Our empty house yawned around me, the silence foreign and peculiar. The bike was still resting against the wall, handlebars a hazard. As I squeezed past it I noticed the small puddle of vomit on the floor.
Oh, poor Gus.
I peered into the kitchen, everything wiped down, winter sunlight slicing the air, highlighting the freshly wiped surfaces, the bright of the orange roses in the center of the island. Gus was still lying in his bed as I approached. He would have been for his walk, which was why he looked so lethargic.
Dan worked a few minutes away in Matt’s fancy outdoor home office and always found time to return to walk Gus—before I became an agent and the kids were young it had been my job, Dan joining me when he could. Gus, faster, bouncier, with fewer gray hairs then, would skip between us both, under the arch of our hands as we ambled in all weathers. Dan had carved out time for them and last year I’d done the same, trying to join him when I could. I felt a flicker of sadness that we’d let that slide, or rather I had. I was the one with the all-important Arthur meeting, the urgent edit, or reading I hadn’t finished over the weekend.
For a second I felt a sad rush for one of those gorgeous spring walks—a cornflower-blue sky overhead, the green stems of daffodils about to burst through, the first early snowdrops. Us in coats and scarves, hands reaching for the other without a thought, unfathomable to walk along without holding hands, and conversation about the kids, work, the day, our future. I loved those walks. The lump was in my throat as I bent down to stroke Gus, my hand lost in his springy curls. He lifted his head and looked at me. His food bowl was still full.
“You all right, boy?”
Taking a cloth I cleared up the vomit, not much. Perhaps he had a stomach upset. I should ask Dan if he’d noticed anything. Gus stood up and padded behind me curiously as I took a mug of tea into the conservatory.
I used to love sitting in here, a submission on my Kindle, the light streaming in as I looked out on our garden. These days it seemed perpetually filled with drying clothes and junk—abandoned scooters, piles of books, a punctured soccer ball. Outside the garden was more jungle than manicured lawn, weeds pockmarked the patch of grass, crept through the cracks between the paving stones, climbed the bricks of the house as if trying to get inside.
I cleared a space at the table, placed my mug down as Gus nestled close to me. Picking up my pen I began, “Dear Dan . . .”
I wouldn’t forget the letter today. I filled it with my thoughts from those walks with Gus. I wanted to capture the feeling I always got when Dan and I were alone, his arm slung casually over mine, his profile in laughter. That we were the only two people that existed on the earth, joined together with so many invisible ties. That tug when I had first looked up on the tube, the shock of his expression, something in his eyes that seemed so simple, so straightforward. I found you, I’d thought.
As I signed off I blinked back the tears that had formed there, thinking of Jas’s words, that my strange experience was a kind of premonition, that I could stop what might have been. Certainly things had been different—the outcome of the meeting for starters. So things could happen differently, things could be stopped. Yesterday hadn’t happened, not really. It was just a terrifying insight into a different version of today. I clung to that hope as I picked up the envelope and placed the letter inside. Nothing had happened. It was a warning, a what-might-have-been.
The front door went and I twisted in my chair, Gus lifting his head too. He might be feeling a little under the weather but he loved the kids, adored Dan. And he was nosy to a fault.
I saw Miles arrive in a whirlwind and called out to him. He started, the look on his face reminding me about yesterday’s row.
“Hey, come and say hi.”
His steps were slow, his eyes wary as he appeared in the doorway. “I got back a bit early,” I explained, thrown for a moment as I took him in, the slightly too short school trousers—when had he grown again? Hadn’t we just bought those ones? His hair, a little long around his ears. His face seemed thinner, his expression more mature.
“Dad’s coming,” he mumbled, already twisting away as if he was about to leave again.
“How was your day?” I smiled, removing a pile of books from the seat next door to me and patting the houndstooth cushion.
“S’OK,” he said, not meeting my eye.
A thread of worry streaked through me; this was Miles who always had something to say about school. They’d watched a volcano explosion, Albie had put an eraser up his nose and it’d got stuck, did I know that tarantulas could live for two and a half years without food?
He hadn’t sat on the chair but was scuffing his toe on the floor next to it. His eyes seemed red-rimmed in the brightness of the conservatory. “Miles, have you been crying?” I asked, realizing the moment I had that my voice had been too dramatic, the question making him wince.
“No,” he scowled, and his fists curled at his side.
“Sorry, you just look . . . upset,” I said, reaching a hand out to him.
He shrugged it off, and then I really knew something was wrong. Miles was always the first to scoot to my side when he was tired or fed up, still held my hand when we walked down the street to the little supermarket. My loving boy.
“Did something happen at school?” I asked.
A momentary pause gave him away, “No.”
I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “You seem angry,” I said. “What’s happened? You can tell me.”
He paused. I could see the strained muscles in his neck as he tried not to look at me; he seemed to be physically having to keep his feelings inside. “I can’t,” he said, kicking at the leg of the chair.
“Miles? Look, I know you’re angry with Poppy,” I said, in a rush.
His head snapped up.
“And that’s not like you. So,” I made my voice gentler, coaxing him into a confession, “do you want to talk about it?”
The pause seemed to last an interminable length, Miles’s eyes darting from left to right on the floor, his brain clearly working overtime.
“I want a best friend,” he said suddenly, his voice startling me with its passion.
I frowned, not expecting that admission.
“You’ve got loads of friends,” I said soothingly. “You’re always being invited on play dates and—”
“But I don’t have a best friend,” Miles said, his expression drooping. “Everyone has a best friend and I don’t.”
“You don’t need a best friend,” I insisted. “I don’t have a best friend. Well, I had one, Jules, but she moved to Australia, so sometimes,” I added, “best friends can emigrate.”
“Aunt Hattie’s your best friend,” he pointed out.
I didn’t protest. He was right, of course. When had I realized that too? When instead of phoning Jules for advice, I’d phoned Hattie? Although some friend I’d been today. I would call her after this, check in again. I hadn’t replied to that last message . . .
“And Dad.”
“Dad?”
“Dad’s your best friend,” Miles said gruffly.
“Well, yes,” I admitted, a lump building in my throat. Miles was right. So right. I swallowed down the ball of panic. “But my point is,” I said, trying to get back on track, “you don’t need one now. It’s good in life to have lots of friends. My best friends came later.”
Miles still looked desperately sad. And I thought back to the argument he’d had with Poppy.
“And how does not having a best friend have anything to do with Poppy?” I asked aloud, causing another panicked glance from him in my direction.
“It doesn’t.”
“Look, Miles,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. Don’t leap on him, Emma, don’t be accusatory. Dan was right; sometimes my desire to demonstrate how brilliant a mother I was meant I flew in too fast, too fierce. “Have you told me everything? Maybe I could help?”
His expression was morphing again, his edges harder, his eyes determined. “You can’t help, no one can help.”
“I’m sure I ca—”
“It’s too late,” he half-shouted, tears springing into his eyes as he turned and raced out of the room.
“Miles,” I twisted, hands on my chair. “Miles . . .”
I was halfway to the stairs when Dan walked in, his hair askew. “Hey,” he said, coming forward for a kiss.
I was distracted, my mind on my upset boy, and the kiss missed its mark, just left of my lips. “Miles is not OK,” I said.
Dan’s expression changed. “He was a bit quiet on the walk back.”
“I’m going to find out what’s going on,” I said.
“Why don’t we start tea? He’ll tell us in his own time.”
I wasn’t listening, already stepping past him to the stairs. How could Dan do that? Sit on his hands and wait? I felt a physical tug toward them when they were upset. I wanted to wrap them up, cuddle them, make it better. That wasn’t bad, was it?
Miles was in his room, dolefully connecting a tiny piece of plastic to another, heart clearly not in it.
When I stepped inside he tensed, didn’t raise his gaze. The room was stuffy, the curtains not fully open from that morning.
I moved to crack open a top window. “Miles,” I said, trying to sound relaxed, “you know you can talk to me about anything. I won’t get cross.”
“I haven’t done anything,” he said, his voice filled with hurt; it made my chest ache.
“Well, clearly something is bothering you.”
The small plastic construction he’d been working on collapsed and he stared at it as if he might cry.
“Come on, Miles,” I could hear my voice, probing, insistent. I sat on the bottom bunk, plucked at his navy-blue duvet cover, couldn’t resist straightening it.
“I can’t,” he said, so quiet I almost missed it.
His head darted up as we both heard noises below. The front door, a mumble of indistinct words, footsteps two at a time on the stairs.
Miles looked at me, a strange mix of emotions on his face, eyes rounded. I wondered what on earth had happened.
“Oh my God, what have you told Dad? You better not have told them anything . . .” Poppy swung into the room.
She hadn’t seen me sitting on the bottom bunk of Miles’s bed.
“Mum is going to go mental if she—”
Poppy sensed me there, spinning round, one hand flying to her chest, “Oh my God, Mum!”
“Poppy,” I said, my voice sounding a note of warning.
“I didn’t see you there.” Poppy straightened, grabbing a piece of hair to chew.
“Why am I going to go mental?” I asked, my voice low.
I could see Poppy scrabbling around for an excuse. Desperate eyes swiveling to her brother. It hit me that something was really going on. I felt a mixture of anger that I was being excluded from this mystery, sadness that neither of them had told me what it was, and resentment that it was me out of the two of us who would go berserk on hearing it. Sometimes I wanted to be the fun parent but I was so often the one chivvying everyone along, nagging them about forgotten lunches or permission forms or remembering to drink water/wear sunscreen/a hat/take your gloves and don’t lose another pair please they’re expensive.
It wasn’t even that I did lots more of the parenting; Dan just didn’t seem to notice certain things, or care. An unironed school skirt, a forgotten pencil case, too-long hair—these were things he didn’t appear to see. And sometimes I wondered why I did. Would it all unravel if I could sometimes just let the small stuff slide?
There was a peculiar pause as no one really knew what to say. Poppy was practically leaping from foot to foot, clearly wanting me out of the room and as far away as possible.
“What is going on?” I asked, not meaning my voice to sound quite so teachery.
I looked at Miles, his face still angry, hurt—he pursed his lips together as he stared at his older sister. He’d always doted on her, following her around like a shadow when they were small. “Me too” after everything she did and said. “Me too.” He used to giggle if she showed him the slightest whiff of attention; even if she pushed him down, it delighted him. He was constantly checking over his shoulder to see if she was watching.
“’Oppy, ’Oppy.”
“Nothing,” Poppy said quickly, unable to stop the glare at Miles.
“Nothing,” Miles agreed in that whisper-quiet voice.
“It’s clearly not nothing.”
Neither was budging and I didn’t want anything ruined, not today. This thing between them could wait, just a day. I needed to get through the next few hours. It couldn’t be too big, surely? Not a matter of life or death. I blinked, that hideous possibility rising up within me. No.
“I really need you two to come downstairs and be nice to each other. OK? Just for this evening. It’s . . . important to me. Please.”
I canceled the video call with our US agent, wanting to be there at kids’ tea. Everyone seemed miserable as Dan and I watched the kids eat, Poppy pushing fish fingers around her plate and Miles staring off into the distance. I was tense, clutching my mug of tea, practically scalding myself as I stared at Dan moving around the room. Alive. Trying to cajole our children. He was weary too as they left the room and he started to wash up.
“Something’s up with them,” I mused.
“Maybe I’ll get more out of them when you’re at that committee meeting,” he said. “Don’t you need to leave?” he asked, glancing at the sunflower clock.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll stay.”
I pulled out my phone to send a message.
“Is it canceled?”
“No.”
He turned, his head tilting as he looked at me. “Did you finally leave it?” he smiled.
“No.”
His forehead wrinkled. “So why are you not going? If you have to go, you should go.”
I couldn’t help the irritated sigh. Dan was always like this. Normally it was great, it meant that the kids knew if they signed up for something they had a responsibility to do it, they owed it not to let people down. Now, though, I felt like letting people down. And I had been to the meeting already so it really wasn’t letting people down in the strictest sense.
I shouldn’t get cross with him now, not today. Guilt bubbled up and caught me off guard, tears thickening my throat. I’d been cross with him last night. God, how could I even think to row with him after last night?
“I’d like to be here with you,” I said, my muscles tensing with images from the night before.
“That’s sweet, Emma, but why don’t you head out, tell them you’re quitting, and then come home. I can do the kids’ bedtime and we can have our dinner.”
I chewed my lip, not keen to leave him. “I’m not sure.”
“Honestly, it will be fine.”
“Will it?” I said, my voice rising. “Will it really?”
“It will,” he said earnestly, “go.”
“Something’s definitely going on with the kids.”
“Well,” Dan said in the patient voice again, “if it is I’m sure it will come out in its own time. We just need to trust them.”
“Hmmph.”
“Go, Emma, and I’ll see you later.”
I did still have time. And it was round the corner. Dan was right, I could finally leave it and be back long before I needed to be. Maybe this was a chance to do what I should have done months, years ago.
“OK,” I said, making the decision. “I’m going to be really quick,” I said. “I’m going to quit, Dan. Tonight.”
“I’m sure,” he said, in a voice that I realized meant he really didn’t believe me.
“No,” I said, moving over to him and forcing him to look me in the eye, “I’m serious. I’m going to quit. I should never have carried on this long. You were right.”
His mouth twitched.
“What?”
“You never tell me I’m right.”
“Shut up,” I said, leaning in to kiss him. Our lips fitted together so easily. I closed my eyes and absorbed the warmth of him. He was safe here, I reminded myself, he wouldn’t leave the kids alone in the house. He wouldn’t head out into the road. And I could do this small thing for him, for us.
He patted my bottom with the ladle as I pulled away.
“Check the conservatory,” I said, scooping up my bag and heading for the door, narrowly avoiding the stupid bike. “There’s something for you on the table,” I shouted, enjoying feeling the smile on my face as I thought of him finding that letter while I was gone.
This was better. Today was better. It would be fine.