you want. We can set up a little play area for him next to your desk, but you can work flexible hours around them. Once he’s got used to things a bit there will be plenty of people around to do a bit of babysitting if you need a break. There was never any shortage of willing hands when we were kids, and that’s not changed in the past thirty years. We’ve got acres of land for them to play in, a special children’s area of the gardens where they can dig and plant stuff with Constance. Lancelot will give them riding lessons, whatever you want.’
He was talking about people she’d never heard of, volunteering them for roles without the slightest hesitation that they might have better things to do than be saddled – literally in Lancelot’s, Lancelot! Who had a name like that anyway?, case – with a stranger’s children. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
Tristan opened his mouth as though to argue his point further, then reached for his beer bottle with a shrug. ‘You’re probably right’
Of course, she was right. As Tristan turned away to say something to Tim, she caught a flash of something on his face, like maybe she’d hurt his feelings by dismissing his outlandish idea so quickly. Annoyed she turned her back to him, her eyes lighting on the phone still on the table. With an exasperated sigh, she scrolled back through the photos on the castle’s blog. It was clear that growing up in a fairy tale setting had given Tristan some odd ideas. People like him just didn’t understand how things worked in the real world. She couldn’t just pack up the boys and make them live with a bunch of strangers.
Her heart clenched at the image of a tyre swing hanging from the boughs of an ancient oak, and she thought about the prim neatness of her parents’ back garden. About how her mother had pretended – unsuccessfully – not to mind when Elijah had trampled a row of gladioli when retrieving his football from one of her pristine flower beds. And it wasn’t just the perfection of the garden to worry about, there was also the cream carpet in the front room just waiting for a blackcurrant squash disaster. It had really begun to bother her how much her boys would have to compromise to fit into the neat and tidy box her parents called home. They’d have to be small, and quiet, and neat at the very age when they should be able to explore their environment without fear of the constant drip-drip of criticism she and Marcus had been subject to. A place for everything, and everything in its place. How many times had she bitten her lip as she watched her mother correct the boys for breaking some rule that only existed in the pristine bubble of Wendy Wilson’s perfect world? She imagined Elijah whooping with joy as she pushed him on the tyre swing, of Isaac tumbling around in great piles of autumn leaves; of them just being free. ‘I’ll have to talk to Steve.’
Sitting up straighter, she nudged Tristan’s arm to get his attention. ‘I’ll have to talk to Steve,’ she repeated.
His expression was puzzled for a moment before he gave her that dazzling, tummy-flipping grin. ‘Well, okay then.’
‘It’s a stupid idea,’ Jess said for what must’ve been the tenth time in as many minutes. When Steve remained silent, she paused in the act of sorting the clothes from the bottom of Elijah’s chest of drawers to stare across the bed to where Steve was doing the same task from the blanket box they used for Isaac’s things. ‘Well?’
Steve held up a tiny pair of dungarees with a dinosaur patch sewn on the front pocket. They evoked a flood of memories of both their boys wearing them. She’d been determined not to put Isaac in too many hand-me-downs, but they were too adorable for her to consign to the charity bag. ‘Are you keeping these?’
Downsizing her own wardrobe had been a doddle compared to this. She had no emotional attachment to an array of Dorothy Perkins skirt suits in varying muted shades, and it had been quite liberating to shed the uniform she’d moulded for herself. She’d kept a couple of the newer ones for future interviews, but the two suitcases already stacked against the wall in her room were mostly casual clothes. These dungarees though, the idea of parting with this little scrap of denim was breaking her heart. They couldn’t keep everything, though. ‘They’re too small.’
Steve tugged at a loose thread, ‘And this hem is getting frayed.’ He gave her a smile. ‘Keepsake bag?’
‘Keepsake bag,’ she agreed, and they shared a laugh. It shouldn’t be this easy, to parcel up six years of their lives, but apart from the odd heart pang over a few pieces of old baby clothes she’d found it remarkably straight-forward. Maybe too straight-forward. Crumpling the jumper in her hands, Jess sank down on the edge of the bed. ‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?’
Abandoning his own packing, Steve circled the bed to crouch down before her. ‘Aren’t you?’
She stared into a pair of blue eyes as familiar as her own and wished she felt more than deep affection. The first storm of passion they’d shared in those dark days after losing Marcus had inevitably blown itself out, leaving the aching realisation they had little in common other than the friendship they’d grown up with, and two beautiful boys who meant the world to them both. ‘We’re blowing up entire lives.’
Circling her ankle with a hand, Steve gave her a little squeeze. Hugging was too awkward now, but those urges to comfort each other didn’t just vanish overnight. ‘Because we want something better.’
‘Because we deserve something better.’ It was the conclusion they’d reached together in those long, painful hours when they’d been coming to terms with the truth about their feelings for each other. ‘But what about what we’re doing to the boys?’
Releasing her leg, Steve sat back with a sigh. ‘They’re young enough to adjust. We just need to give it a bit of time.. Isn’t this better than spending the next twenty or thirty years together when our hearts aren’t truly in it and destroying each other with a million tiny acts of bitterness?’
She knew he was thinking about his own parents then. For all she wished her folks would be a bit more honest with each other, she’d never once doubted the love they had for each other unlike the icy war of words that raged constantly under the roof of Steve’s childhood home. Though they seemed to have reached something of an entente cordiale lately, the Ripleys had rowed constantly when she and Steve had been growing up. Part of the reason Steve and Marcus had become such close friends was Steve’s desire to escape from the toxic atmosphere his parents had created.
After Marcus died, she’d been so desperate for something to hold onto as life imploded around her, and Steve had been there, warm and familiar, and just as in need of comfort. They thought they loved each other enough to hold on forever, but they’d been wrong. Or perhaps it was because they still loved each other just enough, that they knew it was time to let go.
Bracing his arms behind him, Steve dropped his head back to stare up at the ceiling. ‘Or maybe that’s the lie I’m telling myself, so I get to be selfish.’
Now it was her turn to offer comfort. She rubbed her foot against the edge of his. ‘We only get one go at this, and archaeology has always been your dream, Indy.’
He laughed at the old nickname he’d given himself at ten years old after the BBC had shown the first three Indiana Jones movies over Christmas. Steve had been mesmerised by the wise-cracking, whip-cracking hero and his love of archaeology had been born. ‘God, those films have a lot to answer for.’
‘Including your love of all things beige,’ she teased, poking the leg of his chinos. When Marcus had been experimenting with hair dye and piercings, Steve had stuck rigidly to khaki and beige, as though any moment he
