A Perfect Home (12 page)

‘I've never met anyone related to a miner,' she said when Claire had told her what her mother's father had done for a living.

Their upbringings couldn't have been more different. Life had treated William kindly. He had grown up in a big house in a postcard-pretty village. His father, also an accountant, played golf and his mother had been secretary of the local tennis club for over twenty years. Prep school, public school, university, and then into a safe and well-paid job. For four years he had been engaged to Vanessa, the daughter of his parents' next door neighbour. Vanessa had been everything Claire's mother-in-law had ever wanted in a wife for her son; blonde and jolly with long tanned legs and the best back-hand in the county. William's mother could never forgive Claire for breaking up the ‘perfect match' despite the fact the relationship had ended before Claire and William met.

‘If that girl hadn't snared him so fast I just know that William and Vanessa would have got back together.' Claire had overheard her mother-in-law talking to a relative in the toilets at her wedding reception. ‘They really were just right for each other. Vanessa understood William; this should have been their day.' Claire resisted the urge to tear off her ridiculous dress and walk away from the marquee and the whole charade of a day; instead she had squeezed her voluminous skirts out of the small cubicle, smiled brightly at her pink-faced mother-in-law and the elderly aunt, commented on the rain that had started to fall and returned to her new husband for the first dance.

For a long time Claire half-envied and half-despised William's background. It stood for so much she had been brought up to disapprove of by her mother.

Claire's mother had fought her way from a red-brick two-up two-down terraced house in a colliery town to university where she fervently threw herself into left-wing politics and CND marches. She studied French and had a passion for Simone de Beauvoir and a longing to write novels herself. In 1968 she had travelled to Paris on the back of a moped with a bearded history student to join the riots in the burning streets.

Somewhere between her subsequent marriage to the bearded history student (who had become a history lecturer in a newly built polytechnic) and moving into the small, dark, two-bedroomed flat as a struggling single mother, the fight had left her. A brief stint at Greenham Common (accompanied by a reluctant teenage Claire) had briefly reignited her passions, but the reality of the day-today lonely drudge of life left her despondent and depressed. She found a job teaching French to the uninterested pupils of an inner-city comprehensive and her dreams of living in France and writing novels faded away.

Claire knew she had been a disappointment to her mother. After a wasted youth snogging boys and mooching around in Top Shop, she had failed to shine academically, failed to find a worthy cause to fight for, and then failed to lead the independent, high-flying life her mother had hoped for.

Sometimes, in her darker moments, when she wondered why she had married William, she thought that he had been her act of rebellion, just as she had been his. His background seemed so tantalisingly different to Claire's – so middle class, so comfortable, so normal. She had been determined to show her mother how it should be done, show her that you could live happily ever after in the domestic dream.

Look at me now
, Claire often thought – cooking, cleaning, school runs, planting flowers, making pretty things to sell in pretty shops, dinner on the table, matching socks neatly folded together in the drawers.
Isn't this what I've always wanted?
But sometimes it all felt so ridiculous she wanted to laugh – or was it scream?

The one person she suspected could see right through her was William's mother. She knew that underneath their politely strained exchanges her mother-in-law was just waiting for her to fail.

At last it was Monday morning and everyone was gone. The computer man had promised to come and put a new modem in by lunchtime. Claire felt tight with nerves and anticipation. Would Stefan's email be there?

Until then she had to cut out fabric for a dozen aprons and decorate them with appliqué hearts and daisies. She found it very hard to concentrate on choosing the mixture of fabrics. Flowers, checks, spots, and paisleys swam and blurred in front of her. The choices she made were random rather than considered as she cut and pinned each one together. All the time she could feel her heart beating beneath her blouse and her stomach ached. Repeatedly, she glanced to the window to see if she could spot the computer man's van coming down the lane.

The phone rang, a seaside gift shop wanted cushions with sailing boats on them, it rang again, someone wanted thirty meters of bunting for a wedding.

It was time to pick up Ben and the computer man still hadn't arrived. She had to go. Leaving the half-finished cushions she went downstairs and picked up her car keys. She thought about leaving a note for the computer man and the door unlocked but an image of William's face as she explained to him why the house had been burgled stopped her and she locked up and left.

The car was hot from the heat of the midday sun and she opened the windows to let the breeze blow in on her face. The smell of fresh-cut hay and honeysuckle swirled about her as she drove down the country roads and every song on the radio seemed to be about falling in love. She felt she could keep on driving and dreaming all day.

Ben collected, she retraced her drive home. As she came up the hill she could see the computer man's small blue van turning out of her drive and pulling away. She speeded up dangerously, beeping her horn and flashing her lights until she was only a few feet behind him, desperate to get him to stop. At last he indicated to pull over and she drove up alongside him in the narrow lane.

‘I'm sorry,' she said through her open window. ‘I had to go and collect my son. I thought you were coming earlier.'

‘Running late,' said the large bearded man gruffly. ‘I waited ten minutes for you. I've still got nine damaged modems to repair by five. That thunderstorm knocked out half your village.'

‘Please come back,' she begged. ‘I'm trying to run a business and I really need to collect my emails today.'

‘I've got to get on. I can come back tomorrow morning,' he said.

Claire could hardly bear it; she'd never be able to wait until tomorrow.

‘Please,' she begged. ‘I'll pay extra. I'll pay double.'

‘Well,' he said dubiously. ‘And a cup of tea. Two sugars?'

‘Yes. And biscuits – home-made.'

‘You're on.'

‘Fixed,' said the computer man, emerging from the study twenty minutes later. ‘You did say double pay didn't you?'

‘Yes,' said Claire. ‘Cheque OK?'

‘Fine. All your emails are downloaded now and your internet's back on. Any chance of another one of those biscuits?'

‘Yes, all right,' she said. ‘Money, biscuit – there you are. Thank you so, so much.'

He left, munching loudly. Claire tried to sit down calmly in front of the computer.

‘I want to play a game,' said Ben, his own biscuit in his hand, half sucked and soggy.

‘In a minute, darling,' she replied absentmindedly as she scrolled down the list of emails. There were over a hundred. A handful of orders from her website, a few for William, an awful lot offering her penis extensions, Viagra, or fantastic financial opportunities involving large deposits into foreign bank accounts. She quickly scanned the email addresses and titles. Nothing. She checked one more time – definitely nothing.

With a sigh she hoisted Ben on to her knee and clicked on to the CBeebies website.

Over and over again they made penguins hop over rivers on icebergs and flew a brightly spotted aeroplane through clouds avoiding balloons. Claire felt rather like a deflated balloon herself. She had been so sure Stefan would have contacted her over the weekend.

Stupid woman, stupid woman
. Of course he wouldn't have been in touch. He'd probably forgotten her by now.

As she drove through the hot dry lanes to pick up Oliver and Emily from school, she tried to work out what she had hoped for anyway. Some declaration of undying love? An offer of an exciting new life, of endless adoration and affection?
Of course not
, she told herself, that would have terrified her. A small acknowledgement that he had liked her, thought of her, enjoyed their time together? Or an apron order? Just a gift for his sister? That would be enough.

She turned a sharp bend and in the distance she could see the spire of the little yellow church where Jack was buried. It had been ages since she'd been to visit his grave. She looked at the clock on the dashboard in front of her – still half an hour before the children would be coming out of school, Ben had fallen asleep in the back of the car and would probably continue sleeping if she left him for five minutes.

Turning up the lane that led to the church, she parked her car outside a lichen-covered wall. The wrought iron gate creaked as she pushed it open. The air felt hot and heavy and everything was silent as she walked towards the little granite headstone. Crouching down she pushed long grass and buttercups away to reveal Jack's name; two dates, picked out in gold, showed the heart-breakingly short time he had been alive.

Three weeks – just twenty-one days and in that time Claire hadn't been allowed to hold him until he had given up his fight to live. The nurse had lain him gently in Claire's arms and she held his tiny body; still warm but lifeless as a child's rag doll. Claire had looked down on his perfect features and thought her heart would break in two.

Everyone had told her she was lucky to still have Oliver, she could have lost them both, but the pain refused to go away. When she finally brought Oliver home the lemon yellow nursery, that she and William had decorated with such excitement, seemed too big with just one cot and no one had thought to put the duplicates of all the baby clothes away.

Claire took Oliver into the massive bed, which had appeared in the bedroom while Claire had been in hospital, and they spent long empty days huddled in it. Claire had felt like they were lying in some oversized wooden coffin that symbolised the part of her that had died with her tiny son. Claire couldn't sleep because she constantly had to check Oliver's breathing. Around her she could hear the constant banging, sawing, and drilling of William working on the house, he seemed to be channelling his grief into walls and shelves and the large black slates he decided to lay on the hallway floor instead of the limestone tiles they had chosen together.

‘I'll make a perfect home for you and our son, I promise,' William whispered as he cradled Claire in his arms late at night. Claire didn't care, she no longer had any interest in her home or the renovations she and William had planned together – everything was Oliver, everything was keeping him safe and tending to his needs. He cried a lot,
colic
said the health visitor,
grief for his lost brother,
thought Claire.

It seemed so futile to be thinking about paint or fabric or window latches. By the time Claire felt her grey fog of misery lift so many decisions had been made without her that she felt an odd detachment from her home. Before she found the strength to participate or protest she was pregnant again and filled with a new set of fears and anxieties about the unborn baby, now
they
consumed her every minute.

Claire stroked the smooth curve of the headstone and wondered how different she and William would have been if Jack had lived.

She stood up. That had been so long ago; Oliver and Emily were strong and healthy and Ben had been an unexpected gift that in her mind went someway to making up for losing Jack. William had been true to his word and given her a lovely home, how could she not appreciate what she had? How could she let a stranger make her want anything else?

Chapter Eleven

‘Balancing motherhood and being a businesswoman comes so naturally to Claire.'

The house seemed to glow in the late afternoon sunlight. Claire and the children sat on a red chequered cloth on the lawn, eating a picnic tea. Macavity sat beside them, hopeful for any sandwich scraps. Claire stroked his head and remembered Stefan doing the same. She stood up quickly and in her head reproached herself; she'd spent the whole week trying to forget Stefan and now she was letting herself think of him again. She cleared away the last of the empty plates and went into the kitchen, promising to return with pudding.

Nine days had passed since she last saw Stefan. Claire kept busy making lavender hearts as favours for a christening and shopping bags for her first London stockist. The website was taking off and bringing in a lot more orders. She methodically went through the routine of the days – breakfast, school run, shopping, sewing, school run – her mind only half engaged.

Standing at the kitchen table chopping strawberries she heard the ping of a new email from the computer in the study. She tried to ignore it and started mixing the strawberries with cream and crushed meringue. Maybe she ought to check her emails; it might have been an important order.

She sat down in the study,

Celia Howard: Re: article.

It took Claire a few seconds to recognize the journalist's name.

Dear Claire,

Stefan has shown me the pictures; they look fabulous. I need to come and interview you for the article. I have a very busy schedule but can come down on Wednesday about 1.00 p.m. Please send directions.

Celia.

As she walked back into the garden with her bowl of Eton mess, Claire tried to ignore the little flutter of excitement she felt developing inside.

The children's bedtime was the usual riot of squabbles, toothpaste, tears, and a vast array of excuses for not staying in bed.

Claire lay on Emily's paisley quilt reading her
What Katy Did
. She was finding it hard to keep track of what was going on in nineteenth-century small-town America. Katy didn't seem to actually do anything very much.