton out.’

It was true, but as she said it, she felt a glimmer of something that she couldn’t entirely put her finger on.

It was only when Juliet was halfway round the park that she let herself admit the truth: actually, despite the noise and the bad start with Lorcan, she wanted to go next door, but for the first time in years she felt shy.

Chapter 8

When Louise and Juliet were teenagers, Juliet used to bounce into Louise’s room while she was doing her homework and get her to score her in magazine quizzes – the sort that told you what your Dating Style was, or which
Friends
character you were most like. Juliet had a sneaky habit of changing her answers, mid-stream, if she thought she was headed in a direction she didn’t fancy, but Louise was hardline.

Juliet, being pretty straightforward and guileless, loved being told what she was ‘really’ like, although Louise could have told her without ringing a, b or c. Juliet was simply the nicest person she’d ever met. A typical Cancerian, as the magazines would say; the colour yellow; a Labradoodle.

Louise, on the other hand, didn’t bother with the quizzes because she knew exactly what she thought about everything from nuclear power to adultery, via the Euro and reality television, thanks to six years on the school debating team. She’d applied the same (typical Virgo; navy blue; horse) analysis to herself and she knew what she was, flaws and all. Methodical, hard-working, predictable, groomed. She’d never be popular or cutely tousled, like Juliet, but Louise was happy with the certainties in her life. Her ambition was to be as happily married as her mum, but with an interesting job, like her dad.

Nothing much changed in the intervening years: she found a career that ticked all her ‘need for neatness’ boxes, and a husband who made her melt inside in a surprisingly messy way, but who liked a clean bath as much as she did.

But that was before Toby was born. In the space of two years, things had happened that cracked every assumption she had. The truth slowly dawning on Louise was that, these days, she didn’t really know what sort of woman she was at all any more.

The changes had started as soon as the second blue line appeared on the test, just two months after she and Peter had decided that they’d done all the holidays they wanted and were ready for a baby. Louise had assumed she’d feel serene, but actually she’d felt panicky. While Peter was still hugging her and crying, Louise could feel herself becoming someone new, herself and someone else at the same time, someone vitally important, and yet secondary to the life splitting and reforming inside her.

She’d tried to explain the strange dislocation to Peter, but he just said, ‘You’ll always be first to me,’ which wasn’t the point.

It didn’t help that her pregnancy coincided with Techmate’s breakthrough sale to a bigger software company, and Peter had gone from being a designer to a company director overnight, and nearly doubled his hours at work. He’d made it to both scans, where he’d spent more time looking at the ultrasound machines than at Toby, but the deal had reached a tricky stage around the time of the delivery, and then in the weeks that followed, Peter’s paternity leave was cut so short that he sometimes called her Jason by mistake as he fell into bed, earplugs in.

Louise didn’t like to confess that she found one day alone with Toby more stressful and frustrating than a whole week in court. If it hadn’t been for the NCT group, Louise thought she’d have gone mad altogether. They’d stayed in contact after the babies were born, carrying on meeting up mainly as an excuse to get out of the house, and those post-baby NCT lunches had been fun. Apart from Organic Karen, who argued with everyone, including the surgeon performing her C-section, the group turned out to be a really nice, normal bunch of women,.

Rachel ran the rescue centre, an ex-Londoner who wore wellies and Chanel nail varnish and still seemed surprised to be a mother. Paula was a physio at the private hospital, whose fourth girl was born the same day as Toby and who had them all doing pelvic-floor exercises; and Susie was a stay-at-home mum with the miracle baby and only half a Fallopian tube.

And Michael, that rare thing – the NCT dad. At first he’d been there with his partner, Anna, but increasingly Anna hadn’t come. She’d seemed stressed and didn’t join in with the groans about stomachs like pizza dough and sleep deprivation. Louise envied Anna at first, for having a man who’d make time to come along, but her eagle eyes spotted the cracks in the body language before their baby was even born; they barely touched when they were there together, and she was always complaining about him when they were apart. That surprised Louise: Michael seemed like a very hands-on father, always making his baby girl laugh. He made her laugh too, with his confident, self-deprecating jokes. And most flattering of all, he didn’t just talk to her about Calpol.

One day, on their way out of the coffee shop, she’d asked casually, ‘How’s Anna? We never see her,’ and he’d looked strained, but had said, ‘She’s fine. But we’ve split up. We’re going to co-parent.’

‘But you can’t leave
us
!’ Louise had blurted out, then blushed at the way it had come out. ‘Sorry, what a selfish reaction! I mean, I’m really sorry . . .’

Michael had looked at her. ‘I won’t be leaving you lot,’ he’d said. ‘Where else would I find out where to get the best nipple cream?’

That had been a while ago. They didn’t refer to Anna in the group, and treated Michael more like one of the mums, albeit taller and better at collapsing a buggy with a single kick.

But Louise didn’t think of him like that at all; to her, Michael was a lifeline to the old Louise, who had opinions about Virginia Woolf, not Gina Ford. The conversation they had on the way back through the park after lunch slowly became the highlight of her monotonous week, and she stored up all the funny observations and questions that Peter didn’t bother to listen to in the hour or so of sentient non-baby-tending time they shared at the end of the day.

All he ever wanted to talk about when he came home was Toby. Which, much as she adored her beautiful boy, was the only thing Louise
didn’t
want to talk about.

It was on one of those walks back from lunch that Louise had told Michael about the cherry tree saplings Ben had dropped in the previous day, and his plan to grow them for her sister.

‘That’s such a romantic idea,’ he’d said at once, without prompting. ‘And it’s like love, isn’t it, coming and going. Flowering, then lying dormant, then flowering again.’

‘I’d rather have an evergreen, if you’re going to be metaphorical about it,’ she’d replied. ‘Not flashy, but year-round. No dead bits.’

Michael had stopped pushing the buggy and looked at her. ‘Really?’ he’d asked, with a different tone in his voice. A new tone that unsettled her. ‘You don’t want that amazing cherry blossom feeling, even if it’s just once a year?’

That had been the moment when something had tipped inside Louise, and she’d realised she wasn’t quite what she thought she was. And after that, when she watered Ben’s sturdy baby trees in her greenhouse, she saw Michael’s hands on the buggy handles, his strong arms under his polo shirt. The flicker of excitement in her stomach, and her horrified fascination at this new, new Louise emerging.

Ben had warned her not to over-water the saplings. Louise had to remind herself of that each time she headed for the greenhouse.

By ten o’clock, Juliet was curled up in her big chair with Minton snoring on her knee, making hot patches on her leg with each breath. The television was off – night-time schedules didn’t have the same comforting predictability as daytime – and she was listening to Coldplay, and crying gently, so as not to wake him. On the thick arms of the chair were photos, one of Ben’s work diaries, and his wallet, still with exactly the same receipts and cards in it as had been there when the nurse handed it back.

Juliet didn’t feel any worse or better for her tears, just tired.

Minton’s ears drew back and he sat up, suddenly alert. Juliet ignored him. Minton could tell if a cat had so much as stepped into their back garden; he took it very personally. She stroked his ear and tried to bring Ben’s summer clothes back into her mind. That had been the year he got badly sunburned on an unexpectedly hot day and had had to wear shirts for the rest of . . .

Or was that the previous year? She frowned, with her eyes shut, and her brain was about to ask Ben; then – as happened ten times a day – she realised there was no way she could ever check that again. It was gone. A yawning pain rose in her chest.

There was a noise in the porch and Minton slipped off her knee to investigate. It sounded like the brass letterbox clattering. Probably pizza leaflets. For six months after Ben died, her dad had had all her mail redirected to his house, so she wouldn’t have to be faced with Ben’s name every morning. Eric had sorted it carefully, dealing with the financial red tape, and gently redelivered packages of cards and notes each morning, pretending each time that he was ‘just passing’.

The condolence letters had dried up now, as had the phone calls. It was as if everyone had forgotten she was still abandoned, The first junk mail addressed to Ben had sent a chill through her heart, though, and it was only then that Juliet realised what a shield her dad had been. Showing his love with tender efficiency, not words.

She heaved herself out of the chair and went through to the porch to see what had come through the letterbox.

It wasn’t a pizza leaflet. It was an A4 envelope, addressed to Juliet in a bold print she didn’t recognise. Her name was written in purple felt tip.

She headed back to the kitchen, opening it as she went. Inside was a stapled set of papers, partly typed and partly written over. Intrigued, Juliet flipped on the kettle and the small table lamp that really belonged in the bedroom, but was doubling as a kitchen light for the time being.

Juliet
, said the postcard on the top. It was a free postcard from a cinema.

I’ve done you a full quotation for the work on your house. One set to show any workmen, so they know you mean business. The other set I’ve marked up for yourself. It’s more realistic. I could probably fit you in if you want me to do the work, but can’t do it all at once. Give us a call, anyway. You know where I am.

Cheers,

Lorcan

The list went on for several pages in Lorcan’s measured handwriting. Juliet hesitated, before she read on. She still had another thirty minutes of miserable wallowing left; did she have the energy to look at this? Was it cheating to distract herself early?

Minton’s claws skittered over the kitchen floor. He ended up underneath the Tupperware box with the Bonios – not begging, just hinting with his shiny eyes. He looked perky. He looked, Juliet thought, quite happy that Grief Hour had ended early and normal night-time service had been resumed.

Me too, she thought. There’s only so much Coldplay a girl can take.

With a sigh, she opened the lid and offered him a Bonio, which he took delicately from her hand and carried off to the kitchen sofa to eat in peace, keeping an eye on her at the same time.

Juliet made herself a coffee and started to skim the list, which went on for page after page:
Plaster sitting room, repaint rooms x 8, check windows, refit bathroom suite . . .

In her mind’s eye she could see the house changing around her like a fast-forwarded home-improvement show, soft colours climbing the ragged walls like ivy and neutral carpets swooping over bare boards like the tide coming in. Part of her shrank from that. How will I know if it’s what Ben would have chosen, she agonised, without Ben here to ask?

Lorcan’s notes were frank.
Don’t let any cheeky bastards charge you extra for paint
, he’d written.
I’ve got a contact who can get you trade prices
.

Juliet tried to stand outside her body for a moment. It made sense to use someone she knew. Lorcan had said himself that builders needed supervision; who better to get than the builder who lived next door? She could supervise him from the comfort of her own room, and check out his lunch breaks from her garden.

‘God,’ said Juliet out loud, ‘that almost sounds like Louise talking.’

Minton looked up from the sofa.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just trying to think how Auntie Lou would tackle this.’

Louise would make a plan, then action it – just like she had with marriage, career, babies. It was almost surprising that Lou hadn’t been round to look at the building work herself – she’d had their conservatory built in the same time it had taken Juliet and Ben to choose a bird table.

For some reason, Juliet got a snakes-and-ladders image in her head whenever she thought of Louise: one moment she and Louise had been level pegging, with something in common for the first time in years, and then Louise had shot up a ladder to motherhood, while she’d slid back so many squares, right back to the beginning. No baby. No husband. Nothing. Just a slow climb back and no chance now of a golden wedding, not unless they invented eternal-life tablets before she was fifty.

Juliet closed her eyes and let the jealousy wash through. It wasn’t a nice emotion, but Louise had everything she’d ever wanted. Everything. And she didn’t seem to realise how precious it all was, how easily it could all be lost.

She opened her eyes again, this time shying away from the memories that sprang into her mind.

Focus on what you can change, she told herself. Like this house.

At the end of the notes was a costing, and it made Juliet feel a bit sick. Lorcan had added,
I could do it for 20% less but not in one go, which would spread the cost out.

She put the list down on the kitchen table and clutched her hot cup between both hands. It was a
lot
more than she’d expected. The romantic plan had been for her and Ben to do up their dream house together, room by room, in their own vision. Romantic meaning ‘no choice’ – they’d stretched themselves to get it in the first place, with most of their savings going into the deposit. And ‘her and Ben’ really meant Ben doing the DIY with help from his mates, and her choosing colours and where the plug sockets went.