I apply concealer to the dark circles beneath my eyes and a blemish on my jawline. Then foundation, a lick of brown mascara, and a hint of soft pink blusher. Nothing too much. Nothing unnatural. I dress in his favourite cashmere sweater, the colour of sea-glass, and my mid-length taupe skirt. Navy ballet pumps. No tights. The string of pearls he gave me for Christmas three years ago. The last thing I do is position the black velvet Alice band he likes then smooth my hands over my hair to tame the flyaway strands. As I do, I hear the front door open and close. Perfect timing. I congratulate myself.
I wait, hands clasped in front of me, facing the bedroom door. I picture him placing his bag down, hanging up his coat, dropping his car keys into the bowl on the hall table. I listen as his footsteps move through to the kitchen. The tap goes on. I see him filling a glass and drinking. I hear the glass on the drainer as he upends it after rinsing. There is quiet as he dries his hands on the freshly washed tea towel I hung over the edge of the sink less than six hours ago.
Then his footsteps on the stairs.
Across the landing.
The door opens and I smile. ‘Hello, darling. How was your day?’
He kisses my cheek and walks into the room, undoing the knot of his tie. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Glad to be home though. You look lovely; a sight for sore eyes.’
Nathan has become better looking with age. He has a full head of dark hair speckled with only a handful of fine grey strands. His skin is clear and even and any wrinkles he has are delicate creases rather than deep furrows. His teeth are straight and, although he’d deny it, were whitened by a London dentist a few years ago. He is slim and attractive in a traditionally English way, with good posture, confidence incubated by his private education, and sharply tailored clothes. He has always dressed well. It was one of the first things I noticed when I met him, how clean he appeared, how crisp his shirt was, how neatly trimmed his nails were, and, of course, how soft his hands were compared to the weather-beaten skin I was familiar with. People describe him as handsome now. It’s not something we would have called him back then. In the old days. Back then he had an awkward manner and no swagger. Back then, in the old days, we liked boys with a swagger.
I unzip my skirt and step out of it, remove my sweater and lay it over the arm of the chair. I slip my Alice band off and rest it on the bedside table then unhook my bra and take my underwear off while he drapes his tie over the chair and unbuttons his collar. When I’m naked he lies me back on the bed. The sheets are soft and fresh, changed yesterday, a Monday job. He kisses me from head to toe. His lips linger softly, softly, and make my skin crawl. He moves between my legs. My thighs. My waist. His hand strokes rhythmically. I breathe slowly and focus on relaxing my body. I used to try and think of Cam, but it wasn’t enough to make it anywhere near enjoyable. I am one of those women for whom sex is a chore not a pleasure. But I’m good at pretending. I’ve had years of practice. I detach myself. Go through the motions. Arch my back. Ease my hips upwards. Moan. But not too loudly. Don’t want to be off-putting. He responds to my noises with greater urgency. I twitch and twist. Scrunch my fingers into his hair. Clench and unclench the muscles in my stomach and around my pelvis as I fake a climax.
Nathan moves away from me and smiles, drunk on the false knowledge he pleased me.
‘Thank you. That was lovely. I’ve been desperate for you to come home all day.’ As I recite my lines I stare at the shaft of evening light that strikes through the ceiling.
He smiles and leans over to kiss my forehead, before manoeuvring himself to sitting on the edge of the bed. He circles his arm and grips his shoulder, wincing slightly as he manipulates the joint. I get out of bed and dress in the green sweater and taupe skirt then sit back down at my dressing table. I reposition the Alice band then lick my finger and wipe beneath my eyelid to remove a smudge of mascara.
‘Supper at seven?’ he asks as he stands behind me and rests a hand on my shoulder.
‘Yes.’ I pat his hand and smile. ‘Shepherd’s pie tonight.’
‘Delicious.’ He squeezes my shoulder. ‘I love your shepherd’s pie.’
Chapter Four
Nathan
I knew from that first moment that you were the one. My sister was right: when you know, you know.
I was back in Cornwall. At Trevose. A holiday of sorts before I left for Paris. The noise and squabbling politics of the law firm were getting on top of me. Until you’ve worked in an environment like that you cannot understand how irritating other people are. My colleagues were vacuous and lacked discipline. They were inexplicably convinced of their own self-worth when all they really wanted to do was spend money on cocaine and strip clubs. I needed some space. Needed to escape London and breathe in some unpolluted air. So there I was, in the kitchen I grew up in, and out of the blue I was hit with an overwhelming urge for a crab sandwich. I recalled Newlyn had both a fishmonger and a bakery, and given it was only a short drive away, that’s where I headed. I’m not a godly man but, to this day, I believe a greater power was in charge of me, making decisions, leading me to you.
I parked near the Tolcarne Inn and walked down Creeping Lane towards the harbour with a vague recollection of where the bakery was. It was exactly where I remembered. Pleased with myself, I pushed open the door and the bell jingled lightly. As I walked in, you looked up and smiled. It was in that instant I knew.
It makes me cringe to recall how I stood there, mute, my mind blank, a shameful pink blush inching up from my collar to cover my cheeks. You were exquisite, long hair plaited loosely, blemish-free skin which glowed, a neat pixie nose, petite but well proportioned. You reminded me of a sun-kissed china doll.
‘Hi,’ you said.
One word. Like a note of music.
Hi.
Was I supposed to reply? Say hi? Or hello or good morning? I opened my mouth, but my tongue was tangled in humiliating knots.
‘What can I get for you?’
A smile that sent shivers through me. I had to speak but still there was nothing. If I wasn’t rooted to the spot I’d have turned and bolted. I prepared myself for laughter or a disdainful sneer, but instead your brow creased with gentle concern.
‘Are you OK?’
The gentleness in your voice relaxed me. ‘Bread,’ I managed to say. ‘A loaf of bread. Please.’
Another smile. ‘Lovely. White or brown? Or we’ve got a nice one with seeds in?’
You hovered your hand, sheathed in blue, near the rows of loaves neatly lined up in red plastic trays. You glanced back at me, over your shoulder, waiting for my reply.
‘It’s for a sandwich. Crab.’
What an idiotic thing to say. Again I expected ridicule. Again I was wrong.
‘Oh, delicious! You’ll definitely be wanting wholemeal then.’ You dropped a loaf into a paper bag and gifted me another smile. ‘Wholemeal makes the best crab sandwiches. Slice the bread thick, spread both slices with a little mayo and some butter – not marg – pile on the crab meat, white and brown, then give it a squeeze of lemon and a bit of salt and pepper. Oh, it’s making my mouth water just thinking about it! Are you going next door for the crab? You should. They sell the best in Cornwall. Fresh and sweet.’
The words fell out of your mouth like a waterfall. When you handed me the loaf our fingers brushed.
Did you do that on purpose?
‘God, I tell you what, I love a crab sandwich.’
Then you smiled again.
My fingers fumbled hopelessly when it was time to pay and, stupidly, I managed to drop a handful of coins which scattered on the floor like pieces of a broken vase. I swore under my breath. My ineptitude was embarrassing. As I hastily tried to pick up the money, I was aware of you coming out from behind the counter, bending to help, your delicate fingers closing around the copper coins. I stared at your hands. Tanned skin. Softened with moisturiser. Slender fingers, nails free of tarty polish, natural, healthy and clean, filed into even arcs, a half-moon of white at their base.
You held out the coins you’d gathered and for a split second our gazes locked.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Butter fingers.’
‘Don’t be silly! Honestly, I’m the clumsiest person you’ll ever meet.’
And that was you, Hannah. Sweet and kind, wholesome, teetering along the fine line between girl and woman.
When you know, you know.
I sat on the low wall opposite the bakery and watched you through the window as you worked. It was a beautiful afternoon, mid-September, still warm – an Indian summer – and you were mesmerising. When it finally came to closing, you untied your apron and hung it up, put on your jacket and waved at someone unseen out back. You pushed the door open. Without your apron I could see you wore white cut-off shorts and a shapeless checked shirt, one made for men, I think, and a denim jacket that was a size too big. I imagined taking you shopping for expensive, well-cut clothes in the boutiques in Chelsea. The thought of spoiling you excited me.
My heart hammered as I called out. You turned and squinted through the early evening sunshine as you took a second or two to place me. Then you raised your hand and waved enthusiastically. I waved back and couldn’t help laughing. All the years I’d been searching for someone and you were right here, a few miles from Trevose all along.
‘Enjoy your sandwich!’
‘Thank you!’
Every fibre of my being screamed at me to follow you. But I had to be patient. Women are easily put off. I had to take my time. As I watched you walk away it physically hurt.
I would stay in Cornwall for another week. It meant a call to work. I explained I’d developed a bad case of shingles and asked them to delay my flight to Paris. They weren’t happy, but what else could I do? Shingles is nasty.
Over the days that followed I indulged a newfound appetite for iced buns. Every day I made the drive to Newlyn and wandered into the bakery, nonchalant, playing it cool.
‘Iced bun?’ you asked with a knowing smile.
‘They’re the best I’ve ever tasted and I know my iced buns!’
‘I’ll tell my dad. It’s his own recipe. I’d give it to you, but then I’d have to kill you, so…’ You shrugged and it was such a charming gesture I laughed.
‘I’ll have to do without for a while.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m a lawyer. I have to go to Paris, to head office. I’ll be there for a while, I think. A few months at least. They need me to sort some things out for them. I should be flattered, I suppose.’
The stint in Paris was actually part of my training, but the small white lie was worth it to see your expression change to one of awe. ‘Wow, you must be clever.’
I lowered my gaze to affect humility.
‘I didn’t even do A levels. I love reading though, and quite enjoyed history and English, but school was wasted on me. I was too naughty.’
‘I don’t believe that for a second.’
You laughed. ‘Well, not naughty, as such. But I was definitely lazy when it came to doing my homework and stuff.’ You shrugged. ‘Guess that’s why I’m here in my dad’s bakery and not a hotshot lawyer off to France.’
The bell above the door rang and another customer walked in. I wished I could tell her to go away, to come back later and let us finish talking, but of course I couldn’t.
‘I’ll be back in England for Christmas though.’
‘I’ll have your iced bun ready and waiting.’ You winked at me and turned to the lady. ‘What can I get for you?’
As I reached for the door handle, something stopped me. My sister’s words.
When you know, you know.
‘Will you have dinner with me?’
You looked surprised, shocked even, and an immediate panic took hold of me.
‘It’s, well, I don’t have many friends down here, and I’ve been at home alone for a few weeks. Climbing the walls. And I’ve enjoyed our daily chats.’
You hesitated.
‘But if you can’t think of anything worse, I understand.’
The woman in the shop glanced at her watch and huffed quietly. ‘Look, can you serve me first then sort this out? I’m in a hurry to pick up my daughter from nursery. They get cross if we’re late.’
‘Yes,’ you said to her, before turning back to me. ‘Can you—’
‘Just dinner. That’s all.’
Then you smiled. ‘Yes. Sure. Dinner. It sounds lovely.’
I took you to the most expensive restaurant in Cornwall. The chef had trained at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons. You hadn’t heard of it, which was disappointing as I’d hoped you’d be impressed, but then again your lack of sophistication was beguiling. I’d be Professor Higgins to your Eliza. I’d show you the museums of London and Amsterdam, the canals of Venice and the Statue of Liberty. I imagined us wandering through the narrow backstreets of Rome, eating in romantic trattorias, and making wishes at the Trevi Fountain. My pulse quickened.
Chez Laurent wasn’t what I’d expected. It was, if I’m brutally honest, pretentious. You ordered the fish, do you remember? It came with three cubes of something we decided was probably swede. The fillet of John Dory was the size of a deck of cards and undercooked. My heart sank as you examined the translucent grey flesh with the tip of your knife. I tried not to notice you scrape away the orange balls of salmon roe over its surface whilst eyeing the puree of mushroom warily.
‘It’s nice here,’ you whispered. ‘But it’s posh, isn’t it? I don’t think I fit in.’
‘You don’t,’ I said. ‘You are far too beautiful.’
You blushed and lowered your gaze.
‘I’m sorry about your food.’
‘It was lovely. I’ve never got on with mushrooms and I wasn’t sure if the orange stuff was for eating. The fish was tasty though.’
You were so desperate to make me happy. I’d have married you then and there, no word of a lie.
Dessert was more successful, pots of chocolate mousse scattered with flakes of edible gold and cherries dipped in white chocolate. You ate half the mousse and I had another surge of warmth towards you. You’re right. A woman should care about her figure.
Coffee came with sweets arranged on a white saucer.
‘They’re called petits fours.’
You repeated the words under your breath as you reached for a sphere of sugar-dusted apricot jelly and nibbled the edge.
Emboldened by wine I rested my hand on yours. It was electric.
‘I’d love to see you again.’
‘What about Paris?’
‘I’ll be back before you know it.’
‘You must have loads of girls you like up in London. I bet you have to fight them off with a stick.’
I toyed with the idea of making someone up to make you jealous. A colleague in the law firm. Emily or Arabella. But playing games wasn’t called for.
‘The girl I like is right here.’ I was pleased with this comment; it came out smoothly. ‘Can we have dinner again?’
‘You should come to The Packhorse with me and my friends when you get back. Meet some other people.’
I drove you back to your tiny cottage on the outskirts of Newlyn and walked you to your door. The air had chilled and there was the distant sound of a fishing trawler coming into port. A movement from an upstairs window caught my eye. I glanced up to see your mother watching us. The curtain fell back immediately. I smiled at you and you thanked me for dinner.
I thought you might kiss me. But, of course, you weren’t that type of girl.
When you know, you know.
Chapter Five
Hannah
The kitchen is silent but for the ticking clock and my own shallow breathing. I check the time again. Seven minutes to eight. Nathan sits at the table, unmoving, fists loosely balled and resting either side of his empty plate. He watches the clock like a hawk on a field mouse.
I check the shepherd’s pie again. The potato is turning from golden to overdone. I take it out of the oven, rest it on the side, and prod the crispy potato with a fork for no reason other than to appear busy.
‘You know, I think this has improved with the extra time in the oven.’ My tone is designed to appease Nathan’s mood. ‘He won’t be long. He probably missed the bus or—’
My sentence is interrupted by footsteps on the gravel path outside. Moments later, Alex pushes through the kitchen door and relief floods me. He dumps his kit bag on the floor and kicks off his football boots. His face is smeared with dirt and teenage indifference, and his white shorts are covered in a camouflage of stains from the football pitch. He bends down to ruffle the dog’s neck and whispers into her fur, and she responds with a vigorous beating of her tail on the flagstones.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ He appears anything but apologetic as he walks to the sink and turns on the tap to wash his hands.
‘And why are you?’ Nathan is glowering, staring at the wall in front of him, mouth moving in silent, tight-lipped mutters.
‘Why am I what?’
Nathan turns his head slowly to look at him. ‘Late.’
My stomach twists in anticipation of the inevitable argument and when Alex shrugs I have to bite my tongue to stop from interfering. From experience I know this doesn’t make the situation any easier.
Alex dries his hands and throws the tea towel on to the worktop. Nathan glances at the discarded cloth and visibly bristles, his lips pursing tightly.
‘Well?’
Alex rolls his eyes theatrically. ‘Rob offered me a lift but his mum was late. I was about to catch the bus, then she showed up, so I hung about because I thought going with her would be quicker than the bus, but it wasn’t because she got chatting to the other mums and we didn’t leave for ages.’
‘And you didn’t think to call?’ Nathan’s words are laced with caustic irritation.
‘I kept thinking she was nearly done.’ Alex gives a dismissive shrug. ‘Turns out they had a lot to catch up on.’
I stare at him and will him to apologise. He doesn’t need to do this. All he has to do is say sorry and sit down for supper.
‘What’s the point of having that bloody phone if you can’t use it properly?’
Alex heads towards the door.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Alex gestures upstairs. ‘Shower.’
‘Sit down and let’s eat.’
‘You waited?’ Alex’s forehead wrinkles with confusion but it’s an act. He knows full well Nathan would have insisted on waiting. He’s baiting him. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ Nathan says, spitting the words out like sharpened tacks, ‘this family eats together like civilised human beings.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Let’s just eat, shall we?’ Alex looks at me and I hold his gaze for a moment. ‘While it’s hot, love.’
Nathan reaches for the bottle of red. He pours two glasses. Alex slouches on his chair, legs kicked out in front of him, fingers toying with a fork. If it wasn’t for the leaden tension, their matching cartoon scowls might make me laugh. I make two or three attempts at starting a conversation, but the sullen silence from my son and one-word snaps from my husband ensure that very soon the only noise which accompanies our meal is the scrape of cutlery and the relentless ticking clock.
When he’s finished, Nathan leans back in his chair and wipes his mouth, leaving a greasy smear of orange on his napkin. He drains the last of his wine then taps his finger on the table. ‘I don’t think you’ve given me the receipts yet?’
Nathan smiles and my insides solidify as heat spreads to my cheeks.
‘Sorry. I meant to put them on your desk but got sidetracked in the kitchen.’
‘Can I have them?’
‘My purse is upstairs.’
‘No problem. Alex and I will clear while you fetch it.’ The lightness in his voice thinly masks an anger which hasn’t faded at all. ‘Now, if possible?’
My hands have grown clammy. I force a smile at him and imagine – as I often do – what it would be like to lean forward, close to his face, and tell him where he can stick his fucking receipts.
But I don’t.
Instead I nod and leave the table. Cass follows on my heel, her claws lightly tapping the stone floor, and waits at the bottom of the stairs as I go up to our bedroom. I lift my handbag from the chair in the corner and rummage for my purse. Humiliation burns my skin. It shouldn’t. I should be used to this by now, but it’s always hard when he does it in front of Alex. The pity on my son’s face sharpens the shame.
‘Here you go,’ I say brightly, as I walk back into the kitchen and hold out the receipts, one from the supermarket, the other from a cash machine.
Nathan puts down his wine glass and takes the receipts. My heart starts to flutter. I notice that though the table has been cleared of plates, its surface is scattered with crumbs of food. I walk to the sink and run a cloth beneath the tap, wring it out, and return to the table.
‘The cash?’
‘Sorry?’ I lift a glass and wipe beneath it, moving the cloth in steady, rhythmic circles.
‘The withdrawal? Why did you need the cash?’
I place the glass back on the table. ‘I forgot something at the supermarket, but the queues were horrific. I was worried I’d miss the bus, so rather than go back, I took some money out at the garage cashpoint and bought what I’d forgotten at the Co-op.’ The words run out of me in a nervous torrent.
‘What did you forget?’
I glance at Alex. He is staring intently at his hands, which are clasped on the table in front of him, as his mouth moves silently.
‘Sanitary towels.’
Nathan nods and puts the receipts down. ‘Why didn’t you pay for them with a card?’
‘It was only three pounds ninety and they have a minimum spend in the Co-op – five pounds – and, well, we didn’t need anything else because I’d just done the shopping at the supermarket.’
This seems to satisfy Nathan. I pick up the wine glasses and bottle and walk back towards the sink.
‘And the receipt for the sanitary towels?’
My face reignites. I turn to face him, wrinkling my brow as I gesture at the receipts. ‘You’ve got it.’
Nathan holds up the pieces of paper, one in each hand, as if doing semaphore with tiny white flags. ‘Only two. The supermarket shop and the cash withdrawal.’
I feign confusion as I open my purse and make a show of looking for it despite knowing it doesn’t exist. ‘That’s odd,’ I say. ‘It’s not here. Are you sure you haven’t got it?’
He tips his head to one side and smiles as if I’ve said something amusing. ‘Yes, Hannah. I’m sure.’
‘I don’t understand—’
‘Get the towels.’
‘Sorry?’
Alex swears quietly.
Nathan glares at him whilst talking to me. ‘Hannah, please could you get the sanitary towels you bought today?’
‘Do you have to do this?’ Alex’s words catch in his throat.
‘I’ve told you before, Alex.’ Nathan’s voice has turned calm and flat like a patch of mirrored sea in the eye of a storm. ‘It’s important to take care of the finances, watch the pennies as well as the pounds, keep a careful record of what’s coming in and what’s going out.’
He’ll mention his father any moment now. Nathan’s nothing if not predictable.
‘I know what it’s like to live with someone irresponsible—’
Ah, yes, here it is. Right on schedule.
‘—and I’ve seen the devastation that goes with it. Believe you me, if you’d seen a person you love with a ruddy great hole where their face should be because they couldn’t manage money, you’d understand.’
‘I just… I just think you should take Mum’s word for it. Why would she lie?’
My son’s words make me ache. I want to run to him and hold him tightly. I want to tell him not to worry, that I’m fine, and don’t need protecting.
