His almost jovial interruption only served to irritate her even more.
‘One weekend, I understand, but three in a row, it’s not on. The weekends are all the time I get with her, I like to cook, we like to—’
‘Sorry, Ash, are you suggesting that Evie has babysat for thelasttwo weekends?’
‘Yes! And as I say, once is fair enough if you were stuck, but this weekend too, it’s not—’
‘I have to stop you there.’ He drew breath, and when he spoke his tone was quiet, as if trying to keep it between the two of them, to spare whose feelings she wasn’t quite sure. ‘Evie is a wonderful girl—’
‘She is.’ It was her turn to interject.
‘But she has never, to my knowledge, babysat for the boys on a weekend, not ever. She’s kept an eye on them maybe when one of us was late home or sat with them when we’ve been out to supper once or twice, or if Marguerite was running behind schedule, but,babysit?’ He laughed. ‘It’s not something that Leni ... I mean, she doesn’t really.’ He swallowed as if suddenly aware that she was holding the phone tightly to her face, with her heart beating too quickly for comfort and her tears gathering.
‘My – my mistake.’ She sniffed. ‘My mistake, Archie. Forget I called. I must have got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘Do you want me to get Evie? She’s just painting Leni’s nails. I can take her the phone if you like?’
‘No, no, that’s...’ She’d ended the call.
Painting Leni’s nails . . .
It conjured a picture that was so intimate, suggesting a strength of connection between the two that was something she could only dream of. In her imaginings, Evie kept the woman at arm’s length, this interloper who had stolen Ashleigh’s life; she figured Eviewould side with her, not that they were taking sides, of course, but still. Harder still was the fact that Evie had lied to her –liedto her! How many other times had she been lying too? And there was only one reason for doing so; because it was easier for her daughter to lie than admit she preferred to stay home, would rather spend time in Archie and Leni’s house,choosingArchie. This despite how very hard Ashleigh had worked to build a bridge. She felt the flare of distress in her chest and rubbed the heel of her hand over the space where it hurt most.
When Evie had pitched up the following weekend as if nothing was amiss, she chose not to mention it, doing her best not to pressurise her child, understanding that life picked up a gear at this age. It was when she had learned so much about herself, spending time with boys in the sixth form at St. Jude’s, practising for grown-up-hood that had felt just around the corner, and watching with envy as Remy and Tony danced to their favourite music and shared in-jokes that left her feeling a little excluded.
Conjoined!
This one word alone used to send them into hysterics, making her feel like an outsider. She had no idea why it was funny but was damned if she was going to ask.
Each weekend without Evie’s company was a jab to the ribs and a small erosion of her confidence when it came to her mothering skills. She had done her best to get to know her daughter, cooked for her every Saturday night and even attempted a roast dinner on the odd Sunday. They shopped together, if not harmoniously, an almost impossible task when their tastes were so different, then certainly with a sense of commitment. There were moments of laughter too that she carried in a small pocket under her heart, like the time Ashleigh had parked up so that Evie could run into the store one rainy night to get milk, chocolate and crisps, watching as her daughter left the shop and attempted to jump in a random carparked in front, getting a little confused in the dark and drizzle. It was made all the funnier as the car for which she tried the handle, and banged on the passenger window, belonged to two police officers on patrol who had not quite seen the funny side, as her teenage daughter tried to force entry with an armful of snacks.
She smiled at the sight of her sister, who now stood by the bedroom door, grinning. It was lovely to be here, like this, knowing Evie was having a good time and was just along the hallway with Bertie. At sixteen, the cousins shared a love ofCall of Duty, whatever that was, a game, apparently, that they played on Bertie’s computer.
Her sister’s village home was cutesy, with a quaint porch and roses around the door. It made her laugh, it was so twee, so perfect and just the right place for her and Midge to be, living in their blissful bubble. She didn’t envy her twin, exactly, but was certainly made aware of what she might be missing. Especially when Remy squeezed into any gap next to her husband and he, without hesitation, placed his arm about her shoulders, on her thigh, her neck, anywhere contact was possible. It was no more than Remy deserved, and was, she observed, a nice way to live. Not that it was a life for her. No matter how lovely it was to be here for a long weekend, she knew she’d be glad to get back to the hustle and bustle of London life, her regular haunts, the coffee shop and bakery where she was guaranteed a warm welcome, and the market where she took her time picking fruit and vegetables. She also missed the pristine desk, her workspace in the hallway from where she ran her bespoke agency, finding homes for wealthy foreigners who were househunting in London. It was hard work, but lucrative and, crucially, it was all hers.
‘It’s about time we started to get dolled up, and you need to put these on!’ Remy reminded her as she walked towards the bed.
‘No! Don’t even think about it!’ Ashleigh slunk down under the duvet and tried to hide from her twin, who was wearing a pairof oversized sparkly sunglasses and brandishing an identical pair in her hand. They were made up of the numbers five and zero!
‘You’re in my house, and youwillwear my celebration glasses!’
‘I’ve told you already, I’m not being fifty! I’m staying at forty-nine. In fact, I might go back to forty-eight.’ Ashleigh giggled like a teen and knew there was no better place or way to spend this day, which she had been slightly dreading. It was hard to explain why, but fifty felt like the beginning of getting old. Not that she was old – no way! In great shape, a keen walker and tennis player, her tweakments kept any threatened wrinkles at bay and her hair was still, with the help of regular visits to JoJo, her beloved hairdresser of many years, blonde and straight. But fifty –fifty!It felt a bit like turning a corner and finding herself on a one-way street. Not that she’d be sharing this with Remy, who by the look of things was intent on embracing their half century.
‘We have to wear these all night!’
‘We should be somewhere fancy! Are we sad, having a joint fiftieth with the family?’ she half joked, thinking of the kind of birthday Archie might have prepared for such a milestone.
‘Yes! We are sad, but my house is fancy, thank you very much.’ Remy flopped down on the end of the bed. ‘I’m here for it. Besides, there’s no backing out now. We have the CDs loaded, Mum’s made enough sausage rolls to build a replica of the Great Wall of China, and Sophie has made bunting, which Harper is putting up as we speak! Our guests will be arriving in approximately’ – she looked at her watch – ‘an hour, and Midge has enough prosecco chilled to ensure the evening goes with a pop!’
‘How’s Harper doing?’ It was a tentative enquiry, aware as she was that her sister worried so about her middle child, who found life trickier than most. She was a wonderful girl who was dogged by anxiety and moved as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, and Ashleigh was wary of stirring up concern when Remy’s mood was so buoyant.
‘She’s having a good day, and so let’s focus on that!’ She clapped.
‘Yep.’ Ashleigh nodded. ‘And Sophie’s so clever!’ She was, as ever, in awe of her niece’s skill with a needle and thread. ‘Can’t believe she’s found time to make bunting.’
‘I know – superwoman!’ Remy spoke with obvious pride.
It was hard to fathom how quickly Sophie had grown into a woman and was now a mum herself to one-year-old Elio, and married to the wonderful Riccardo, who was a gem.
