Second Chance (2 page)

‘Promise me you’ll take pictures of Dustin in the play, okay?’

‘Okay, sweetie. Promise. Have a safe journey.’

‘I will. I’ll call before I get on the train.’

‘’kay,’ and Sarah smiles and sinks back into the pillows and falls fast asleep again before Tom has even made it to the front door.

Across the Atlantic Ocean, just as Tom’s town car pulls out of the driveway, Holly Macintosh also wakes up: 11 a.m. Today she has taken the day off, exhausted from the past few sleepless nights when the routine is always the same: she stumbles through her bedroom, hits the light switch just outside the doorway of her tiny bathroom, and sinks her head in her hands as she sits on the loo. This has started happening every night. At
more or less exactly the same time, Holly wakes up needing to pee, and by the time she climbs back into bed her mind is up and racing, and these last few nights she has still been awake when the sun comes up.

Last Sunday she had just managed to fall back into a deep sleep when Daisy came in, clad in mismatched socks, her brother’s Spiderman pyjamas, and Holly’s favourite cashmere scarf wrapped around her neck. Daisy demanded Weetabix, and Holly stumbled out of bed shooting daggers at Marcus, who, she was convinced, was merely pretending to be fast asleep.

And last night again, she was up all night. She lay in bed, her eyes closed, trying to ignore the occasional snore or grunt from her husband, too deep in sleep to notice her. Usually when his snoring becomes too irritating to bear, even though she is wide awake and not even pretending to be attempting to get back to sleep, she will shove him over from his position lying on his back. ‘Snoring,’ she will hiss, suppressing the urge to prod him hard enough to push him right out of the bed.

Holly turned on the light last night, waiting as her husband stirred, then rolled over again, still sleeping. She gathered up a magazine from the pile on the floor next to her bed, resigning herself to yet another of those long, long nights, those nights that render her almost senseless in the mornings.

This morning, a zombie in oversized men’s pyjamas and moccasin slippers, Holly just about managed to get the children up and dressed. ‘Don’t start,’ she said warningly to Oliver, who is never at his best in the
mornings, and particularly now that his four-year-old sister has discovered exactly which of his buttons to push to start the tears falling, and with huge enjoyment has incorporated it into her daily morning routine.

The au pair stumbled down at the end of breakfast, and Holly smiled gratefully as Frauke bent down to get the children buttoned up, slapping some ham and cheese on pumpernickel bread for herself and holding it in her teeth as she took Daisy and Oliver by the hand.

‘I’m not working today,’ Holly said. ‘But I’m exhausted. Another bad night. Would you mind organizing a playdate or something this afternoon? I’m just desperate to sleep. Is that okay?’

‘Yes,’ Frauke nodded, with her stern morning face – the result of having gone out last night with six other au pairs and staying up until much too late drinking Starbucks. ‘I will phone Luciana, although the last time I tried to see her she was thirty-six minutes late, which was not good. But I will try again. Don’t worry, Holly. I will keep the children out of the house today. Perhaps a museum.’

Holly sighed with satisfaction. She finds herself describing Frauke to friends as ‘my grown-up daughter from my first marriage’. Her other friends complain about their au pairs, but Holly feels constantly and consistently thankful that Frauke has come into her life. She is organized, strict, loving and happy. When Marcus goes to work and it is just Holly and Frauke alone with the kids, the house always feels lighter, happier, the energy changing entirely.

So now, awake again at 11 a.m., Holly gets up and
makes herself a cup of tea, loving how quiet the house is in the middle of the day. This is the house she and Marcus lived in together well before the children were born. It is the house she bought expecting to fill it with children and animals, neighbours and friends popping in at all hours of the day and night. A house we can grow into, she thought. A house that will truly be a home.

Holly’s mother was an interior decorator, and every house Holly had lived in as a child had been a project. As soon as the project was finished, the Macintosh family was on the move again. Holly had had bedrooms in every colour of the rainbow. She had had blue fairies, yellow Laura Ashley, hot fuchsia and gold leaf. She had attempted to stop attaching herself to these houses, but couldn’t help the secret hope with every new move that perhaps this house would be the one her mother would fall in love with, perhaps this time she would finally have a home.

When she and Marcus found this house in Brondesbury, Holly knew that she would never leave. Five bedrooms for all the children she was convinced they would have, a large garden for barbecues and swing sets, a huge, dilapidated kitchen that Holly started mentally reorganizing as soon as they first saw it.

There is no doubt at all that it is home. Holly bought every piece of furniture herself, she trawled through dusty, fusty antique shops, spent months going to car-boot sales looking for that one special find, even buying several pieces on eBay, and getting burnt only twice. (One time it was a sofa that was supposed to be in
great condition but it turned out that the picture on eBay was of a different sofa; and the other was an antique cherry sideboard that turned out to be riddled with woodworm.)

In so many ways, Holly has exactly the life she has always wanted. She still gets pleasure every time she comes home, and still, at least four times a week, she finds herself wandering around her house, leaning in doorways and looking at rooms, smiling at the home she has created.

She has her gorgeous, adorable children, Daisy, who is like a mini-me of Holly, and Oliver, who is more serious, pensive, more like her husband.

She has a career she loves – she is a freelance illustrator – and a husband who would appear to be the perfect husband. He is successful – a lawyer in one of the top family law firms, he has become the divorce lawyer of choice for several celebrities of late. He is tall and distinguished-looking in his bespoke suits and natty silk ties, the salt and pepper of his hair giving him a gravitas he only aspired to when he and Holly met. He has changed enormously, but Holly tries not to think about it, or at least tries not to dwell upon it. His old friends have even tried to gently rib him about changing his name from Mark to Marcus, but it has gone down like a lead balloon, and the few friends remaining have learnt not to tease Marcus about his past.

Did he have humour? Holly supposes so. She remembers a time when he used to make her laugh, when they used to go out with friends and she would wipe the tears of laughter away from her cheeks. She
doesn’t seem to have laughed with him for a long time, Marcus working longer and longer hours as his career has continued to shoot upwards.

They haven’t seen friends either, for that matter, not for a while. Holly, who loves cooking, would regularly host dinner parties in the old days. She didn’t actually want to have dinner parties, would have preferred casual kitchen suppers, friends standing around the island with giant glasses of wine as she threw together a salad, but Marcus insisted on doing things properly.

Marcus insisted on the best crystal being out, the silver cutlery. He insisted on eating in the dining room at the mahogany pedestal table with the Chippendale chairs, but they had been a gift from a great-aunt of Holly’s whom she had always hated. They are beautiful, naturally, but they seem so formal, so out of place with the life she had envisioned for herself.

One night they had gone to the neighbours’ for dinner, and the dining room was a light, bright room, French doors leading onto a terrace, every wall a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf lined with books, the wooden floors painted a white gloss, an old round table with retro Formica chairs. It was hip and warm and fun, and Holly had loved it.

‘Wouldn’t our dining room be wonderful like that?’ she had said to Marcus as they climbed into the car at nine o’clock. (Holly had wanted to stay later, had been dying to stay later having not had that much fun in ages, but Marcus had insisted on leaving because he was in the middle of a big case and still had work to do when he got home.)

Marcus had shuddered. ‘I thought it was ghastly,’ he’d said. ‘Dining rooms are for dining in, not for reading in.’

Oh fuck off, Holly had thought, rolling her eyes as she turned her head and looked out of the window. Since when was he the expert on dining rooms?

Marcus has an awful lot of theories, particularly about what is
right
and what is
wrong
; how one is supposed to act; how children are supposed to behave; what is
common
and what is not.

Most people are fooled by Marcus, believe he is as he appears, but there are many who are not. Holly, though, does not realize this. Not yet. Holly thinks that people take Marcus at face value. She thinks that he has perfected his image as someone who comes from a good family, from old money, from aristocratic intelligentsia, and has managed to pull it off. Why he would want to do this in the first place is something Holly does not even try to understand.

Some of the time Marcus does pull this act off. Admittedly the few remaining friends from university who remember his parents, his childhood home, know that it is all an act, but they are still in his life because they have learnt the art of discretion.

So he has acquired manners and tact and gracious-ness and charm from Holly, but because he is mimicking her, mimicking those around him whom he is trying so hard to emulate, and because none of it comes naturally to him, the charm has a habit of falling off, the manners have a tendency to disappear, particularly when Marcus is feeling superior.

He tries desperately to keep his mother in Bristol, terrified that she will give his past away; and poor Joanie, who longs to spend time with her grandchildren but doesn’t know how to be around a son she no longer recognizes, sits on herownin her little house, surrounded by photographs, utterly bewildered.

Bewildered at how she produced a son like this, a son whom she has come to realize is more than a little embarrassed by her. A son who keeps buying her Hermès scarves and Burberry raincoats, not because she needs them or because she asks for them but because, she well knows, he is trying to turn her into something she is not.

Her plastic rain scarf is fine, thank you very much, and her mac bought from M&S all those years ago still does a great job. When the gifts arrive, she bundles them up and takes them down to Oxfam unless, of course, she’s having a bridge night beforehand, when her friends get to choose.

She doesn’t know what to make of this son who speaks with more marbles in his mouth than the queen. She’s extremely proud of what he’s achieved – she is the only mother in her area with a son who’s a lawyer and working his way towards becoming a partner. A partner! Who would have thought! But on a personal level, she has to admit she doesn’t like him very much.

She feels awful saying that about her son. How could she possibly feel that about her own flesh and blood? But Joanie Carter is nothing if not matter-of-fact, and while he will always be her son and she will always love him, she is quite clear that she doesn’t like him.

Who does he think he is? she finds herself thinking when another scarf arrives. But she already knows the answer. He’s Marcus Carter. And he thinks he’s better than all of us.

She thinks Holly is wonderful because she is so down to earth. Joanie can see Marcus growing more and more self-important, more and more puffed up with pride, and she hopes, has always hoped, Holly will knock it out of him.

She doesn’t know how Holly puts up with her son, and is so pleased that Holly acts normally and doesn’t obey Marcus when he’s not around, which seems to be most of the time these days. But she can’t help but wonder what they’re doing together, can’t help but think that this may be the most peculiar match she’s ever seen.

She thought it was an odd pairing from the beginning although she was delighted. Marcus took her and Holly out to tea at the Ritz, and Holly was so effervescent Joanie was worried she might just fizz up through the ceiling. Thank God, she thought with relief. Maybe my son has a chance after all. Maybe this lovely, real girl will knock the stuffing, the stuffiness, out of him.

And then the engagement and a diamond ring that was bigger than anything Joanie had ever seen, and plans that took on a speed and energy of their own. Holly had phoned and said it would be small, maybe in a little hotel or a service in their local church and a lunch for their friends.

It had ended up being at the Savoy. Two hundred people. Holly glorious in her Jenny Packham sheath
dress, but strangely subdued, Joanie had thought – serene and stunning, but there was a hint of sadness that she pushed to the very back of her mind, refusing to acknowledge what it might mean.

Even Holly refused to acknowledge what it might mean. Marcus had proposed, exactly as she had known he would, on bended knee next to the River Thames beside the Southbank Centre. He had the ring, exactly as she had known he would, and she couldn’t think of a reason to say no.

After all, he was everything she thought she ought to have been looking for, and soon she was swept up in the momentum of planning the wedding – so very much more lavish than she had wanted, but this was Marcus’s day too – and she didn’t stop to question her doubts, didn’t stop to allow them space to breathe and grow.

Looking back, an observer might say that Holly seemed heavy on her wedding day. Not heavy in weight – Holly was positively tiny on the day itself, the stress of keeping Marcus happy already having taken its toll – but there was a weight on her shoulders, a flatness of spirit, a heavy energy.

She kissed Marcus, she danced, she greeted her guests and lit up when talking to people she loved, but it wasn’t perhaps what you would expect from the bride on a day that is supposed to be the happiest day of her life.