I guided her to the table and sat across from her. She looked pale and tired. I held her hand.
“It’s … it hasn’t been working for a couple of years. He’s never bloody there, and when he is, he’s always emailing and dealing with work. Never even looks at the boys. Then he says I’m not interested in him, that I’m turning into a gossipy old woman. That he misses the old me. What old me?” she scoffed and reached up to wipe tears from her eyes.
“Is he back in Milan now?” I asked as gently as I could.
“Yes, of course, where else would he be? Back withmammain the bloody palazzo. I have an appointment with a lawyer booked for a few days from now.”
My face must’ve given off my surprise.
“He says there’s no need, but how many times have you heard this situation and wondered why the woman let herself not get a lawyer.”
“Do the boys know?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. God, Arden. I don’t know how to do this. I’ve been half of a couple for so long that I can’t remember how to be on my own. Nigella and Matteo. Mrs Pettoni.”
I hugged her, and she hugged me back and sniffled into my shirt. “Oh, no, I’ve gone and cried all over your polyblend. Darling, why don’t you go up and change into that lovely green one you have, and we’ll make a move down to Simon’s?”
We both knew I was being told to wear something nicer, and I didn’t argue. Feeling guilty, I spoke up: “Can you do some magic with the apple crumble? It’s still in thedish. There are some old plates in the cupboard beside the sink to put it on.” The last thing I needed was to lose Mrs Bliss’ favourite pie dish.
“Of course, I’ve a knack for it.”
I left her in the kitchen wittering to herself about how surprised she was at my baking acumen.
Upstairs, as I changed into my nice green shirt (it was more olive) and a pair of black chinos, I wondered if it was appropriate for me to be at Simon’s. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to offer my support on what was probably the worst day of his life, but whether he wanted me there was another thing. We were hardly friends.
This isn’t about you, Arden, I told myself. Other people have problems too. Turn up and do the dishes or something, keep your head down and stay in the kitchen.
I thundered down the stairs, where a happy Kenny met me. “Sorry, lad, not really a dog-friendly environment, you’re gonna have to stay here and keep an eye on Roosevelt and Eisenhower. But I promise we’ll go on a big walk tonight when I get back.”
Kenny walked off into the living room without a second glance. “I’m getting the silent treatment,” I told Nigella.
“It’s to be expected. Right, sensible shoes, I’m afraid. That trek halfway across the county round the hill is not ankle friendly.”
I grimaced but waved her on. She grabbed her canvas bag, which had my plastic-wrapped apple crumble on top, and we made our way to the top of the garden.
The walk back around the edge of the village required some subterfuge in order to make it up the hill without being seen. We made a sharp left and walked parallel to the main road going south out of the village before swinging into a bank of trees that emerged into the field at the back of Simon’s street.
The cul-de-sac he lived on was full of 1960s houses that sat on the southern side of Lilbury, on the opposite sideof the main road to the rest of the village. Lilbury was shaped like a pregnant woman’s belly – Simon’s road was a tail pinned on at the bottom.
The street was well kempt, though. Unlike the child-centric residences around the church and school, old-age pensioners almost exclusively inhabited this area. A lot of the houses were split into maisonettes, like Simon’s, which was a two-bedroom flat on the first floor with access to a long, thin garden out the back. The intersection, where a tiny lane took you up the hill to my cottage, was a few hundred yards to the north of us. Beyond that were the backs of the few shops on the high street and then the pub.
A copse of trees ran along the fences at the back of the houses. There was a vague dirt path connecting each garden gate to the trees. Outside were many piles of firewood, wheelbarrows, and other outdoor supplies, showing that most of the residents here used the area as an extension of their gardens. Nigella let go of my arm, which she’d been holding on to since we left my house and opened a white gate to one of the better-kept gardens, which I assumed was Simon’s. I’d only ever visited the front of his house and couldn’t remember which one it was.
The door to the house opened as she did so, and a pleasant-looking woman with sandy blond-grey hair stood at the back door and spread her arms out to Nigella.
“Marion,” Nigella walked to her. “How is he? How areyou?” They embraced, and when they parted, Marion gave a shuddering exhale.
“About as well as you can imagine,” she said in a Scottish accent. She looked me over.
“My manners. Marion, this is Arden Forrest, a friend. Arden, this is Marion, Simon’s mum.”
Great. The mother. But instead of glaring at me, like I usually got from mothers, she beamed at me. “Thefamous Arden! Gosh, it’s lovely to put a face to the name. Simon’s told us all about you. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’d hoped it’d be in slightly different circumstances!”
I struggled to arrange my face in a way that hid my surprise. Simon … talked about me? To his mum? In positive tones?
She grabbed my arm and dragged me inside. “So sorry about all that business with you in the paper. How awful for you. I’m sure you didn’t need that dragged up. But what can you do? We don’t choose our family.”
Inside was a small landing and then a steep staircase that led up to the flat on the first floor. A door at the top opened into a surprisingly spacious kitchen, which was freshly decorated in greys and whites.
