Please note that I edited the little girl's name from Gemma to Emma to avoid confusing myself. I mentioned this in an Author's Note at the end of Chapter 1, but some of my early readers may have missed it.
GWEN
It's the little things that don't fit, the little things that niggle at the back of your mind, that lie waiting, ready to pounce, waiting for the right moment to rip you apart.
SIX MONTHS AGO
March
"I've got it!" Noah shouts at the doorway, drawing me into a bear hug. "They want me!"
"Congratulations!" I beam, laughing as he twirls me round and round the hall in a happy dance. I understand what it is like to like your job. I am happy with mine as an assistant curator at Fairfax Hall, a modest art gallery on Castle Street.
They is the new job Noah had applied for, as a corporate financier at Chesterwick Inc., a big London-based financial investment firm which has recently set up a branch office in Norwich. Noah has been working for the past ten years in the same small company he had started work at after he graduated from university. It is well-paid, but boring --- zero challenges, in Noah's own words --- and he has been grumbling about his deadend job ever since the day we got married.
"Mummy!" Emma, her mouth and nose smeared with mashed potato, comes barrelling out on her little legs and throws herself at me. I scoop her up and give her a smacking kiss on her soft dewy cheek. She smells of baby soap. My baby. My darling. My heart squeezes. She squeals in delight.
"Daddy has a new job! Are you happy?" I ask her, bouncing her in my arms.
"No!" Emma shouts. No is her latest favourite word. Last week, it was Yes.
"Get back to the dining table, young lady," Molly, my nanny from Heaven, warns. "You haven't finished your dinner. Oh, dear, you've got potato smears on your mummy's suit."
"It's fine, Molly."
Molly passes me a damp towel. "Back to the table this instant, Emma."
"No!" Emma toddles back obediently.
I look at Molly gratefully. What would I do without her? She's Emma's nanny; she lives nearby and drives over early every morning, fetches Emma to and from nursery school (half day, 8:00 a.m. to 12:00 noon, Mondays to Fridays) in her trusty old Toyota Corolla, and leaves at eight in the evening. Her cousin Kathy is another godsend; she is just a phone call away, and babysits for us when Noah and I go out some nights for dinner, to catch up with friends, or watch a movie. Both Molly and Kathy are a year younger than me --- I'm twenty-seven this year. Molly came highly recommended by Noah's married female co-workers --- they've all used Molly's services at one time or other, and they have all declared her an angel on earth, every working mummy's dream child minder --- and the moment Molly walked into our house and picked baby Emma up with a confidence I didn't have, held our daughter in her arms so naturally, I knew she was it. I heaved an enormous sigh of relief. Emma would be fine. I applied online for a job vacancy as an assistant curator at a local art gallery, and received an offer the very next day. The following month, I started my very first job at Fairfax Hall.
Emma is asleep.
"To good times," Noah says, grinning.
"To good times," I echo, and we clink glasses. I sip my champagne. Noah smiles. My heart catches. For a fleeting moment, I fancy there is a glimmer --- the tiniest glimmer of Lucian in that smile. I blink, and it's Noah again. I inhale sharply. What was I thinking? There is only one man in my life now, and that is Noah, my husband.
The door opens. I look up from the sofa. It's Noah. He's late. This is new. I'm the one who comes home late in the evening. He'd be at home sitting at the dining table with Molly and Emma when I walk in the door.
"You're late."
He nods tiredly, tugging at his tie.
"I know. Loads of stuff to do. Emma okay?"
"Yes, she's asleep. I'll warm up your dinner. Molly made pasta."
"Okay." He's already halfway up the stairs. "I'm going to take a shower."
I say later in bed, "So how was your first day at your new job?"
"Hectic." He yawns.
"How's your boss? Is he nice?"
"She's all right."
I stare at him. "Your boss is a woman?"
He grunts, yawns again.
"What's her name?"
"Natalie."
"So how old is she, your boss?"
He mumbles something, turns on his side, closes his eyes and in a minute, he's breathing deep.
FIVE MONTHS AGO
April
"Daddy's late again."
"Daddy has to work."
"Every night?" Emma throws up her hands. She's prone to dramatics. She'd make a good actress someday.
Inwardly, I sigh. Coming home late has become a regular fixture since he switched jobs. And I'm the parent who makes it home in time for dinner now --- what a reversal. My boss, the owner of the gallery, Stephen Fairfax, caught me harried and hurrying out after work one day, and had a chat with me the following day. He was really nice and understanding about it. You don't want to miss your child's growing up years, Gwen, Stephen had sighed, his faded gray eyes nostalgic. You'll never get them back. From now on, you leave at five p.m. sharp and not a second later. That's an order. I insist.
Noah comes home close to nine. He doesn't ask where Emma is; he knows he's missed another bedtime.
"I'll get your dinner."
"I've already eaten." Another new normal.
"Busy day?"
He shrugs. Which translates to: I don't want to talk about it. Fine.
Later, in bed:
"I was thinking we could take a drive to the beach this weekend. Emma would love it."
"Can't." Yawns --- a really big, slow one, head swivelling from left to right like an owl: Yaaawwwwnnnnnn. I can see his shiny, flossed teeth right down to his tonsils. Noah's taken to flossing religiously lately. It's a new bedtime ritual.
"I've got to work this weekend. I told you about that new project we took on, remember?" Did he? I don't know. We hardly talk these days. "You could go yourself with Emma."
Wow.
He rolls over to the other side.
"You know what, Noah, I just might."
Nothing.
I lean over, peek at him.
He's asleep, his mouth frozen mid-yawn. It is not a beautiful sight.
I am taking the day off. Molly's mum isn't feeling well, and she rang me to say she won't be able to come today.
I hurry upstairs to find Emma dressed and ready in her pink nursery school frock.
"Good girl!"
"I'm a big girl, Mummy."
I take another five minutes to tie her hair into a ponytail. She isn't happy with the strawberry clip I choose from the drawer.
"No! I want the blue unicorn clip!"
God, there must be a million blue unicorn clips inside.
"This one?"
Emma gives me a look of disgust and sighs.
"I'll find it myself. Here." Passes it to me. "Clip it here." She points to a spot. I clip it on. She doesn't seem very pleased, though. "When's Molly coming back?"
"Tomorrow." Tomorrow in Emma's vocabulary could mean any day, from the very next day to a hundred years in the future.
Emma nods grimly.
"Mummy, I want to eat my breakfast now. I don't want to be late."
She upsets her glass of milk on the table and I'm wiping up the mess when Noah rushes in.
"The kitchen tap's leaking," I tell Noah. I've been telling him for two weeks now.
"I don't have time to fix it."
He hasn't had time for the past two weeks.
"You'll be at home, won't you? Just call a plumber."
"I told you I have that exhibition coming up. I have a dateline. I'm sending Emma to nursery and then I'm coming straight home to prepare --- "
"Yeah, yeah. I get it. You're busy with your work." He says it in a way that irks me. As if my work is inferior to his.
"What are you trying to imply?" I say in a dangerously quiet tone. When I'm angry, I go icily cold. Noah knows it.
"Look, I've got to go."
"Go, then," I snap.
He's annoyed with me. He walks off in a huff and doesn't even kiss a wide-eyed Emma goodbye, like he usually does.
"Daddy's angry," she whispers as we hear the front door slam shut.
"He's just busy." I force a smile. "Don't worry about it, pumpkin."
Emma looks at me, then gets off her chair, shuffles over to me. She reaches up and gives me a big, big hug. Then she places her two chubby hands on either side of my face and turns my head down to hers. She looks right into my eyes and says simply, "Mummy" --- just one word, two less than "I love you" but meaning so much more to me. I blink rapidly to squeeze back the tears, and kiss the top of her head.
My baby. My angel. What would I do without her?
Later that night, as I kiss a sleepy Emma good night, she mumbles, "Beary Bear says Naughty Daddy never kisses us good night anymore." Beary Bear stares impassively from the protective circle of Emma's chubby little arms. My heart clenches. What do I say? I settle for a bright: "Daddy does kiss you and Beary Bear good night. You just don't know it, because you're sound asleep." I'm lying; I can't remember the last time he kissed Emma good night. The first month after he started his new job, yes, but lately, his way of saying good night is a quick grunt to me: Emma okay?
FOUR MONTHS AGO
May
I wake to the sound of Noah coming in. I check the digital clock on the side table. It's 10:20 p.m. . He comes home later and later every day. I get up, and go down.
"I'll warm up your dinner," I say, coming into the kitchen.
Noah turns around.
"Oh, that's okay. I've already eaten."
"Oh, at the office canteen?"
He nods.
I eye the Ted Baker shopping bag he's brought home with him. He's been bringing home a lot of these lately.
"For a man who claims he has no time on his hands, you sure have plenty of time to shop." I sniff him. "Have you been drinking?"
"What is this, Gwen? An interrogation? Someone at the office had a birthday and there was food and a bit of wine."
"I thought you said you ate at the office canteen."
"Well, I didn't. You just assumed I ate at the office canteen."
"You nodded. It's a sign of affirmation. You nodded, and your nod said to me, Yes, I ate at the office canteen. And now, you're telling me you ate at the office birthday party. Which tells me you lied."
He gives an exaggerated sigh.
"I was tired, okay? I just nodded because I was too tired to get into the specifics."
"What else have you been lying about, Noah?"
"Nothing," he says, glaring at me. "And I didn't lie verbally. I nodded --- there's a difference."
"What kind of shit logic is that?" I hiss. "You nodded, with an intention to mislead. That's called lying, Noah."
He holds up his hands.
"I'm not going to waste my precious time arguing with you. Don't nag, okay? You're turning into my mother."
That mother: Nag, nag, nag. That's all she ever did. Day in, day out, sunrise to sunset. Nag, nag, nag. She wouldn't stop. Drove my father up the wall.
I am speechless.
He storms out of the kitchen.
When I finally go upstairs an hour later, he's sitting on his side of the bed, looking contrite.
"I'm sorry," he says, shame-faced. "I don't know what came over me. I was an asshole and I'm sorry, Gwen." He pulls me into a hug, and I lean my head on his shoulder.
"I just wish we could have lunch together, just you and me, like we used to do." I look at him. "Maybe if I dropped in some days at your office, we could grab lunch together --- "
He hesitates. "I might not be free," he says, too quietly.
"I take it you're not too enthusiastic then."
"Look, Gwen. I'm new. I need to show what I'm made of. That I've got what it takes. I need to make this work."
"So it's perfectly okay to neglect your family as long as you're Corporate Financier of the Month, that's what you're saying?"
He stares at me as if I've transformed into his mother.
I get up without another word to brush my teeth. He doesn't stop me.
When I come out of the bathroom, he's already on his side, snoring.
Three mornings later, we're getting dressed and I say to Noah, "We could invite my mum over to stay for a while."
"Where would she stay?" He has finished knotting his tie --- a new one, I note, and in a shade Old Noah would never have dreamt of wearing: a dazzling, blinding pink. He is still ogling himself in the mirror, smacking his chin, and tracing his line of stubble. Yes, New Noah is keeping a stubble. Old Noah was almost obsessively clean-shaven.
"We could put my mum in Emma's room. Emma would love that. You know how she adores her grandma."
"I don't know --- " He's baring his teeth at himself, checking them out. He looks stupid.
"My mum's lonely. She's all alone in that big house in London. She misses my Dad, and I think it'd be nice for her to spend some time with us."
"What about our privacy? Having someone around all the time." Now he's narrowing his eyes at himself.
"That someone you're referring to is my mother," I say frigidly.
"I know, I didn't mean to imply --- "
"We could go out some evenings, spend some time on our own at night without having to hurry home."
He's tilting his chin up. Checking his nostrils. The left. Now the right.
"What about sex? It'd be awkward to have sex with your mum next door."
Sex? What sex?
"So you're saying, No," I say flatly.
He drags himself away from his reflection.
"Yes. I'm saying, No."
He walks out, whistling. Leaving me fuming.
"Be a good girl tonight, okay? Mummy and Daddy are going to that art exhibition Mummy was telling you about. Be nice to Kathy."
"Why can't Molly babysit me?" Emma grumbles.
"Because Molly takes care of you all day. She has to rest at night." I can't imagine how Molly does it. She cooks and cleans on top of minding Emma --- an oftentimes whiny, very bratty Emma. But Molly does everything so perfectly. She is a living saint.
"Be nice to Kathy. Don't be rude, okay?"
"Kathy has hairy arms," Emma insists. "Like a" --- she thinks for a while --- "hairy gorilla," she says finally.
Noah comes home early for once. Kathy arrives and Emma gives her a stern lookover.
"You didn't use Daddy's shaver." Emma sounds disappointed.
"Nope," says Kathy cheerfully. "Got a surprise when I opened my bag to find --- this." She reaches into her jeans, digs out Noah's shaver and passes it to me.
"Thank you," I say weakly.
Emma crosses her arms and says, "I'm just worried about you. I don't want you to turn into a hairy gorilla."
"She's good with Emma," Noah says, laughing in the car.
"Well, she's Molly's cousin --- it's in the genes," I laugh back.
It feels like a long time since Noah and I have smiled or laughed together. I've missed it. I've missed him. He reaches over, and squeezes my hand. I squeeze it back. We're going to be okay. Every marriage has bumps, and ours is no different. For better, for worse. You take the good times with the bad. I lean back in my seat, my hand clasped in Noah's, my heart considerably lighter than it has been in a long while.
Noah says, as soon as we've stepped into the Refreshments hall, "I need to take a leak. Must be all that coffee I've been drinking --- " and disappears into the crowd. Noah doesn't have the slightest interest in Art of any form, and I know this; his presence this evening is solely because of me. And I do appreciate it. I would be a fish out of water at those business corporate functions of his as well.
The hall is crowded with people, and almost every available space is filled with men in suits and elegant women dressed to the nines, chatting, laughing, drinking. At the far end by the window, I catch sight of Stephen and his wife, Valerie. They are engaged in conversation with someone who is hidden from me.
Stephen sees me, and waves me over. The crowd parts, and I see someone whose tall back and lean frame are painfully, almost terrifyingly, familiar.
I haven't seen him in over five years, but of course, I'd know him anywhere.
He turns and sees me.
And as he looks at me it is as if my whole heart moves over in my body and is mine no longer.
His eyes travel from the smooth hair piled on top of my head, down my black dress, to my black strappy stilettos, and back up.
People pass between us, but we might as well have been alone in the room. Everything else falls away.
And the five years go whistling down the wind.
My breath catches in my throat, the way it did all those years before at the sight of him, and I am no longer a law graduate, nor the confident Assistant Curator of the distinguished Fairfax Art Gallery. I am that foolish young girl again, barely twenty, taking my first fledging steps towards adulthood by falling in love for the first time in my life.
One of my stilettos catches on the carpeted floor, and I stumble. By the time I've righted myself and looked up, he is there, standing in front of me.
I'm nothing but liquid, and liquid doesn't do a good job of standing or walking away, so I don't move.
"Gwenna," he says, his voice low, quiet, yet riddled with everything.
Nobody has ever called me Gwenna. Only him.
My heart lurches in my chest and the memories come unbidden, beating at the inside of my head with feathered wings. So many memories. Beautiful. Happy. And sad. So painfully sad.
I look at him.
I have to swallow before I can speak.
"Lucian." I hear my voice. It is hollow, as if coming from the bottom of a very deep, very dark well. "Long time no see."
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Hello, everybody.
I wrote this chapter sneakily in the office.
I hope you like it.
Do comment. I love your comments. They inspire me to write more, and better.
Happy Easter!
Lots of Love,
Ashleigh