Walking Back to Happiness (8 page)

Because if he did, he was going to be disappointed.

‘I just wanted you to know that I’m really proud of you for going back to work,’ he said. ‘Very proud. You’re a great solicitor, as well as a great mum. But – let me say this, OK? – there’s no pressure from me to stick it out if it’s too much stress. If you decided that, actually, no, you’d rather be at home with Toby, then I’d be fine with that.’

‘I’m not—’

‘No, hear me out, Lou. I’m not trying to undermine you. I just want you to know that you don’t have to prove anything. We can work the money out. If you’re there a few months and it’s just too much . . . I’m not going to say I told you so.’

Louise looked up into Peter’s face. He was still a cute geek, she thought, but she didn’t get that shiver deep inside that she used to. His eyes were deep brown and he suited his ironically nerdy glasses. His cheekbones were sharp and Anka, their cleaner, always blushed and fanned herself if he came in after a run. He ran a lot more often, since Ben died. But just lately . . . noting his handsomeness was an observation, not an instinct.

‘I want to contribute to our family,’ she said, falling back on her best reason.

‘You do! You contribute more than I do just by bringing Toby up,’ Peter replied, almost hurt. ‘That’s the most important job anyone can have.’ He ran a hand through his dark hair and pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Let’s go next door.’

He picked up the wine bottle in the cooler. ‘Another advantage of Chez Peter – don’t need to get a cab to a late-night bar. Remember that? Chasing around London, trying to find somewhere that was open after one?’

‘And always ending up in that terrible place that you thought was a transvestite bar but wasn’t?’ Louise knew she was playing for time at the table.

‘No danger of that here.’ Peter pretended to think. ‘As far as I know. Come on, come next door. Into the Lounge of Lurve.’

Slowly, Louise took the glass and got up, blowing out the candles on the table.

In the sitting room, Peter dimmed the lights on his fancy remote control, setting the bottle and the baby monitor on the coffee table. The music had moved on to some Ella Fitzgerald collection – grown-up, world-weary songs.

He kicked off his shoes and settled himself on the big loveseat sofa they’d bought in the Heal’s sale two years before Toby was born. It was cream suede, shaped like a waltzer, gloriously impractical.

That seemed like someone else’s life, thought Louise with a pang. The days before I even considered whether something wiped clean or not.

Peter patted the space next to him.

‘C’m’ere, Lulu,’ he said, and a voice in her head told her that her husband looked devilishly handsome in the low light, his hair tousled like a film star, his eyes clearly admiring her, even in these manky old yoga pants.

Louise walked over, clutching her glass. When she sat down, Peter caught her bare feet and swung them over his lap, so she was in his arms. Gently, he removed the glass from her hand and tipped her back so they were snuggled against each other.

‘How long has it been since we had an evening to ourselves on the sofa?’ he asked, nuzzling into her neck. ‘We should do this more often.’

‘Mmm,’ said Louise. She could feel her body tensing up, even as her mind was telling her to relax, that if she just went with this, the feelings would come.

‘You know, the other thing I wanted you to know was that if you decided that it’d be easier to take some more time off now and focus on the family, then go back full-time in a few years, I’d be right behind you.’

Focus on the family? What exactly did he mean by that?

Louise said nothing, but Peter carried on, his voice slurring a little with the wine. He’d polished off most of the bottle while she’d sipped nervously at hers.

‘You’re so amazing with Toby. And he’s amazing too. I never thought I’d be one of those men who go all gooey about children, but he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I know I wasn’t as keen as you in the beginning, but . . .’ He curled his finger softly under Louise’s chin so she had to look up into his eyes and see how serious he was.

Then he said the words she’d been dreading.

‘I’d really like us to have another baby, Lulu.’

Louise’s heart sank, but she made herself smile. ‘Would you?’

‘I know we said there should be a gap, so you could get back to work, but to be honest, I just wasn’t sure how we’d cope. I think we’re coping pretty well, though, aren’t we?’ He leaned forward and traced a line of kisses from the curve of her ear down her neck. ‘I don’t think another baby would be that much more work.’

The kisses made Louise shiver, but not in the way Peter hoped.

He
would
say that, she fumed inside. He wasn’t the one waking up to deal with stinking nappies at three in the morning, or easing cracked nipples into a bra that felt like it was made of sandpaper. Peter’s vision of parenthood was based entirely on her own desperate efficiency.

She bit her lip so as not to let that out.

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think they’d go mad at the CPS if I came back from work and immediately buggered off on maternity leave again? It’s hardly professional, when Douglas had to pull strings to get me back.’

‘Let them sue you. There are rules about letting intelligent, gorgeous women have as many babies as they possibly can. Or there should be.’ He lingered in the hollow of her neck, his warm breath making a hot spot on her skin. ‘Anyway, it might not happen at once. It might take months. Which is why we need to get practising . . .’

‘Mmm,’ said Louise, because she felt that was the least she could do. Peter’s arm was round her now; he was stroking her waist, his long fingers inching under her T-shirt. ‘Peter,’ she murmured, pushing his hand down.

‘What?’

‘I don’t know if it’s the right time. I mean, Juliet . . .’

‘What about Juliet?’

‘She’s still grieving. Mum says she gets really tearful about the kids she’ll never have with Ben. I know . . . I mean, I think she was thinking about starting a family. And now she’ll never be able to.’

Peter sat up, frustrated. ‘Well, I understand that, but we can’t put our family on hold in case Juliet gets upset. Surely she’s already upset about Toby if that’s the case?’

That hadn’t escaped Louise’s notice. ‘Maybe she is. I’ve seen her with Minton. He’s like her substitute child. The way she talks to him, plans her days around him. It makes me sad, thinking she might never have a baby of her own.’

‘She will! She’s only thirty. Plenty of time to meet someone and have as many as she wants.’

‘Thirty-one. And they won’t be Ben’s. That’s the problem.’

Peter gazed at her, stroking the hair out of her eyes. ‘You know, you’re the kindest woman I’ve ever met.’

‘I’m not . . .’ Louise winced.

‘You are. You’re so thoughtful about other people. It’s just one of the many things I love about you. And that’s why I feel it’s my
duty
, as your
husband
–’ he punctuated each word with a nuzzle – ‘to make sure you’re
wined
and
dined
, and kept very, very happy at home . . .’

He hadn’t listened to anything she’d just said, thought Louise despairingly, as Peter went in for a proper, passionate kiss, holding her tightly in his arms so she couldn’t move. After a second’s resistance, Louise made herself relax and let it all happen to her, registering in her head that Peter was doing every single thing that used to turn her insides to water – from the angle of his kiss to the way his hand was caressing the curve of her waist, the one part of herself that she was completely happy about.

She let her hands roam on autopilot too, finding the soft spot behind his ear, half stroking, half scratching his head. From the muffled noises he was making into her throat, it was working for him, even if she was just going through the motions.

Louise felt as if she was floating above herself, watching the scene like one of the police forensic team. I’ve changed, she thought. But when?

At what moment did I go from someone who spends thousands on ‘an investment sofa’ to someone who spends thousands on baby clothes that last days? At what moment did my desire for this very desirable man drain away, leaving just the shell of the loving wife he still sees? Was it sudden, or slow?

Louise knew from the pages and pages of Internet advice she’d consumed over the last few months that experts would point to the moment that Toby was born, when suddenly there was a new love in her life, an irrational, fierce one that would barge all other distractions out of the way.

Deep down, though, she knew it wasn’t that. The love she felt for Toby had been the same love she felt for Peter, but magnified. It was a good excuse, the post-baby world realignment, but it wasn’t the truth. Louise’s legal mind could pinpoint the exact moment when her whole world had tilted and begun the awful slide into secrets and doubts. Lies and behaviour that she couldn’t believe was hers.

It was the day her sister phoned her and told her that Ben, tanned, cider-drinking, life-loving Ben, two years below her at school, had dropped dead of a heart attack. That had been the catalyst for all this.

‘Louise,’ murmured Peter, quite urgently. ‘Unfold your arms.’

She realised her left arm was clamped tightly against her side, stopping him from lifting her T-shirt above her head. She didn’t want Peter to touch her. She didn’t want his hands on her skin, in case something in her body gave her away and suddenly he saw that she was a very different person.

Louise’s stomach churned. This mental floundering scared her, after a lifetime of knowing her own mind with analytic precision. A new baby might bring them together; it would be company for Toby; it would be a fresh start; they were lucky enough to afford a bigger family. It might even be a little girl. On the other hand, it would mean time off work again, it would mean stepping backwards, and Louise’s eyes were fixed firmly forward now. There was no going back.

‘Louise,’ Peter repeated, and she could feel the mood draining away for him.

Come on, she told herself. You just need to get into it. Fake it till you make it. You can’t let this turn into a pattern.

She moved her arm, allowing him to stroke her back, and there was a crackle, then a distinct gurgle on the baby monitor, a noise that she knew was about to turn into a full-blown howl of outrage. Louise was ashamed at the relief that washed through her system.

‘Sorry,’ she said, pulling her T-shirt down with a rueful smile. ‘Must have sensed that coming. Knew it was too good to last.’

Peter sighed and threw himself back on the sofa. ‘How do you think he’ll feel about sleepovers? Too young?’

‘Too young, yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll sort it out. Do you want to watch a DVD or something? Pick it out; I’ll be back down in a minute.’

‘Fine,’ he said flatly, and reached for the wine bottle.

Louise bit her lip. It could wait for now. But not for long.

Chapter 6

‘If it’s a bad time, I can call back later,’ said Ruth.

Ben’s mother always said that before one of her long calls; she never meant it. The one time Juliet had tried, gently, to ask her to call back later because her own mother was there, Ruth had burst into hacking tears that were so loud that even Minton had heard them, and he’d gone running into the garden with fear. It had taken every last ounce of Juliet’s own strength to persuade her that she really did want to talk.

She had no idea where the strength had come from for the subsequent hour-long list of Ben’s wonderful skills, and funny sayings, and all the other memories Ruth felt she had to share, to keep something of her son alive.

The trouble was, Juliet didn’t like talking about Ben. She much preferred to
think
about him. Talking about him just reminded her that he was gone and wasn’t coming back. All those past tenses, and the occasional present tense thrown in to wrong-foot them both.

‘No, it’s not a bad time, Ruth,’ said Juliet, muting the television but keeping her eyes firmly glued to the couple in the blue fleeces smugly assuming their vintage soda siphon was going to make more than the fifty gullible quid they paid for it.

Don’t deserve to win. Should have listened to the expert, she thought, then shook herself.

Focus on Ruth. In need of support, just like me. Ben’s dad, Raymond, wasn’t a talker. He’d taken to working longer hours since Ben’s death – Ruth said to take his mind off his loss, but Juliet suspected it was to escape Ruth’s bewildered, furious grief.

Fifteen minutes. That was all it would take. Up until a month ago, Ruth had rung every single day; now at least she had three days of news to ask about.

‘So, how are you feeling?’ she asked, absently stroking Minton’s velvet ears.

‘Oh, I’m coping.’  The usual ‘I’m not really’ sigh. ‘I don’t think we’ll ever get over it, not properly. Not when it’s your only child. I can’t believe how people forget! Can you believe this morning, the silly woman in the post office asked me if I was going on holiday anywhere nice! Going on holiday! I can barely get myself together to go shopping . . .’

Minton slid off the seat and stood by the door, his ears pricked. Juliet patted the seat next to her, but he wouldn’t come back up. ‘People don’t understand,’ she said. ‘You can’t expect them to, until they’ve been there. Any news on the bench?’

The memorial bench was ‘the only thing that kept Ruth going’. She’d already been in wrangles with the council Parks Department about exactly where it was to be sited, what sort of wood was permissible and so on. Juliet wasn’t entirely convinced that the bench was the best memorial for Ben; he hated benches in the park, much preferring to lounge on the grass. But it was Ruth’s project, and if it gave her some practical focus for her grief, Juliet wasn’t going to argue.

‘I’ve been talking to some artisan craftsmen,’ said Ruth, ‘but I don’t want to rush it. I want it to be exactly how Ben would have wanted.’

Juliet looked around the room at the unplastered walls and the lumpy section of wallpaper that Ben hadn’t quite got round to steaming off before the steamer went back to Wickes. The Test Match had got in the way.