As a slow smile spreads across her red lips, I remember something my mum used to say when I was little. Her voice echoes in my thoughts and a shiver races down my spine.
‘Wish for the devil and he shall appear.’
FOUR
BETH
You should’ve told them.
The know-it-all voice sings in my head as I dab cool water on my cheeks. God, I hate that voice. Does it always have to sound so smug? I ignore it and stare at my reflection in the tarnished mirror of the pub toilets. There’s an ugly sheen of sweat on my face that refuses to be absorbed by the organic, cruelty-free foundation I dabbed on earlier in between serving Henry his lentil Bolognese with his favourite bow-shaped pasta. Also homemade, of course. There’s little I can do about the onslaught of processed food Henry is exposed to out in the world, but at home, I keep things natural.
You’ve left it too late.
That voice again, dragging me back to my reflection in the mirror. I’ve been in the toilets too long as it is, but I’m so tired. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this exhausted. Not even when Henry was a newborn, waking every few hours.
The face staring back at me burns with the news I need to share. I take a deep breath, smooth down my cardigan and tug at the green skirt I made last week. I didn’t realise the fabric bunches a little around the waist. Sloppy. I’ll unpick it tomorrow and do it right.
Chicken.
I grit my teeth. I’m telling them now.
But as I step out of the ladies’ room, my feet falter. There’s another woman at our table. A stranger. Any resolve to share my secret with Georgie and Tasha disappears.
‘Beth!’ Georgie waves me over like I was planning to beeline for the door. Which had crossed my mind. ‘This is Keira.’
‘Hi.’ Keira raises a hand as I give her a polite smile. She looks a little awkward. And a lot out of place. Thick eyeliner rims her eyes, adding an intensity to her face. I’m not one to judge, but she looks like she’d be happier in one of the trendy bars under the railway arches in the centre of town.
‘I hope you don’t mind me joining you,’ Keira says, her Irish accent strong.
‘Of course we don’t,’ Georgie cuts in as I take a seat beside Tasha, noticing the new bottle of red that’s appeared since I left. And the inch added to my glass. I don’t even like red wine. But Georgie pushed ahead, ordering the bottle before I could ask for a water. Then the glass was in my hand, and it would’ve been rude to refuse.
‘Keira will be a new mum at Magnolia Primary,’ Georgie announces. ‘She’s joining the PTA, and she’s just bought a ticket for the quiz night. I’m going to put her on one of the parents’ tables.’
‘Except I’m hideously late for the meeting. I’m so sorry,’ Keira says.
Georgie waves the apology away. ‘Her daughter, Rowan?—’
‘Is joining year three,’ Keira finishes with a smile. ‘She was hard to settle tonight. I think it’s all the changes. We only moved back to my mum’s at the weekend. We’re on Dove Street. Anyway, I didn’t mean to intrude.’
I know Dove Street. A narrow road of terraced houses, crammed in like biscuits in a packet. It’s the cut-through peopleuse on the walk to and from town, and there’s always litter in the gutters.
‘No one who buys wine is intruding.’ Georgie grins, clinking her glass to Keira’s.
I share a brief look with Tasha. It’s not the first time Georgie has adopted someone on a night out. Although usually they disappear pretty quickly when we start talking about our husbands and our lives and they realise we’re not as interesting as Georgie has made us out to be.
Georgie and Tasha are my best friends. Honestly, they’re my only friends. The only ones who’ve stuck by me for the last six years. Would they have done the same if we didn’t live on Magnolia Close? Maybe not, but that’s why our community is so perfect. We look out for each other. No one outside of Magnolia Close understands how special that is. It’s why people rarely move away. Why would you want to leave that?
‘I was just filling Keira in on Jonny,’ Georgie says. ‘I was telling her about Henry’s football.’
My anger rises to the surface. How dare Jonny do that!
‘And his objection to my planning permission,’ Tasha says, her voice a little too loud. A sure sign she’s going to regret the wine tomorrow. ‘He even called the planning officer at the council. Can you believe it?’
‘And the way he looks at all of us.’ Georgie shudders. ‘Like he’s undressing us with his eyes. All those little comments about how we look. It’s sexual harassment dressed up as compliments and friendly jokes so we look like we’re over-reacting if we say anything.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what it is,’ Tasha says. ‘He’s repulsive, and I hate him.’
I nod, feeling the raw, jagged edges of my own anger. ‘And the worst part is, the men can’t see it,’ I say.
