prints of Marilyn on the walls, framed arty photos of models on floating shelves, a huge stack of Vogues on the floor, by the ‘fireplace’. The bathroom had black and white tiles and a large canvas of Ava Gardner above the loo. The ‘sitting room’ had a squishy pink suede chair and white voile drapes at the window. It was all rather gorgeous.
‘I bet the cupboards are bare, though,’ muttered Sarah to herself, as she went to the corner where the kitchen was. Her own were always bulging at the seams. ‘Bingo!’ she said, flinging a door open. There was a box of low calorie Cuppa Soup – half empty – and a small tin of sweetcorn. Another yielded a packet of unopened spaghetti and a jar of pesto sauce, use-by date three years ago. The fridge was bare too, except for a miniature bottle of champagne and two of perfume in a Perspex box. Sarah checked the oven expecting it was used to store jumpers, but it was empty, and she saw a pile of cards for posh takeaway places on the counter, weighted by a bottle of vitamin C tablets. She doubted Meg would get any home-cooked meals at Orchard Cottage either – there’d be three of them there now who couldn’t cook.
Sarah lugged her case over to the corner of the flat where the bed was. It was freshly made with white sheets – Egyptian cotton? There were no cushions, no fraying, slightly grubby throws. The whole ‘bedroom’, apart from the Marilyn portraits, was stark, spare and pared down. Perfect. She could do with some pared down in her life, she thought, as she sat on the bed. Clear the decks, start afresh. Get her life back as it had been a long time ago. Although of course she didn’t want it exactly back to how it was, because then she wouldn’t have Connor and Olivia. She sent her son a quick text.
Has Auntie Meg arrived? Everything OK?
Yeah, she’s here, a text winged back. All good thanks.
Expansive, as always. Connor would be on the beanbag in his room, playing Minecraft, eating the last of the Pringles.
Don’t forget to tell her how to work the hot water.
I won’t.
She could see him flinging his phone down on the beanbag, sniffing, then resuming his game. He didn’t really want to talk to her, but that was nothing new. He was a boy of few words. Then she started worrying. Did he sound particularly clipped? Bitter? Despite his chilled nonchalance when he took her to the station, was he secretly angry with her for leaving them? Was he furious she’d abandoned them to go up to London? Sarah smoothed the immaculate top sheet with her hand. Maybe both her children would resent her forever for leaving them.
Her heart started pounding. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be up in London and in this strange flat of the sister she didn’t know any more; she should be home, with her children, cooking them hot meals and looking after them. How could she have been so happy on the way up here, so excited, when she was leaving starving, suffering urchins at home?
Sarah decided to worsen her sudden anguish by pulling a photo of her babies from her handbag and had to suppress a giant sob (thank goodness Monty wasn’t also in the picture or she’d be inconsolable). Look at them! Look at their faces! Placing the photo on one of Meg’s pristine pillows, she stared at it. She’d always been the ultimate helicopter mum, hovering over them, micro-managing their every move; hot-housing them into clubs and activities of every description … and yes, overcompensating for the lack of philandering, adulterous Harry, who’d buggered off down to the West Country after they’d divorced. She liked being all-encompassing, smothering Tiger Mum. She’d poured her heart and soul into it. She’d kind of given up on it in recent years and let the chaos take over, but they needed her. They couldn’t function without her; they would flood the house, burn the kitchen down, forget to put the bins out … and she knew Meg would be no use in stopping these disasters. Sarah had an overwhelming urge to go home. To lock Meg’s door behind her and go. But she couldn’t. Meg was there now; they had promised to swap. She’d also agreed to take this job, which started tomorrow. She’d made her bed and she’d just have to lie in it, so she lay back on her sister’s and took a deep breath.
There was a ring at the doorbell. Who on earth could that be? Clarissa, brandishing Hobnobs? The fashion police come to wrench these heinous trainers off her feet? Sarah got up from the bed and opened the door to a very well-dressed thirty-something bloke sporting loafers and no socks, chinos and a white shirt, and an expensive-looking navy jumper slung over his shoulders.
‘Oh hiiiiii,’ he drawled. ‘I was visiting someone else in the building. My uncle,’ he added, vaguely – Sarah guessed he had used the ‘slip in behind someone’ approach she hadn’t had the patience for. ‘Is Meg here?’
‘No, she’s not here. I’m her sister.’
‘I’m Mikey.’ He looked past Sarah’s shoulder as though she hadn’t been telling the truth.
Very posh, Sarah decided. And sort of good-looking, if you had a thing for reptiles. ‘Hello, Mikey.’
‘I was wondering if she might come for dinner.’
‘Well,’ said Sarah, ‘she can’t as she’s not here.’ She was instantly taken back to her twenties when all sorts of undesirables had come knocking for Meg and she’d sent them away with an increasingly far-fetched range of excuses, depending on her mood: Meg was in the bath, Meg was out at a Girl Guide meeting being presented with her Hostessing badge, Meg had run away to join the circus and wouldn’t be back for three years. That last one Sarah had actually hoped was true on a number of occasions. Then, she wondered, was this man Meg’s boyfriend? Meg always had a boyfriend. ‘Do you want me to tell her you called?’
‘No, I’ll text her.’ He looked fairly jolly about it.
‘Super,’ said Sarah, out of nowhere. Is that what they said in London? And Mikey jogged off in the direction of the lift, the arms of his jumper swinging.
Her sister’s boyfriend. Interesting. Meg had never mentioned anything about leaving someone behind in London. Then again, why would she? The two sisters knew nothing of each other’s life, especially not love life. Meg would have met Harry at distant Uncle Compton’s funeral fifteen years ago (not that she would have paid much attention; she was on her phone most of the time) – it was just before the straw that broke the camel’s back; the discovery of affair number four – but she didn’t know the story of Harry. How after Meg had left for London, Sarah had met him in The Duke of Wellington and had virtually leapt into his arms. How he’d been staying in the room above the pub, that he was an artist, painting local pastoral scenes. That, from his very first word, he had treated Sarah like she mattered – which was just what she needed. She had drunk him in, lapped up his love like a thirsty dog at a bowl; she had moved him in within a month. The twins didn’t take long to follow, but a mere few years after that Harry, a historical loner, clearly found the cottage too crowded. Solitude and solace were sought elsewhere. Many elsewheres, in many beds …
After Harry, Sarah had been war wounded. She’d only met one seemingly decent man since, when the twins were about eight – a solicitor called David – and she’d fallen hard, again, but he’d turned out to be married, inflicting Sarah with another wound as fresh and painful as the first. She decided she was done at that point. That she was better off on her own. Just her and the twins would do from now on – no complications, no upset. Hadn’t she already been through enough? Falling in love and getting hurt really wasn’t good for her and she was determined not to ever do it again.
Sarah closed the door. She decided she needed to get a major grip. What had she told herself? That she was going to get some life back for herself. It was time for her to stop thinking about the past – Harry and all the bad
