I’m standing in the kitchen of my own home, feeling like a stranger. A stranger who’s just made a bad smell. The kids are sitting quietly at the table—even Elliott—and my kids just don’t do quiet. Ed is fidgeting, and I can feel my irritation rising. He is wearing his coat already and his weekend bag is at his feet, and I resist the temptation to ask him if he’s sure he’s got everything. He’s chewing his fingernails, which drives me barmy, and he’s been doing it for fifteen minutes.
“I thought I’d be gone by the time you got here,” he says for the millionth time.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Does it?”
Ed glances out of the window. He seems very agitated.
“It’s not like you to work at the weekends.”
“No,” Ed says and doesn’t meet my glance.
“Shall I make a cup of tea?”
“I might not have time to drink it.”
“Oh,” I say. I’m trying to be bright and chirpy, but no one is helping me and the whole kitchen feels like an elastic band stretching to twanging point. “Do you mind if I make one?”
“No. No. Go ahead.”
This is my home. My kitchen. My kettle. My tea bags. And I’m asking if I can make a cup of tea! Except that it isn’t really my home anymore. It’s more grimy than it was when I left it, and there are things left out on the work surfaces that should have been put away. I don’t seem to feel comfortable anywhere anymore. I feel as if I’m in limbo, which is the outskirts of hell according to the Bible—which I would agree with, but I have no idea why it should produce such a strange breed of dancers.
Christian is concerned that I don’t feel at home at his house. But then none of them seem to be particularly at home there either. They don’t know how anything works—or care to. They don’t clean it. They don’t cosset it. Robbie doesn’t really move from the sofa in the kitchen, and Rebecca, during the fleeting time she is there, never comes out of her bedroom. I mentioned to Christian that it might be the decoration—as every room, apart from the two which Christian has customized, has a sad, unloved air about it. The dining room is never used. It has cobwebs all over it, like something out of Great Expectations, but I haven’t had the strength to tackle it yet. It takes me all my time to tidy up after the boys—so some things are exactly like home.
Christian’s kitchen has neglect stamped all over it. When I went back there yesterday, he’d painted a six-foot mural of Lara Croft on the kitchen wall and was glowing with pride through his covering of emulsion. It is stunning. Though quite why he thought a gun-toting, large-breasted, scantily clad cartoon goddess would make it feel more homely is beyond me. He was anxious that I adore it and I do. I just have this thing about making spaghetti bolognese with a machine gun aimed at the back of my head and, no matter how hard I try, I can’t help feeling somewhat attached to floral prints and pastel shades. I blame Kath Brown.
I fill the kettle and take a mug from the cupboard, mainly because it gives me something to do rather than out of a burning desire for the delights of PG Tips. “Why aren’t you taking your car?” I ask Ed, again for something to say more than anything else.
“I…er…” he says and then stops and looks vacant.
“Who’s collecting you?”
“I…er…” he says again and, at that moment, a large shiny car pulls into the drive.
An utterly, utterly gorgeous woman gets out and stands on my gravel. She is as sleek as her car and as slender as a reed. A reed that’s been on the Vanessa Feltz Let’s Get Svelte diet. For her entire life. She’s wearing black jeans and a tan leather jacket that shrieks expensive and a cream silk roll neck underneath. Her hair is piled up on her head and she’s wearing trendy Men in Black sunglasses. She is doing casual like she’s on a catwalk. When I do casual, I do it like I’ve just fallen out of bed.
Ed doesn’t move. No one does. Only Elliott. He looks up and out of the window at the approaching woman. “That’s Orville,” he informs me.
“Orla!” everyone else says.
Ed and I exchange glances. Orla taps at the back door and then walks straight in—which even I didn’t feel comfortable about doing. She takes off her sunglasses, and her eyes are gorgeous too. They’re like the blacked-out windows of a swanky limousine. They let the occupant see out, but are far too dark to let people on the outside know what’s going on behind them. I hate her already and she hasn’t even opened her mouth.
I look at Ed. Ed looks at Orla. Orla looks at me. I look back at Orla. Who looks at Ed. Ed blushes. “This is Alicia,” he mutters.
“Hi,” she says and folds her arms across her cleavage.
“What time does your conference start?” I ask, looking at Ed.
Ed looks at Orla. Orla looks at me. I look back at Orla. Who looks at Ed. Ed blushes even more. He could well burst a blood vessel at this rate. I hope. “I…er…”
“You don’t want to be late,” I say.
I look at Ed. He looks at me. I look back at him. We don’t need to speak—we’ve been married far too long for that. My eyes can convey every message I’ll ever need and now they say, Business? Bollocks!
“No.” He snatches up his case.
“I take it you won’t mind if Christian comes round here while you’re away? On business,” I add.
“No,” he says with a look that translates as, Of course I bloody mind!
“Good.” I smile magnanimously and nurse my tea. “Nice to meet you, Orville,” I say.
“Orla,” Ed hisses.
He kisses the children hastily and rushes to Orla’s side, taking her elbow, steering her to the back door.
“What shall I tell Nicola if she calls while you’re away?” I ask as he leaves. His face is dark and stormy.
“Tell her I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Before the door closes, I hear Orla saying, “Who the hell is Nicola?”
I cover my smirk, knowing I’m being childish. How is Orla to know that the only love interest Miss Jones has in this house is Elliott? It might give her something to think about while they’re doing their “business.”
I sit down with my tea and my children. I don’t know whether I want to laugh at our situation or cry. “It’s nice to be home,” I say, and my voice sounds wobblier than Jell-O.
“There was an awful lot of looking going on,” Elliott observes.
“Was there?” I say.
“I can’t wait until I get older and can do looks.” He smiles at the thought.
“You won’t need to do ‘looks’ when you’re older, Elliott,” I say. “I’ll have killed you by then.”
“You’re the one who’s going to get Daddy into trouble,” he advises me.
“Really?” I say. “Why?”
He leans toward me conspiratorially and lowers his voice. “I think Miss Jones stayed here all night.” Elliott puts his hand across his mouth and giggles. “In Daddy’s bed.”
Tanya’s head snaps up from her magazine. “Elliott, you little snitch. We don’t know that for sure!”
The one good thing about having a son with a big mouth and no idea of discretion is that I get to hear everything. Eventually.
“But she might have done?” My voice isn’t at all steady.
Tanya shrugs and retreats behind her glossy pages.
“I don’t think Orville knows,” Elliott says. “And I don’t think she’d like it.”
My hands have turned to ice, despite the warmth of my tea permeating through the cup. “She’s not the only one,” I reply.