Cammy wanted to marry her. Her first ever proposal. Someone actually wanted to spend the rest of his life with her and she’d just crushed him. That must have been horrendous for him. She felt a brief moment of sympathy and then shook it off. He should never have ambushed her like that. If he’dactually spoken to her he’d have realised that she wasn’t in that place.
She clenched her veneers tight shut. It wasn’t her fault he was the wrong guy. He shouldn’t have done it. He’d get over it. Cammy was just another man trying to make her dance to his tune.
No more.
From now on, Lila was in charge of the soundtrack and it was going to play out very differently. Cammy wasn’t going to call the shots. Neither was Ken.
She wasn’t her mother – she wasn’t going to spend half her life waiting for the man she loved to walk in the door, missing him, her happiness determined by whether or not he was with her. It was that existence, that childhood experience, that had given her the strength and tenacity to wait for Ken all these years – but she wasn’t going to be the one who waited another two decades to have her man by her side.
She wanted Ken now.
More lights. This time they turned to green almost instantly – definitely a sign that this was meant to be – and she roared through, turned right, went along the all-too familiar street and stopped, turned, looked…
His house. There were lights on, so he was home. His car was in the driveway, next to the Fiat. Another car sat on the road outside. Visitors to Ken’s house? Or one of the neighbours?
It didn’t matter.
Her phone rang again.
Cammy. Decline.
Priorities.
She checked her face in the driver’s mirror, then emptied her clutch, grabbed her face powder, dampened down anyshine, reapplied lipstick, touched up her hair, applied some hairspray. A quick squirt of Opium, Ken’s favourite, and she was done.
Phone rang again. Cammy. Decline. Bloody hell, could he not take a hint?
She shoved it in the glove compartment, prepared, for the first time in living memory, to go anywhere without the device that meant more to her than just about anything else on earth.
She opened the door, slid out, and took a moment to steel herself for this. She could do it. He would thank her. It was going to be a moment of pain, then that would be it. Bernadette would realise the truth, know that Ken was no longer in love with her, see that it was a lost cause, and she would walk away, go find someone else, someone who was more her type. They could have matching bloody Fiats in the driveway.
She started walking. Confidence. Hair done, lipstick on, face the world. What did she have to lose? Nothing. Her job was undoubtedly gone. Ken was talking about calling it off because he was too much of a nice guy to make the move. Didn’t he see that this was only making it worse for Bernadette in the long run? She was wasting her life in a loveless marriage. Lila was about to do her a favour, and sure, it would sting, but she’d probably even thank her later.
It was time.
Apart from her lunchtime quickie, today had been horrendous. Now was her chance to change that and make this one of the best days of her life.
Bravery and conviction surging through her, all regret, fear and anxiety dissipated as she prepared herself to ring the doorbell.
This was her moment.
Her finger was almost on the bell, when she heard footsteps from inside the house, coming towards her. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. She needed it to be Bernadette, because if Ken answered there was always the possibility that he would thwart her plan. Not that she’d let that happen. One way or another, she was going to speak to Bernadette, even supposing she had to shout through the letter box.
More footsteps. More than one person?
The tumble dryer started in her stomach again.
She froze, the bell still not pressed, as the footsteps stopped right at the other side of the door. The sound of a doorknob being turned. The door opened.
Lila felt like the ground was moving beneath her feet as she came face to face with her rival.
‘Can I help you?’ Bernadette asked.
‘You’re Kenneth Manson’s wife,’ she said. It wasn’t a question. She’d seen her once in the hospital and she’d just spent half the afternoon watching her and her car boot pal lugging bags in and out of the house. She was still wearing the same clothes. Jeans. Boots. A shapeless black jumper. One of those waterfall cardigans that women used to cover the fact that they ate a pudding the night before. Even now, on a Friday night, she didn’t have on a scrap of make-up.
Bernadette nodded. ‘I am. Sorry, who are you?’
For the first time, Lila noticed a young guy standing behind Bernadette, obviously her son, given that there was an unmissable likeness. Next to him was a woman, tall, dark hair, around her own age, and for a moment Lila was thrown. Ken’s eyes, his mouth. This must be Nina.
