Chapter 7

The door to the morning room rattles and bangs in its frame. I freeze, stripping knife in hand and stare at the door. The doorknob is twisting, light glinting off metal.

‘Mummy! Mummy! Come and look, we’ve got a dog!’ Sophie yelling through the door, her voice competing with the newsreader’s voice on the radio. The whole of me sags with relief. I switch off the radio, dash across the room and unlock the door.

Tom bounces with excitement behind his sister. ‘Come and look!’

The twins turn and run back through the hall, too manically excited to see they scared their stupid mother half to death. I drop the stripping knife on the floor amongst the mess of ripped paper, take a breath and follow them as far as the front door. I stand on the bristling mat. Mark roots around in the boot of the car, only scruffy jeans and old deck shoes visible.

‘A dog?’

‘Yes!’ Tom pulls the sleeve of my old sweatshirt, urging me down the steps.

‘Only a little one. Dad said it won’t need walking too far. I’m going to feed him in the mornings, Sophie will after school.’

‘We’re calling him Riley,’ says Sophie as she runs towards the car.

Mark struggles with a large cardboard box which declares it holds washing powder. I’m guessing, not any longer. He hauls it to the edge of the boot and lifts a dirty, some might say creamy, white dog out of it. He straightens up, the twins at his feet, their hands stretch up to pat the furry body.

‘We thought we’d surprise you! This is Riley, we think anyway.’ Mark looks at the twins and I guess there’s been some ‘discussion’ over the name.

‘Riley, like the other dog,’ Sophie declares in her ‘I’ll have my way’ tone.

The dog is small, terrier in size and some features. Short tufty fur and ears suggest some Scottie’s got in there too.

‘Other dog?’ I say. I’m entirely out of the loop with this whole dog thing.

Mark walks towards me holding the dog in his arms above the twins’ heads, his smile, wide, until he takes in my expression. My face feels stiff, my arms, crossed against my chest, clench tight. Anger boils, I can’t speak. I turn on my heel and stride back into the hall. Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me? Why doesn’t Mark value any opinion I hold?

The hush behind me is palpable. Furtive whispering, Mark to the twins, it enrages me further. I stop beside the stairs, turn around and face the three of them. Mark stands just feet from me, uncertainty written into his features. The twins watch at his side.

‘We thought you’d like him,’ says Mark.

‘Why? Why would I? Haven’t I made myself clear? Why turn up with that when you know I don’t want a dog?’ I jab a finger at the furry bundle he holds.

‘Don’t you like him, Mummy?’ Tom’s voice is quiet and tremulous. I keep my eyes firmly on Mark’s face.

‘You’ll be off back to London in the morning. Not taking it with you, are you? So it’s down to me to look after it as the twins won’t be here either, will they?’

Sophie starts to cry and the boys look astonished. All I feel is gathering, boiling rage. I push past them and run up the stairs.

I reach the top of the flight and flick the landing light switch. The replacement bulb’s glare exposes every chip in the thick cream paintwork, the grey trail in the centre of the sickly-green runner. The spare room door is wide open, the twins presumably exploring there as well as the attic. Mark will go nuts if he finds out. Someone, most likely Mark, will try to find me, the spare room’s the last place he’ll look. I’ve absolutely nothing to say to him.

The light bulb flickers, buzzes like an angry insect. I screw my eyes against its naked glare. Shadows bounce off filthy ceiling and walls, light flares blindingly bright. I hurry towards the spare room. The bulb plinks, grey gloom falls across the landing.

I stop on the threshold of the room. Cigarettes, as if someone finished one moments ago. Mark’s nipped in here for a sneaky smoke, why lie about quitting? Does he lie about other stuff too? No sign of what made the thumping noises. Only the space where the huge metal bed used to be. Whose room was this? Who slept here? The dressing table, tucked in the alcove beside the hearth, is an ugly thing, its heavy wood so dark it’s all but black. I see me, times three, in the tall foxed old mirrors. My cheeks are red, my eyes glassy. The chaise longue in front of the French windows is elegant, the silk and brocade faded to a soft powder blue. I can’t hear anything from downstairs. Perhaps Mark and the kids went outside. I over-reacted, especially in front of the twins. What the hell came over me?

I step into the room. I can’t bear to shut the door, not after last time. I must calm down, think how to apologise to my family, make things right before Mark heads back to London in an hour or so. But I stand by what I said. I don’t want the tie or the hassle of a dog.

A scratching sound comes from behind the chaise, the window frames bump and rattle. I can’t see anything, only the willows way beyond the house, branches tangling in the wind. I take a step towards the chaise. The carpet is thin, a floorboard dips, creaks underfoot. The windows shake again, could it be the wind gusting against the glass? The chaise stands on small brass casters. I can pull it away from the doors, towards me, see what, if anything is behind it. I take another step forward.

I throw up my hands to shield my head, a reflex reaction. I duck down, crouch low, banging, flapping greyness coming at me. A scream, my voice. It flies from behind the chaise longue, bangs into the chimney breast, lands in the hearth, pressing close to the empty grate. A few white feathers and splats of shit trail across the carpet. A bird, more terrified than I am, watches, its pebble black eyes fixed on my face. I’m so relieved I laugh out loud. How stupid, how jumpy can I be?

The bedroom door slams. The sound is terrific in the silent house. I spin around in panic. I rush at the door, grab the brass knob. Solid. Locked. I kick at the door, trainers bouncing off the wood. ‘Mark!’ The knob is so tiny it’s hard to get a proper grip, my hands sliding round the metal. Stop it. Stop it. Take a breath.

Breathe.

I let go. Step back, see light glint off the metal as the knob turns. The door opens.

‘What the hell’s going on, Kate?’

For a moment Mark and I stare at each other. The look on his face changes from astonishment to concern. I need to be normal, normal now. I manage a short laugh, a humourless sound. A smile.

‘Just a bird. I was trying to get away from a bird. It came down the chimney, I expect.’

Mark’s looking over my shoulder into the room. I turn around, see a jagged crack in the glass of one of the window panes.

‘A collared dove. It’s gone back behind the chaise longue, I think.’

I take a breath as Mark steps past me into the room, my eyes sting hot, don’t lose it, don’t have a total melt down, not now, not after so long. Another breath as I watch Mark haul the chaise away from the windows.

‘It’s cracked the glass,’ I say, my voice is level and calm. Keep breathing.

‘I’ll open this. It’ll fly out if we leave it here.’

‘I heard something while you and the kids were out.’

I sound okay, my heart’s stopped racing. Mark’s wrestling with the ancient metal catch on the windows, the dove twitches its neck, jutting back and forth, back and forth. How it isn’t injured I don’t know.

‘Bloody catch. Hasn’t moved in years!’ It gives way in a shower of dust and cobwebs and the windows open. Mark takes a step forwards, then jerks backwards into the room.

‘Fuck me! That balcony’s a death trap, Kate.’ He’s glancing at me, we look at the rusting metal, the terrace and garden below, dank from last night’s rain.

‘Let’s get out of here, let the bird find its way out. I’ll close up before I leave later.’

I’m nodding, heading for the landing.

‘Don’t open these windows again, not until we get a builder in to take a look, okay? That balcony won’t stand any weight at all.’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘The twins need telling to stay out of this room. I’ll find somewhere to keep the key out of their reach.’

Mark shuts and locks the door, drops the metal key into my palm.

‘Look, Kate, I really came to speak about Riley.’

He’s annoyed, trying to appear calm. He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and spreads a tolerant smile across his face. I can’t blame him.

‘I don’t want a dog.’

‘We said the twins could have one when we moved here.’

‘You said they could,’ I say, stopping just before the top of the stairs. I see the hall is empty, no twins listening in.

‘I assumed you wouldn’t mind. You’ve said nothing against the idea every time the twins go on about it, and let’s face it, it’s a daily mantra with them both. You’re the only one who doesn’t want him.’

‘And my opinion doesn’t count?’

Mark runs his hand through his hair and half turns away. His words rush at me. I can’t grasp them. Breathe.

‘You ignore what I say, my opinion isn’t worth a jot. It undermines me in the kids’ eyes. I’m sorry I exploded. I shouldn’t have gone off like that, but you should’ve cleared it with me first.’

‘You’re here alone a lot. I thought it would be company for you.’

‘I’m alone because you make no effort to move to local chambers.’

My words stumble out, jerky and unsure.

‘If you object so much, the dog can go back to the rescue place.’

‘I don’t want the bloody dog! I don’t want this house. I only agreed to move here for us and you’re hardly here!’

I turn away, wrap my arms across my chest. I hadn’t meant the last comment to fly out.

‘I hate the attic. You keep stuff back and you shouldn’t. I can cope with Mrs Havers’ letter without going nuts, really I can. I’m not fragile, not precious. Treat me like an equal, like you used to.’

‘We’ve been here just over a week, Kate. If you really hate the place we can sell up and move, but I think you need to calm down, give the place a chance, let us all settle in before making any rash decisions.’

‘It’s not about the house or the dog,’ I say. ‘Not even the bloody letter. You know it’s not about any of that . . .’

I can’t speak anymore. My voice is wavering and unsteady, my throat thick, my eyes hot. The affair is like an unspoken whisper. I dare not ask if he’s seeing anyone. Cassy? Someone else? Is it a tit-for-tat thing that will eventually peter out, or more serious?

‘I don’t know how to make it any better,’ I say. ‘I can’t do it alone. We’re going round in circles.’

‘You said you didn’t want to talk about it, remember?’

Mark’s tone is hard, cold, accusing. If we even try to discuss it now the result will be another bitter, soul-destroying row. And he’s better at this than me. He has the moral high-ground, I’m always on the back foot. I pull in a deep breath and close my eyes. Mark’s right, I don’t want to discuss it now. The silence is deafening, my ear drums fit to burst with the pressure of it. I don’t even dare say I love him, I’m too scared of his response. Does he still love me? I just can’t tell.

‘Kate? Are you listening?’

‘What?’ I say. Shit, I’m zoning out, he mustn’t think I’m doing any of that stuff, not any more.

‘I said it’s better if I take the dog back, before the twins get too attached. If that’s what you really want.’

Mark’s voice is flat and quiet. He stands for several seconds waiting for a reply. I nod, willing him to go, leave me alone. His footsteps thud along the landing and fade down the stairs. I listen as he crosses the hall tiles, angry quick steps returning to the kitchen. The door slams.