love. How did you get on?’ Her daughter had been competing in a dance competition in London. It was the first time in eighteen years Patricia hadn’t been present at a key event in her daughter’s life. Amy had invited her boyfriend to go with her instead, and although the rejection stung, Patricia would never let on. Amy wasn’t being deliberately cruel. Far from it. She was just growing up, flying the nest, being the independent, talented, resourceful woman Patricia had raised her to be. Patricia could hardly complain, could she?
‘Mum, it was brilliant! I won both solo categories and placed second in the group section.’ The background noise was deafening.
Patricia battled with the conflicting emotions rising in within her. How she would’ve loved to see her daughter perform. ‘Darling, that’s amazing. Well done. I’m so proud. I’ll bet Miss Leigh is over the moon.’
Her daughter laughed. ‘You’d think! She’s accusing the judges of favouritism. The Jayne Middle dance team placed first. Miss Leigh’s furious.’
‘I can imagine.’ Her daughter’s dance teacher had never taken failure well. It was first or nothing. ‘Are you heading home now?’
‘Not yet. Ben’s taking me for a celebration dinner. There’s a Caribbean restaurant in Ealing he’s excited about.’
Patricia tried to keep her voice neutral. ‘Sounds wonderful.’ Her daughter finding love was yet another development Patricia was struggling to adjust to. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Ben – he was a great kid, smart and funny. She just wished her daughter wasn’t quite so absorbed by the relationship. Amy was too young to be tied down. She should be seeing what the world had to offer. But then who was Patricia to talk? She’d been the same at that age, swept away by the attentions of a boy, married before she was twenty-one. Maybe that was the problem. Perhaps her own experience was clouding her judgement.
‘Don’t be home too late, darling. You have school in the morning and exams looming.’
Her daughter’s giggle rippled down the phone. ‘Stop it, Ben! Sorry, Mum, I’ll call when we’re on the train. Got to go, it’s prize time. Bye!’
Patricia was left clutching the phone, her heart aching along with her knee. She wanted so much to see her daughter collecting her awards, but there was no way she’d ever let Amy know how she felt. She’d do what she always did and present a happy front, encouraging to the last, even if it killed her.
Regaining her composure, she set about fixing her face, applying blusher to warm her complexion, mascara to open her eyes and lip gloss to cheer her mouth. With a brush of her hair and quick whizz over with the travel straighteners, she was good to go. Appearance was everything, she repeated for the umpteenth time that day. It didn’t matter what was going on underneath. To the outside world you needed to appear perfectly content, in control, happily married and successful. No wonder she felt like a Stepford Wife.
Spraying herself with Estee Lauder’s Beautiful, Patricia pulled on her skinny jeans and wrapped her shoulders in a soft camel cardigan, ready to join her tennis partner for a post-match drink.
As she left the changing rooms and headed across to the Bell Inn, she ignored the looks from the other women and their envious comments about her Pilates-toned physique. Don’t be fooled, she wanted to tell them, appearances can be deceptive. On the surface, Patricia appeared to have the perfect life, a beautiful home, a healthy, smart daughter, with regular holidays to the most luxurious places, but no amount of money could ever compensate for a faithless husband.
Patricia entered the pub and found Martin seated in the conservatory, checking his phone. The new owners had transformed the old-world pub into a pristine wine bar with modern artwork and quirky industrial lighting. Despite its monochrome theme the owners had managed to retain an intimate atmosphere, both welcoming and fashionable.
Martin waved her over. ‘The drinks are on order. Just give me two minutes to finish this and then I’m done.’ His frown deepened as he typed, shaking his head with obvious frustration. Finally he sat back, dropping his phone onto the table. ‘Sorry about that.’
Patricia studied his troubled expression. ‘Work problem?’ When he grimaced, Patricia raised her hand in apology. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘You didn’t.’
The barman appeared with the drinks, handing Martin his pint of beer. He placed Patricia’s white wine spritzer in front of her. Martin took a long swig and then caught sight of Patricia’s raised eyebrow. ‘We won. I’m celebrating.’
She smiled. ‘We win a lot. You normally celebrate with orange juice. Not that I’m judging. You can drink what you like.’
He shrugged. ‘I needed something to dull the pain.’
Patricia sipped her wine. ‘Are you injured?’
He pointed to his chest. ‘Different kind of pain.’ When his phone beeped he checked the incoming message and promptly switched the thing off.
Patricia noted how anguished he looked. ‘Everything okay?’
He let out a long breath. ‘Not really. But I don’t want to bore you.’
‘You wouldn’t be. Besides, I’m a good listener.’ In the ten months they’d been tennis buddies they’d grown quite close. Not in a romantic sense, or even in a deep and meaningful sense – more a light-hearted friendship that revolved around a shared hobby and chatting about things that didn’t matter, rather than things that did, like crime fiction and Radio 4. But still, Patricia liked to think they were able to help each other out if needed.
Martin looked conflicted, as though not sure whether to unload. He was a handsome man with deep honey-coloured hair and intelligent blue eyes. But of late the energy in his demeanour had started to wane, turning his natural feistiness into agitation.
He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I can’t seem to get it right at the moment.’
Patricia deliberated how much to pry. ‘Are we talking about your wife? Laura, isn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘Whatever I do is wrong. It feels like when I’m there she doesn’t want me around. And yet when I give her space she gives me crap for not being home enough.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Sorry, you don’t need this. And I don’t mean to be disrespectful about my wife. I love her, but … things aren’t good at the moment.’
Patricia could see it pained him to criticise the person he loved. And things must be bad if he was talking about his home life, he normally avoided discussing his marriage. They both did.
‘Admitting there’s a problem isn’t being disrespectful. It’s being honest. Facing up to the fact that something’s not right is the first step to resolving it.’ She could almost feel her mother turning in her grave. Problems should not be aired, she’d said on numerous occasions, which hadn’t always been helpful advice. Advice Patricia hadn’t passed on to her own daughter. Amy had been encouraged to be open, unguarded and outspoken. Consequently her daughter didn’t suffer in silence as her mother did. ‘Have you tried talking to your wife about it?’
‘We can’t seem to hold a conversation these days without arguing.’ He took another mouthful of beer. ‘Communicating never used to be a problem. We wanted the same things. A day didn’t go by when we didn’t laugh at something daft, talk nonsense
