‘What do you mean: showcased?’ Helena asked. She was leaning against the shop counter with her back to the main entrance, looking at the view through the large windows. The Silver Tree was shoe-box shaped, with windows at the back and front, creating the illusion of being lighter and bigger than it actually was. From the back window, you could see almost all of Wimborne and the hills beyond.
The beautiful view was the reason Steffie had chosen the site for her business, that and the fact that it was placed lucratively in the middle of the high street, with office blocks at either end. A gift shop specialising in expensive-looking yet affordable items, it was a convenient stop-off for locals.
The shop did very well, and it served Steffie well also. She was happy here, so far as Helena could see. Retail wasn’t what she had set out to do in life, but running the shop was enough of a challenge to keep her occupied, but not gruelling to the point of collapse.
‘Well, I suppose it means that she would be one of the principal dancers,’ Steffie said, ‘and would get to perform abroad.’
‘Abroad?’ Helena turned to look at her daughter who was opening a box of new stock. ‘And you’re OK with that?’
‘I think I have to be,’ Steffie said, pausing to pick a piece of fluff from her jumper and letting it drift to the floor.
‘But it’s a lot of pressure for a young girl,’ said Helena, lowering her voice, since two women had entered the shop. ‘International travel, on top of her education?’
‘But it might not happen,’ Steffie said. ‘She might not even pass the first audition.’
‘The first final audition.’ Helena stood up, straightened her jumper and smiled at one of the customers who was examining a glass teardrop. ‘Hand-blown in Pembrokeshire,’ she said to the customer, coaxingly.
Steffie began unwrapping a box of toys on strings: a puppy, dragon, tiger and zebra, which were to be hung in the window. The rest were going in the toy section; not that there were really sections in the shop. It was too small for that.
Helena gazed at the back of her daughter’s head, at the mass of curls. ‘I just hope it’s not too much for her,’ she said. ‘Young people have so much pressure these days.’
‘Come on, Mum,’ Steffie said. ‘You could at least sound a little bit positive about it.’
‘I am positive. I’m just asking questions …’ Helena said, then turned to the customer. ‘That’ll be nine pounds fifty, please. Would you like it gift-wrapped?’
The glass items always sold well – recycled glass hand-blown into friendship hearts and teardrops, on satin ribbon. They could be hung in windows to catch the sunshine, or in trees outdoors. Helena had one in her kitchen window – a pink heart that reminded her of the mint shrimp sweets Steffie had gorged on as a child.
Steffie had spent a lot of time reading books, eating mint shrimps, as a little girl. She used to read whilst sitting in the tree in the back garden and in the tall grass by the wall, sucking mints, chewing grass. She had long legs, which had looked grasshopper-like. She had plenty of friends, loved swimming in the river across the field, and bouncing up and down the driveway on her spacehopper, the dust clouding around her.
Those were wonderful days – hot, sticky days of Wimbledon finals, fishing with jam jars, big hairstyles and home-knitted sweaters.
And look at it now. Look at Jemima’s life compared to Steffie’s – at how scheduled and pressurised and accountable it was.
Steffie had tried to eat a dead bumblebee once; Jemima was allergic to honey.
It wasn’t Steffie’s fault. She was painstaking, conscientious, doing her utmost to protect her daughter and raise her well, in accordance with the rules now in place.
Helena turned to watch Steffie who was climbing into the shop front to hang up the animals. It was just beginning to rain. Soon the windows would be awash with water, the car lights splodges of red beyond. Helena liked being here on wet days most of all, sitting behind the counter with a mug and a biscuit, watching the humdrum life beyond.
Wimborne was a nice place to live – a quiet town whose movements were largely predictable. She had raised Steffie here, mostly alone, since her husband, Steffie’s father, had died during Steffie’s teens. Steffie had attended Wimborne Primary, where Jemima now went. Yet the comparisons ended there. For the town, the school and the parenting styles had all changed beyond recognition.
‘Well, that’s that job done,’ said Steffie, wiping her hands on her jeans. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Please,’ Helena said. ‘But I’ll make it.’
Steffie smiled, but was looking tired, creased at the temples. It was Thursday today. Monday was audition day, pressing ever nearer.
Still, Helena thought, as the kettle boiled, Steffie had turned out all right, despite all the idleness and time-wasting and bumblebee eating and wild-river swimming. She was kind, responsible, a good mother.
Helena poured the water, stirred the tea pensively.
All you could do as a parent was go with the flow, move with the times. And hope like crazy that everyone around you was sane and knew what they were doing.
Greg was in his workshop on Friday morning working on the order for the manor house when Olivia rang again.
He didn’t hear the phone above the sound of his electric saw. He wasn’t working alone on the job as it was too big; he had two workmates with him. They were building the cabinets by hand in exposed oak, which they had darkened with ammonia to reveal the tannins in the wood.
This afternoon, the furniture painter was coming to hand-paint the wood in slate blue. The clients were sparing no expense, with original stone flooring being shipped from France.
As soon as the floor arrived, they would start installing the kitchen. They were all working hard and fast, to exacting standards.
It was one of his workmates who shouted to him that his phone was ringing.
He put down his saw and took the call outside in the dim morning light. It had rained overnight, and moisture was dripping from the gutter and tree branches. He shivered, thinking how easy it was to forget that it was winter when you were knee deep in sawdust and sweating.
The couple at the manor house were reasonable, but they wanted the work completed quickly. He thought it would be them calling to say they had made up their mind about whether to go for granite or slate worktops.
But it was Olivia. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
‘Good,’ he said.
She sounded slightly out of breath. He could hear her high heels clipping as she walked briskly. ‘I thought I’d give you a call, as it’s been nearly two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’
‘You said you’d call me back.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
‘After all, it’s Friday and it would be nice to make plans for the weekend … I mean, do you want this, Greg? Where do you actually see things going between us?’
Too many words, he thought. And too much going on with Steffie at the moment, with the audition looming.
Thinking of Steffie did not help, it merely stalled him.
Slate, he remembered. His clients had left a message last night to say they had decided to go with slate.
‘Greg …?’
Olivia had stopped walking. He pictured her at the end of the line, waiting, frowning.
She wasn’t someone who tolerated being messed around, he knew from experience. His first impression of her, aside from the fact that she was very attractive, was that animals and small children would recoil from her, narrowing their eyes, as though she were cigarette smoke.
Her appearance was highly groomed, perfectionist. To other women, her look would say that she was to be respected, envied, and could rock a backless dress; men translated it slightly differently.
He had met her the summer before last, whilst installing an eco kitchen in her impressive home. An environmental consultant, she had inspected his credentials thoroughly. Only when satisfied that he didn’t use tropical hardwoods, that the paints were water-based, that he used LED lighting in his workshop and an eco energy provider, had she allowed him to install the whopping stainless-steel kitchen that shone so brightly he grew tired of seeing his reflection whilst he worked on it.
And then one Friday night that summer, when he was lost in his work and had stayed later than intended and the sun was beginning to dip, she had opened a beer and perched on the swinging chair in the garden, wearing a low-slung vest and jeans, bottle pressed to her lips, and had asked him to join her.
She was pretty, he had considered, sitting there with the pink foxgloves in flower behind her.
Her daughters were staying the night with their dad, she told him delicately.
He had shuffled about with indecision as he packed his tools away. The temptation was great.
But he couldn’t – couldn’t even talk to her, or linger.
He got into his truck with heavy limbs and drove home, laden with loneliness. The lodge had felt quieter than usual, stiller; even though Steffie was lying right there in bed beside him.
He had tried to put his arm around her that night, but things were too far gone between them, and she hadn’t even bothered to recoil but merely pretended to be asleep.
The following Friday night, when the same thing happened again – the vest, the foxgloves, the absent children – he had agreed to a bottle of beer with Olivia on the swinging chair.
She had made the first move, waiting for him to finish his beer, for him to loosen up before making contact. She had kissed him tentatively, her eyes watchful.
She had smelt of vanilla, a scent that reminded him somehow of Christmas. The moment owed everything to that perfume.
All this he thought as he held his phone and gazed beyond the lodge to the lake that was still and silver, like a giant plate covered with foil.
‘Greg?’ Olivia said. ‘Are you still—’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m here.’
His nose and eyes felt itchy. He pinched the top of his nose to stave off a sneeze.
He was always covered in sawdust. Come the end, when things had deteriorated to the point of intolerance, Steffie had disliked that about him the most, he had sensed – had withdrawn from the smell of wood on his clothes, the shavings in his hair. It got so that she wouldn’t go near him when he was working or just after working, which was most of the time.
‘And what do you think?’ Olivia said.
He didn’t want to be mean to her, wanted to do the right thing by her, but was unsure what that was.
He had always been squashy, malleable when it came to women. As a boy, his little sisters had run rings around him – wild, crazy rings that burnt holes in the grass – like witches playing with fireballs; setting light to dustbins, hanging from trees by ropes, pulling the tail on the neighbour’s cat.
His mum, Vivienne, was performing with Sadler’s Wells at that point, so they had a nanny, who didn’t appear to mind whether the twins danced with the traffic or threw darts at each other. His stockbroker father was rarely home. So Greg took the role of father-figure willingly, not wishing to see the twins buried.
But on meeting Olivia, all this had changed. He had wanted to do something reckless for once; to put his own needs first, no matter how selfish or harmful that might be. He hadn’t thought about it, it had just happened. He had been overwhelmed by loneliness and rejection, by a craving to be loved, needed.
The affair had only lasted a few months – for the duration of his work on the house, in effect. It had been fervent at first, dizzying, but those sensations soon descended into gut-wrenching guilt that rendered him unable to eat or sleep.
Miserable, ashamed, he had ended things between them in the autumn. Olivia had accepted the news with unpredicted dignity.
Things settled down. He forgot Olivia, tried to revive things with Steffie.
But then on Christmas Eve, Olivia’s drunken ex-husband had phoned the lodge to speak to Steffie.
He wasn’t in the house at the time – was out in the workshop putting the finishing touches to a ballerina figurine he had hand-carved for Jemima – but he knew as soon as he entered the kitchen that something was wrong.
He could still see the look on Steffie’s face when she turned to look at him, holding the phone in her hand.
Steffie had moved out in the New Year, taking Jemima with her.
A year had passed and now Olivia was contacting him again, treading lightly, seeing where things stood.
‘It’s a bit hectic at the moment,’ he said. ‘There’s this audition …’
‘Audition?’
‘My daughter’s auditioning for a dance academy.’
‘Oh.’
‘So maybe I’ll call you afterwards?’
‘Maybe?’ she said.
‘Definitely,’ he said. And then he considered that this sounded too much like a promise. ‘I’ll call you … And we can talk then.’
She exhaled heavily. ‘OK, Greg,’ she said.
This evasive behaviour would have got him nowhere twenty years ago. Yet at their age, the circle was far smaller. Olivia probably didn’t have that many men on her radar, which was why she had taken a shot at a married man in the first place presumably, and was now back for more.
It was all rather sad: her desperation, his loneliness, his having hurt Steffie – and Jemima by default.
He had tried his best to get Steffie to forgive him, to mend their marriage, for Jemima’s sake if no one else’s, but she was struggling to accept the betrayal.
He didn’t blame her. He hadn’t forgiven him either.
He put his phone away and walked slowly back to the workshop, noting that he didn’t feel half as happy now as when he had walked out only minutes before.
It was why he loved his work so much, why he was in no rush to reduce his hours or to ever retire. His work didn’t confuse him, didn’t play with his feelings. He moulded it, shaped it, built it into something beautiful and lasting.
He thought he had done the same with Steffie, that their marriage was as robust and carefully crafted as the kitchens that he created.
But it wasn’t so.
Yet before he let go of whatever it was that still remained between them, he needed to hear it from her. She had to stand before him and tell him unequivocally to give up – that she was never going to forgive him.