Sometimes it took a pokey vodka tonic and a metaphorical kick up the bum to shake a person from their torpor, Rachel thought the next day. Because look at her now, out in the depths of the Herefordshire countryside, miles from the comfort zone of her own four walls. This would have been unthinkable a few days ago, but Becca’s plain speaking had resonated. And after all her agonizing, being out in the fresh air felt plain glorious. The bracken was springing into life, there were larks carolling high above, and the air smelled of hot, sweet earth. They’d taken it easy, only tramping along for a mile or so before stopping for a cold drink and a chance to admire the view, but that was enough to leave Rachel feeling like a new woman as she gazed out at the lush green countryside around them: dense, leafy woodland, a snaking silver stream, golden fields of rapeseed and wheat. This makes me happy, she thought, almost surprised by the sudden surge of joy that rushed up inside her. I feel happy again. There was something about getting away from it all, being amidst the unchanging hills and valleys, standing under the big old sky, that put a person’s worries into perspective. The world was still turning, the sun would go on rising and falling, and the hills and rocks and trees had seen it all before. For the first time in weeks, her mind felt completely at peace. The secret of happiness: climb a mountain, she thought.
‘Thank you,’ she said to Becca. ‘This is exactly what I needed – to climb high and look out at the world again. It’s perfect.’
Becca was glugging back a bottle of water and wiped her mouth on her hand. ‘I agree. And I say that as someone who always assumed the countryside was for people with nothing better to do.’
Rachel smiled. The boulder she was perching on was warm beneath her bare legs as she turned her face to the sun and shut her eyes, the sun painting colours on the insides of her eyelids. ‘Lawrence and I first came up here years ago, before the kids were born,’ she said. ‘His mum lives about forty-five minutes away. It’s a lovely part of the world.’
Becca said nothing immediately. ‘How . . . how do you feel about him these days?’ she asked tentatively after a few moments.
‘About Lawrence? Sad, mostly,’ she replied. She opened her eyes but looked away over the valley, not wanting to see her sister’s face. It felt strange to be discussing her ex-husband with her when they’d both been avoiding his name. ‘Sad that it didn’t work out. We were good together for a long time. Everyone said, so it must be true,’ she added, mocking herself.
‘So what went wrong? If it’s okay to ask.’
‘He was . . .’ She swallowed, her mouth dry. ‘He was quite a jealous person,’ she said carefully. ‘And insecure. Things got . . . out of hand.’
There was silence again, Becca seemingly waiting for her to go on. But what else could Rachel say, without getting into the whole grim story? The day felt too golden, too hopeful, to start digging up the details of Craig, and the B&Q showdown, and the Christmas works do punch-up. Squirming, she was just about to change the subject to one more inane, less awkward, when Becca spoke first. ‘Rach, I’ve been wondering whether or not I should have said something earlier,’ she began nervously, and Rachel’s heart seemed to constrict in response.
Oh no. Here it came, the conversation nobody wanted, the elephant that stubbornly refused to leave the room. ‘It’s all right,’ Rachel said quickly, trying to head her sister off. Not today. Let’s not do this today. ‘You don’t have to—’
‘There was this night last year,’ Becca went on doggedly. No. No. Don’t say it. Don’t tell me. ‘And Lawrence . . . tried it on with me.’
Rachel flinched as the words fell like grenades around her. But they weren’t quite the words she had been expecting. ‘Lawrence tried it on with you?’ she echoed, eyes narrowed. That wasn’t how he had described it, of course.
‘I am so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you, but . . .’ Becca wrung her hands. ‘He was drunk at this conference. I was—’
‘You were waitressing, yeah, I know.’ Oh, she knew. The raspberry sorbet spooned into her husband’s mouth, the black dress, the tinsel. Was v v bad girl last night.
Becca stared at her. ‘He . . . he told you? What I did?’
‘That you slept with him? Yeah.’ There. The accusation was out, stabbing into the air like a thrown knife. Over to you, Becca. Wriggle out of that one.
‘That I slept with him?’ Becca’s eyes were as wide and blue as the sky. ‘Wait, no. But I didn’t. I didn’t sleep with him, Rach. He tried to. I mean, he was groping me and writing his room number on my hand . . .’ Becca’s mouth twisted awkwardly, she flapped a hand as if trying to fly away from the situation. ‘But I never . . .’ She shook her head, the sentences trailing to a halt. ‘I didn’t sleep with him.’
Rachel turned away, her mind in tumult. ‘He told me you were all over him,’ she said quietly. ‘Sitting on his lap. Feeding him dessert. He said you were way better than me in bed, too, by the way.’ She gave a hard, painful laugh. ‘So there you go.’
‘Well, he’s lying.’ Becca’s voice was loud with indignation. ‘I promise you, Rach, I swear on my life, he’s lying.’
They stared at each other. There was complete silence save for a bird calling in the distance; they were alone together, miles from anywhere, and push had just come to shove. ‘Just a minute ago, you said, and I quote, He told you? What I did?’ Rachel pointed out, eyeballing her. ‘If he’s lying, why did you say that?’
‘Because . . .’ Becca hung her head and Rachel stared at her sister’s coppery curls, glowing around her head in the sunlight as if she’d been plugged into the mains. Tell me the truth. Just tell me. ‘Because me and my friend, we sort of took our revenge on him,’ Becca mumbled. ‘Because he’d been so horrible to me.’
Rachel’s expression was steely as the story came out. Room service. Pizzas. Disgusting breakfast and a wake-up call. Childish and silly, but with just enough details to give it the ring of truth, perhaps. Becca might be creative, but Rachel wasn’t sure even she could make up that lot on the spur of the moment. Her head swam uncertainly as she tried to make sense of the conflicting versions of events. Who should she believe? Who did she want to believe? She hated the thought of either of them lying to her face, but one of them obviously had. ‘I guess there’s only one way to find out,’ she said eventually, jerking her thumb approximately westwards. ‘We’ll pay Lawrence a visit and ask him what he’s got to say about it.’
Becca looked panicked. ‘What – now?’
‘Yes, now,’ Rachel said. She was done with not knowing who she could trust, she realized. She’d had it. They might as well clear this up, once and for all, then put the thing to bed. So to speak. ‘Let’s go.’
Lawrence had grown up in Hampshire, but on retirement his Welsh-born parents had sold up and moved back to Builth Wells to live out the rest of their years in rural peace, surrounded by rolling hills, greenery and tea-shops. Lawrence’s dad had died several years ago but his mother, Janice, was very much alive (frighteningly so, in fact). As the two sisters trudged back down the hill towards the car in an uneasy silence, Rachel found herself hoping that Janice would be out when they arrived. Plain-spoken and matronly, if Janice thought for a minute that her daughter-in-law was waging an attack on her precious son, she would leap to his defence, probably brandishing a floury rolling pin.
Once in the car, Rachel gave stilted directions and they headed off, Becca staring intently at the road rather than chattering away in her usual style. Rachel could tell she felt awkward and embarrassed about the forthcoming confrontation, after revealing her juvenile behaviour on the night in question. (If she was telling the truth, of course.) Rachel, meanwhile, was already regretting her impulsive decision to go at all. This was not what anyone would call a win–win situation.
A long, uncomfortable hour later, Rachel uttered the words, ‘And it’s just down there on the left, the one with the big hedge,’ and Becca heaved on the handbrake.
‘So here we are,’ Rachel said needlessly as Becca switched off the engine. Janice’s street was a tranquil, pretty one, full of stone cottages and well-kept front gardens. Caravans stood in repose. A cat lay on the dusty pavement in a patch of sunshine and licked its front paw in quiet contentment. This was not the sort of neighbourhood where squabbling sisters arrived to settle an argument, hell-bent on a screaming match with an ex-husband. Oh, what were they even doing here? The whole thing felt like a wild goose chase now, their lovely sisterly walk turned on its head, tarnished by the ugliness of suspicion. And she was the one who’d forced the issue, who’d insisted that they come at all.
‘Here we are,’ Becca repeated dully. ‘We’d better get on with it, if I’m to be back to pick up the kids at three-fifteen.’
‘Yes,’ Rachel agreed. It was one o’clock already, she noticed; they’d have to leave again in an hour. ‘Right. Let’s see if he’s in.’
She felt a peculiar sort of bravado as she marched up the front path, Becca hanging back in her wake. Janice’s car was not in the driveway, thank goodness, but Lawrence’s silver Beamer sat there, a relic from his old job that he’d been able to buy at a cut price when he was given the push. (He would have to sell it if he didn’t find himself some new form of employment soon, she reckoned. He was a proud man, Lawrence, he wouldn’t want to be out here sponging off his mum for eternity, however good her Welsh cakes and bara brith.)
Knocking on the white-painted door, heart in her mouth, she was cheered to hear the sound of an answering bark from inside: Harvey. Oh, Harvey! Somehow she had forgotten he would be here too. He had always been such a loyal companion, such a lovely, funny, cheerful dog. At least she was guaranteed a rapturous welcome from him, if not from her ex.
The door opened, and there was Lawrence; unshaven and not a little paunchy in a faded FatFace T-shirt, jeans and bare feet. Harvey immediately barrelled out from behind him and greeted Rachel with a volley of delighted barking, his feathery tail beating the air in joy. She crouched over him, hugging him, accepting his slobbery welcome, glad of the excuse not to look at Lawrence immediately. ‘Hello, my darling. Hello, lovely boy. Yes, it’s me. Yes, it’s me!’
‘Hello,’ said Lawrence, sounding mistrustful. ‘What’s all this about, then?’
Rachel stood up again and he jerked in horror at the sight of her altered appearance, his eyes boggling as they took in first the yellow and green patterns of bruising around her jaw and then her plaster-encased wrist. ‘Shit, Rach. Are you all right? I heard you were . . . Fuck. Excuse me. Get down, Harvey, you idiot. Is everything okay?’
‘Can we come in?’ Rachel heard herself say in an artificially bright sort of voice. ‘We won’t stop long.’
Looking uncertain, Lawrence acquiesced and then led them down the hall. The house smelled of Pledge and Janice’s lavender perfume, as it always did, with an added whiff of burned toast (Lawrence’s contribution, she suspected). His hair needed cutting, she thought, following behind, and the left pocket was starting to come away from the back of his jeans. Not her problem any more, though. Nothing to do with her.
Once in the living room, with its sludge-green paint and the huge red-brick fireplace that took up far too much wall, the three of them formed a strained sort of tableau: Rachel perched on the edge of one of Janice’s mustard-coloured armchairs, with Harvey shoving his face in her lap, tail still pumping like a metronome set to allegro; Lawrence posed by the fireplace like something from a cheesy 1960s catalogue; and Becca leaning against the radiator near the door, as if planning a quick escape.
Lawrence looked from one sister to the other. ‘So,’ he said gruffly. ‘What’s all this about, then?’
Rachel folded her hands in her lap. ‘We’re here to clear up a little misunderstanding,’ she said demurely. ‘It won’t take a minute. Basically: did you, or did you not sleep with Becca?’
Whatever he’d been expecting, it was definitely not that question. ‘What on earth . . .?’ He swung round to glare at Becca before turning back to his ex-wife. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘No,’ Rachel replied. ‘It is not. It’s a very simple question, in fact, Lawrence. Did you, or did you not—?’
‘I heard you the first time,’ he interrupted, one hand tightening into a fist. His eyes were stormy, but he had been caught off guard, Rachel knew it. You could almost hear his brain whirring as he chose his next words. ‘And . . . Look, what’s the point of going over this sort of thing? The past is in the past. You’ve got to move on, Rach.’
‘How can she move on?’ Becca put in, her voice clear and cutting. ‘When you told her such a lie?’
‘I –’ His lip curled, and he gave an exasperated snort. ‘Oh, I get it. Best friends, you two, all of a sudden, are you? Ganging up on the ex-husband, is that the idea?’
‘Nobody is ganging up,’ Rachel replied evenly. ‘But you still haven’t answered the question. You told me you had slept with Becca. She says you didn’t. I’m asking you now what’s really the truth.’
He smacked the flat of his hand against the hearth. ‘Why does this even matter?’ he blustered. ‘Look, I get it. You’re angry. You’re trying to score a point. Let’s kick Lawrence while he’s down. Girl power. Whatever.’
Rachel stared at him, incredulous. ‘Lawrence, this is not about girl power or scoring points,’ she said. ‘It’s a simple yes–no question. Why won’t you answer it?’
‘Answer the bloody question!’ said Becca, hands on her hips. ‘Tell her the truth, for goodness’ sake, and then we can all get on with our lives again.’
‘What’s going on?’ came a sharp voice, and Rachel quailed inside. Oh shit. Janice was back, and now they were in for it.
Harvey gave a low woof of greeting as she entered the room: a tall, forbidding woman in a navy padded gilet, tweed skirt and polished brown walking shoes, hair set in pewter-grey curls. ‘Hello, Rachel,’ she said. A flicker of surprise passed over her face as she took in her daughter-in-law’s injuries, but she was not a touchy-feely sort of woman, nor one who went in for personal remarks. ‘I’m Janice,’ she said to Becca, holding out a hand.
‘Becca,’ said Becca, shaking it somewhat apprehensively. ‘Rachel’s sister. Um. I think we met at the wedding.’
Rachel smiled politely at her mother-in-law, hoping that nobody could hear the rapid thump of her heart. Hoping that there wasn’t a rolling pin within grabbing distance, either. ‘We’re just trying to settle an argument,’ she said, shooting a sideways glance at Lawrence.
‘So I heard,’ said Janice severely. Something about her tone of voice made Rachel wonder exactly how much she had heard. Then to everyone’s surprise, the older woman steepled her fingers together and turned her gaze on her son. ‘Go on, then, Lawrence, you’d better answer the question,’ she said. ‘Even I want to know what you’ve got to say now.’
‘I . . .’ he began, a genuine look of fear flashing across his face. Nobody messed with Janice. ‘Look, there’s been a bit of a mix-up, that’s all,’ he said, floundering under her direct stare. ‘Of course I haven’t slept with Becca. That’s ridic—’
‘But you told me you had,’ Rachel cut in. No, Lawrence. You’re not getting away with this ‘mix-up’ line, she thought, cold anger creeping through her. ‘Why would you tell me you had done such a thing if it wasn’t true?’
There was a moment’s silence, save for the ticking of the gold carriage clock on the mantel. ‘Yes, Lawrence,’ Janice said coldly. Her gaze flicked from her son to a framed photograph beside the clock. ‘Why would you do that?’
Rachel had never expected to think the words, ‘I love you, Janice,’ but there they were in her head, as her mother-in-law went on to unravel the whole messy situation and then – in a wholly unexpected turn of events – plant herself firmly on the side of the women. ‘How could you?’ she exploded, as the story emerged. ‘To do that to your wife, and to her sister. What were you thinking, for heaven’s sake? I’m very disappointed in you!’
Lawrence hung his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, spots of colour in his cheeks.
But Janice wasn’t done yet. ‘I should think you are!’ she thundered. ‘You should apologize to poor Rebecca too, this minute, for besmirching her reputation. For shame, Lawrence. For shame! This is not the way your father and I brought you up. To lie to women. To cause trouble like this, between sisters!’
Another flicked glance to the photograph, Rachel noticed – and then the penny dropped. Of course. Janice was one of three sisters herself, and very close to them both. There they were in the photograph, flanking her, the three of them faintly terrifying even when smiling into a camera.
She sat there, fussing Harvey’s gorgeous silky ears and quietly enjoying the spectacle of her former husband making slavish apologies while his mother berated him. She would have to make her own apology later, to Becca, of course, for ever doubting her word. But weirdly, she realized how glad she was that it had been Lawrence that lied, not Becca. The deceit hurt less that way around, somehow.
She reached down to pat Harvey’s side and he turned his head to gaze up at her adoringly. I wonder . . . she thought, an idea suddenly occurring to her. Could she somehow turn this situation to her own advantage?
She cleared her throat. Do it, Mum, urged Scarlet in her head.
‘Before we go,’ she said, one hand still resting on Harvey’s warm flank, ‘there’s just one more thing. The dog?’ They all looked at the dog, who wagged his tail, swish-swish, across the porridge-grey carpet. ‘Perhaps it’s our turn to have him, in Hereford,’ she went on, heart hammering at her own daring. ‘The children would all love him to come home and –’ She shrugged innocently. ‘Perhaps this could be your way of making amends, Lawrence.’
Lawrence looked as if he was about to argue, but Janice got there first. ‘That sounds like a very good idea to me,’ she said firmly. ‘Besides,’ she added, narrowing her eyes, ‘it’s shedding everywhere at the moment, that creature, and it’s ruining my upholstery. I’m having to hoover twice a day.’
‘Nightmare,’ clucked Becca sympathetically.
Knowing there could be zero argument to be made against dog hair and twice-daily hoovering, Lawrence seemed to deflate by the fireplace. Game over. ‘Fine,’ he muttered with a shrug.
‘Great,’ Rachel said, just about controlling her urge to punch the air and cheer. Now to leave while the going was good. The going – in fact – could not be bettered. ‘Shall we make a move?’ she said to Becca, and rose smoothly to her feet. ‘Come on, then, Harvey, you too. It’s time we went home.’