Enya, calmer now, pulled up outside the cottage and parked in the road. The lights were on in the Hudsons’ lounge window. She pictured them on the sofa, watching TV in the room she knew well, and felt the exclusion like a physical thing, an ache in her breast, knowing that after the day spent, in another lifetime she would have ambled up their path and knocked on the door.
‘I need wine!’would be her greeting, and they’d laugh and sit on the sofa and Jenny would listen while Enya gave her every detail. Her friend would then come out with something funny and trite to defuse the situation and they’d eat toast and laugh, and no doubt end up making plans for their first joint window display, letting enthusiasm and giddiness overtake both their budget and their ability.
But this was not another lifetime, and Enya felt the creep of tears. It had been such a huge part of her every day, her best friend in this house along the street, somewhere else to go, someone else to talk to.
‘I miss you, Jen,’ she whispered into the darkness. ‘It’s not my fault! None of this is my fault!’ Her breath came in gulping sobs, and she took a minute to calm herself.
Next door, Maeve’s bedroom window was open. Enya remembered her remarking that, rain or shine, she could only sleep if there was a breeze to lull her into slumber and on a warm night like this, she more than understood.
It was the strangest thing, but for the first time ever, even in the immediate aftermath of losing Jonathan, she didn’t want to go inside. The green front door seemed to have lost a little of its lustre. She wasn’t keen on being met by the silence or the darkness. It had been one thing to be alone in the wake of her loss, but to now be truly alone without Jonathan’s presence was a new low. A new level of loneliness. Allowing herself a moment of melancholic nostalgia, she pictured arriving home late on a Saturday evening when Aiden was little.
Jonathan would have driven, they’d usually go for a wander around the Bristol docks on a Saturday afternoon, grab a chippy tea from the Clifton Village Fish Bar, and then they’d eat their supper on a bench overlooking the Avon Gorge, before balling the vinegar-soaked and ketchup-splatted paper and shoving it into a bin so the car didn’t smell.
They’d tootle home to Watley Down with stomachs full and mouths grease-smeared, enthusiastically singing along to whatever came on the radio. Lyrical accuracy optional. There were two rules that applied to these happy Saturdays. First, if they were mid-song when they arrived home, they’d have to sit in the car and let it finish. This fostered the belief that to switch off halfway through a song would bring nothing but bad luck. Second, when a great day and evening had been had by all, they never simply all traipsed in and went to bed. Instead, they made popcorn and settled down to watch a movie with Aiden wedged between them on the sofa.Or they’d play Risk or Battleships at the kitchen table, her least favourite games. Not that she complained, happy to be inside this bubble of love, where the winner stayed on until the best of three revealed a champion.
Simpler times, a simpler life, now gone forever. How she missed it, all of it, picturing her son in that strange house on a hill, delighted with his bloody dibber.
She walked slowly up the path and into the house, checking the kitchen, where there was no sign of Pickle, before running the tap and gulping down a large glass of water.
‘I wish you were here,’ she said to her husband. ‘I just miss you so much!’ Her words echoed.
Having made sure the French doors were locked, she plodded up the stairs. Her body would only benefit from a soak in the bath, but with fatigue pawing at her bones and drawn by the thought of getting cosy in bed, she threw her clothes into a pile in the corner of her bedroom and slipped into her cotton sleeveless PJs. Placing her bag on her dressing table, she opened her bedroom window as wide as it would go, plugged in her phone, grabbed her laptop, and climbed on top of the summer duvet, which, despite its lightweight qualities, was still too warm for this August heat. Her bedroom door she left wide open, hoping a breeze might also waft in from the window on the narrow landing.
Resting the computer on her raised knees, she couldn’t decide between watching a movie or going on to YouTube and searching for extraordinary baking. It was a secret pleasure, watching clever cake makers and confectioners creating all sorts of incredible towering, ornately decorated goodies that looked far too good to eat. It was a habit that visually satisfied her sweet tooth without adding sugar to her diet. A win-win. It also seemed funny and ironic in light of Trish’s accusations over the great blondie debacle.
Her fingers hovered on the search bar and with the new knowledge of what he did for a living, able to picture him in his swanky home office, she typed in ‘Dominic Sutherland architect’, wanting to see the face of someone who was not hostile or retreating, someone who had actively sought her out, included her, bolstered her fragile confidence.
‘I think you are so much more than a wife and mother. I think you’re a wonderful woman who could set the world alight if she so chose. A woman who has the strength to grab any life she wants.’
The breath caught in her throat as his image appeared almost instantly.About Us– the section of his company website, and there he was, smiling, wearing a white shirt open at the neck. Enya ran her fingertip over his face and took in the array of letters below his name. Even in this corporate shot, he had the air of someone who didn’t take life too seriously, as if he might have found having his photograph taken in this way a tad amusing.
The way her body reacted to his image was all consuming, a fierce attraction that she knew, if things were different, she would explore. But things were not different. She meant what she had said to Aiden, that these connections took time; what she felt for Dominic couldn’t be any more than a physical thing, could it?
She enlarged the image until it filled the screen and took a screenshot, not entirely sure why, but certain it was a pictureshewould revisit on the coldest of days and nights. It would, she knew, be the closest she got to him, unwilling to embroil herself any further in the mess that was the Sutherland household. She felt for them all, quite unable to imagine a situation where she and Jonathan would have simply bickered and avoided each other. Equally, she had seen first-hand how being caught between her warring parents affected Iris, the girl her son was about to marry, and to add toheranguish, to create more drama, was somethingshe would never do, knowing it would be Aiden who would bear the weight of his girl’s unhappiness.
Her laptop shone brightly in the darkness and the image suddenly felt a little overwhelming, overt. A little like self-inflicted torture, being shown a coveted prize that she hadn’t won.
She closed the screen down and was instantly and shockingly aware of the shape of a person in the doorway.
The scream that left her throat was loud and visceral – a call for help, as the very worst thing she had imagined since childhood was made real. A person in her room! Not only in her room but standing in the doorway, blocking her exit! And she was alone, without Jonathan, without Aiden, and without a way to avoid confrontation.
It was only when the person screamed too, as loud as Enya, if not louder, that she realised it was Holly,Holly!Her scream dried up as all the moisture left her lips, and she struggled to catch her breath; it was then laughter that filled her mouth, laughter flavoured with relief.
‘Jesus Christ! Holly! You scared me half to death!’
‘And you me!’ The girl leaned on the door-frame and bent over, breathing heavily. ‘I was calling your name, but only quietly as I didn’t want to frighten you.’
‘Didn’t want to frighten me?’ Enya placed her palm on her chest where her heart was yet to catch up that this was not a life-or-death situation. ‘Call louder next time! Or better still, text me to let me know you’re in the house!’
‘I did! I texted you!’
Enya shook her head; she hadn’t got the message or, more accurately, had not seen the text. A salient lesson to check her phone more thoroughly.
‘Oh my God!’ Holly sat on the end of the bed and they both let the sweet music of danger averted fill the air around them.
‘Are you okay?’ Enya managed.
‘Yes, I fell asleep in Aiden’s bed, and I didn’t want to leave, so...’
