Walking Back to Happiness (30 page)

‘What?’ That seemed strange. ‘Does he want to spend more time in the garden or something?’

‘No, he just doesn’t want to tie himself down to a whole year. That Welsh took it out of him.’ Diane was tidying up the table as she spoke, but it was very tidy already. She heaped the junk mail into a smaller pile, then moved some apples in the fruit bowl. ‘He’s going to leave his options open.’

Louise regarded her mother anxiously. Forget the highlights and new glasses. Dad not doing a course was plain
worrying
. ‘Mum, is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘No!’ Diane looked up, her eyes bright. ‘Would I try to keep anything from Longhampton’s senior prosecutor?’

Louise said nothing. For a family that could read its members like a book on some occasions, there were a lot of secrets building up.

Chapter 19

‘Where do you want these? Sorry, am I interrupting?’

Louise hastily shut the Internet browser window as Tanya, the new office manager, bustled into the office with an armful of manila wallets and bulging case notes.

‘No,’ she said, then, seeing Tanya’s ‘yeah, right’ face, she added, ‘OK, busted. I was checking the Tesco order. I always forget something when I do it last thing. Sorry. Pop them on the end there.’

‘Secret’s safe with me.’ Tanya winked. ‘You’re talking to the woman who came in an hour early to check out the Next sale before anyone else.’

Louise laughed conspiratorially and cleared a space on her desk for the files. Her ‘easing in gently’ period was long over; Douglas had loaded her with more court work than anyone else to clear the backlog before they had their productivity assessment by the council.

At least once a day, he managed to remind everyone that they were still under threat of merger with the main county courts in the next district, which only made Louise more panicky about getting back up to speed and into full indispensability mode.

If only being frantically busy took her mind off all the other stuff going on in her head. It didn’t. One rogue raiding party of worries just galloped in to distract her from whatever she was meant to be doing at the time. In court, she worried about Peter and her marriage; at home, she worried about what would happen if she got pregnant just before the council announced the merger.

Although, that was one worry she could realistically strike off her list. She should be more worried about poor Peter filing for divorce, on grounds of terminal chilliness.

‘Louise?’

Louise realised she was staring at the top file, a repeat licensing application. ‘Sorry. I was just . . . just wondering when the Red Lion’s licence would be back up for review. And here it is.’

Tanya looked unconvinced, but wisely said nothing.

When the door had closed behind her, Louise reopened the Safari window and carried on reading.

Has it really come to this? she thought, her eyes skimming the page for key words.
Affair. Guilt. Loss of desire
. Consulting Mumsnet for advice on rebuilding your life after an affair – instead of asking your mother? Or a friend? Or your sister?

Louise’s legal mind pointed out that those were exactly the people you could never ask, and that she should stop asking stupid questions and start filleting for a helpful recovery strategy.

It wasn’t as if she had any option – she didn’t have time to go to Relate on her own. Peter would want to know where she was going, and she valued every moment she had with Toby even more now she was back in the office. Her NCT friends were all tucked up in their happy mummy worlds, and anyway, she didn’t want to go back there. She didn’t trust herself not to ask about Michael, to find out where he was, how he was doing. It pained her, but she didn’t trust Louise not to weaken again.

The only thing she was sure about these days was that she adored her son and she was incredibly lonely. She didn’t even have a Minton to dump it all on. At least Juliet had access to unlimited sympathy and advice, and everyone telling her how perfect her marriage had been, even if she knew different.

Louise felt sick at her own meanness, then opened her desk drawer. The emergency Dairy Milk had only lasted thirty-six hours. A record. She ripped it open, broke it in half and gave herself four minutes’ Internet time to consider her options before cracking on with her caseload,.

The consensus of opinion seemed pretty evenly split on affairs. Either she could carry the burden of her guilt and shame around with her for the rest of her life, as the punishment she deserved, or she could confess all to Peter, be honest about what she’d done and why, and try to start again.

Group A seemed to think punishing Peter with the details wasn’t fair, and Louise tended to agree; it was her mess, not his. Group B insisted that she wasn’t going to be able to rebuild anything unless it was all out in the open, and much as Louise shrank from even thinking how to begin that conversation, she wasn’t stupid. She hadn’t moved on at all in the past ten months. Her guilt was the third person every time she had to face Peter; it wasn’t Michael sitting opposite them, so much as her own shame and remorse.

It’s me I really need to confront, she thought, breaking the second half of the bar into squares to stop it following the first so quickly. I’m the one who needs to draw a line under this.

It hadn’t ended in a very dignified manner, after all. One panicky, tactlessly worded text message, one curt reply; then she’d deleted all his emails, his phone numbers, every scrap of contact she’d ever had, to stop herself from sliding back.

Not, Louise corrected herself, that there was any sliding back to be done, not physically. It had been the friendship, the sense of being listened to, that felt like a gaping hole in her life. Yes, she’d fancied Michael, but that had come from the time they’d spent together, enjoying their mental connection more and more each week. It had been Ben’s death and that crazy few days when nothing seemed real that she’d allowed things to break out of their natural boundaries. If Ben hadn’t died, maybe she could have held things as they were. Let no one down.

Right, said the voice in her head.

As she was reading, an email popped into her inbox. It was from Peter, and the header was, ‘Date-Night Friday.’

Louise felt sick, and not from the chocolate.

Maybe if I saw Michael, apologised properly, and accepted that it was just a friendship that boiled over, not some crashing indictment of my marriage, then I can move on, she thought.

Louise had a sudden flashback to the surprise on his handsome face, the moment she’d lost her head and kissed him by the bridge. She hadn’t slept for two days, sitting up with a hysterical, bereaved Juliet, then with Toby, but she’d never felt more awake, determined to inhabit every single minute. It had been an incredible kiss. She’d felt light-headed, yet utterly aware of his taste, her lips, their mingled breath.

What if you see him and don’t find the right words? argued the voice in her head. It’s not like court. There won’t be witnesses called. You’re on your own.

I’ll write a letter, she reasoned. She couldn’t call or email, having deleted his details, but she could write. Words wouldn’t let her down.

She swung round in her leather office chair, pleased with her plan, and watched a pair of pigeons land on the air-conditioning unit outside.

If I don’t get my head sorted and my life back on track, I’m going to be stuck in an office with a view of the air-conditioning unit for a long time, thought Louise.

And then, because nothing else seemed important, she pulled a stack of paper out of her printer drawer and started writing.

Juliet’s mornings were so busy with other people’s households that she’d listened to the entire Jane Austen back catalogue on audiobook and had started on Charles Dickens.

Although August was nearly over, and the summer holiday season was drawing to a close, her phone didn’t stop ringing; no sooner did one family come back from Florida than their next-door neighbours rang and asked if she could pop in and feed their cats and play with their guinea pigs. And bring in their post, check on their son’s goldfish, check their Sky+ was recording all the right stuff and so on.

Some work she had to turn down because there just wasn’t enough time to get round everyone. Juliet liked to give each cat a proper half-hour of tummy-tickling and general company, if they wanted it – some, of course, barely bothered to put their heads through the cat-flap when she put the fresh bowls down. Others, though, raced up to her and wound themselves round her legs, grateful for the ear scratches and conversations.

It made Juliet feel wanted, and useful. Sorting out the post and doing the little odd-jobs for the owners made her feel useful too, but not quite in the same warming way. Maybe spending more time with animals than humans was starting to affect her mind, but giving the pets a bit of company gave her a glow; they were obviously lonely without their humans, and unsure of where they’d gone. Juliet liked to think she was bridging their faith that they’d come back.

And it was nice to play with cats for an hour or two, without the responsibility of owning them. Juliet had always quite fancied a nice big tortoiseshell moggie, but Ben – and Minton – were never keen. Now she had a whole lending library of pets, and most of them loved her. Emer begged her to take Florrie round with her, to distract her from the menagerie at their own house.

While she was locking up at the Kellys’ (two hamsters, three cats, fourteen different types of breakfast cereal arranged on the counter), Lorcan texted her to see if she was around to start grouting the shower tiling at long last. He was willing to give her a grouting lesson if she’d cook him a load of oysters that had fallen that morning off the same lorry that most of her bathroom had already fallen off.

‘So long as they’re fresher than your jokes,’ she texted back. ‘Time?’

‘After lunch?’

Juliet checked her watch. She had to take Hector, Minton and Damson for a lunchtime walk, which would take until two, then nothing until her cat rota at six. Lorcan could mind Minton while she dashed round; then they could eat at seven. And that was nearly a whole day filled up.

She remembered with mild regret that there was a back-to-back showing of some St Trinian’s films that she’d miss now, but Juliet’s ritualistic ringing of the
Radio Times
was more of a habit now than a burning desire to see the programmes.

‘Cool,’ she texted back. ‘We’ll need Guinness.’

Damson was thrilled to see Juliet, as usual, but Juliet was even more thrilled to hear that the barking only started when she turned the key in the back door.

The radio was on, as was the television in the sitting room. Mark liked to give Damson a choice. Under the walking money on the kitchen table, he’d also left a brand-new Kong, with a can of squeezy Kong cheese, and a note in his neat, fountain-penned hand.

Dear Juliet,

I’ve found a great pub for dogs in Hanleigh that lets humans in the bar area!  Would you and Minton like to come out for lunch on Sunday? It’s called the Pig and Whistle.  We’ll be there from 1-ish.  We could go for a walk after, if Food Boy hasn’t overdone it on the lunch, as usual.

Love,

Damson

PS Here’s a new Kong to replace Minton’s spare one. I have destroyed it, sorry. I get bored when you’re not here.

Juliet smiled. It was easier accepting a lunch date from Damson, on behalf of Minton. No pressure in any direction.

Smart of Food Boy, she thought. And considerate. No pressure, with their canine chaperones. The more she got to know Mark, the less like a TV auctioneer she thought he was, and more like a real, warm person that she could imagine, maybe, one day . . .

Juliet’s stomach lurched, but she made herself go through with the thought. Mark was someone she could definitely imagine cooking in this kitchen with. Him hugging her as he stirred.

She felt something brush her leg and looked down.

Damson was sitting at her feet, with her lead dangling from her mouth. It only took a few biscuits to teach Damson tricks: she could give paw, lie and turn round already.

‘Thanks, Damson,’ she said, taking the lead and fastening it to her tartan collar. ‘I’d
love
to join you for lunch. Now, let’s go and wear you out.’

Louise was supposed to be in a case meeting at three o’clock, but the Probation Service cancelled at the last minute while she was on her way across town.

The letter was in her bag, sealed to stop her chickening out and changing anything. It was a good letter, getting everything off her chest, with no need for a reply. Louise felt better for writing it. She’d been honest about how much their friendship had meant to her, and had apologised for ending it as she had, without a backward glance. Now she was no longer carrying those thoughts around with her, she reasoned, maybe it would be easier to fix things with Peter.

Louise wondered if Michael was stuck too. Whether he’d patched things up, or met someone new. It had taken considerable self-control not to ask those questions.

I could drop it in now, she thought, realising she wasn’t far from his house. He might even be in, if he was working from home.

She ignored the suspicious frisson that rippled through her. This was about closing things off. Moving on.

Louise walked briskly off the High Street and headed down Duke Street, past the shops that had started to be refurbished before the recession, and which were now creeping back to their old, neglected state. Louise’s court shoes weren’t really made for walking – she’d forgotten to put her flats in her big bag in her rush to leave the house – but something about knowing that by five o’clock, she’d have tackled the looming problem in her life made her stride out purposefully.

She turned away from the shops and headed along the Victorian terraces behind. She was getting nearer now, only two more streets away, and her heart was racing as hard as it did before Crown Court trials.