pushes her away, staggering deeper into the garden. Maisey’s face falls, and she gives her fingers a vicious twist. Once again, I wonder what’s wrong with her.
Why does she keep trying? Can’t she see Alice is a lost cause?
I leave them be. It’s nothing I’ll ever be able to resolve.
The house is quiet and blissfully cool when I return. After checking to ensure no one is around, I let myself into Warwick’s office. It’s an exaggerated expression of his masculinity, all dark wood and oversize chairs. His desk is bigger than most people’s beds, even though I’ve yet to see him do any work here. For all his talk, work has never been Warwick’s thing.
My husband’s bar is concealed in an oversize globe. Despite the hour, I fix myself a vodka tonic. How Mother would love access to this room. In preparation for Alice’s visit, any alcohol in the house had been put under lock and key. Bridget had thought I was overreacting until she met my mother. We give Alice just enough to keep her from going into withdrawal, but there’s more to it than that. My mother would cause a scene if we didn’t let her have a cocktail with everyone else, or wine with dinner. I imagine Eleanor’s reaction if she ever witnessed one of Alice’s full-blown temper tantrums. I’d rather die.
The ice-cold bite of the tonic water is refreshing. It’s not long before the smooth warmth of the vodka makes me feel better, stronger. I pour myself another before locking Warwick’s office and checking on Elliot. He’s fast asleep, his fingers curled into a teeny fist.
Lucky baby. I wish I could sleep through this day. Wake me when it’s over.
With my son napping, I’m at loose ends. It’s tempting to accidentally wake him, but that would be cruel. Might as well make good use of the time by putting some effort into finding the perfect outfit. I want Warwick to be proud of me again, to appreciate what a gorgeous wife he has.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
Caleb invades my mind. I remember the way he looked at me yesterday, his eyes glowing with admiration. “I wish you would come with me, Sarah...”
No, not Caleb. Don’t think about Caleb. Caleb is dangerous. Think about Warwick. You’re married to Warwick. Caleb rejected you, remember? He had his chance and he blew it. It’s too late to go back now.
It’s impossible to please both, in any case. Warwick prefers it when I’m fully made up, with heavy shadow and red lips. Caleb was always into natural beauty, fresh-faced Nivea girls (like Maisey?) with clean, shining hair pulled into ponytails. He’s the reason I didn’t wear a stitch of makeup as a teenager. After that I’d piled it on in a pathetic attempt to get back at him, even though he wasn’t around to notice or care.
Compromising, I apply another layer of mascara and some eyeliner and leave it at that. Slipping one of the 1950s-style dresses my husband loves over my head, I’m pleased to discover it’s no longer a battle. The fabric slides over my hips without a whimper of protest. It hasn’t fit this well since I learned I was pregnant with Elliot.
Turning to the side, I smooth the dress as I check my figure. My stomach howls, sounding mournful, but I ignore it. I may be starving most of the time, but it’s worth it. I’m finally starting to resemble myself again, no toilet paper or popcorn required.
As I drain the second vodka tonic, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The booze, the gaunt, strained expression, the haunted eyes surrounded by thick makeup. The resemblance is terrifyingly clear.
My God, I’m turning into Alice.
The thought makes me shiver.
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