Izzie passed the rest of the week in a cloud of happiness. The lunch had gone really well, and she thought Maddy had been impressed with the unusual food she’d offered.
Even better, Marcus hadn’t drawn his usual caricature of Maddy. After she had left, Izzie had braced herself for some kind of comment, but Marcus had been refreshingly quiet. No, quite unexpectedly, he had come down with a cold, and the poor love had spent the next few days in bed, while Izzie clucked around him and tried to keep the kids from disturbing him.
Maddy had been as good as her word, and the shopping spree had been a tantalizing nibble at how the other half lives. Any more of this and she’d have blond streaks and regular tennis coaching like a proper prep-school mummy! With a whole new outfit to her name, Izzie felt like a million dollars and not even Marcus’s gloomy snuffling could put a dent in her happiness.
Unable to contain her excitement, she’d worn the new jumper the very next day (she’d hidden the trousers just for a bit and couldn’t bring herself to part with the lovely stiff, shiny paper carrier bags and tissue they’d come in), and was filling the car with diesel, when a good-looking, slightly older bloke in a Lexus had stared at her intently. Worried that she had a smut on her nose, she’d looked down, away, up in the air—anywhere but at him. Then on the way out from paying, he was there at the door as if waiting for her. Opening it with elaborate care, he’d smiled and said roguishly, so only she could hear, “I only know of one person with bluer eyes than you—and that’s me!”
She’d darted away blushing and drove off hurriedly, crunching her gears. She had glanced in the rearview mirror to see him watching her. “Bloody hell, I’ve been chatted up! Me! Married with kids. How amazing!” She’d roared with laughter and had pulled into a lay-by. Maddy would love this! Still giggling incredulously, she had left a message on her mobile, telling her the whole story.
At home, she composed herself and set about skimming the chicken soup she’d put on earlier for Marcus. He hadn’t fancied anything else to eat for a couple of days, though he’d raided the kids’ treat box while she’d been out, leaving nothing for her to put into their school bags for break but a couple of amaretti biscuits.
She thought she heard a rustle of papers as she went upstairs, but when she popped her head round the door, he appeared to be asleep. She turned to creep out, but was arrested in her flight by his rasping voice. “Darling? Z’at you? Come and sit with me for a while. It’s so boring when you’re out.”
She perched next to him on the bed, stroking his forehead with the tips of her fingers, and made the stupid mistake of asking him how he felt. For a moment he was stoical about his symptoms. But only for a moment.
“. . . and my throat feels a bit worse than yesterday, so I think I might need some of those lozenges that make it feel numb, you know, the ones in the little tube, and I got this awful pain under my ear when I blew my nose earlier. Oh, could you empty the bin for me . . . ? It’s full of tissues. The ones you got were a bit rough, and now my nose is red, so I used some of that Clarins stuff you put on when your face goes blotchy. It feels a bit better now. Any chance of a cup of tea, lovey? Children all right, by the way?”
Once she’d related her morning’s doings, carefully omitting any reference to the man at the garage, she went to make him some tea and checked that the soup was just simmering. By the time she went upstairs with it, and a couple of hot cross buns, toasted and buttered for a treat, Marcus was sitting up in bed and had resumed reading the paper. He stared at her as she came in.
“New jumper? I haven’t seen that before, have I? It makes you sort of fluffy. Bit of a new look for you, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” she challenged, bristling slightly. “Fluffy cute like a rabbit? Or fluffy ditsy like Meg Ryan?”
“More fluffy dog hair like Fiona Price!”
“Right you!” Looking back later on what she did next, Izzie did see it was clumsy but she was provoked. She’d picked up the pillow without thinking and had meant to boff him on the head with it. How was she to know he was just taking a sip of tea? It had taken half an hour to clean up the resulting debris and she doubted she’d ever get the stain out of Marcus’s fleece dressing gown. There was nothing hoarse or croaky about his yell as the hot tea splashed across his chest and trickled down into his lap. “At least,” she ventured once it was all sorted, “it’s cleared up your throat.”
She made up for her clumsy impulse by being extra nice to Marcus for the rest of the day. She cut a chunk of baguette lengthways into sticks and buttered each one, just the way he liked; she brought the good radio upstairs so he could listen to The Archers; she even cut his toenails for him—well beyond the call of duty. Her mobile made a funny little bleeping noise, just when Pat Archer was about to harangue Tony (again), and she dashed downstairs to get it. Peering at the screen, she could see it was a text—her first ever—and she fumbled to open it.
“of course he was hitting on u! u look fab in that jumper. c u l8r”
Izzie spent some time decoding the message, then some more time working out how to send one back. She was quite pleased with the result, which she thought came over as modern and dynamic:
“wanna meet 4 coffee nxt wk.”
She sat down at the kitchen table with a satisfied smile on her face. New jumper, text messaging, new best mate (jumping the gun a bit there, maybe), new blue eyes. She stretched her legs out and leaned back, her hands clasped behind her head. Things were looking good!
By the following week, Izzie’s elation had evaporated. She checked and rechecked her mobile, but there was no reply from Maddy. She really couldn’t do any more without being unbearably pushy. She suppressed the uncharitable thought that Marcus may have taken a call from Maddy and simply forgotten to tell her, but to be on the safe side, she had dialed call return every time she had been out.
Pissed off with herself for even caring, and with nothing better to do, she went into efficiency mode for the next few days, clearing out cupboards, defrosting the freezer, and tidying away old toys. Digging out the stepladder, she heaved herself and a box laden with Duplo up into the loft with difficulty. There was a funny, fruity scent in the cold air. She sniffed. Where was that coming from? Shuffling boxes and old tea chests around, she soon found out. A lusty growth of mushroomy things was blossoming under the eaves and had spread onto some old velvet curtains folded against the rafters. This could not be good!
As he closed the trapdoor the following day, Frank, the lovely builder from down the road, shook his head and sucked the air through his teeth. “This isn’t good, Izzie. What you’ve got here is a big case of dry rot—and that won’t wait for no one.” He promised a quote by Monday, and she spent the weekend nauseated with worry, not even daring to tell Marcus. How much would it be? She tried to imagine the worst. Could it be as much as a thousand?
“It’s going to be five grand, Izzie love, even if you do the minimum. Proper job, you’re looking at seven.” Frank’s kindly voice down the phone at eight thirty on Monday morning couldn’t soften the blow. “It’s not something you want to leave. I’m pretty busy, but I could fit you in before the end of the month.”
When she finally broke the news to Marcus, he was even more clueless than she was about how to raise the money. The only solution that presented itself was the building society. That was one humiliating meeting! Five minutes in, it was crystal clear that they could no more extend their mortgage than win an Oscar.
Standing in the sitting room a couple of days later, idly wondering if she were too old to go on the game, her glance fell on the piano. A fine old boudoir Bechstein, it had been part of her life and had stood like an old friend in her parents’ sitting room. She’d learned to play on it, sitting on her mother’s knee until she was tall enough to reach the pedals. Now the children were doing the same—only last night Charlie had been sitting with her practicing his scales, his face screwed up with concentration, his tongue poking out as his little hands fumbled for the notes. It felt like a body blow, but it was the only solution.
“This veneer’s rather stained,” said the prissy little man from the piano warehouse, a few days later. He shook his head patronizingly, and she felt like setting fire to his horrible patterned acrylic sweater. “People just don’t know how to treat pianos. I suppose you’ve been using it as a side table. It’s a crime to treat a piano as fine as this like a piece of furniture—it’s a work of art.”
“Thank you for reminding me,” she hissed through her teeth. His attitude changed, however, when he sat down to play it and a Schubert impromptu flooded the room. “Oh—you’ve had it tuned—it has a very fine tone.” He hit a wrong note and trailed off. Fed up with his censorious manner, she leaned over and, picking up where he had stopped, she completed the piece in the upper register. With sudden respect, he suggested a price that would comfortably cover Frank’s quote, but she couldn’t meet his eye as she arranged for him to collect it. She made damned sure it would be tomorrow when she knew she wouldn’t have to be there to witness it.
Marcus was sympathetic that evening, when she told him tearfully what she’d done, at the huge sacrifice she had made. But he couldn’t hide his relief that the problem was solved. She brushed off his clumsy suggestion that they could replace it with an upright, and took herself off to bed, drained with misery—what would her mother say when she plucked up the courage to tell her?
But the next day, Marcus finally made the jibe she’d been waiting for since Maddy had come to lunch. He caught her in the doorway, coat on, making her escape before the piano men arrived, and checking her mobile once again. He shook his head knowingly. “Your new mate turning out to be a bit of a disappointment, is she?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that I was expecting a call.”
“From Maddy, I presume.”
“No. Well, yes. I was just checking—”
“Izzie, my little darling. I warned you about her type, didn’t I?” He put an avuncular arm round her shoulders. “She was filling in time. She was probably at a loose end that day. Don’t take it to heart, sweetie. You’re worth ten of her. People like that can be very cruel and insensitive . . .”
Tears had started to prick in Izzie’s eyes, until his last sentence. She turned to him, stony faced. “Thanks for your advice, Marcus, but I’m sure Maddy will get back to me when she’s free.”
He looked uncertain for a moment, and was about to say more, but Izzie turned on her heel. “They’ll be here any minute. I’m going to pick up the children,” she called over her shoulder. “They’ve got swimming this afternoon, so we won’t be back until later.”
And silently mouthing, Drop dead, Marcus, she swept out of the house.
Too early to pick up the children, she went to bury the accumulated misery of the past week at the supermarket. Mooching round the store, trying to resist the biscuit aisle and looking to see what was reduced, she failed completely to notice Sue Templeton standing dead in front of her. She nearly knocked her over with the trolley—in her current mood, she would have been quite happy to do so—and her scowl seemed to take the old cow by surprise.
“Oh, Izzie, fancy meeting you here. You look different somehow. Have you lost some weight?”
Izzie stared at her, startled. It was so unlike Sue to say anything that could be construed as a compliment, she knew it must have been spontaneous—and genuine.
“No, I don’t think so—we don’t have any scales, but my clothes don’t feel any different. How are you?”
“It must be that sweater then. Been at the sales, have we?” That was more like it. Sue was back in her stride now, but Izzie’s “bugger you” mood prevailed.
“No. Popped into Libra with Maddy the other day. We both bought loads!”
Watching Sue’s mouth drop open was worth the fib, but when her expression turned to one of solicitude, crossed with avid curiosity, it was Izzie’s turn to be wrong-footed.
“What an awful business! Have you heard any more details?”
“I . . . er, no, no more details.”
“Those poor little children. My heart bleeds for them. How’s she coping? No one’s seen hide nor hair of her.”
“Coping? Oh . . . as you’d expect. Up and down, really.”
The awful lurching in Izzie’s stomach was getting worse. Her mind raced to put together the hints of Sue’s cliché-ridden drone. If she hadn’t started this stupid charade, trying to impress Sue with her intimate knowledge of Maddy’s life, she’d have found out by now. She framed her question with care.
“So when did you hear about it?”
“The very next morning. Gary had heard something on the traffic news. Of course you’ll know. It took them ages to clear the road, and the car was a write-off. The fire brigade got him out, but he didn’t even make it to the hospital. Terrible mess apparently, but isn’t it lucky no one else was involved?”
Suppressing a sob, Izzie stumbled away from Sue, muttering something about fetching the kids. She paid for the groceries in a daze, shoved the bags in the car, and left the trolley spinning in the car park as she gunned the engine and drove to school. On the way, she groped for her phone, found the number, and left a message when no one answered.
“Maddy, it’s me. I’m on my way.”
Her face looked set and horribly white in the rearview mirror, so she pinched her cheeks and tried to relax her shoulders before she went into the playground. Never had the children been picked up so quickly or efficiently. They seemed to sense her urgency.
“I’ve got to pop out for a bit this afternoon, darlings, so I thought you could miss swimming for once.”
In the back, the children silently exchanged a high five. Mummy never relented on the swimming, no matter how they tried. At home, Izzie unloaded kids, bags, and shopping at top speed before calling up to Marcus. “Can you put the shopping away and feed the kids? I’ve got to go over to Maddy’s straight away. Not sure when I’ll be back.”
He was downstairs like a shot. “What on earth? But I’ve been stuck here all afternoon. And now you want to race off to see that woman. She leaves you hanging on for days, and you go haring off there at the drop of a hat—”
“Stop now, Marcus. Just stop it.” She put her hand on his chest. “Her husband, he’s . . . her husband is dead. He was killed in a car crash. I have to go. She’s not answering calls. I have to make sure . . .”
Marcus fell back, his face pale, nodding in mute agreement.
“Yes, go. I’ll do the kids, don’t worry ’bout that. See what you can do. If there’s anything we can . . . I’m sure there won’t be, but—take your mobile and call me if . . .”
She squeezed his arm, touched by his unquestioning support. “Thanks, darling. Love you lots.” And, jumping into the car, she set off for Huntingford House, trying not to think what she would find when she got there.
She located the house without much difficulty. It was easily the largest in the village, and she felt a little ashamed at a brief stab of envy. Maddy had all this, but no Simon to share it with now. What a tragedy! Guiltily remembering her uncharitable feelings toward Marcus only a few hours earlier, she breathed a silent prayer of thanks that her husband was safe and sound at home with their children. He had been wonderful, stepping into the breach like that. She really must be more patient with him. Resolving to lead a better life in every way, Izzie took a deep breath and marched up to the door.
She couldn’t hear if the bell had rung through the heavy oak paneling, so she applied herself to the chunky brass ring, banging it hard again and again. She was just deciding whether to peep in through the windows when a faint clunking and rattling reached her ears. After what seemed like ages, the door slowly opened and her mouth dropped open. For a split second she thought it was Maddy. But although the resemblance was startling, the differences were more intriguing. The woman at the door regarded her coolly, her grooming immaculate, her clothes classic but severe, her makeup understated, but her jewelry . . . well, the only expression for it was “bling bling”! It had to be Maddy’s mother.
“Can I help you? Is there something you want?”
Her accent was almost faultless, but the too-careful enunciation betrayed her French origins. This was Seizième meets Sloane Square.
“I’m here to see Maddy. I’m a friend—Izzie. I live nearby.”
The woman’s face relaxed, the eyebrows returned to their normal patrician arch, and she extended her hand. “Oh a friend, at last! I’m Giselle, Maddy’s mother. Every day I’ve been telling her—‘Call someone. Get on with your life! See your friends.’ When her father died, I didn’t spend my time crying. Within a week I was at the beautician again and the hairdresser. A woman owes it to herself to look her best. If you look right, you feel right. Come and see for yourself. She bites her nails, her hair’s a mess! She’s chain-smoking. So bad for the complexion . . .”
Izzie followed her and the running commentary. The message was clear. Never mind the loss of your husband, just look at those open pores! Glancing around, it was obvious to Izzie that Giselle’s attention to sartorial detail did not extend to helping around the house. Stacks of papers were piled up against the walls; a school bag was disgorging its contents over the floor. Stacks of unironed laundry wilted on the stairs like dispirited passengers delayed in the departure lounge on their way to their final destination. But the little woman, with her fabulous legs, danced on in front of her, seemingly oblivious to the chaos, chattering away and gesticulating vividly.
Through the kitchen door she plunged—Izzie vaguely registered a symphony of blond wood and chrome—still talking, talking, talking, with Izzie in her wake. How Maddy coped with this was beyond her—and now, of all times.
Maddy. She was sitting at the far end of the kitchen table, quite still, a cigarette burning down in her hand, staring through the windows. She looked bloody awful: hair unwashed, stained sweatshirt, not a scrap of makeup. But worst of all was the blank, blank look in her eyes. Slowly she turned to face Izzie, her face strangely serene, her voice a quiet monotone. Giselle threw her hands up in despair and departed, still talking.
“Oh hello, Izzie. Lovely to see you. Can I get you something? Cup of tea, perhaps?”
Izzie swallowed hard. This was scary. Not what she’d expected at all. Histrionics she could have coped with. Outpourings of grief, no problem. She had big hugs and supportive talk ready and waiting. But this calm detachment, unruffled and undemonstrative, was disconcerting. Obviously, she’d have to take her cue from Maddy, and the mother wasn’t going to be any use at all. She rolled up her sleeves.
“No tea, thanks. Can I get one for you? Have you eaten?”
Izzie moved around the kitchen, emptying half-finished cups, loading the dishwasher (which she found with some difficulty behind a blond wood façade), clearing plates of congealed food, talking as she did so in a low, calm voice, the way she used to do when the children were babies. Maddy turned her face to follow her, but seemed barely to see her. No eye contact. Izzie couldn’t imagine the landscape of pain she was gazing at so fixedly. All she knew was that she had to be there, to provide some kind of a link, to help Maddy back to reality.
After some time, Maddy looked up, puzzled. “Where did Maman go? I can’t bear having her here. She’s got no idea at all. She just goes on and on all the time. Make her leave, can you?”
Izzie blanched. “Are you sure, Maddy? I mean, I would have thought you’d want someone close to you at a time like this. Is she helping with the children? Isn’t she getting your shopping in and stuff like that?”
Maddy shook her head irritably. “Does she look like she’d help with the children? She’s got no bloody idea at all. She lets Pasco play with her jewelry, then freaks out because he puts one of her earrings through the floorboards. She tells Will he’s the man of the house and has to look after me. She even gave Florence her Chanel lippy to try out, then told her off for blunting the end.”
She broke off, her face crumpling and soundless tears running down her cheeks. The tissue she’d been twisting in her hands was useless—she’d shredded it into tiny pieces, dropping them on top of a pile already in front of her on the table. Izzie darted forward with a packet of soft tissues from her bag and thrust a bundle into Maddy’s limp hands.
A soft cough behind her made Izzie jump. A small, dark-haired young woman had come into the kitchen and looked expectantly at her. “Excuse me, Madame. You are her friend?”
“Er, yes. Yes, I suppose I am. You must be Colette. How are the children? Where are they?”
Colette beckoned her out through the door, and Izzie followed, mystified.
“I feed them upstairs. I make like a little pique-nique every night and they think it’s a game.” She shrugged sadly. “I don’t know what else to do!”
“I’m sure that’s just right, Colette. Is there anything I can do to help? Have they finished eating?”
Colette looked a little uneasy. “Oh, Madame. Maddy, she don’t go to the shops since the enterrement. There is nothing in the fridge now. I don’t know what to give them tomorrow.”
Izzie nodded firmly. “Right. I see. Let’s go and make a list, then.”
The fridge was just as Colette had described, and the freezer was little better. Together they worked out what would be needed for the next few days and Izzie got ready to return to the supermarket. From upstairs floated a warbling soprano singing Puccini. “What on earth . . . ?”
“Maddy’s mother. It’s all she do. She come downstairs, she tell Maddy to pull herself together, then she goes upstairs and has a bath. I hope she go soon.”
Back in the kitchen, Maddy was now standing by the window, staring at the sunset. She jumped violently when Izzie touched her arm.
“I’m going to get some groceries. I won’t be long. Do you want to come? Can I get you some ciggies?”
“Yes. Yes—the children need some bits . . . I don’t know. Just some . . .” Giselle rustled into the room.
“It’s all right, Maddy, I’ve done a list with Colette. Twenty fags okay or shall I get two packs?” Izzie ignored Giselle’s scowl. In a satin peignoir with her hair wrapped in a turban, she pursued Izzie to the front door, haranguing her on the harm smoking would do to Maddy’s complexion.
“Madame,” Izzie said firmly as she stepped through the door, “I reckon her complexion is the least of her worries at the moment.”
Yikes. Another fifty quid gone. Even choosing the generic brands, the shopping still came to more than Izzie could afford. She’d have to sort out the money with Maddy later. Back at the house, everything was much the same. Only now, the hall was full of luggage. Giselle’s voice floated from the kitchen. “See if you can get those floorboards up. Those earrings were very expensive. I’ll get your friend to take me to the station. Your stepfather will pick me up at Marylebone. I’ll call you tomorrow. Now, for goodness sake, wash your hair. I’m sure darling Simon wouldn’t want you to let yourself go.” A sound very like glass shattering was followed by a shriek.
By the time Izzie had got back from the station, and had cleared up the broken jar and sticky marmalade, Colette had put the groceries away. Maddy still hadn’t moved but the pile of shredded tissue had increased. Izzie made fresh tea, pressed a cup into Maddy’s hands, and sat down next to her.
The silence drew out. At last Izzie could bear it no longer. “I’m so sorry, Maddy. You must be feeling terrible. I’m sure it’ll ease with time.” God—that sounded trite.
Maddy turned to her, seeming to see her for the first time that evening. “Come on, Izzie, you know that’s crap.”
Izzie looked down into her mug, mortified by her crassness.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to say.” There was a long, long pause.
Finally Maddy spoke. “I’ve lost everything.”
“I know nothing could ever replace him but, Maddy, you’ve still got your children and this lovely home.”
Maddy laughed mirthlessly. “No, Izzie. You don’t get it. Everything.” There was a long pause as she lit one cigarette from the butt of another. “I spoke to the lawyers today. The house is okay, he put that in my name, but what am I supposed to run it on? He’s left me with nothing. Absolutely nothing. There’s no mortgage so not even any life insurance.” She paused again, gazing down at the tissues in her hand. “There’s worse. It looks like he put our savings into the business—the money we had made on our house in London after we’d paid for this.” Izzie vaguely calculated how much Huntingford House must have cost—Maddy was talking about figures Izzie could only dream of. “‘Everything will be okay,’ he always used to say. Okay?” Maddy looked up into Izzie’s eyes. “Nothing for me, nothing to pay the bills . . .” Her voice cracked. “Nothing for the children.”
Maddy opened the fridge and surveyed the contents, surprised to see it was almost full with cheeses, packets of sausages and fresh pasta and something that looked like lasagne, in a serving dish she didn’t recognize. Where had all that come from?
She wasn’t hungry but, before she’d left today, Izzie had reminded her to eat. Maddy closed the fridge and opened the biscuit cupboard. That too seemed to have sprouted packets of Kit Kats and crisps. She took out a digestive from an open packet, nibbled it but, losing interest, dropped the rest in the bin. She lit another cigarette and noticed that she only had three left. Damn. She’d have to stop at the garage on the way to school.
Leaning against the sink as she smoked, she looked out of the window at the garden. Autumn seemed to have arrived without her noticing, and the leaves from the trees were strewn all over the lawn. Some she saw were still green, ripped too soon from the branches by some gale before they had had time to turn color and die. Like Simon.
She glanced at the clock, and then had to look again realizing she hadn’t registered what it said at all. She’d have to leave to collect Florence in a moment. On the sideboard, next to a bundle of papers and unread school notices, she saw Simon’s mobile, returned with his “effects” by the police. Out of some masochistic urge she picked it up and tried to listen again to her last message to him, but the save option had expired. She felt a wave of despair.
Hearing a crash from the sitting room, followed by a wail from Pasco, she rushed in to find him sitting on the floor surrounded by the debris of a vase he had pulled off the side table. It had been a wedding present. Suddenly she was overcome by a wave of anger mixed with guilt at having left him unattended.
“You stupid boy,” she screamed. “Look what you’ve done! That was precious!” Pasco wailed even louder, his face bright red with grief and tears pouring down his face. Maddy felt suddenly mortified. She picked him up and clutched him to her. “Oh God, darling, I’m so sorry. It wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She sat down with him and cuddled him close, his snotty nose rubbed over the front of her cardigan and his tears now mixed with hers as they trickled down her face. Her chest ached with the effort of crying, and she felt like throwing up.
“What are we going to do, little man? What the hell are we going to do?”
She rocked him gently in her arms and sobbed with him. He was tired and fractious, she knew. He hadn’t slept at all on the drive to Burford, the urns in the back of the car. How long had it been since she’d brought them home with such guilty glee, and had inveigled Crispin into helping her get them out of the car and hide them behind the outbuildings? Two weeks, maybe three? The man at the shop had been crestfallen when she’d called to ask if she could return them, but had made damned sure he bought them back from her for less than she had paid. She’d had to get them to him today. The car was going tomorrow and she’d never get them in the back of a Fiesta.
She lay back on the sofa as Pasco quieted in her arms, his sobs now slowing to vague hiccups, and looked over at the shards of smashed vase on the floor. Simon had thought the vase too ornately French and vulgar, but she’d loved it. It reminded her of Mémé’s apartment—so stylish, so dark, every surface packed with fascinating trinkets that, as a child, Maddy had loved to run her fingers over.
Simon had never really fitted in on the few times they’d been to stay there. It had vaguely irritated her, but she’d teased him for being so British and reminded him that it was her French genes that made her so good in bed. Was it disloyal to admit now that anything about him had annoyed her? No. Not now. Not now that she was mad as hell with him.
She had no recollection of the week leading up to the funeral, only that her mother had lent her a hat to wear at the church—“so becoming, darling.” Simon’s brother Rory had identified his body—she simply couldn’t have—and she supposed he must have dealt with the funeral arrangements too. Will had been there at the service, quiet and brave and so grown-up, and she had focused all her attention on him so she hadn’t had to catch anyone’s eye. What had the vicar said in the eulogy? She couldn’t recall. Nor could she remember any of the people who had attended and kissed her and squeezed her arm afterward, muttering platitudes about how “sincerely sorry” they were.
She knew Izzie had been around the house—had she overlapped with her mother?—and it must have been she who had stocked the fridge and piled up all the letters of sympathy onto the hall table. Maddy hadn’t opened many—they all said the same thing—what a lovely man he was and how if there is anything they could do to help she must call—but the phone had been predictably silent. How embarrassed people are about death.
She had vaguely registered how brilliant Izzie had been with the children since Colette had gone. That conversation had been painful. She knew she couldn’t justify the cost of keeping her on—Maddy’s meetings with the bank had made that plain—but she hadn’t had the courage to face the truth. It was Colette herself who had finally forced the issue, and her leaving had been an emotional one. The children, in their grief, had clung to her and made her promise to come back. Maddy knew she would, but it couldn’t be to work here. Her mother had been appalled. “Darling, she is a gem. What are you thinking of?” But Maddy’s pride, and some sense of self-preservation she couldn’t quite rationalize, had stopped her yelling, “Because I can’t bloody afford her anymore. I can’t afford anything.”
She gently strapped the now sleeping Pasco into his car seat and set off for Little Goslings and Florence. How much longer she would stay there Maddy couldn’t say, but it wouldn’t be much past Christmas. The interview at Eagles had really been about the effect Simon’s death might have on Will, and Mrs. Turner had sat primly with her long rather masculine hands folded in her lap, nodding reassuringly and smiling with gentle sympathy.
“Of course, Mrs. Hoare, I will make sure his form teacher keeps an eye on him. What a tragic situation for you all.”
She had been so lovely that Maddy had had to look away and try frantically not to cry. And it made it so much harder when she had to tackle the subject of the fees.
“Mrs. Hoare, I can assure you the school and the governors have had this situation before, and we know it takes time to sort out probate on your husband’s estate. We want the very best for Will, as we know you do, so let’s talk about this at the beginning of next term when you are clearer about what your financial situation will be.”
As she drove now toward Little Goslings, for the last time in her comfortable shiny car, Maddy’s throat hurt with the pain of holding back her grief and her head ached with self-pity and the headmistress’s understanding and lack of it. You’ve got no idea, she thought. There is no money now and there won’t be then.
She thought too about the impromptu visit from Lillian to the house some days after the funeral with personal stuff from Simon’s office. She was a funny little woman, hard to put an age to—forty-five, maybe fifty? She’d stood in the kitchen refusing to sit down, nervous and unsure, brave with her purple coat and vibrant orange hair. Unemployed.
“Mrs. Hoare, I’m sorry you didn’t get my call until it was too late,” she’d said. “I wanted to warn you that Mr. Hoare’s behavior wasn’t right that afternoon. He’d been on the phone all morning, looking so desperate, then he went out at lunchtime . . . I think he did drink quite a lot . . .” She’d left the rest unsaid, given Maddy a clumsy embrace, and left in her bright green little car.
Maddy gripped the wheel, slowly beginning to let the anger she had buried for so long boil to the surface. “How the fuck could you leave me like this, you bastard, you deceitful, lying bastard?” she said out loud. “Did you think so little of me that you couldn’t let me in on your worries? I hate you. I fucking hate you.”