nod from Leah. ‘A kitchen porter who doesn’t forget, avoid or bitch about the task at hand; you’re a priceless commodity.’
‘Glad you’re impressed.’ He was enjoying his arm brushing hers as they manoeuvred around each other so he forbore to point out that fetching and carrying wasn’t hard compared to his normal job of delicately controlling the height and speed of a complex piece of machinery in the air, reading instruments, navigating, communicating with the ground and simultaneously giving his spiel to exclaiming tourists about the Gherkin Building and the London Eye.
He helped clear up after the meal when Michele excused herself in pursuit of an early night and the children went off indoors somewhere to play pool. Alister dozed over more wine and Ronan was glad all over again that Alister and Leah weren’t married. It made Ronan feel better about hanging on for coffee with her and remembering how good she’d looked in that purple bikini.
Natasha, Jordan and Curtis were already strapped into The Pig and Alister was loading the day’s supply of drinks and snacks when Leah, reasoning that the end justified the means, dropped the bad news on him.
‘Alister, do you mind taking the kids to the aerial activity park on your own? I’m feeling too bleugh to whiz down ziplines. First day of the month, you know.’ Smiling apologetically, she counted on the reference to her cycle to discourage protests or questions.
Alister flushed slightly as he took the car keys but was unable to resist enlarging her French vocabulary. ‘Of course I don’t mind taking the kids to le parc accrobranche. You stay here and, um, recover.’
Though she suffered a pang of guilt at jumping ship – or jumping Pig – Leah waved farewell as the vehicle reversed out of the drive. Jordan and Natasha, mouths forming Os of surprise, were obviously questioning their dad as to why Leah was left behind. Then, evidently satisfied with whatever reply he made, Natasha waved back and Jordan turned to talk to Curtis.
Once they were out of sight, Leah let herself back into the house silently and padded through the kitchen to the salon, a formal room the family hadn’t much bothered with. Its window gave a good view through the shrubs and down the empty drive to the lane though, and Leah sank onto the sofa to worry gently while she waited.
Her patience was rewarded twenty minutes later when a blue hatchback pulled up in the lane outside. Heart ticking anxiously, Leah watched the driver take out a phone and tap at it. A text to announce his arrival, she thought. Sure enough, she heard an upstairs door open – Michelle’s room – and footsteps dance down the wooden stairs. Another opening door – back door – and, moments later, Michele came into view, skipping down the drive – wearing one of her most flattering dresses. Hair freshly blow-dried. A hop into the car, the driver leaned towards Michele – kissing – for a long minute – ages – and, finally, the engine note rose and the car roared off.
Despite seeing exactly what she’d been warned she would, Leah felt sick with disappointment and dismay.
Michele had been constantly lying about her state of health to get rid of her family so that she could meet up with her lover.
It was several minutes before Leah could coax movement from her heavy limbs. What could she – or should she – do? The existence of a boyfriend made Michele’s mess worse, destroying as it did any lingering hopes of reconciliation.
Poor Jordan and Natasha. Poor Alister.
Poor, poor Alister – because Leah had recognised the car before she’d recognised the boyfriend. The metallic cobalt-blue boyracer hatchback with alloy wheels, spoilers and skirts belonged to Bailey Johns, a buff personal trainer and coach at Peak Fitness, the gym-cum-community centre used by the Milton family. Bailey coached Jordan’s soccer team and was high on his hero-worship scale; Jordan could often be found in the crowd of adolescents hanging around the car. As a fellow petrol-head, though she preferred her cars without giant air boxes or pointless light arrays, Leah chatted to Bailey on the odd occasion she picked Jordan up.
Michele, too, knew Bailey as Jordan’s footie coach. Leah remembered how Michele had seemed a reluctant joiner of Peak Fitness a year ago but soon developed unexpected gym-bunny tendencies. Leah had put it down to her realising that, at forty-three, she had to make more effort. Now, when viewed along with a growing predilection for having her hair and nails done professionally, Michele’s gym visits made a different, disappointing kind of sense.
In a fog of misery, Leah sought comfort in the familiarity of the kitchen but couldn’t even settle to baking. Her eyes burned every time she thought of Natasha’s uncertain little smile when confronted with uncomfortable situations and Jordan’s scowl when his feelings were hurt. They were young to be asked to cope with one heartache after another. They’d been so brave. But Leah would have had to be blind not to notice Natasha sometimes on the edge of tears or Jordan being especially grouchy and Alister quietly gathering them into comforting hugs.
Michele was an adult and there was nothing Leah could do about the way she chose to live her life. Yet … nothing was exactly what she couldn’t do. She took out her phone.
Leah: Can you come back to the gîte now, please? Important.
The reply pinged back after a few minutes.
Michele: ??? Aren’t you at this zipline thing? :-/
Leah: No. But Alister and the kids are.
A much longer pause, long enough for Leah to make and drink a cup of coffee, then:
Michele: On my way.
Leah passed the time wiping kitchen surfaces that didn’t need wiping, feeling uncomfortably like an angry parent waiting up for a misbehaving adolescent. The sensation was unreal and unfamiliar.
Finally, Michele stepped tentatively through the back door like a cat sensing trouble, gaze wary. ‘What’s up?’
Leah had to swallow unexpected tears. This isn’t about you. It’s about them. ‘You didn’t mention that you had a boyfriend.’
A pause. Michele fiddled with the buckle on her bag strap. ‘No.’
Leah refused to allow the single clipped word to wall her out. ‘I’m going to ask you again: is Baby Three Alister’s?’
Michele heaved a great sigh. ‘No.’
A fresh heart-sink. ‘Certain?’
Michele nodded.
‘Poor Alister. Does he know?’
‘He knows he’s not the father. Obviously.’ Michele gave a mirthless laugh, drifting drearily into the room as if realising there was no longer any hiding place. ‘Not difficult to deduce when we haven’t had sex in a year.’ She threw down her bag and dragged out a chair. ‘He says I have to tell the kids; he won’t do it. He’s given me a deadline of the end of the holiday, before I begin to show and they guess. It’s part of why he’s muscled his way into the holiday, to support them when I do.’
Stricken, Leah plumped
