I wake to the sound of grunting, a headache crushing my temples. Dan is on the floor, exercising, teeth gritted, hair glowing in the early sunlight. He knows I’m awake, watching him, but makes no acknowledgment of it. If the house were on fire, he’d complete his sit-ups.
The letter in the cocoa tin flashes through my mind, and I know it’s the cause of my headache. I couldn’t concentrate at work yesterday, even though I’m certain the girl is making it up. Maybe she’s after money; Dan does very well for himself.
Yet then I recall that she was on her deathbed, allegedly.
The whole thing is in very bad taste, and I resent the space it’s taking up inside my head. It’s difficult enough to focus as it is. My doctor says I have menopausal brain fog, but doesn’t advise HRT because my mother died of breast cancer aged thirty-nine.
So, I’m learning to live with the fog. And the letter is going to have to stay in the tin, out of harm’s way. I could destroy it, but I feel that would be worse, taking it out of my hands. This way, I have a measure of control, however small.
I can imagine Dan’s reaction to an accusation like that. His eyes would bulge, the pressure building like a saucepan of boiling water rattling its lid. I’ve only seen him like that a few times, but always in response to his character being questioned. His brother accusing him of trying to influence their parents’ will. A neighbor challenging him on the boundaries of our laurel hedges. Once, a customer keyed his car because they thought he’d cheated them on a Mercedes deal. I thought he was going to have a heart attack with moral outrage, understandably so. There’s nothing worse than being wrongly accused.
“You okay?” He pauses, panting, sweat gleaming on his forehead.
“Just a bit stiff.” I make a show of circling my neck but stop when I see stars.
“Well, you know what’ll fix that...” He’s grunting again, wincing.
I make my way through to the en suite to run a bath. Dan thinks I’m in a vicious circle of not doing enough exercise, which in turn makes me tired. When we met fifteen years ago, I gave it a go, bought a tracksuit and ran along the canal with him. I hated every minute of it, and as soon as I fell pregnant with Georgia, the tracksuit went to charity.
“Seriously,” he calls after me, “you’re not moving enough. It’s bad for you.”
I’m sure he means well, but no one my side of fifty wants to hear this first thing in the morning. I flash him a compliant smile, a look I’ve perfected, and then close the door.
I leave it unlocked, just in case. Dan won’t come in—he’ll be off for a run shortly—but Rosie likes to join me once he’s left, sitting on the edge of the bath, dipping her hands in the bubbles. Sometimes I wonder why I live in a house where people come to see me individually, like a strange one-man show with a single actor playing all the parts, but the answer always escapes me.
I’m gazing listlessly at the fluffy mat, waiting for the bath to fill, when Dan surprises me, poking his head around the door. “I’m off out,” he says, strapping on his phone armband.
“Okay.” I nod.
“You shouldn’t let her...” he says so quietly, I can barely hear him above the running water.
“Pardon?”
He raises his voice a smidgen. “You shouldn’t let her come in here.”
“Who?” I ask, playing dumb. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation.
“Rosie.” He can’t say her name without looking vexed. She’s been acting out a lot lately and is seeing a counselor for her anger, at his suggestion. “This is your precious me time. She shouldn’t be in here with you.”
I’d like to tell him that I disagree, that it doesn’t bother me, but instead I smile. “I’ll lock the door. Don’t worry.”
He returns my smile. “Good.” And then leaves, his footsteps thumping the floorboards, the bedroom door closing.
I relax my shoulders, exhaling.
Poor Rosie. I’m not going to lock her out. Dan doesn’t see the side of her that I see. In all honesty, she doesn’t show her sweet side to me much either. Yet of my three girls, she’s the one I can still picture as a child, even though she’s twenty-one. I can see her pigtails, and the way her eyes used to disappear when she laughed. She was only two when her dad left, leaving a hole in her world.
I test the temperature of the bath, adding more hot water. We don’t hear from her father anymore, aside from sporadic Christmas cards. He cheated on me—on us—so it’s best that he’s not in our lives. I’ve found it hard to forgive him, but I keep that to myself. Bitter looks ugly when unwrapped.
Vivian is my eldest girl; twenty-three and very like me; she doesn’t speak her thoughts out loud. But Rosie is emotional, temperamental. I’m hoping the counselor will help, yet I suspect that to a certain extent she’s going to have to work things out for herself.
Dan’s always nice to her, face-to-face, saving his worst comments for our private discussions. She can’t really complain; he’s been good to her and Vivian. I’ve never noticed any difference between the way he treats them and their younger sister. If anything, he’s harder on his own flesh and blood. He and Georgia are going through a tricky patch, but every teenager pushes the boundaries. They just need to give it time.
My body aches as I lower myself into the hot water. It’s not easy, having a split home. What is it they call it now? Blended. It makes us sound like a soup or one of Dan’s smoothies.
I soak for fifteen minutes and am thinking about getting out, when the door handle turns and Rosie stumbles in. Rubbing her eyes, she perches on the edge of the bath, running a hand through her tangled hair. She’s not what you’d call immaculate, at any time of the day. “No bubbles?”
I shake my head. “I’ve run out.”
She gazes at my body, normally submerged by foam. It probably appears large and pink, under water. Dan likes me to be plucked, trimmed, and I’m suddenly embarrassed. I pick up the loofah, holding it vaguely between my legs as though this is a natural place to put it.
“For fuck’s sake, M.”
She and Vivian have always called me this; when they were little, I used to wear a sweater with a large M on it, working as a waitress to make ends meet. Apparently, it’s also ironic, the name of James Bond’s boss, who I’m the least likely person to be, in their opinion.
I sit up, drawing my knees to my chest. “Rosie, please. Language.”
She shrugs. “Just saying... There’s no need to be all coy. I’ve seen a vagina before.”
I stare at her. “Did you have a bad night’s sleep?”
“Au contraire. I had an amazing sleep, thank you.”
“So, why are you being tetchy?” I reach for my towel. She helps me—hands it to me.
She does that: gives and takes in one breath. It’s a skill of hers.
“No reason.”
I glance at her warily. “Have you been swearing in front of Georgia?”
“No. Why?”
“Because she said the f word last night.”
“Surprised it took her so long,” she says, smirking.
Some people enjoy friction, but I avoid it, having had enough for one lifetime. I’d do anything to lie with my head under the water and not listen to this, but I’ve already pulled the plug.
“Not everything’s about me, M. Sometimes, it’s about you.”
I pin the towel to me, rubbing the mist from the mirror over the sink, waiting for her to elaborate. I know she’s going to.
She folds her arms, watching as I dab toner over my face. “You don’t have to do everything he says, you know. You’re allowed your own thoughts, your own choices. You don’t have to have the perfect bush, the perfect face.” She leans against the shower door. “I know it was him who suggested the counseling.”
“No, it wasn’t. You’re wrong.”
She laughs. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m wrong. It’s not him. It’s me. Keep telling yourself that. Sounds like a really great plan.” And she walks out, slamming the door.
I sigh, reaching for my moisturizer. Dan buys me a divine black rose cream and a face oil, with the combined cost of over three hundred pounds. He looks after us so well. I don’t know what Rosie’s complaining about. She’s got a lot to learn about life.
Georgia is the first one to spot her. I wouldn’t have noticed. “Who’s that?” She points over her shoulder, then looks down at her phone again.
I stop at the traffic lights before answering. “Who?”
“That woman.”
My heart wobbles as I look in the rearview mirror. I can just make out a thin face at the wheel behind us. “What are you talking about?”
Georgia tuts, flicks her hair over her shoulders. “She’s been following us since home. She was waiting at the end of our road... Seriously, are you even awake?”
“Of course.” I fix my gaze ahead, running my tongue over my teeth in case my red lipstick has transferred.
Who would be following us? I try to remember the names in the letter. Two of them are dead, I think. So that leaves...the other wives? How many were there—three?
The lights are changing. I drive forward, turning left for Georgia’s school. If she’s correct, the VW Golf will follow us. “I’m sure you’re mistaken,” I say.
She’s not. The Golf’s still behind.
“Maybe you’ve got a stalker, Mum.”
We’re outside the school, or as far as we can go without getting wedged. It’s very congested. Georgia jumps out. “Ta, Ma.”
“Wait,” I call, lowering the window.
She turns, frowns in annoyance. “What?”
Don’t go. Stay...just in case.
“Nothing. Have a good day, darling.”
“Yep.” And she’s gone.
The VW Golf seems to have disappeared. Back on the main road, I feel calmer, turning up the radio.
Yet as I descend the hill toward the city center, she’s suddenly there again in my rearview mirror.
Is she going to follow me to work and make a scene, perhaps in front of my boss? Leonardo is very invested in keeping a calm, professional front at all times, and rightly so.
Would she do that? I don’t even know who she is, what she wants.
She stays with me all the way to the car park, where several vehicles come between us. I use the busyness to my advantage, keeping low as I slip from the car and along the sandy path to the exit. There are trees all around. I’m wearing somber colors. She won’t see me.
I keep my head down all the way, but just as I’m about to go inside Chappell and Black, I glance back involuntarily, my attention pulled that way. And there she is, on the other side of the Circus, wearing a puffer jacket: a slim middle-aged woman.
I hurry into the building, along the warm corridor, telling myself that if she was going to follow me inside, she wouldn’t have stood there, rooted to the spot like that.
I’m right. She stays away. My heart bounces every time the reception door opens, but she doesn’t appear.
By the afternoon, my headache has gone and I’m feeling better. Leonardo is just showing a client out, when the phone rings. “Good afternoon, Chappell and Black. How can I help?”
“Stephanie Brooke?”
“Yes, speaking.” Leonardo is handing me a file. I nod at him.
“My name’s Jess Jackson. I got a letter...about our husbands.”
Leonardo is waiting to have a word with me, hovering at the counter. I swallow awkwardly. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Oh, you can’t talk at the moment?” she says quietly. “That’s okay. I understand.”
“We should be able to sort something for you next week,” I say, pretending to consult the system on my screen.
“Has my number come up?” she asks.
I glance at the monitor. “Yes... How about Wednesday?”
“Good. You’ve got it, then. Please call me back as soon as you’re free. If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’ll ring again.” And she hangs up.
“Okay. That’s lovely. We’ll wait to hear from you,” I say to the dead ringing tone.
Leonardo draws closer to talk. As might be expected, he has beautiful teeth and is well educated. I was very much in awe of him when I first came here. He was willing to overlook my lack of qualifications—I left school without any—and gave me a chance.
“Could you schedule Mrs. McKenzie for a repeat treatment next Tuesday?” he asks. “And make sure she’s the first one in of the day?”
“Of course.”
As he retreats, I make a note of the phone number on my monitor, then gaze at the fish tank, wondering what to do. There’s no one in reception. I could ring now. If I don’t, she’ll call back and it could be in front of Leonardo again.
I dial the number. She answers immediately. “That was quick,” she says. “Thank you.” She has a faint London accent and is talking quietly, maybe for my sake as well as hers.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Just to talk. Can you meet us?”
“Us?” The reception door is opening. I lower my voice. “I have to go.”
“How about Saturday? There’s—”
“I can’t talk.” Thankfully, the client is elderly and is taking his time closing the door, undoing his coat, wiping his nose.
“Meet us on Saturday. Give me your number and I’ll text you the details. I know you’re frightened. I am too. But it’s best we sit down and figure this out together, don’t you think?”
I don’t know what to think. The client is coming toward me.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. My mother’s cocoa tin wasn’t supposed to let me down—was supposed to make things disappear.
“You’ll have more control by showing up, I promise,” she adds.
I say my number in a rush, hanging up just as the old man touches the desk.