The Difference a Day Makes (19 page)

‘That’s very cruel of them in the circumstances.’

I try to shrug it off. ‘That’s business these days. I should have known. It was stupid of me to think otherwise.’ The shepherd’s pie is as good as its reputation. The creamy mashed potato and rich lamb is offering up a shred of comfort, and Gillian Bainbridge is clearly a much better cook than me. Washed down with a good glass of red, it very nearly makes me feel human again - so long as I don’t think too deeply about our predicament. Sniffing back a tear, I continue to tell Guy my tale of woe. ‘The kids’ old school won’t take them back either. Which is just as well because, as it turns out, I have no money to pay for their fees.’ I give up with the shepherd’s pie and put my head in my hands. ‘Because William had left the BTC just before he died, there’s no life cover in place. Nada. Not a sausage. I’ve nothing but a small pension coming in.’

‘Oh, Amy,’ Guy says. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

I force a smile.‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this. I’ve offloaded more than enough on you today.’

Guy’s hand covers mine. The heat of it shocks me. It burns me more fiercely than the shepherd’s pie burned the roof of my mouth. ‘I want to be a friend to you, Amy. A good friend.’

Pulling my hand away, I say crisply, ‘You are. You know you are.’ This doesn’t feel right. It’s as if I’m betraying William. ‘But I hope you know that a friend is all you’ll ever be.’

‘Amy . . .’

‘I’m still in love with my husband, Guy. I might be on my own now,’ my voice trembles, ‘but I’m not looking for anything else. I hope you don’t think . . .’

‘I don’t think anything,’ he insists. ‘I just enjoy being with you and with the children. I know what it’s like to be alone. If I can help . . .’ Then, abruptly, Guy stands up. ‘I’m sorry. All of this came out wrong. I think I’d better go.’

I take a swig of my wine and my hand’s shaking. ‘I think you better had.’

He goes to the door. ‘Call me,’ he says. ‘I won’t bother you any more unless you do.’

‘Thank you for today,’ I say. ‘I really do appreciate it. And thank you from the children.’

But I think the damage has been done. Guy slams the door behind him.

I hear his car pull away and then I can’t stop the tears. Does he think that I’m looking for someone else already? Is that what he wants? To get his feet under my table? Well, he might be a charmer and Jessica might think that he makes a wonderful daddy, but it’s way, way too soon for me to be getting so cosy with anyone. I might have problems, lots of them, but I can cope. I can cope alone. And I will.

 

 

 

I
t was a very bad idea to get drunk and phone your ex. He knew that. He knew it with every fibre of his being. Guy picked up the phone. It was an even worse idea if you were still
compos mentis
enough to realise that was what you were doing.

Despite his own misgivings, he dialled Laura’s number. It was late and she’d probably be in bed. For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether she would be alone.

When he’d come back from Helmshill Grange, having made a complete fist of telling Amy that he would be there for her whatever happened in her life, he’d decided to get very, very pissed. It wasn’t something that he did these days.When Laura had first left him, he’d briefly turned to drink as a way of getting a decent night’s sleep, but it hadn’t worked. Now he was invariably on call and, with a bottle of red wine inside you, doing a caesarean on a calving cow or delivering a lamb with a reluctance to enter the world simply wasn’t an option. So the late-night drinking had long since been curtailed.

Tonight, he didn’t care. The strong drink route to oblivion was a viable option. It was his assistant, Stephen, who was on call. Stephen who would deal with the varied crises of the livestock of their little part of the Yorkshire moors. Stephen who would crawl back into bed with cold hands and feet to snuggle up to his lovely young wife. That was the worst thing about being single and on call in the middle of the night. When you eventually made it home blurry eyed and freezing, there was no one there waiting for you.

He’d tried for years to pretend that it didn’t really matter. Now, he had to acknowledge that it did.

It had been a very strange day in many ways. He’d done a lot of things that he hadn’t ever expected to be doing - paying out for a new lawn and extensive repairs on a Mercedes being among them. But who’d have thought that he would have got on quite so well with Amy’s children. Okay, her dastardly dog might have done more than enough damage to counter their excellent behaviour, but he’d really enjoyed being with them. Even more worrying, it had made him consider whether the bachelor lifestyle really suited him after all. Wasn’t this a rut he’d just slipped into? Wasn’t it easier to submerge himself in the world of cats, dogs and farm animals than to form meaningful relationships with human beings? Did one relationship disaster mean that he shouldn’t ever try again? In trying to protect himself from hurt, had he simply denied himself the chance of happiness?

Yet look at what had happened when he’d made his first clumsy attempts to try to integrate himself into Amy’s family. Complete cock-up! She’d made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want him having anything more to do with her. And that was fine.

Except it wasn’t really.The reason he’d thrown a passable bottle of red down his neck without tasting it was that it
did
matter to him whether he saw Amy again or not. It
did
matter that he wouldn’t now be able to take the kids horse riding or hiking or to Poppy’s to fill them up with calorie-laden treats and hear them laugh and squabble and tell him stories.

He should make an effort to meet someone else, think about settling down, perhaps have a few children of his own. Was it so wrong to do that by retracing old ground? Perhaps he and Laura could simply pick up where they’d left off. He’d loved her once. Loved her enough to want to make her his wife - and that hadn’t happened with anyone else since. Well, that is until he’d met Amy Ashurst.

Amy still loved her husband and that was how it should be. Soon she was going to be moving back to London and out of his life. He would get over her. He was sure he would. It wasn’t any use if only one of them could see that they potentially could have a great future together.

Guy sighed to himself. How long did the grieving process take? Hadn’t it taken him years to get over Laura? The sound of her voice on his answerphone had still sent shards of ice to his stomach. And she hadn’t died, she’d just buggered off with his best mate. When would Amy be ready to consider another relationship? Next year? The year after? Sometime maybe never. Could he ever even begin to compete with William Ashurst or his ghost?

Guy wasn’t getting any younger and now that he’d had this epiphany, he wanted to take some positive steps to changing his life around. If Amy wasn’t available, then he’d try his luck with someone who’d made it clear that she was.

Laura answered the phone before he had the chance to further consider the wisdom of his actions.

‘Hello,’ she said, sounding sleepy.

His heart flipped, spinning back five years, as he heard the familiar tones. ‘I hope this isn’t a bad time to call,’ he said awkwardly.

‘Guy?’ She gave a delighted little laugh and his heart somersaulted again. ‘I never thought that you’d return my call.’

And he realised that this probably wasn’t the right moment to say that he never thought he would either.

 

 

 

‘
I
s it still the weekend?’ Jessica wants to know. ‘No, darling.’ At least, I don’t think it is.

‘Are we on holiday?’

‘No.’>

‘Then why aren’t we at school?’ my daughter wants to know. ‘We’re learning about a boy who gets his head cut off and is made into an elephant.’

‘Ganesh,’ my son supplies. ‘We did that yonks ago.’

Jessica looks miffed that Tom is better informed than her when it comes to Hindu gods. My son comes over to the table gingerly carrying a bowl of cereal which he puts down in front of me.

‘I brought you some Cocoa-pops, Mummy.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, and push the bowl away to join the cup of tea that Tom has previously made me.

‘Hamish is hungry too,’ Tom says anxiously with a glance at the dog who’s flat out on the floor and currently looks like he’s trying to chew off one of his own feet. ‘Should I give him some breakfast?’

‘I’ll do it later.’

‘You said that yesterday, Mummy, and I don’t think that you did.’ Even in this state I can see that Tom and Jessica exchange a worried glance. But there’s nothing for them to worry about. Really there isn’t. I’ll sort it all out.

‘Mummy will do it,’ I insist. ‘Mummy does everything.’

It’s nearly noon and we’re all still here in our dressing-gowns. Is that such a bad thing though? Does anyone really care? Has anyone missed us?

Actually, I think Mrs Barnsley phoned yesterday to find out why the children weren’t at school, but I can’t remember what I told her. Or maybe she just left a message on the answerphone. I don’t know.

Jessica’s hair looks like a bird’s nest and I should tell her to comb it or do it for her. My own hair probably looks the same. Who cares? I’m not sure that any of us has washed either. When did I last go in the shower? Perhaps if I did, it would make me feel better.

‘Mummy.’ Tom interrupts my train of thought. ‘No one’s feeding the chickens and the sheep. Or Stephanie and Blob.’

‘I’ll do that later too.’

‘If you tell me what to do,’ my son says, ‘I can do it for you.’

‘There’s no need, really. I’ll see to it.’

Hamish starts to bark and I hear a car crunch into the drive and it rouses me. Who would be calling here? A moment later and there’s a knock at the kitchen door.

‘Who can this be?’

‘I’ll go, Mummy,’ Tom says.

‘No, no.’ I lift a hand and haul myself to my feet. ‘Leave it to me.’

At the door there’s a smartly dressed couple.

‘Yes?’

‘We’re Mr and Mrs Johnson. We’re here to look at the house,’ they tell me.

My eyes widen in surprise. ‘Now?’

They turn to each other for confirmation, before saying, ‘The estate agent told us he’d called you yesterday to make an appointment.’

‘Did he?’ Funny, I have no recollection of that.

The Johnsons take in my grubby pyjamas.‘Is this a good time?’

‘Perfect,’ I say and let them in.

‘We can come back.’

‘No, no,’ I assure them. ‘Let’s do it. I want to get this damn place sold.’

They look slightly taken aback at that. But it’s the truth. The sooner I get out of here, the better.

‘There are sheep in the drive,’ Mr Johnson tells me.

‘Really?’

‘Three of them,’ he says.

‘That’s Daphne, Doris and Delila,’Tom tells them.‘They should be in the field.’

‘I’ll sort it out later,’ I say dismissively. ‘Come in, come in.’

Mrs and Mrs Johnson check with each other again and then step inside.

‘This is the kitchen.’ I wave my arm around. ‘But then you can tell that. What a dump, eh?’

The Johnsons recoil slightly. ‘It certainly needs a little refurbishment, ’ Mr Johnson ventures politely.

‘Needs a bloody torch to it,’ I say with a bitter laugh.

‘I’m supposed to be at school,’ Jessica tells Mrs Johnson. ‘But I’m not.’

I look at my children and suddenly realise how scruffy they must look. As soon as the Johnsons have gone, I must do something about it.

‘Come and see the living room,’ I say, and usher them through the door. Every time I come in here I think I see Will lying on the sofa. Sometimes I think I could actually reach out and touch him. My arm stretches out in front of me. Then I notice what I’m doing and I blink away the image. The living room - a poor choice of name as to me it feels dead, dead, dead - is empty now. As empty as it always is. ‘This has a lovely view over the garden. Marvellous. Bloody marvellous.’ I just feel so exhausted, I wish they’d hurry up, buy the bloody house and bugger off.

‘Are you quite all right, Mrs Ashurst?’ Mrs Johnson asks.

‘What?’

‘You look very . . .’ she searches for the right word ‘. . . tired.’

‘Tired?’ I start to laugh. Is that what I am? I laugh some more. ‘Tired?’ Then I sink to my knees on the living-room floor. ‘Yes,’ I say. Now I’m not sure if I’m laughing or crying. ‘I’m so very tired.’ I lie on the floor. ‘I’m so sorry. I just can’t do this. I really can’t.’ Then I curl up into a ball and I cry and cry and cry.

‘Mummy.’ I hear Tom’s anxious voice by my ear. ‘Mummy, get up.’

Mrs Johnson crouches next to him. ‘I don’t think that your mummy is very well, sweetheart. Is there anyone that you can ring to help?’

‘Yes,’ I hear Tom say. ‘I’ll call the vet.’

 

 

 

‘
M
rs Tilsley said she’d seen you with a dark-haired woman in the front seat of your car.’ Cheryl folded her arms as she delivered that nugget of information, the day’s appointment book forgotten. His receptionist had redone her fake tan and, this morning, she was an alarming shade of Paris Hilton orange.

‘Did she.’

‘She said you were up by the Bainbridges’ place.’

‘Really.’

Cheryl wore a smug expression. ‘I know it wasn’t the lovely Mrs Ashurst because she was in London that day.’

‘When you next see Mrs Tilsley,’ Guy said with a smile, ‘you might want to tell her to pay a visit to Ogilvy’s Opticians.’

Cheryl looked at him quizzically.

‘That wasn’t a dark-haired woman,’ he finally told her with a sigh as he leaned on the desk.‘It was Amy Ashurst’s dog, Hamish.’

Cheryl tutted. ‘Damn,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d caught you out there.’