Miracle on Regent Street (54 page)

I
unlock the front door and step gingerly inside, still smarting from the scolding Sharon gave me for leaving work on one of the busiest shopping
days of the year. But I don’t care. My sister needs me. I’ve neglected her too often over the past few weeks. The house is unusually quiet. The kids are still at nursery, which would
account for the peace, but Delilah should be here somewhere.

‘Lila?’ I call tentatively as I walk through the echoing hallway, my voice bouncing off the tiled floor. Arty monochrome portraits of Will, Delilah and the kids, looking like the
perfect family, smile at me from the walls disconcertingly. I open the lounge door and peer into the imposing room. A rather forlorn, minimalist silver Christmas tree, which perfectly matches the
room’s elegant dove-grey colour scheme, stands in front of the bay window. Lola’s antique grey and white speckled rocking horse has been pushed to one side to make room for it. A quick
glance tells me Delilah isn’t here. I try the office and playroom, then go downstairs to the usually spick-and-span kitchen. But today it is strewn with empty wine bottles, dirty glasses,
plates, food, milk, mugs . . . and pills. I gasp when I see there are packets of paracetamol strewn over the island unit and with panic rising I examine the boxes. They’re all empty.

I feel my stomach lurch with fear as I turn and run up the stairs, taking them two at a time, my heart pounding as fast as my running feet as I open and shut doors on different floors,
desperately searching for Delilah.

‘Lila!’ I scream. ‘LILA!’ I throw open her bedroom door. It is dark and reeks of stale air and alcohol. The bedclothes are crumpled, there are clothes all over the floor
and a body is slumped over it in the foetal position. Delilah’s body.

‘Oh my God,’ I cry, and I throw myself towards her, pulling her limp frame onto her back so I can see her face. I am crying now, sobbing with fear as I look for any signs of life.
‘Delilah? Delilah, please speak to me.’ I press my hand to her face and her eyelids flutter open.

‘Evie?’ she says hoarsely. ‘What time is it?’

‘Oh, thank God, Lila, you’re all right,’ I sob into her chest as she begins to move herself slowly up into a sitting position, pulling me up with her.

‘Ohhhh,’ she groans, ‘my head.’

‘How many did you take?’ I ask, shaking her. ‘Tell me! I need to know so I can tell the ambulance crew.’ I throw myself over the bed, scrambling towards the bedside table
where I pick up the landline phone. She groans again and rubs her head. ‘Tell me how many!’ I shout back at her.

‘How many what?’ Lila says groggily.

I stab 999 on the phone, already imagining the worst: that my sister has caused irreparable brain damage from taking an overdose.

‘Pills, Lila, Pills! Tell me how many pills you’ve taken!’

‘None,’ she groans. ‘I couldn’t find any downstairs. The packets from the medicine cupboard were all empty. Bloody Will never throws things away. And I’ve still got
this terrible headache. Probably from all the wine,’ she adds bleakly. ‘I opened some first thing this morning after I dropped the kids off,’ she says shamefully.

I put down the phone and slump onto the bed with relief. ‘Oh, Lila, you scared me. I thought you’d taken an overdose.’ And I begin to cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says tearfully, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I’d never do that. The kids need me . . .’

‘I need you too,’ I say, throwing my arms around her. ‘I’m so sorry, Lila, I’ve been awful.’

‘No, you haven’t. You just haven’t been around, but I don’t blame you for that. Things have been pretty horrid here. They still are, in fact,’ she says somberly.
She wriggles out of my embrace and leans across the bed, then throws a brown envelope in front of me. I look at her quizzically before opening it. She leans back on the pillows and stares at the
ceiling as I flick through the damning evidence that proves Will has been having an affair. There are six grainy, black-and-white photos of him with an attractive woman. The photos seem to be from
two different occasions, as they are both wearing different outfits. In one they are sitting outside a café and another in a pub. In both they are leaning intimately into each other, deep in
conversation. In another Will appears to be handing the woman a bundle of money. I’m about to speak when Lila passes me something else. It is a bank statement.

‘Will has been taking large sums of money from our account,’ she says her voice suddenly without emotion. She points at the pictures. ‘He’s either paying a prostitute or
keeping his mistress happy with cash gifts. In either case, he’s a disgusting, cheating bastard and I want him out of my house tonight.’

‘Oh, Lila . . .’ I begin, but words seem meaningless. I can’t imagine how she feels. ‘How did you get these?’ I wave the photos and she looks down.

‘I hired a private detective. I just needed the proof that would ensure the kids and I would be able to stay in the house and I could have a speedy divorce and custody of the children
without some horrible court case. He can’t defend himself against these.’

I grasp her hand. I can’t believe that it’s all come to this so soon: acrimony and alimony. Poor Delilah. And the poor children.

‘I’m going to confront him tonight,’ she continues firmly, sitting up on the bed, wincing as her hand floats up to her forehead. She looks pale and gaunt, but determined.
‘Tell him to pack his bags and go.’

‘Not whilst the children are here,’ I plead. ‘They don’t need to be a part of this, Delilah.’

She shrugs. ‘Maybe it’s better that they know what a scumbag their father is now rather than later. Saves a lot of pain all round.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ I say quietly. ‘Will is still a good father—’

‘Is he?’ she snaps. ‘He’s never here, Evie, he barely knows them!’ She shakes her head and looks down. ‘He hasn’t just cheated on me with this . . .
whore,’ she stabs the photo of the smiling blonde in disgust, ‘he’s cheated on Raffy and Lola too. All those late nights when he could have been home, giving them their baths,
telling them their bedtime stories and he was more concerned with . . . her . . .’ She scrambles off the bed suddenly and into the ensuite and I hear her retching uncontrollably.
‘I’m sorry,’ she groans, ‘I can’t believe this is really happening. I know we haven’t been happy, but I never thought . . . I never thought . . .’

She is sick again and I follow her into the bathroom and hold back her dull, unwashed hair.

‘I know, I know,’ I say soothingly, and pull the chain as she starts to cry over the lavatory. ‘No one did.’ I push back my memory of overhearing Will on the phone, yet
another guilt trip to add to my list. If I had told her myself it wouldn’t have been such a shock to her. But to have to go through this, and all on her own . . . I think of the grainy photos
scattered on Delilah and Will’s marital bed and feel sick myself. ‘Look, Lila, I know this has all been a shock to you and everything, but the kids are so young, you need to protect
them from all this. It isn’t fair to involve them.’

Delilah stops crying and I can tell she’s listening.

‘Mum’s coming up on the train right now,’ I add, gently pulling her back into a sitting position. Delilah looks as young and helpless as her three-year-old daughter. ‘Why
don’t we ask her to take the children back to the flat in Hampstead for the night? You know how much she’d love that. And so would Lola and Raffy. That way you can have it out with Will
without worrying about them.’ Delilah doesn’t say anything, she just nods and I know that she realizes what I’ve suggested makes sense.

‘Is Mum really coming here?’ Delilah says plaintively. ‘What about Dad?’

‘She said she was coming as soon as I called her. Dad’s in London anyway – I saw him the other day – so, yes, maybe he’ll come over, too.’

Delilah nods again and I know she’s thinking that Mum and Dad will make everything all right. Just like they always do.

At three o’clock I collect the kids from nursery and walk them slowly back across Primrose Hill, explaining carefully about their impending trip to their
grandparents’ for the night.

‘GRANDMADAD! YAAAAY!’ yells Raffy as he scrambles across the grass, stick in hand, his welly boots and scarf flying behind him. He waves it and shouts, ‘ABRADABBA!’ like
it’s a wand, and I can’t help but wish I had one of those right now.

‘Can we make cakes and have tea and play dressing-up and do puzzles and watch TV and paint and do cartwheels?’ Lola asks. She stops suddenly and pulls a face. ‘I need a wee
wee. Now,’ she adds, lifting up her coat and dress and squatting on the ground.

‘Can you wait until we get home, Lola?’ I plead as she grapples with her tights. She looks up at me, screws up her nose as if considering my request and she shrugs.

‘’K,’ she says. ‘I’ll just squeeeeeeeze. But you have to carry me.’ I sigh and pick her up, and she grins at me and kisses me on the nose. ‘Love you,
Teevee,’ she says, and all of a sudden I want to cry.

‘I love you too, Lola,’ I manage to say, wishing fervently that I could stop her little world from falling apart.

Maybe I could have done, once upon a time. I used to be good at fixing things for people. But now it’s too late.

By the time we get home, I can sense that there has been a change of atmosphere in the house. I glance at the coat hooks by the front door and am alarmed to see Will’s
expensive Dunhill coat hanging there. I hear the sound of raised voices upstairs and quickly bundle the children into the playroom, shutting the door loudly behind me so that Delilah and Will hear
that we’ve arrived. Then I quickly put CBeebies on and turn the volume up to loud.

‘We can watch
TV
?’ Lola says in wonderment. ‘In the
afternoon
?’ She clambers onto the huge, squishy sofa before I change my mind, having clearly forgotten
all about her bladder.

‘WOW!’ Raffy says in wonderment as the Chuggington trains appear on the screen and he scrambles up next to his sister.

‘ChuggingTON!’ I sing loudly, as Delilah’s faint screams reach my ears, ‘Chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga . . .’

‘CHUG-GINTON!’ join in Lola and Raffy merrily, and I perch next to them, putting my arms around them and squeezing them both as we all sing together, feeling a bit like Maria in
The Sound of Music
, singing ‘My Favourite Things’ to the Von Trapp children to drown out the noise of the storm outside.

Just then I hear a sharp knock at the front door and I glance at the kids, who don’t seem to have noticed anything. I slip out of the playroom, shutting the door behind me again.
Everything seems to have gone quiet upstairs for the moment, which is just as worrying as the screaming and shouting. I rub my face wearily and walk over to the front door.

‘Mum!’ I cry as I see my mother standing on the doorstep, her eyes fixed to the ground, her overnight case perched carefully beside her. ‘Thank goodness you’re
here!’ I fall into her arms and wait for the warmth of her embrace. But it doesn’t come. Her arms remain limply by her side and I can feel her body shaking. I pull back and she looks up
at me, her usually bright eyes now glassy and dull.

‘Can I come in?’ she says quietly, and I step to one side. ‘I can’t stay at the flat. Your father has been having an affair, you see,’ she adds shakily but
alarmingly matter-of-factly, slipping off her coat and hanging it up on the hook. My mother is like me, tidy even in the face of adversity.

I throw my hand up to my mouth and stare at her in horror.

‘What? How?’

‘Where are the children?’ she says, ignoring my question. ‘I’d like to see them. And how is Delilah?’

I hear a creak on the stairs and see Delilah’s feet descending, her body and face still obscured.

‘Evie, I need to tell you something important,’ she calls down as she descends, with Will following closely behind her. Her face is grave. ‘Will hasn’t been having an
affair, Evie, it was Dad . . .’ She stops in the middle of the stairs and suddenly sees me holding on to Mum, who now has tears streaming down her face. Horrified, Delilah tumbles down the
rest of the stairs and pulls us both into her arms and begins to cry too. Eventually she looks at me over Mum’s shoulder and shakes her head. Delilah is still swathed in her dressing gown and
she still looks deathly pale, but there is hope in her expression now, and strength, which she seems to be absorbing from our frail, broken mother.

The stairs creak again and Will appears at the bottom, looking grim-faced and apologetic.

‘Ladies,’ he says softly, his expression concerned as he takes in the sight of his wife and mother-in-law, ‘I’m going to put the kettle on. It looks like we could all do
with a strong cup of tea.’

‘Will?’ I question as he walks past me. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Tea first,’ he says gently, and walks down to the basement where I hear him flick the kettle on.

Mum’s hand shakes slightly as she picks up her cup and gazes at us all. We’re sitting around the big oak dining table, trying to make sense of the drama. The kids
are still happily ensconced watching CBeebies upstairs, and Will is explaining to us what he’s known for the past month.

‘Jonah, Noah and I overheard your father several times on the phone to her,’ Will explains apologetically. ‘At first we thought we’d made some sort of mistake, but he was
getting more and more careless at family gatherings. He’d take calls in front of us and it was clear that whoever he was talking to, well, they had nothing to do with work.’ A blush
spreads across Will’s cheeks and he looks away from Mum.

I can’t even begin to imagine what he heard. I feel sick at the thought of my dad, the man I trusted the most in the world, doing something like this. It’s like he’s cheated on
all of us. I stifle a sob, aware that I have to try to be strong for Mum. She is staring blankly at the table, lost in her thoughts, impervious to Will’s explanations.

‘The boys wanted to tell you sooner,’ Will continues quietly, ‘but then we thought perhaps we could make him see sense; make him see what he was risking. Grace, if it’s
any consolation, we all think he’s a fool,’ Will adds gruffly.

Mum looks out of the window.