The Winter Children (35 page)

Francesca has left them to it, perhaps sensing that the atmosphere is less than welcoming. She is normally keen to offer a hand when it comes to feeding the children and positively relishes the
bedtime routine, the one that floors Olivia every evening: the supper, the cleaning up, the baths, stories and sleep rituals that the twins like to draw out for as long as possible.

‘Can you ask her again?’ Olivia urges. The idea of life without Cheska, even if it means less help with the childcare, seems very appealing. It’s been too much and too long.
And, now she thinks about it, too intense.

Dan sighs irritably again, but says, ‘All right. I don’t want to get her back up, that’s all.’

‘I’m sure you won’t. She is such an old friend after all. And, according to you, she might still have a sweet spot for you.’ She looks up quickly to see how he will take
this little needle.

He shoots her a look. ‘I didn’t say that. I said that years ago she might have had a little crush on me. She’s just a friend now. Okay?’

‘Okay, okay . . . Bea, please, another mouthful for me. Please.’ She slides more rice into Bea’s mouth and changes the subject. ‘I thought I might go to London actually.
I sent an email to my agent to see if I could have a chat with him about some future projects and ideas I’ve got.’

‘All right. If you think it will help. When will you go?’

With a little yellow spoon, Olivia stirs the stew in the bowl she is holding and bites back a comment. It’s always been like this. Her work has always been considered less than his because she didn’t wear a suit and leave the house at 8
a.m. every day and stride off importantly to an office. It didn’t bring in as much money as his, and it didn’t have a regular pay cheque. And even though it was writing, which he rather
admired, it was just garden writing, nothing intellectual. Not like his. But it was still her work and it helped to provide for the family. Now, in fact, it is all they have coming in. She
wonders suddenly if Dan is jealous. She’s been a moderate success, with her gardening books selling well enough to bring in some money each year. And she has an agent in London – a
fairly useless one, but still – and now that Dan is embarking on a writing project, perhaps he suddenly and unexpectedly feels inferior. She thinks of Andrew, her agent, in his office in a
tall building near Piccadilly Circus. She sent him an email today and he replied at once, somewhat to her surprise, offering to take her for lunch any day this week. He has an unusually quiet diary
and can accommodate her whenever.

She says, ‘I thought I’d go down the day after tomorrow. Is that okay?’

‘Fine with me.’ He shrugs. ‘Whatever you want. I suppose Cheska can look after the kids, if she’s still here.’

She glances over at him, cross and resentful. She has given him all these hours to write a play that she hasn’t yet laid eyes on and which appears to be no closer to being finished than it was when they arrived here. Now it seems as though he
can’t even be bothered to look after the children himself.

The image of him and Francesca close together on the sofa comes into her mind.
Should I leave them alone?
she wonders. Then she pulls herself up.
I’m being stupid. Dan has been
off Cheska for ages. There’s no way he wants anything to happen.
Then she thinks,
But what about Cheska? What does she want?

She pushes the thought away. ‘All right. I’ll book my train ticket.’ Then another thought crosses her mind. She will send another email tonight, one she’s been meaning to
send for ages. Perhaps it will help to answer the questions turning over in her mind.

Two days later, Olivia waits in the reception area of her agent’s office. It is not a glitzy building and she has to climb three flights to get to his floor, but there is something undeniably glamorous about it. In the small entrance area are bookshelves with the recent work of the company’s clients neatly displayed: picture books, paperbacks and weighty, serious
hardbacks. There’s nothing by her, of course. Her last book was too long ago to be out on show.

Behind the desk, a friendly girl, who has provided Olivia with water, taps away at her keyboard and, without warning, answers calls through her headset. The first time this happened, Olivia
thought she was being spoken to and when the girl said, ‘How can I help you?’, she started to reply, saying, ‘I’m fine, thank you, the water is lovely,’ only to have the girl talk over her with, ‘He’s in a meeting right now. Can I ask him to call you back?’
and then she guessed. It was embarrassing.

So now she keeps quiet and hopes it won’t be too long before Andrew is ready to see her. It is a relief to be away from home. The atmosphere has been distinctly odd, ever since she walked
in on Francesca and Dan on the sofa. Something about Francesca is distant and yet gleeful, while Dan seems both cross and on edge, as though something might set him off at any time. She
can’t understand why things seem to have changed, when they were all so harmonious just a short time before.
It’s the price of living with people
, she thinks.
The strain
starts to tell in the end. Maybe marriage is really just finding someone you can bear to live with full-time. Even then, it’s hard.

Dan drove her to the station this morning, still mulish and silent. It’s the side of him she likes the least, when he decides to inflict his bad mood on her but won’t tell her what
caused it.

‘Will you be okay today?’ she asked, unable to shake the habit of concern for his welfare even when he’s being sulky.

‘Of course.’ He sighed as he turned the car into the station car park and looked for somewhere to park.

‘And you know where I left the twins’ lunch? In the green tub on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Three minutes in the microwave, stir and leave for a minute. Check it’s not too
hot before they eat it.’

He shot her an annoyed look. ‘I know. I’ve done their lunch before. We’ll all be fine.’

‘At least Cheska will be out of your way. The builders are going to start bulldozing the old pool, aren’t they? She’ll be overseeing that, I suppose.’ She tried to sound
cheerful. ‘Let’s hope we can’t hear it when they start.’

Dan grunted.

‘I’d better get my train,’ she said. She leaned over to kiss his cheek, and then climbed out of the car and that was that. She can only hope he’s snapped out of his mood
by the time she gets back.

I’ll go shopping in Piccadilly after this
, she thinks,
and get him something nice as a present, to make up. I hate it when things are chilly between us.

The girl at the desk suddenly says, ‘Yes, I’ll send her right in.’ Then she looks over at Olivia and says brightly, ‘Andrew will see you now. First office on the left
down the hall.’

Andrew is happy to see her. He’s changed a little since they last met, with markedly less hair, but he is a friendly, talkative man with a seemingly ceaseless interest in his business.
They chat in his office, catching up with what’s happened over the years since the twins arrived, and then he takes her out to a brasserie down a back street, not far from the bustle and
grinding traffic of Piccadilly Circus. They weave through groups of tourists who stare up at the advertisements for Sony and McDonald’s as though this is what they have come to London to
see.

Lunch is very pleasant, the kind she hasn’t had for a long time. She eats a game terrine with fresh French bread and cornichons, and then a duck breast cooked with prunes and Armagnac, served with pureed potato and green beans. It’s hearty,
traditional stuff, and Andrew orders a bottle of very good red wine to go with it. She drinks two glasses and enjoys the light-headed feeling. It seems so decadent to be here, thinking only of her
own pleasure, when at home Dan is doing the usual demanding routine of looking after two small children.

I will definitely get him a present
, she thinks, feeling even more expansive after the wine.
Something really nice. Something he really likes.

‘So tell me about your possible projects,’ Andrew says, turning to business as their plates are cleared. ‘There’s no reason why we can’t get you a decent deal for a
book if you’ve got an idea. The last did well. You’re in a good place.’

‘Well . . .’ She feels a little shy, but she begins by talking about the research she did in Argentina.

‘I like that idea,’ Andrew remarks. ‘There’s not a massive amount of mileage in it as a how-to book but it would make a lovely coffee table piece. That’s a definite
maybe.’

Olivia feels more confident. ‘And then there’s this house we’re living in right now,’ she begins, and starts to tell him all about Renniston. His ears prick up at once,
and when she starts telling him about William and the animal hedges, he’s beaming all over his face.

‘This is a wonderful story. And stately homes . . . well, we all know the very healthy market for those. A garden restored. A garden saved,’ he corrects himself. ‘One
man’s labour of love. A garden through history.’ He nods. ‘You could really do something with that. Do you have any photos?’

Olivia brings out her phone and scrolls through some of the pictures on it. She’s taken some of the cottage garden and a few of the Hall gardens. There are plenty of the children too,
which naturally distract them from the garden project.

‘Who’s this lady?’ Andrew asks, pointing at a picture of Francesca holding Bea, the two of them smiling into the camera. ‘Is that your sister?’

Olivia laughs. ‘No. That’s Cheska . . . I mean, Francesca Huxtable. She’s the owner of the house actually. I’d need to get her permission to do a book on it, but
I’m sure that won’t be a problem. Why did you think she’s my sister?’

‘It’s only because of the resemblance.’

‘With me?’ she asks, surprised. She’s never thought they look at all alike.

‘No, not with you. With the little girl. They’ve got the same colour eyes.’

‘Have they?’ She bends over the phone for a closer look.

‘Yes. And they’re both dark.’

‘Oh. Yes. So they are. Well, Bea’s not really that dark, it’s just the light. But I can see why you would think that.’

Andrew sits back and picks up his wine glass. ‘But as you’re not related, it’s obviously a coincidence,’ he says. ‘After all, you’re their mother.’

‘Yes,’ Olivia says slowly. ‘Yes, I am.’

Afterwards, when she and Andrew have said their goodbyes and she’s promised to send him some material, she begins to walk down Piccadilly. Her happy mood over lunch has evaporated,
although she is not entirely sure why. Still, she is determined to get Dan a present. First she walks into a gentleman’s outfitters, a purveyor of country clothing, and spends a while
browsing through the ties decorated with pictures of pheasants, and the plus-fours and plus-twos that look as though they have come from a P. G. Wodehouse story. She buys a pair of thick socks that
she thinks will help combat the cold floors of the cottage, but nothing else is suitable. Dan isn’t a country gent and isn’t about to start wearing checked shirts and red cord trousers
now.

Out on the street, she gazes into shopfronts and thinks about what he might like. She mustn’t be too extravagant but she has enough money to get him something nice. Maybe a box of
chocolates from Fortnum’s. Then she checks her watch with a gasp. She’ll be late. She almost forgot her other appointment. She puts Fortnum’s out of her mind and hurries on
towards the Patisserie Valerie on the edge of St James. As she gets closer, she sees a familiar figure sitting at a table in a window, the curly head bent over a magazine, and she rushes in.

‘Claire, hello, sorry I’m late!’ She drops her bag and sits down heavily in the chair opposite.

Claire looks up with a smile. ‘Don’t be silly, you’re not.’ She leans over for an embrace. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Olivia. It’s been far too long!
I’m so glad you emailed me. So, how on earth are you?’

Olivia has worried that the meeting with Claire would be awkward after all this time, but it isn’t. In fact, it’s lovely to see her. They talk quickly for a few minutes, while the
waitress takes Olivia’s order and then brings tea. Then Olivia starts to describe everything that’s happened lately and, for the second time, she pulls out her phone and shows her
favourite pictures of Bea and Stan to Claire, ones that don’t feature Francesca.

‘They’re two and a half now,’ she says proudly.

Claire looks up at her, her eyes sparkling with tears. ‘I’m so happy for you, love. I remember what it was like for you in the early days, when it all looked so hopeless. I always
prayed it would come right for you and Dan, and it has. They’re beautiful. Doesn’t Stan look like you? I mean, he’s got Dan’s colouring but there’s a definite look of
you.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Olivia says with a soft laugh. ‘They’re IVF but not with my eggs. We had to use a donor in the end.’

‘Really?’ Claire colours lightly. ‘I didn’t know. How silly of me. I really did think he looks like you.’

‘Good! Maybe he’s getting some of my expressions just by being round me.’

Claire hesitates, then says, ‘Do you mind me asking . . . what’s it like? Having children who you know aren’t related to you? I hope I don’t sound like a buffoon, but I
can’t help wondering.’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Olivia thinks for a moment. ‘I suppose it’s like having adopted children, but more intense. First, I know that they have a big bit of Dan in their
make-up – how much is yet to be revealed. And second, I grew them inside me and gave birth to them, so they feel like mine. I mean, really and entirely mine. The hair colour and . . .’ She suddenly
remembers Andrew’s comments about Bea’s eyes and it shakes her, although she’s not quite sure why. ‘Well, all that doesn’t really seem to matter,’ she finishes a
bit lamely. ‘So it’s all good. And how are
you
?’

Claire talks a little about her life since the divorce from Jimmy and the problems she’s had with her oldest child and the strain of moving to a smaller house in a less convenient
position, while Jimmy has moved into his new wife’s ex-marital home in a very smart area of Islington. ‘It sticks in the craw somewhat,’ Claire says. ‘His midlife crisis
rewarded him with a younger wife, a nicer house, more money and only having the kids every other weekend, which is exactly how he liked it when he actually lived with us.’