Walking Back to Happiness (31 page)

Did she want him to be there or not?

At first the letter had been a back-up plan, but now the prospect of actually seeing Michael’s friendly face again was getting real, Louise wondered if it might not be better just to drop it in a postbox, and save herself the temptation. She could feel herself getting excited, wondering if her hair was all right. What she would say if he opened the door?

Whether it was right or wrong, she felt more energised than she had done for months. Her blood seemed to be hotter in her veins.

Louise turned a corner, and suddenly she was outside his house. There was no one around in the houses opposite, and his Land Rover wasn’t parked outside. Louise’s stomach fluttered; was that good or bad? It didn’t mean he wasn’t in, necessarily.

She pressed the doorbell and waited. It wasn’t one you could hear from outside. There was no sound of footsteps or signs of movement through the frosted-glass panes of the door.

Louise hopped from one foot to the other, then rang again. Then she rapped on the glass, just in case.

Nothing. Obviously no one in.

She pushed aside the disappointment that crept up on her, and reached into her bag. Taking out the envelope, Louise eyed the postbox on the side of the house. Despite being styled as townhouses, the front doors were too modern to bother with such anachronisms as letterboxes; instead, each house had an American-style box, complete with dinky flag.

You’re doing the right thing, Louise. You’re dealing with the problem.

Slowly, she took the letter out and dropped it into the box. The lid clicked shut, and Louise turned on her heel and marched away, her heart heavier than she’d expected.

She got as far as the litterbin on the corner before it dawned on her what she’d just done – and then she felt sick. This was all about seeing Michael. Finding an excuse to see him again. Like some delusional teenager she’d manufactured her own nonsense reason to do the wrong thing while pretending it was for the greater good. She realised she’d been half-expecting Michael to come to the door, his face brightening with pleasure at seeing her again. And he hadn’t, because all that had been in her head.

Oh, Louise, you idiot, she cursed herself, horrified at her own lack of awareness.

She speed-walked back to Michael’s house on wobbling legs. It was exactly the same but now there was a bomb in the letterbox, waiting to go off.

Where had all her legal training vanished? What if someone else read it? Anna? What if they were back together? She’d been careful but maybe not careful enough; she knew divorce lawyers who could make a meal out of the few crumbs she’d mentioned.

Clumsily, Louise tried to slide her fingers inside, but the box was designed to stop people doing exactly that. Her armpits prickled with panic and sweat. She knew it was irrational, but she banged on the door anyway, just in case someone was there.

Her throat went dry. Someone
was
coming down the hall, but the shape didn’t look big enough to be Michael. Louise’s court-trained mind flipped rapidly through the possibilities, scrabbling for appropriate responses – had he moved? Was this his cleaner? Was this
Anna
?

The door opened, but she wasn’t prepared for the person who faced her.

‘Juliet?’ she stammered.

It was a small consolation that Juliet looked almost as surprised as she did.

Chapter 20

‘Louise?’

Juliet had never seen Louise look so shaken. Even though she was wearing full make-up, all the colour seemed to have drained from her and she looked about to keel over.

‘What are you doing here?’ Louise asked her, through dry lips.

‘What are you doing here, more like?’ Juliet replied. Damson and Minton rushed through from the utility room, where she’d shut them in with their muddy paws. ‘Mind these two – they’re filthy.’

Louise seemed not to notice. ‘I came to see Michael.’

‘Michael?’ Juliet felt the rare glow of being in a position to correct the detail queen. ‘There’s no Michael here. You’ve got the wrong house.’

Louise gazed trancily down the hall, but then seemed to recognise something – the modern-art clock on the wall, maybe. She couldn’t be looking at photos, thought Juliet: there weren’t any. She’d looked.

She shook her head. ‘Michael. Mike Ogilvy. He definitely lives here.’

‘Louise, he’s not . . .’ Juliet stopped, her mouth dropping as her brain caught up with itself. ‘Mark. Mike. Oh God!’ She clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘I’ve been calling him Mark! Well, Food Boy mostly. Thanks for telling me – that could have been really embarrassing . . .’

But Louise wasn’t responding with a smile. She looked as if she was about to cry.

‘Lou, are you OK?’ asked Juliet. ‘Do you want to come in? Mark . . . sorry,
Mike
, won’t be back until six-ish. He’s got a herd to value up in . . . Hey!’

Louise was swaying. Juliet reached out and grabbed her arm. ‘What is
wrong
with you?’

‘I need to get something out of there,’ said Louise faintly, pointing to the mailbox.

‘What?’ asked Juliet. ‘Have you sent your anonymous letter to the wrong place? Is he being summonsed for something? I thought that was the police’s job.’

‘Stop taking the piss!’ wailed Louise. Properly wailed, too. ‘Just tell me, can you open that bloody letterbox?’

‘Yes, probably . . .

‘Then do it. Please. For me.’

‘OK. But you’ve got to tell me why.’ Juliet wasn’t sure there wasn’t a trust issue at stake. She never opened the mailbox; the flag was always down when she arrived. Hence no clues that she’d been calling him totally the wrong name for months. Dur.

‘I will. Anything. Just . . . get it out.’

Juliet looked on the back of the door where Mark – Mike – kept his spare keys. There was a little key that she assumed fitted the mailbox, and with Louise’s eyes burning holes in her back, she unlocked it.

‘This is a bit unethical,’ she started, removing a couple of solicitors’ letters on thick notepaper, a gas bill, some pizza leaflets, a ‘you were out’ notification (shame, she could have collected that, if he’d said) and a thin handwritten envelope in Louise’s writing.

‘What’s this, then?’ Juliet looked at the envelope, as if she was about to open it. ‘A love letter?’ She looked back up at her sister and saw Louise’s eyes were glassy.

Slowly, the cogs started to turn, grinding a vague thought nearer and nearer in her mind. Louise’s strange confession about an outdoorsy man – was that
Mark
? And then him and his divorce. The little baby, the same age as Toby.

‘Oh my God,’ Juliet breathed. ‘It’s
him
. Mark’s the man you had a crush on before Ben died.’

Michael
, said a voice in her head. He’s not even called what you thought he was. That’s how well you knew him. You
idiot
. How could you even have
thought
this was anything like a new relationship?

Juliet felt dizzy, as if the walls were moving around her. Louise was talking, but the words faded in and out as her brain tried to deal with the roaring in her ears. She barely knew the man, so how could this be hurting so much?

‘It’s over, Juliet, honestly. I mean, there was really nothing there to start with. It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t even a proper affair, really. It was a flirtation that went a bit too far, when I was in shock after Ben died. I mean, Ben dying just made me wonder what was going to happen next, and—’

‘Don’t bring
Ben
into this, you hypocrite!’ spat Juliet. ‘Don’t try to use my husband as an excuse for your own tacky affair!’

Louise’s mouth dropped, and then her eyes narrowed. ‘In what way have I been hypocritical? I’m not the one going round pretending I had the most perfect marriage in the world, am I? Or have you conveniently forgotten what you told me?’

That was too much for Juliet. The outrage that had been simmering away in her for months burst out.

‘Have you forgotten what you told
me
? Sitting there with that sanctimonious look on your face?’ Juliet adopted a lecturing tone. ‘“All marriages go through bad patches”? “It’s worth trying harder”?
And all the time you were carrying on with . . .
Michael
here.’

‘I was talking about your marriage,’ yelled Louise. ‘
Your
marriage was worth saving! You and Ben were a great couple; you were meant to be together. I didn’t want to see you break up because you were going through some rough patch! It was barely even a rough patch! Ben being a bit irresponsible about money? Well, when wasn’t he? I mean, compared with the
real
, miserable rough patch Peter and I were in at the time . . .’

‘That’s right, you always have to have the definitive version, don’t you?’

Louise shot her a bitter glare. ‘You try coping on three hours’ sleep and your husband never helping because he’s playing computer games for research and feeling like everyone just sees you as a braindead mummy.
That
is a rough patch. I knew I was doing the wrong thing with Michael. I didn’t want you to get yourself into the same nightmare.’

‘It didn’t look like that from where I was sitting,’ snapped Juliet. ‘You looked like someone who was really enjoying having a bit on the side.’

‘Oh God.’ Louise put her face in her hands for a second. When it emerged, she looked wretched. ‘OK, so for a while it was amazing. That didn’t mean to say I didn’t feel shit about it too! I felt terrible and . . .’

A car pulled up outside the house opposite and the pair of them froze. A woman got out and gave them a curious look before starting to unload her shopping. There was a bootful. She’d be there a while.

‘I don’t want to have a shouting match on the doorstep,’ hissed Juliet. ‘And no, I don’t think it’d be a good idea to go inside either,’ she added, seeing Louise’s eyes flick towards the hall. She wondered how many times Louise had been in this house. More times than her? Upstairs? She felt cold.

It was bad enough realising she barely knew ‘Mark’; having her own sister turn out to be someone she didn’t know either was too much for her to process.

She realised she was still holding Louise’s letter.

‘Can I have that, please?’ asked Louise.

Juliet considered saying no, to punish her. The anger was ebbing and flowing. She tucked it in her back pocket and pulled her keys out of her jeans.

‘Here.’ She thrust her van keys roughly at Louise. Lucky that she’d driven, to fit in all the cat-visiting. ‘Go and sit in the van with Minton. I’ll be out in a minute.’

Louise looked at the keys, and Juliet regarded her sister curiously. It was so weird to see Louise out of control, nearly hyperventilating. She’d always been the one who could stay calm when the lights went off, or when someone had a nosebleed.

‘OK,’ she said, and turned to go.

‘You might want to brush the passenger seat first,’ added Juliet, out of habit. ‘Minton rides in the front. It’s a bit . . . hairy.’

Mike. Michael. Michael.

Juliet made herself say it over and over again as she sped through Damson’s routine in the utility room, filling up her bowl, putting on the radio, fluffing up her bed.

He didn’t look like a Michael. He looked like a Mark. How could you
kiss
someone and have their name wrong? It made her feel dirty. And convincing herself that the fact he reminded her of an auctioneer and – wow! – he was one, was a sign? She cringed. She’d had more mature thoughts when she was at school.

The bereavement books were right this time. She’d obviously moved on far too quickly. If anything was a sign, it was this – that she should stay out of the messy world of new relationships. Stay out of everything.

Damson curled up in her basket, easily satisfied now she’d had her walk. Juliet envied her contented snoozing. The universal ‘Do not disturb’ sign that was sleep was very tempting now, and if she hadn’t had her sister and her dog waiting in the car, she’d have gone straight home and done that.

Louise had taken the five minutes on her own to refresh her make-up, and now she was looking a little bit more like the Louise Juliet knew.

‘Jools,’ she said, before she’d even slid into the front seat. ‘I don’t want you to think Mum and I have been gossiping about you, but before you say anything else, is Michael the client you went on the date with? To the private view?’

‘Yes,’ said Juliet stonily.

‘Oh.’ Louise took a deep breath. ‘What are the chances of that, eh? All the men in Longhampton . . .’

‘And you’ve already had the one I liked,’ Juliet finished for her. ‘I don’t think it’s funny. I think it’s pretty par for the course.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning . . .’ Juliet gave up any pretence of being mature. She was angry with herself, but Louise was a much easier target. Widow Rage, plus the moral high ground, suddenly released a barrage of resentments she’d squashed down for years. They flew out of her like angry bats. ‘You always get things first. Exams. Weddings. Men.’ She paused. ‘Grandchildren. Mum running around after you. Dad lending you money for your house deposit. It’s always you,
achieving
.’

‘Oh, Jools . . .’

‘I never had anything that was just
mine
!’

‘You had Ben! You had the soulmate!’

‘Don’t—’ Juliet began, but Louise talked over her.

‘You did. No matter what you thought you were going through, it was just a hiccup. You lucked out with Ben. He lucked out with you. You’d have got through it. You’d have been fine. I always looked at your marriage and thought, Wow. They’re like Mum and Dad. They are
happy
people. They know how to be happy with each other.’

‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’ demanded Juliet. ‘Now I’ve
lost
that?’

Louise’s face fell. ‘I don’t know. You’re a hard woman to make feel better right now. I’m just telling you what I think.’

Juliet threw her head back against the headrest and Minton turned round and round, trying to make himself comfortable. He finally settled, halfway up the steering wheel, and looked sullenly at Louise, taking up his seat.