My Husband's Wife (21 page)

Naomi took a deep breath. ‘Well, Truffle was running around and we were chasing him and he stopped at the side of the swimming pool and did a poo and Gerri stood in it with no shoes on and she said the fuck word and Daddy shouted at her for saying the fuck word and then Leo did a wee on the side of the pool, it was running down her leg, and so she jumped in the pool and Gerri said it again. And then Daddy said it.’

Kev tried to suppress his hysterics.

‘Oh! It’s not funny!’ Rosie looked daggers at him. ‘Why did you wet yourself, Leo? That’s not like you. Did you just forget to go?’ She ran her hand over her daughter’s caramel-coloured hair.

‘The loo is far away and I didn’t want to walk there on my own and I didn’t want to leave Truffle and I started laughing because Gerri trod on his poo and I weed at the same time.’

‘Well, we’ve all done that.’ Kev nodded meaningfully in Rosie’s direction.

She glared at him, daring him to mention the night in her teens when, while they were sitting on the beach, he had literally reduced her to tears of laughter and as she’d stood up, the inevitable had happened, only there was no swimming pool for her to jump into and the sea hadn’t looked that inviting.

‘Yes, Uncle Kev’s right, we have all done that.’ She winked at her youngest. ‘And Nay, the F-word is a really horrible word and if you say it, it makes you ugly. There are so many other words you can use, but not that one.’

‘Or shitstar,’ Naomi reminded her. Kev couldn’t help but spray his mouthful of water. ‘We’re not allowed to say shitstar either.’

Rosie coughed. ‘Yes, that one too.’

‘Can we let Truffle come here for sleepovers, Mummy? I miss him so much.’ Leona’s eyes were wide and pleading.

‘We’ll see.’ She looked at Kev.
And so it begins...

It had been weeks since Kevin left, flying off to his next stop on the world-paradise tour. Rosie missed him, as of course did Keith and Mo. He’d sent the girls a postcard of a deserted beach lapped by turquoise sea, which looked especially inviting now that the weather in North Devon was becoming grottier by the hour, all grey clouds and drizzly wind. The card was stuck to the front of the fridge. On the back it simply said:
Been fishing for chicken nuggets, no luck yet! X

The girls came and went at weekends, and while Rosie didn’t like them being away, the more often it happened, the more used to it she became.

One Saturday she opened the door to her returning children to find Gerri, not Phil, at the door. She felt her face flush as she ran her fingers through the knots in her fringe and wiped her mouth. She felt inadequate, huge and clumsy in the company of this petite, blonde woman whose calves were so slim she could stuff the legs of her jeans into her high-heeled boots. Gerri looked glossy and bright in a way that Rosie knew she never could. She wished she wasn’t still in her pyjama bottoms and sweatshirt.

‘Sorry to just turn up – Phil’s got man flu.’ Gerri sighed, raised her hands and let them fall to her sides, as if this state of affairs was far from satisfactory and as if she and Rosie were old friends, mid chat.

‘Thanks for bringing them home.’ Rosie swallowed as her heart raced.

‘It’s no bother. Only five minutes.’ Gerri pointed up the road, as if Rosie didn’t know exactly where she’d come from.

Rosie remembered the last time they’d spoken, pictured herself sliding down the side of Gerri’s car, sad and broken and covered in goo. She felt the need to put her side of the story. ‘When I saw you before, at Mel and Andy’s...’

‘Yes.’ Geraldine nodded. As if she could have forgotten.

‘You thought I’d been sick, but as I told you... it was coleslaw.’ She wished she sounded more coherent, smarter.

Gerri furrowed her brow.

‘I dropped it, when I saw your car. The coleslaw.’
What are you going on about it for? Stop it, Rosie!

‘Right.’ Gerri nodded. ‘I was thinking...’ She paused. ‘As the kids come round to the house a lot, it would make sense if you knew where they were, wouldn’t it? And you could pick them up sometimes – I don’t expect Phil and I will be available as a taxi service every Saturday morning.’ She flashed a wide, social smile.

Rosie gawped at her jibe, temporarily lost for words.

‘And of course I’m sure you’d like to know where they are, and that they’re safe. Come for coffee, why don’t you? Shall we say Wednesday?’

Rosie stared at her, surprised and confused by the invitation. ‘I’ll, err, have a think about it.’

Gerri nodded and turned to go but changed her mind and headed back towards the front doorstep, from where Rosie continued to stare at her, fascinated and repelled in equal measure.

Gerri continued. ‘And, living in this little tiny town, it would be better for everyone if we at least knew each other a bit, don’t you think?’

Rosie tried to think of how to respond, but Gerri wasn’t finished yet.

‘I know the situation is far from ideal, but I’m not horrible or wicked. I’m not the sort of woman that sleeps with married men.’

‘I think you’ll find that you are.’ Rosie didn’t know where her confidence had come from, but she was glad it was there.

Gerri looked up at her, as if considering this. ‘I mean, I wasn’t. I never had until...’

‘Until you chose my husband. Lucky me.’

‘I didn’t
choose
him.’

‘Oh God, not you too! I’ve had enough of that from Phil about the randomness of it all, as though you are two witless, feckless things who have no control over anything. We both know that’s not true. Is that how you expect me to believe you live, by accidentally making money, unintentionally building a house, mistakenly taking my husband?’

Gerri stared at her. ‘I know you’re upset with me—’

‘Upset with you?’ Rosie rolled her eyes at the understatement and stepped forward into the street. ‘You have no idea. Have you ever loved someone so much that you wanted to have their children, loved them so much that you routinely put their needs before your own, willingly sacrificing your own hopes and dreams so they can realise theirs? The sort of love where you lie awake at night, working out how you can make their day better, even if it means getting up an hour earlier every morning to cook them breakfast before they go off to work?’

Gerri shook her head. ‘Not until now, no.’

‘Well, congratulations. I hope loving him brings you as much joy as it has me!’ She spun around and made for the front door.

‘I don’t want to argue with you.’

Rosie turned to look at her.

‘I don’t want to argue with anyone,’ Gerri continued. ‘I want everyone to get along, because that’s how we make it best for everyone.’

It’s never going to be best for me.

‘See you Wednesday for coffee then?’ Gerri glimpsed past her into the hallway. Rosie saw the almost imperceptible wrinkle of her nose. She picked a stray hair off her jacket and headed for her Range Rover.

‘As I said, I’ll think about it.’ Rosie closed the door behind her and spied the girls sitting on the stairs with their arms wrapped around each other, listening.

*

‘So, what do you think I should do?’ Rosie wriggled to get comfy in the booth and stirred her coffee, looking at her friend for advice.

Mel exhaled loudly. ‘It’s a tricky one. I don’t think I could do it, not without punching her lights out, and I think she’s got a nerve asking, but...’

‘But what?’ She sipped the froth from her latte.

‘She’s right. It would make it best for everyone if you all got along. It would certainly be best for the girls.’

Rosie scooped her hair into her hands and twisted it into a knot. ‘I would like to have a look, it would be good to be able to picture them, and I’d probably worry a bit less.’

‘Plus you want to have a nose!’ Mel laughed.

‘Not really. The idea of seeing where she and my husband sit each night for their tea, and where they sleep...’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know if I can do it.’ ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Mel leant forward.

‘No! Because you really do only want to go and have a nose.’

‘No need, I’ve already been up.’

Rosie looked up in surprise and Mel froze, as though she had let this slip. She held her mug still, not far from her lips, as she tried to explain. ‘I... I didn’t say anything to you because I didn’t know what to say. They invited me and Andy up a few weeks ago and you were hanging out with Kev and...’ She wiped her forehead. ‘I tell you what, I bloody wish everyone
would
get on, this is killing me.’

Rosie tried to dampen the flames of jealousy that flared in her stomach. ‘It’s okay, Mel. You’ve already told me that you would choose me, and that’s enough. And I know that makes me sound like a six-year-old, but I can’t help it. It’s important to me to know that I won’t lose you.’

‘Rosie...’ Mel placed her mug on the table, as if this required her full attention. ‘That will never change. I will always, always choose you. As if I could have a friend with white carpets! I was scared to move, in case I smudged something.’

Rosie tried to imagine the girls running riot in a house with white carpets and Truffle pooing wherever the fancy took him, and she couldn’t. She couldn’t picture it at all.

*

Four days later, Rosie sat in the car, waiting for the tall black wrought-iron gate to slide open, feeling as if her heart was lodged in her throat. She had navigated the narrow lanes of Mortehoe with a rumbly upset tum and a dry mouth, raising her palm to people she knew, including one of Keith and Mo’s neighbours, a mum from school, and others she recognised only by sight.

The temptation to turn around and head back down the coastal road to Woolacombe was strong. But having jumped out of the car and pressed the entry button, she knew that the little winking camera had signalled her arrival with its minute green flashing light and it was now too late to do a runner. The gate clanked and then jumped a little, before gliding silently along a rail and disappearing behind the white curved wall that framed the entrance and was shadowed by a dense seven-foot-high privet hedge to ensure total seclusion.

Rosie drove forward slowly in first gear, listening to the pale, weed-free gravel crunch under her wheels. She followed the winding driveway as it swept around in an arc to the left, noting the line of saplings that had yet to mature and were protected in little insulated cages from the harsh sea winds. Beyond them to the right sat a neat football-pitch-sized paddock with a five-bar gate, immaculate hedging and the potential for one hell of a game of rounders, assuming she was picked for a team. To the left, an expanse of land was laid to lawn, close-cropped and leading to a vast marble-floored patio, on which sat the infinity pool. The view beyond was one of the best she had seen and she had lived in the area her whole life. There were no buildings to clutter the scene or spoil the panorama from the cliff edge, just a wide expanse of uninterrupted sea. This was exactly how she imagined it might feel to be on a Greek island or the Majorcan coast: nothing but clear sky, the big sea and the space to breathe.

Sea diamonds sparkled all the way to the horizon as wisps of cloud parted to reveal the brilliant blue of the crisp autumn day. The grounds were as impressive as any she’d seen in pictures of grand hotels: she imagined peacocks roaming and grand parties abuzz with slim, tanned people wearing linen and sipping from fruit-crowded glasses of Pimm’s. It was another world and not a world in which she felt comfortable. She held her breath, imagining her daughters at ease there, picturing for the first time the chasm that might open up, placing an insurmountable void between her life and theirs. The thought horrified her.

Rosie parked the car and wondered if she was leaving it in the right spot; not that there was a shortage of space – several juggernauts could manoeuvre freely without having to knock and ask her to move. She looked up at the house. It was certainly imposing but about as far from Downton Abbey as it could be and nothing like she had imagined. There wasn’t a Georgian window or a butler in sight. It was a vast, modern, minimalist white box, with grey, metal-framed windows and bi-fold doors along two sides that were clearly designed to open up and connect the house to the grounds when the weather was nice.

Rosie looked towards the voice that called from the entrance.

‘Come in, come in!’ Gerri waved from the double-width, limed-oak front door at which she stood. Her diminutive stature put Rosie in mind of a child standing in front of a Wendy house.

Rosie trod the gravel, trying to control her nerves and wondering why on earth she had thought this might be a good idea.
I want to go home...

Gerri ushered her into the high, glass-walled hallway with its dark-grey slate floor. A glass and chrome open-tread staircase climbed to a vast open landing on the right. She tried not to picture her accident-prone little girls slipping and falling on the angled, shiny surfaces, against the glass and metal. There was very little to cushion a fall, unlike in her house, where you were just as likely to land in a pile of laundry or a discarded coat as anything else.

‘This is lovely.’ Keeping her voice low, she cast her eyes around, noting that there was not a speck of dust or item out of place. It reminded her more of a fancy-pants art gallery than a family home. She felt it best to whisper.

A dog ran towards her, or more accurately, the tiny ball of fluff that was Truffle. He sniffed and yapped as he stood his ground in front of her.

‘Bloody dog. Gets under my feet wherever I turn.’ Gerri sighed. ‘I’m more of a cat person; it’s a big deal for me having him around. But Phil was very keen, so...’ She smiled.

Rosie didn’t recognise this as being the Phil she knew, couldn’t picture him being ‘very keen’ about a dog, just as she couldn’t imagine him wandering around these rooms in his plaster-encrusted trousers and dusty hair, or envisage him farting amid all this refinement, after having been out for a few pints with his mates. This raised two thoughts in her mind. The first was that he might be playing a part, presenting an image to Gerri so that he fitted in. Surely he wasn’t able to be himself in these lavish surroundings? The Phil she knew was uncomfortable going into a restaurant with tablecloths and instantly pooh-poohed anyone with a double-barrelled surname, and yet this was how he now lived? The second thought was that she really didn’t know him at all, and that the face he had been presenting to her was the fake one, and this idea saddened her beyond words.