Walking Back to Happiness (41 page)

Louise turned her head, surprised by the shift in Juliet’s attitude, and the supportive impatience in her voice. Impatience with Peter, not her. When they’d talked in the car outside Michael’s house, she’d felt the disapproval coming off her sister in waves, despite the hug she’d doled out. She’d felt more chided then by Juliet’s revulsion than by her own shame, and that was saying something. ‘You really think that?’

‘Yes,’ said Juliet. ‘I’ve been thinking about it, and I think you were stupid, but . . .’ She unclipped Coco’s lead now they’d reached the open part of the park where dogs could run around. One or two other walkers had already unleashed their hounds and Hector was straining at the collar with excitement. ‘It has been pointed out to me that we don’t know what goes on in people’s marriages. And it’s true. We don’t.’

‘I didn’t mean to hurt him,’ said Louise. ‘I never wanted that. But things weren’t right. They hadn’t been right for a while.’

‘So fix them.’

‘It’s not that
easy
,’ she said, thinking of Peter’s pride, his hurt silences. ‘He bottles things up. He’s an only child, like Ben, you know. Hates talking. Won’t come with me to Relate.’

‘Go on your own. He’ll soon get himself along if he thinks you’re getting a head-start on the bitching.’

Louise laughed. She’d forgotten how dry Juliet could be.

‘Seriously, Lou,’ she said, and her voice was urgent, as if Diane might catch up with them at any moment, ‘don’t let this go on any longer. I know you love him, deep down. I know he adores you. And you both adore Toby.’

‘Don’t . . .’

‘This’ll make me sound like the mad auld widow of the West Midlands, but I don’t care. I can’t let you dither around like this any more. You know what the biggest regret of my life is? That the last proper conversation Ben and I had was a row. About something so silly and trivial I can’t really remember what it was. And we weren’t even rowing about that – we were really rowing about both of us wanting a baby, but me not being sure we could manage! So it wasn’t even a proper row. It was a waste.’

‘I wish you’d told me that.’ Louise stopped walking and took her sister’s arm. She could see Juliet’s awful strained expression at the funeral in her mind’s eye, and now it took on a different shade in her head. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that?’

‘Because I worried about what people thought.’ She raised her eyebrow. ‘And you know what? It didn’t matter.’ Juliet’s face was wretched, but she wasn’t crying. ‘I felt guilty for so long, thinking you were judging me, for moaning about him the night before he died.’

‘I never thought that,’ said Louise. ‘I was too busy worrying that I’d told you too much about Michael. I never doubted how much you loved Ben for one second. No one did.’

Minton and Hector were pulling at the lead, trying to follow Coco as she meandered around the fallen leaves, her grey muzzle twitching at the occasional smell. Juliet bent down to let them off, and they disappeared in a flurry of short legs. She didn’t let the rescue dog off, but patted his head and let him sniff her hand, rewarding his patience with a biscuit.

When Juliet stood up again, she pushed her fringe out of her eyes so Louise could see her properly. Her cheeks were pink with the cold air, and her brown eyes were very bright in her pale face. Louise couldn’t help noticing she was wearing make-up for the first time in ages, a pretty dusting of green over her eyelids, the old Juliet flickering behind the sad exterior of the new one.

‘What if Peter doesn’t come home tonight? What if he’s run over, or chokes on something at the petting zoo? What are you going to remember – the years of happiness you and he had, or this stupid silence? Talk to him. For God’s sake.’ She paused. ‘On the surface, you’ve still got it all for everyone to admire. Nice house, nice husband, lovely baby. But what have you really got in the end, if you’re not talking to each other? It’s a shell. It’s a
prison
.’

Louise had never seen her little sister like this: grown-up and cross and wise. ‘I will talk to him,’ she said, touched. ‘It’s his birthday next weekend. He’s thirty-nine.’

‘Well, make it one to remember,’ said Juliet, and offered her the manky plastic ball-thrower contraption. ‘Here, have a go with this.’

‘What do you do?’ She took it gingerly, glad she was wearing gloves.

‘You throw the ball and watch the dogs love you for ever. Go on. It’s life-enhancing for everyone. Forget the slobber.’

Louise wasn’t sure she could, but she aimed at the middle of the park and flung. The tennis ball catapulted out of the gadget’s head with a gratifying flick and looped across the grass, sending the dogs into a volley of delighted barking as they raced to get it first. Hector’s stumpy little legs flew, all paws off the ground at once, and their ears all bounced like puppies’, even Coco’s. Their simple delight of the chase was infectious, and Louise felt her mouth widening in a smile as Minton leaped several feet in the air to grab the ball as it bounced up high over Hector’s head.

‘See?’ said Juliet, and Louise nodded in agreement.

Louise already had Peter’s present in the spare-room wardrobe: a cashmere jumper, bought in the New Year sales and wrapped in green tissue paper.

She looked at it, parcelled and labelled by her in January, then stowed away with a cedar ball tied to the ribbon to protect it from moths in the intervening eleven months.

I don’t even remember doing that, she thought, amazed. But she could remember the compulsion to wrap and twirl the ribbons, to have her present drawer topped up, to have drawer liners in, in case her mum came round and her cupboards didn’t look adult enough for a married mother of one.

What kind of a mad perfect housewife was I? she wondered. How could I act as if the world was ending after Michael on one hand, and be buying birthday presents nearly a year ahead for my husband on the other? Maybe Juliet’s only half right; maybe it’s me who needs the counsellor.

She put her bag of new presents on the dressing table and began to wrap them in the same tissue paper from the present drawer. There was a lot of it, with matching ribbons, rosettes and glitter.

It was Friday night. Toby had been dropped off at her mother’s to keep up their pretence of Date Night, even though the last three had seen Peter go off to a film with his mates, leaving Louise lying in the bath, pretending to read a novel. Tonight, though, was going to be different.

Louise had finished work early to come home via Waitrose for a selection of really nice food. She wasn’t a great cook, but she was determined to make an effort, even if most of it was carefully reheated. There was a good bottle of wine chilling in the fridge, one of the ones he’d liked at the wine-tasting at the White Hart, and she’d cleaned the kitchen and put fresh flowers on the table.

Her fingers moved deftly, parcelling up the little gifts and dropping them into a bag, as she rehearsed what she was going to say as he opened them. She hadn’t let herself consider what might happen if he just dumped his bag and went straight out.

‘Peter, if I could turn back the clock, I’d . . .’

‘Peter, can’t we just . . .’

‘Peter, I love you,’ she said aloud, and shivered, but the sound of the front door opening stopped her in her tracks.

Louise panicked. He was at least an hour early. She hadn’t had time to shower or change or wash her hair or anything. And – she glanced anxiously at herself in the wardrobe mirror – she looked stressed and a bit creased.

For once she shoved aside her own appearance in favour of the bigger picture. She grabbed the bag of presents, ran a hand through her flat hair and dashed down the stairs to find Peter hovering in the hall, flicking through the post. He hadn’t taken his jacket off. Good sign, or bad?

‘You’re not going out tonight, are you?’ she blurted.

‘I might be going out for drinks with some guys from work,’ he said mildly. ‘Why? Did you have any plans?’

‘Yes! I mean, I’ve cooked dinner. It’s your birthday,’ she added, unnecessarily. ‘I’ve got you a present.’

‘You shouldn’t have,’ he said. He sounded like meant it.

‘Glass of wine?’ asked Louise. ‘Go on! Go mad, it’s that oaky Chardonnay you liked, from that vineyard that only employs female wine-treaders for their dainty feet.’ She knew she sounded a bit demented, but she didn’t care. If she got him into the kitchen, she was halfway there. Even if she ended up jamming a chair under the door handle, she was going to cook her husband dinner and apologise.

Peter smiled quickly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘A quick one.’

‘Great!’ Louise ushered him into the kitchen and sat him down at the table. ‘Have a crisp. Or an olive?’

‘Flowers?’ he said, in a pretend surprised voice. ‘The good napkins?’

Louise flinched. She knew he was taking the mickey out of her reluctant reaction to his efforts at dates at home. It made her cringe, thinking of the obvious way she’d rebuffed his advances.

She struggled to hide her reaction. No point getting into a row.

‘Of course! It’s your birthday, isn’t it? There you go,’ she said, putting the wine in front of him and pouring one for herself. ‘I’ve got you a few little things,’ she added, taking each present out of the bag and laying them in front of him, in order.

‘What’s this?’ Peter took a big slug of wine and viewed the pile suspiciously.

‘Presents. For you.’

‘You
really
shouldn’t have,’ he said. His face tightened. ‘I don’t think presents are going to change what’s happened. Do you?’

‘It’s not like that. I wanted to give you something from me,’ said Louise simply. ‘They’re not expensive. Do you remember how we used to get each other really sweet presents, when we didn’t have much money? This is . . . that sort of thing. Go on. Open the first one.’

He started to say something, then changed his mind. Quickly, as if he were humouring her just to get it over with, Peter slipped the ribbon off the first long, flat parcel and unfolded the tissue paper.

Louise held her breath.

‘Oh, it’s lovely . . .’ His face changed and he looked up at her, to show her he meant it. ‘It
is
lovely.’

It was a framed photograph of the three of them, not one of the expensive portraits they’d had done at the studio above the optician’s, but a snap Juliet had taken at their parents’ house on her phone. Toby was on Peter’s shoulders, laughing gleefully at Louise peeking round Peter’s back. They were a little triangle of love, their eyes only on each other.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll take that to work. Put it on my desk.’

Louise’s smile wavered. ‘You know you and Toby are my whole world, don’t you?’

‘Toby, maybe.’ He wasn’t looking at her.

‘You too. I mean it, Peter. We just need some time together as a couple, to connect again. I’ve talked to Mum about taking Toby if you can get some time off to go away together, maybe Venice? Or just—’

‘Is that another present?’ he said, pointing at a small package.

She pushed it over, and he pulled off the ribbon, then the tissue.

Inside was a box of Pregnacare vitamins, tied to a box of Wellman supplements.

Peter looked sardonically at her. ‘Nice idea, but I think you need more than just the tablets to make a baby.’

‘I know.’ Louise swallowed, conscious of the nights she’d pushed him away, out of guilt. ‘It’s to show you that I do want us to have another child. But I want to plan for it, and talk about it, so we don’t end up driving each other mad like we did when Toby came along.’

‘We drove each other mad?’

‘Yes, we did. We didn’t talk about anything other than him; we let being parents take over our lives; I lost sight of who I was, and what you meant to me.’ Her mouth was dry and she had to lick her lips. ‘I don’t want to make excuses, but I don’t know what I turned into. It was as if I was two totally separate people – Louise at home with Toby, being a mummy, and this other Louise, who just wanted some attention that didn’t involve nappies. That’s one of the reasons I was so desperate to go back to work, to make everything the way it was before. But now I know you can’t do that.’

‘Oh, I know that now,’ said Peter, his voice tense and metallic. ‘I’ve tried, these last weeks. I’ve tried to pretend it didn’t happen. I tried to blot it out of my mind, that photograph, knowing you wanted another man more than me, but I can’t. It’s changed everything.’

‘Not everything,’ said Louise. ‘It hasn’t changed me loving you, or Toby being the most wonderful thing in our lives.’ She paused. This wasn’t going right. He was supposed to be more thrilled about the baby idea.

Maybe I should just go, she thought, but Juliet’s face floated up in her mind, urging her on.

She put the next present in front of him; this was the ‘proper’ one. The one that she thought was really boring but which gadget-loving Peter had had on his wish list for ages.

‘What’s this?’ Peter asked, unwrapping more crossly now. ‘Oh great, sat nav.’

He didn’t sound that thrilled.

‘You said yours was getting a bit out of date. Look, I’ve programmed it so this is home. So you’ll always know where to come. Where we are.’ Louise knew she sounded desperate now.

‘Thanks,’ said Peter. He checked his watch.

‘One more.’ The final throw. Louise passed him a little box, wrapped up in a wonton knot of tissue.

He unfolded it; it was the ring box their wedding rings had come in.

‘Oh God, Louise, not . . .’

‘Open it.’

He met her eye and sighed, wearily. Then, because he really had no option, he opened it.

Inside were tiny rolls of paper, jammed into the gaps where the rings had been.

‘What’s this?’

‘Unroll them.’

Slowly, Peter unrolled the scraps of paper and read the numbers and letters. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘They’re passwords,’ said Louise bravely. ‘To my email, to my mobile, to my Internet banking, to my computer. Everything. I know I’ve broken your trust in me, and it’s going to take a lot for you to trust me again, but I swear to you, I’ve got absolutely nothing to hide. You can check up on me any time of the day or night – I don’t mind.’