Walking Back to Happiness (37 page)

‘I like this surprise element,’ she said, and realised she meant it.

They walked through the empty streets, their feet echoing on the pavement. All the shops closed on the dot of five thirty, and Ferrari’s was the only restaurant on the High Street. Longhampton was a ghost town after six, apart from the crime-hotspot area around the two nightclubs, Duke’s and Majestic, both located conveniently close to the police station.

The first chill of winter hung in the evening air, and Louise was glad she’d brought her coat, despite it not quite going with her outfit. The cocktails were warming her from the inside, and she enjoyed the sensation of cold air on her face.

‘Now,
this
is reminding me of our first dates,’ she said nostalgically. ‘Going out for drinks in town, after work. Do you remember how cold it was that winter? And we had to choose between a last drink and a cab home . . .’

It seemed like someone else’s glamorous life now. Staying out late talking, missing the Tube, walking through the rushing London streets at midnight, wobbling on her heels but not wanting to say goodnight, finally finding a cab with its light on, then jumping in together and kissing so hard they forgot to give directions . . .

The thing was, said a voice in her head, you once had times like that. There was once passion and flirtation and sexiness there. You can get that back.

It doesn’t have to be with Michael. Peter was once interesting too. He could still be like that.

The thought ran through her with such electricity that she shivered.

‘Cold?’ he asked, putting his arm around her. ‘Do you want my jacket?’

‘No, I’m fine.’ She was touched by his automatic gallantry; Peter was, she reminded herself, and always had been, thoughtful. He’d never gone home without making sure she was safely on her way.

Peter steered her off the High Street and down North Road.

‘Aha!’ said Louise. ‘The plot thickens! We’re not going to bingo.’

‘I can’t help thinking I’ve built this up too much,’ he replied dryly.

‘No, I
like
not knowing where we’re going.’ As Louise said it, a penny dropped in her head, and she realised that was why she was feeling so much more flirty towards him. ‘I mean, we’ve got into such a routine, haven’t we? It’s nice, not having that predictability.’

Peter pulled a rueful face at her, but he didn’t disagree.

They turned a corner, and Louise let out a laugh when she saw where he’d brought her.

‘Oh my God, the Memorial Hall! Dancing lessons! You’ve brought me dancing?’ She turned to Peter and gave him a little push. ‘You pig! If I’d known we’d be facing scary Angelica and her bloody social foxtrot, I’d have stuck to just the one cocktail! And put on some flatter shoes!’

Peter put up his hands in self-defence. ‘It’s not dancing lessons. What do you take me for, a masochist?’

‘So why are we here? It’s too late for soft play.’

‘There’s an exhibition on. Final week.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘You used to drag me to the Photographers’ Gallery when—’

‘
Once
.’

‘Well, once was enough. I thought you’d like an evening of culture, and this is a photographic exhibition of the town, and it’s late opening tonight.’ Peter checked his watch. ‘Until eight. Which is thirty minutes – that enough culture for you?’

‘Plenty,’ said Louise. She smiled, flattered that he still remembered. ‘Thanks.’

‘And if you really like something, we could buy it,’ he added manfully.

She knew he was thinking about the abstract photo,
Pebble in Oil
, he’d ended up buying for her at some awful gallery, because she’d pretended to like it. Peter really had put himself out over the years.

‘We don’t have to go that far,’ she said.

There were several other couples browsing around the exhibition when they went in, drifting slowly around the polished wood floor of the hall, admiring the big black-and-white framed images on the walls.

Louise took a leaflet with the photographer’s biography on it, as well as the details of where the various landscapes had been taken. It’d be nice, she thought, to get something for Mum and Dad – it was their ruby wedding anniversary coming up, and they’d lived in Longhampton all their lives.

It occurred to her that this must have been the exhibition Juliet had been to with Michael – there couldn’t be two exhibitions of Longhampton photography. Her heart gave a faint tug, but she concentrated hard on the lovely evening she was having.

Peter came up behind her, and she took a long breath, smelling his aftershave without turning round.

‘Is that the bus terminal?’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Very moody.’

‘It is.’ Louise had always dismissed that ‘treat your husband as a stranger on a date’ role play as impossible – how could you forget years of toothpaste irritation and nose-picking just like that? – but two cocktails down, she was beginning to see the possibilities.

‘I prefer the landscapes,’ she murmured back, pointing at a dramatic shot of a tree backlit against a winter sky, its claw-like branches reaching upwards. ‘I think that’s near Rosehill, by Juliet’s.’

‘He’s a landscape kind of guy, isn’t he?’ Peter observed. ‘I suppose they’re easier. Not so much movement.’

‘No, look, there’s some people.’ Louise took a step sideways into a corner of the room, pointing at an intimate portrait of a couple almost silhouetted on a park bench. The man’s arm was stretched out behind the woman and their heads were tilted close together, as if they were sharing secrets or about to kiss – it wasn’t clear which, but the mood was Hollywood romantic. ‘That’s gorgeous! Has someone bought this? We should see if . . .’ She trailed off, her eyes suddenly focusing properly on the image

‘Am I going mad, or is that you?’ said Peter, in a joking tone. He started to say something else, but then stopped, his tone not joking any more.

Louise stared at the photograph. It
was
her. Her and Michael. His face was more hidden than hers, but even if his glasses and her distinctive long nose weren’t enough of a giveaway, she’d have known it from the eager way they were leaning into one another. That fierce hunger to talk and talk, to learn more about each other, gobbling up the minutes – it was captured in that tiny slice of sky between their half-open mouths.

‘That
is
you, isn’t it?’ he repeated. His voice was slightly metallic. ‘That’s that winter coat you had, with the toggles.’

Louise didn’t want to look at him, but she couldn’t stop her head turning. When she did, any words she did have froze in her throat. Peter had transformed from the gentle IT geek she knew. His face was tense and older, and he was very still, as if all his energy was going into being calm.

She swallowed. Now the moment had come to confess it all, her brain spun into total denial mode. For the first time in her whole career as a Crown prosecutor, Louise understood the insane stories gabbled out in the witness box:
It couldn’t be me; I wasn’t there. I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before in my life.

I will never look at those desperate liars with scorn again, she thought. It wasn’t so much telling the lie; it was that her brain didn’t want to
be
the person who’d be left standing there, once she’d owned up.

‘I don’t . . .’ Her mouth had gone dry and her tongue clicked. Louise knew her reaction had given him his answer already; what he wanted now was for her to deny it.

A woman passed by behind them and gave her a curious look.

I want to save my marriage, she thought clearly. If I really wanted out, I’d admit it and go. It’s a good sign that I want to lie, but if I don’t tell the truth now, it’s over anyway.

‘Yes,’ she said, in a tiny voice. ‘It’s me.’

‘And who are you with? If you don’t mind my asking.’ Peter sounded very calm. ‘Or is it an old photograph?’

She knew he was giving her a chance to wriggle out, but there was no way this photo could be over eight years old. They both knew that.

‘No,’ she said, summoning all her courage. ‘It’s not an old photograph. That’s Michael Ogilvy. From the NCT class.’

‘And are you . . . ?’

It hung in the air between them.

‘We’re just talking,’ said Louise.

Peter said nothing, but stared at the image. Louise couldn’t tear her eyes away, her heart breaking inside her chest, spreading hot tar through her, spoiling everything.

It wasn’t the near-kiss that was so betraying; it was the intimacy of his arm along the bench, the inclination of her head. The hungry closeness that had vanished from their own relationship.

‘This isn’t you, Louise,’ he said, very quietly, then turned on his heel and walked out.

Louise listened to each footstep like a gunshot on the sprung floor. She could hear Angelica, their dance teacher, stamping out the steps for their wedding dance and she felt a childish panic to drag the clock back, to make all this go away so she could start again and do it properly this time.

‘Peter!’ She spun round, but he was at the door already. Then he was gone, without turning back.

The couples left in the exhibition couldn’t disguise their stares, as she stood motionless, the warmth draining from her veins as the cheery cocktail exuberance evaporated in a flash.

Louise felt as if she’d never be warm again.

Juliet put her fresh mug of tea on the windowsill and curled up in her red armchair, with Minton tucked into the crook of her legs, and Coco curled up in her basket by the window. She looked at the two dogs, one snoring, one preparing to snore, and decided that she didn’t need to do the Grief Hour thing any more.

‘From now on, we miss Daddy to our own timetable,’ she told Minton, cupping his velvety ears. ‘Now, what do you fancy on telly?’

This was the first night that week that she’d properly settled down to lose herself in some good viewing. There’d been some emergency babysitting next door one night when Lorcan had to work late while Emer needed to take Salvador to a bowling party; then, on Tuesday, post-work painting of the front room had gone on until midnight with pizza and Guinness. Diane had dragged her out to some fundraiser for the dog rescue centre on Wednesday, where she’d finally managed to put names to three embarrassingly familiar dog-walking faces and avoided her mother’s clumsy attempts to introduce her to ‘a lovely man’ called Dennis who’d conveniently just adopted a Border terrier.

Or maybe the Border terrier was called Dennis. Juliet still hadn’t got the hang of asking the owner’s name first.

‘It’s a relief to have some time on our own, isn’t it?’ she said, flipping through the
Radio Times
. ‘Never thought you’d hear me say that, eh?

The phone rang by her side and she considered ignoring it. Ruth, Ben’s mum, had been on again about the memorial bench, and the more Juliet thought about it, the more it wound her up. Ruth had recently announced she wanted to put it in the crematorium where ‘everyone would see it’, not in the park or near something that Ben would have sat to look at, like a particularly well-planned garden.

But if she ignored it, she’d have to listen to Ruth’s message, and that was worse. They went on for ages, and usually ended in tears.

Juliet sighed and picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Juliet, it’s Emer,’ wailed a familiar voice. ‘Help me. I’ve to go to one of these awful kitchenware parties and I need someone to stop me spending a fortune on whisks. Come with me. Hold my purse.’

It was nice to feel wanted, but Juliet knew if she got up, she’d be reeled into the warm chaos of next door. Grief Hour might be off, but she still needed some solitude to keep her emotions from bubbling over like an unattended pan of milk.

‘I can’t,’ said Juliet firmly. ‘I’m looking after Coco for the evening and I’ve promised Mum I’ll give her a bath.’

‘Bath her tomorrow; buy stacking bowls tonight!’

Minton’s ears pricked at some sound outside and he slid off her knee.

‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ said Juliet, to howls of protest from Emer. ‘I think someone’s at the door. I hope it’s not you. Ring me if you need shouting at.’

She clicked the phone back into the charger, and as she did, the doorbell rang, right on cue.

‘Some guard dog you are,’ she observed to Coco, who hadn’t even looked up. ‘No, really, I’ll go . . .’

Juliet padded through the sitting room, now soft sage on two walls, and opened the porch door, shivering at the change in temperature. It was nearly time to put the heating on properly.

The doorbell pealed again. ‘Hang on,’ she protested, fiddling with the bolts. Lorcan had put in an extra one ‘for security’ and it was stiff.

The door swung back to reveal Louise on the doorstep, looking haggard with shock.

Juliet had a flashback to the glimpse she’d caught of herself in the hospital window the night Ben died. Grey, drawn face, hunted eyes, wild hair – like something you dreaded glimpsing in a mirror on Hallowe’en. The scary thing was, she had no idea she looked like that.

‘Louise!’ she said, shocked. ‘What’s happened?’

Louise’s eyes burned, drilling straight through Juliet. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she croaked.

‘Tell you what?’

‘The exhibition. Why didn’t you
tell
me?’ She wobbled on the step. ‘Did you do it on purpose? Was that it? Is this your idea of a
punishment
?’

‘Lou, I honestly don’t know what you’re on about. Come on in.’

Louise didn’t move, so Juliet grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, before Emer heard her talking and came round to investigate.

She’s told Peter about her affair, she thought. It must be that. That or she’s had some kind of breakdown. Or has Michael been in touch?

Juliet cringed at the possibilities – Michael calling while Peter was in, maybe? Or emails? Did Louise delete emails? Or was it something else? She wasn’t making any sense.

‘Mind the paint cans,’ she said, steering Louise through the dust-sheets and boxes towards the cosier back room. ‘Now, sit there and tell me what’s going on.’ Juliet pushed her sister into the big red armchair and perched herself on the footstool.