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7

Melanie

Thursday 22nd February

Abigail insisted that she’d get a cab to ours rather than allow me to go out of my way to pick her up. I’m grateful because it gives me a bit more time to dash around the house, making last-minute adjustments. The box room has been cleared to the extent that it is now at least possible to see the sofa bed. The musty old boxes have been shoved into the attic. I promised Ben that I would sort them one day, maybe when all the kids leave home and go to university. I’ve put the exercise bike, which I insisted upon buying about a year after I had Lily, into Liam’s room. He wasn’t best pleased but I pointed out he could throw his clothes over the handle bars, rather than on the floor, which means I won’t have to stoop so much when I’m picking up his dirty washing. I’ve squirrelled away the rest of the rubbish wherever I could.

Along with the house, I’ve benefitted from a mini makeover. I’ve taken care with my make-up, I had my hair blow-dried and I’m wearing a new shirt. I’m wearing accessories: hooped earrings and multiple bracelets. I’m now worried that rather than channelling hippy chic, I’m more gypsy fortune-teller. I’ve bought scarlet gladioli, because they’re dramatic and impactful but don’t break the bank. I’m just hunting out a long thin vase – I know we used to have one; I think it may be in one of the boxes that I’ve just moved up to the attic – when the doorbell rings.

Abigail. She is even more glamorous in the flesh than either I remembered her or the photos on the internet revealed. She is five foot eight, four inches taller than I am, and yet seems somehow dainty, frail. Maybe it’s because she’s been through something so awful recently. Her skin is pale, cool and smooth. No spots, no freckles, no lines or creases. She looks brand new. I fight an urge to caress her cheekbones. They are so sharp, I might prick my finger and draw blood, like people do in fairy tales if they touch a spinning wheel. Her hair is sleek, slightly longer than she wore it at university, blunt cut at the shoulder. Glossy. With her arrives a waft of something exotic, a shiver of something exciting.

After all this time, it’s good to see her.

‘Darling.’ She flings her arms around me and hugs me close to her. I feel her collar bone and can smell her perfume and cigarettes. I’m surprised she smokes. I thought it was practically a criminal offence in LA. ‘You look amazing,’ she gushes. Her voice oozes – I think of amber syrup sliding off a spoon. I almost believe her. I mean, she sounds sincere but I have mirrors and ‘amazing’ is a stretch. She holds me at a distance, her hands on my upper arms and her head tilted to one side. ‘Amazing,’ she repeats. Breathily. And now. Yup, despite the evidence, I believe her. She flicks her eyes at my newly purchased bay trees that stand proud and neat in pots, either side of the door. Yesterday, when I dragged the girls to the local garden centre to purchase them I’d thought they were the most perfect things. Now, under her gaze they look a little try-too-hard. My fault, not hers.

‘Come in, come in,’ I say. ‘Go right through to the kitchen. I’ve baked.’

‘You’ve baked!’ She repeats this as though it’s the most astonishing thing she’s ever heard. In truth, it is quite astonishing. I only bake about half a dozen times a year and four of those occasions are to make birthday cakes. The scent of dough, butter, and cream drifts through the hallway. Tempting and comforting. Suddenly, I feel a little shy about admitting to baking. It seems like too much of an effort; I doubt Abigail ever eats cake, anyhow. She can’t possibly, not with a figure like hers. Still, she makes all the right noises; she insists it smells like heaven and that she can’t wait to try them.

Lily is bouncing around her like a puppy. Imogen is holding back a little but is clearly transfixed. Abigail is possibly the most glamorous and beautiful woman they have ever seen in real life.

‘Where shall I put this?’ The taxi driver startles me. He’s coming up our garden path pulling the most enormous suitcase.

‘Oh, I’ll take that,’ I say.

‘That’s twenty-eight fifty.’

‘Right, right.’ Abi is already in the kitchen. I can see Lily has climbed onto her knee. It would be a shame to disturb her when she’s just got settled. I reach for my purse and pay the man.

I pull the enormous case into the hallway and leave it at the bottom of the stairs. Ben or Liam can move it later. In the kitchen, I turn to Abi with a beam.

‘I can hardly believe you are here, in my house,’ I say excitedly.

‘Nor can I.’ She has a hint of an accent now. Of course she does. She’s been living in the States for over a decade but as a result I can’t quite read her tone. Obviously, the circumstances that have brought her here mean she’s not going to be feeling ecstatic. ‘Have you paid the taxi?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ask for a receipt?’

‘Oh, no. I didn’t think.’ I’m not in the sort of business that you can claim back expenses so it never crossed my mind.

‘Never mind.’ She bends to root in her bag and I expect her to reach for her purse to reimburse me; instead she pulls out a packet of cigarettes. I should tell her about our non-smoking policy. I don’t. I’m not exactly sure why. I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. I don’t want to seem unwelcoming. I rummage around in a cupboard until I find a saucer that will act as an ashtray.

‘What would you like to drink?’ I glance at the Krups coffee machine which I’m disproportionately proud of. Ben bought it for me last Christmas and it makes a mean cup: Americano, cappuccino, espresso, caffeinated, decaffeinated. It’s pretty cool. However, just in case Abi isn’t a coffee drinker anymore I’ve also bought a variety of herbal teas: chamomile, peppermint, lemon and ginger.

‘Oh, I don’t mind. I’m happy with red or white. Or a G&T, if that’s your thing. Whatever.’

My eyes compulsively slide to the clock on the wall. It’s just after four. I don’t know what to do. I have a rule that I don’t drink before seven. It’s something I introduced when Liam was a baby because otherwise there was a danger I’d start drinking at eleven a.m. or something. I also limit myself to just one glass during a week night. Suddenly, these rules seem a bit shaming and provincial. I pull a bottle of white from the fridge and pour two glasses. I hope it is still OK -I think we opened it on Sunday.

I place one glass in front of her and nurse mine self-consciously. Imogen whispers in my ear, ‘I’m going to tell Daddy.’ I bat her away.

‘So, tell me everything,’ I say with an expansive wave of my arms.

‘Like I said in my email, I found out Rob was having an affair, the bastard. I couldn’t stay with him for another moment.’

I glance nervously at the girls. They are wide-eyed, agog. ‘Oh yes. You must tell me everything about Rob, but I meant other things, more general things.’ Abi looks confused. Clearly for her there aren’t any other conversations to be had right now. There is nothing else on her mind. I try to give her some prompts. ‘What was it like living in America?’ I regret the question immediately. I sound so naive. It’s not like I don’t know anything about the States. We have been there. To Orlando. Once. Although, obviously, I realise that Disneyland isn’t representative. It doesn’t cover it. It’s a big place. Huge.

Abi shrugs. ‘I couldn’t possibly say. I don’t know where to start.’

It’s odd because I know more about her than she’s told me. Well, she hasn’t told me much. That’s the weird thing about googling people. It forces a false one-way intimacy. I glance at Abi and am shocked to see she is pressing the bridge of her nose, dewy-eyed – she’s obviously trying to stem tears.

‘Oh no, Abi. You poor thing. I’m sorry.’ I want to kick myself. I always say the wrong thing. I’m nervous. It’s odd having her here after so long, and exciting, too. My demand that she ‘tell me everything’ was far too flip. Now she’s crying. I’ve made her cry. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I’m embarrassed and sad for her, yet also flattered that she’s letting her guard down in front of me. Her emotions are so real, and expressing them is a true testament to our friendship. It’s as though the long years, since we last saw each other, have been swept aside.

‘No, I’m sorry.’

I should have been more careful, more tactful. Just because she looks stunning doesn’t mean she’s not suffering. I sit forward in my seat. I want every ounce of my body to demonstrate that I’m here for her, that I want to help her.

‘It’s just been so hard. Such a shock,’ she mutters, staring at me, her big black-brown eyes filled with incomprehension. How could this have happened to me? she’s asking, as about a zillion women before her have asked. Ben is a faithful sort of man, and for that I’m infinitely grateful. His father played around and then eventually left Ellie when Ben was fourteen; he swore he’d never cause the same hurt. But just because my husband is faithful it doesn’t mean I don’t have a clue about men who are not, of which there seem to be very many. Working in a dress shop gives surprising insight; once women are inside the changing room they think they’re in a confessional box. People tell me stuff. A lot of stuff. It’s rarely good. But Abigail is surprised it’s happened to her. I reach towards her and gently put my hand on her arm because I’m not capable of finding the correct words.

‘Married affection,’ she corrects herself, ‘married love, is often undervalued just because it’s reliable. That’s a tragedy, isn’t it?’ I nod. ‘It’s a tragedy that we don’t value reliability. If our fridge breaks, we throw it out; we don’t try to fix it and we don’t care what becomes of that fridge, if it’s left to rot, if it makes the earth bulge. Landfill.’ She’s warming to her metaphor. ‘People treat their marriages like that a lot of the time. I think I’m an old fridge. He’s got himself a new model, the sort that dispenses ice and has a fancy drawer to keep vegetables fresh.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ I murmur.

‘Yeah, I’m dragging out the comparison, but you see my point. I’m on the scrap heap.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Why not? It’s true. It was Valentine’s Day. Did I tell you that?’ I gasp and shake my head. Ouch, that’s cruel. ‘He hadn’t mentioned any plans for the evening, which was unusual. Normally we make quite a thing of Valentine’s night, a celebration, you know?’

‘Mmm,’ I mumble, not committing. To be honest, Ben and I are not big celebrators of Valentine’s Day. We might remember to pass one another a card across the breakfast table, or we might not. Valentine’s Day often falls in the half-term holiday, and we’re usually more wrapped up in balancing childcare. The most romantic thing Ben can do for me around then is work from home.

‘Last year, we went to Hawaii. It seems like five minutes ago. I can still smell the flora and fauna. I can still feel the warm, tranquil waters. It really is a breathtaking place. We had a candlelit dinner on the beach, prepared by the islands’ top chef and served to us by a butler.’

‘Wow.’ I know she’s telling me about the romantic gestures of a man she found with his pants around his ankles, but wow. It’s hard not to be a tiny bit impressed.

‘One year, he flew me to New York and we went ice-skating in Central Park, then drank hot chocolates in a cutesy log cabin café. Another year we had a helicopter tour of LA at night. He always sent me two dozen red roses. We always did something. This year he hadn’t mentioned what we’d be doing. I just thought he’d planned something extra special. I wanted to be prepared, so as soon as I finished at the studio I dashed to the beautician. Had the usual: a manicure, pedicure, a Brazilian. You know?’

I do not know. I mean, of course I know in theory that this is what women do to prepare for a special night but I can’t remember the last time I went to a beautician. I can paint my own nails and, as for the other business, well let’s just say Ben has learnt to love the retro look. He’s lucky if I pluck my eyebrows. I just find life busy and tricky enough without having to inflict extra pain on myself for an aesthetic that precisely one person is going to benefit from. I mean, I’d never ask him to put hot wax on his best bits. Ben has never complained about my lack of grooming in that area; it’s not as though he needs help finding his target. I don’t interrupt Abigail to tell her as much. I know she’d be shocked and think I’m slovenly.

‘I popped to the salon for a blow dry and it was just chance that my stylist was running ahead of schedule. What were the odds, on Valentine’s Day? Normally there’s a backlog. I was just going home to get changed, and then my plan was to return to the studio so that he could meet me there. I wanted to look fresh and fabulous but without admitting to making the effort. When I saw his car on the driveway I was excited. That’s the worst of it, Mel, I was actually excited to think he was home. I thought maybe we’d have a little afternoon delight, sod the blow dry.’

I realise that she means the sex she was planning would be the sort to mess up her hair. It’s a bit more detail than I need.

‘I knew there was something wrong the moment I went into the house. I could smell her.’

I glance nervously at the girls. Ostensibly they are playing with their Aquabeads, making coasters or something, caught up in their own worlds, but I’m never certain – they both have big flappy ears and love eavesdropping on my conversations. I throw a significant nod in their direction to give Abi a warning to be careful of what she says in front of them, but I don’t think she catches my drift.

‘I could smell her perfume. And there was music playing. Unfamiliar music. Rob usually listens to Oasis or Blur, stuck in the 1990s, hasn’t bought a track since, but I could hear this heavy pounding beat. Hip hop or something. I didn’t call out, I carefully closed the door behind me and crept up the stairs. Knowing what I was going to see but praying that I was wrong.’

‘But you weren’t wrong,’ I murmur gently. I reach for the cake plate and offer her a chocolate brownie. I hope that’s enough for today – she can tell me more later. I’m dying to hear more, I’m so flattered that she’s being open with me, but I’m also terrified that she doesn’t have a filter and the girls are going to hear too much.

‘I sneaked up the stairs, like a criminal in my own house. The bedroom door was open, and I could see clothes on the floor. They were at it like animals.’ I glance at the girls again. It’s unlikely they understood that. ‘He was taking her from behind.’ Or that. ‘Her breasts were swinging, practically in my face.’ But that I think they got. ‘He didn’t even notice me until after he climaxed.’

‘How about another glass of wine?’ I say, jumping to my feet. Abi’s eyes follow me. Dejected. Distraught.

Hearing about Rob’s infidelity isn’t pleasant but it isn’t a surprise to me, as it is to her. I’ve long since thought that he’s an arrogant, untrustworthy creep. One of the reasons Abi and I haven’t stayed in touch is that I really didn’t like being around Rob. I get no pleasure in being proven right.

The girls have abandoned the coaster making and migrated towards Abi and me. I can’t decide if it was the lure of the brownies or if they did hear enough of her conversation and feel curious. It’s awkward. Obviously, Abi isn’t used to being around kids and self-censoring. They stare at her, transfixed, somehow able to sense – even at their young ages – that they are in the presence of something, someone, truly exciting. Abi watches them as they cram cake into their little pink and pouty mouths. She can’t help but be enchanted, too. Even in their little sweatshirts, grubby from a day at school, they are adorable.

‘I should have brought gifts,’ she says with a sigh.

‘No, no,’ I insist. I didn’t expect gifts. Although the girls might. They shouldn’t. It’s not something I approve of or encourage. However, we are pretty lucky. On the whole, when people turn up for dinner or lunch, they invariably arrive with a bottle of wine for me and Ben, and chocolates or sweets for the kids. It doesn’t matter that Abi hasn’t thought to bring a little something. Yes, she’s staying with us for – well actually I’m not sure how long she is staying for, it hasn’t been discussed – some time at least, but that doesn’t mean we should expect gifts. All that said, the girls hover, none too discreetly, over her handbag. They are clearly hoping she’s bluffing and that she might produce something any moment now, like a magician produces a rabbit from a hat. She does seem rather magical. Abi sees them loiter with intent and takes the hint, but it’s obvious to me that she really hasn’t brought anything. She roots around her handbag, pulls out a half-eaten packet of nicotine chewing gum.

‘I was trying to quit. Until all this happened,’ she explains. For a moment, she seems to consider gifting the gum to them but then thinks better of it. ‘Ah, here we go!’ She pulls out a duty-free plastic bag and then passes Lily a Clinique lipstick and hands Imogen a bottle of Chanel No. 5. The girls look stunned, not because of the brands, which mean nothing to them, but because someone has just handed them make-up.

‘Oh no, they couldn’t accept those,’ I say hastily.

‘Why not?’

I don’t know how to reply. I can’t explain that the gifts are inappropriate and clearly unintended for the recipients; those objections seem rude. Nor can I say they’d be more greatly appreciated if she gifted them to me. I get new perfume once a year, Christmas, off my mum and dad. They buy me Eternity by Calvin Klein. They’ve bought the same one for years. I love it but can barely smell it on myself anymore, I’m that used to it. I suddenly imagine the excitement of wearing a new scent and want to grab the box off Imogen. But the objection that the gifts might be more dearly appreciated by me is null and void, since Imogen and Lily are openly ecstatic. They are both wearing a gash of scarlet lipstick somewhere in the vicinity of their mouths. Imogen has ripped the perfume box open and is liberally spraying the scent around the room as though it’s air freshener.

‘Don’t waste that, Immie. It’s expensive.’

‘Oh, they’re happy,’ says Abi. Again, I can’t quite compute her tone. Maybe she’s making a delighted observation or she could be inferring I’m a nag and that I should leave them alone.

‘What do you say, girls?’ I hate it that I have to prompt them. They are normally quite well-mannered but I think the adultness of the gift has overwhelmed them. They mumble none-too-convincing thank yous. Embarrassed, I mutter, ‘You know how kids are.’

I wonder, does she? How much contact has she had? Other than the people who turn up on her chat-show sofa, does she have any interaction with kids? Is she a godmother to anyone? She must be, right? She’s perfect godparent material.

At that moment, I hear the front door bang against the hall wall and a rucksack being dropped. I look out of the kitchen window and notice that the street lamps are on, the sky has turned a deep indigo; it will be black as a bruise in another hour. ‘Liam’s home,’ I announce. ‘He’s been at football practice.’

Liam lopes into the room and I am, as always, so very pleased to see him. Liam has an easy, cheerful manner, besides which he manages his two younger sisters with flair and effective ease; he’ll probably be able to retrieve the lippy and scent. I know Abi will be impressed by his height and his manners – all my friends always are.

‘Liam, come and meet a friend of mine.’ I jump up and rush to him. I thread my arm through his, just resisting presenting him with a ta-da. ‘This is Abi – we went to university together.’

He was expecting her, or at least he should have been; the house has been turned upside down by her imminent arrival and yet he looks surprised. Typical boy. It’s possible that he’s forgotten we’ve a house guest staying for a few days. Still, his manners are as perfect as ever. He leans forward and extends his hand for her to shake. She reaches for it and at the same time gracefully pulls herself up to standing.

‘Oh my God. I wouldn’t have known him.’

‘Well, you haven’t seen him since he was about two months old,’ I point out, laughing.

‘He’s—’ She pauses, remembering that he’s in the room. ‘You’re all grown up,’ she murmurs, obviously shocked that in a blink of an eye my baby has turned into this. Looking at Liam no doubt makes Abi feel old in a way that even birthdays can’t. I totally understand. Kids are like egg-timers. Times slips through your fingers like sand, as you stand back and watch them grow.

‘A-levels this year,’ I say proudly.

‘Really? What subjects?’

‘Maths, philosophy and politics,’ Liam reels off his subject choices.

‘Wow, clever as well.’ I’m grateful that she hasn’t spelt out exactly what he is, besides clever.

He’s handsome.

There’s no doubt about it. Quite particularly so. But he’s young and absolutely hates it when my friends say as much, even though they are only trying to pay him a compliment. Even now, under her gaze, he blushes a little bit. He keeps his head down, his blond, sleek, straight fringe falling over his eyes. His eyes are arguably his best feature. Deep, dark blue pools. Framed with long, thick lashes. I already pity the girls who are going to feel the heat of his gaze once he fully understands the power of it. I suppose there will be quite a few. He has been seeing Tanya for eight months now; it’s serious but it can’t be it. He’s too young. There were girls before her, and there will be others after.

‘Yeah, he’s smart,’ I say, not being able to hide my pride. ‘Wants to change the world, does our Liam. Don’t you, love?’

Liam shrugs. He thinks I’m being flip about his ambitions to become a politician, to champion the rights of those without voices, to find a way of doing the right thing in a world where doing the wrong thing seems to pay, but I’m not. I’m proud of him. A little daunted, to be honest. His ambitions seem so big.

Liam turns to his sisters, engaging with genuine interest. ‘What have you got on your face?’

‘Lipstick,’ they chorus, giggling proudly. They fling themselves at him, and cling like limpets. Although he is too old to comfortably accept a hug from his mum, I’m pleased to say he still cuddles his younger sisters with genuine zeal. Well really, they don’t give him any choice.

‘Have you two had your tea?’ he asks. I glance at the clock guiltily. It’s past six. I normally feed the girls by quarter to five. I’ve been distracted by Abi’s arrival.

‘Wow, no, no they haven’t. You must be starving, girls.’ Although probably not – Abi hasn’t touched the brownies and yet there’s only one left on the plate. ‘What do you want?’ I ask.

Liam sees my panic and somehow senses my desire to stay put and chat with Abi some more. He waves his hand. ‘I’ll do it. No problem. What’s it to be, girls? Scrambled egg or beans on toast?’

‘No, honestly love, I’ll do their tea but if you could just go and see they wash their hands. Perhaps listen to them reading for school, while I put something on for us all.’

Liam leads them out of the room. Abi and I smile at one another as we listen to their chatter and laughter trail upstairs.

‘He’s quite something.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You did a fine job, Mel.’ She looks me in the eye and nods.

‘Thank you. I didn’t do it on my own. Ben is a brilliant dad and my parents have been such a help.’

‘Yup, I don’t doubt it, but it’s mostly you.’

I nod and accept her compliment because it’s what I like to believe. Not that I mostly did the bringing up. But that he is mostly me. He’s a fine boy and he is mostly mine. Nothing to do with the boy I had a one-night stand with, someone I hardly knew; he is irrelevant.

Suddenly Abi looks serious and intense. She reaches for my hand, looks me in the eye and says, ‘Thank you for having me. You’ve saved my life.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ It’s an expression, right? I mean, I know it is, except that her eyes are all dewy.

‘I’m not being daft. I’m one hundred per cent serious. If you hadn’t responded to my email, I don’t know what I would have done. I really don’t. You, inviting me here, it gave me a purpose.’

I pat her hand and mumble about being ‘Happy to help. It’s the least I can do.’

And it is. It really is.