Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published as The Island Escape in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers in 2018

Copyright © Kerry Fisher 2015

Cover design © Alison Groom

Cover images © Shutterstock

Kerry Fisher asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2015

ISBN: 978-0-00-757026-3

Source ISBN: 978-0-00-757025-6

Version 2018-07-03

Dedication

For Steve, Cameron, Michaela and Poppy

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Roberta

Octavia

Epilogue – Three Years Later: Roberta

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Roberta

I was wearing the wrong bra for sitting in a police cell.

It was sod’s law that I’d chosen today to try out my early Christmas present from Scott. But I hadn’t dressed thinking the police would confiscate my blouse as ‘evidence’. I’d dressed thinking that sexy underwear might put my husband into a more festive frame of mind.

When we arrived at the police station, the officer who’d arrested me, PC Julie Pikestaff, led me into the custody suite. I was more used to suites containing champagne and roses.

PC Pikestaff quickly explained why I’d been brought in to the custody officer behind the counter, sighing as though if it weren’t for me, she’d be stretched out on a sun lounger in St Lucia. ‘She’ll have to take her shirt off. We need to bag it up.’

The custody officer ferreted around under the desk and handed Pikestaff a white boiler suit, saying, ‘She can put this on once you’ve booked her in. Take her cuffs off.’

The creak in my shoulder blades as I brought my arms in front of me reminded me that I needed to go back to Pilates. The stunned disbelief that had enveloped me on the journey to the police station was starting to evaporate. That boiler suit epitomised how low I’d sunk.

I tried to find the voice I used at parents’ evenings when teachers were evading my questions, but I could only manage a croak of despair.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t wear that.’

People like me only came to police stations to report stolen iPads or missing Siamese cats. I was already trying to salvage any scrap of pride I had left. Rustling around in that wretched space suit might finish me off completely.

Pikestaff waved dismissively. ‘Look, it’s just something to cover you up while your blouse is examined for forensics. No big deal.’

Before she could say anything else, two policemen burst through the door, struggling to restrain a couple of girls in their mid-twenties. One had dyed black hair, thigh-length boots and the tiniest red miniskirt. The other was in a neon-pink body stocking. The Lycra had given up trying to contain her rolls of fat, her boobs spilling out like boxing gloves. The girls snarled and flailed as much as their handcuffs would allow, straining to get at each other in a torrent of abuse.

I glanced at Pikestaff. She looked bored rather than shocked. Another run-of-the-mill Thursday night.

Except for me.

These two women made Scott’s outbursts look like tea and scones with my mother’s patchwork club. The woman in Lycra spat at the policeman, saliva splattering onto his jacket. The other one was trying to stab anyone she could reach with her stiletto boots. No wonder Pikestaff was unperturbed that a middle-aged woman like me was having a wardrobe crisis.

She shuffled me over to the end of the counter, while I tried not to gawp round at the rumpus behind us. I prayed she’d keep that pair of devil women well away from me. With my Home Counties accent and aversion to miniskirts, the only common denominator uniting us was an unfortunate choice of meeting venue. The F-word didn’t trip off my tongue either, though Scott was no stranger to it.

When it was aimed at me, I felt the word land.

Pikestaff set out a sheet in front of her. I stood next to her, feeling as though I should make conversation, but what could I say? ‘Do you get many middle-aged, middle-class women in here?’ ‘Is it always this chaotic on a Thursday night?’

I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer. I took a tissue from the box on the counter, a nasty cheap affair that disintegrated, leaving me picking bits of paper off my face.

Pikestaff ignored my pathetic little sobs and started running through my details. She scribbled away, stabbing an impatient full stop onto the paper after every answer as though there was a particularly salacious murder to solve just as soon as she could wash her hands of me. ‘Age?’ Thirty-nine. ‘Colour of eyes?’ Brown. ‘Distinguishing features?’ None. ‘Empty your pockets, please. Then I’ll just need to search you.’

I looked at her to see if she was joking. There didn’t seem to be anything funny about her. No wedding ring. I wondered if she had children. It was hard to imagine her soothing anyone to sleep. The disappointing contents of my pockets amounted to a Kleenex. She patted me down. Did she really think I had a knife tucked in my trousers? She rattled a plastic bag open. ‘I need your belt and jewellery.’

I dropped in my belt and bangle. I hesitated over my necklace. My Australian opals. Scott had brought them for me all the way from his native Sydney, his first trip home after Alicia was born, thirteen years ago. I wrapped the necklace in a tissue and placed it in the corner.

I threw in the big diamond solitaire Scott had produced with a flourish on our fifth anniversary. ‘Show that to your father,’ he’d said. ‘Told you we’d survive without his handouts.’

Every time I looked at it, it reminded me of my father’s disapproval.

Pikestaff was still making notes. Judging by the concentration on her face, no ‘t’ would escape uncrossed.

I slipped off my wedding band. The skin underneath was indented. Pale and shiny after fourteen years in the dark.

‘You’re allowed to keep your wedding ring,’ she said, barely looking up.

I held it for a moment, absorbing its mixture of memories, then slowly slid it back onto my finger.

I handed her the bag and she scrawled away, listing the contents. She thrust the paper towards me. ‘Sign here, please.’ My hand was shaking so much I could barely form the letters of my name.

‘You have the right to a solicitor. Would you like me to arrange one, or do you know someone?’

‘Solicitor? No. Thank you.’ I’d never even had a parking ticket before. Surely this wasn’t going to escalate into a proper full-blown police investigation? I was convinced that, sooner or later, one of Pikestaff’s minions would scuttle up and tell me I was free to go.

Pikestaff frowned as though I didn’t have a clue. ‘Do you want to tell someone you’re here? You’re allowed a phone call.’

Fright was taking the place of rebellion, but I declined. Scott knew I was here. That should be enough.

Surely that should be enough.

With a final flick of her papers, she picked up the boiler suit and said, ‘Right. Let’s take you down to a cell to get changed.’

My own incredulity, plus the shocking racket from the two women who were still taking it in turns to bellow obscenities, clouded my ability to think. Were they actually going to lock me up and make me strip?

‘Couldn’t I keep my blouse? Can’t I just sit in here until all this gets sorted out? I promise I won’t go anywhere.’

I think I was expecting her to make an exception because I wasn’t slurring my words, didn’t have any tattoos, and had had a shower in the last twenty-four hours.

She shook her head and opened a heavy grey door. ‘Your shirt’s considered evidence because it’s got blood on the cuff. There’s no point in arguing, we have to remove it. By force if necessary.’

I did that eyes-wide-open thing, trying to get my tears under control, but they were splashing down my cheeks then soaking into my blouse as I trailed along after her, just another Surrey miscreant to be dealt with before tea break.

Every cell door had a pair of shoes outside it. All too soon, it was my turn to feel the cold concrete beneath my feet. My patent boots looked out of place amongst the trainers and stilettos. Pikestaff stood back to let me enter, then followed me in. Pikestaff pushed her straggly blonde hair off her face. ‘Your shirt.’

I gave in. My pride was already at an all-time low. I wasn’t about to embark on an unseemly tussle with a policewoman, so I stripped off my blouse and thrust it at her without meeting her eye.

She put the boiler suit down on the mattress. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to wear this?’

‘Quite sure, thank you.’ I squared my shoulders, trying to ignore the fact that I was standing in front of someone I didn’t know in a bra with more lace than substance. Judging by the disdain on her face, Pikestaff was more of a walking boots and headscarf sort of woman.

‘Suit yourself.’

The silent stand-off fanned a tiny spark of rebellion inside me. She had no idea about my life, none at all. Let her pass judgment about what sort of woman I was. Let the whole world.

Something shifted slightly in her face. I recognised the signs of a last-ditch effort. ‘Come on. Put it on. You don’t want to end up being interviewed in your bra. There’s CCTV everywhere.’

I tried to imagine walking through the police station with a mere whisper of black lace to protect my modesty. I pictured a crowd of officers pointing at the CCTV monitor and making jokes. To my frustration, my nerve buckled. I shook out the silly boiler suit and stepped into it. As I zipped up the front, resignation overwhelmed me. I didn’t look at Pikestaff in case I found smug satisfaction on her face.

As she left, the door reverberated shut like a scene from a budget police drama. I tried to distract myself by thinking about people facing a lifetime in jail for their beliefs and what it would be like to wake up in a tiny cell every day for years. Instead I became obsessed with whether I could get out of here before I needed to use the vile metal loo in the corner. I racked my brains to remember when I’d last had a drink. A glass of wine before dinner, about eight-thirty. That was three hours ago. I prayed I’d be able to hold on all night.

I perched on the mattress, trying not to touch it with my bare hands. I wondered if Alicia was asleep. I hated the thought of her going to school in the morning all strung- out and exhausted. The memory of her bewildered face as the police marched me away, that teenage bravado long gone, threatened my fragile composure. I hoped she’d heard me shout, ‘Don’t worry, darling, it’s just a bit of a misunderstanding,’ over my shoulder as I ducked into the squad car. I hoped – probably in vain – that Scott had been more interested in comforting her than making sure she understood that ‘I’d driven him to it’.

He couldn’t really have intended for me to be sitting here in this airless pit, though. Every time someone opened the door outside in the corridor, the smell of stale urine wafted around. I saw the occasional shadow move past the opaque window to the outside, convincing myself every time that it must be Scott coming to save me. A man was singing ‘Why are we waiting?’ in the cell opposite. Whoever was next to me was trying to batter the door down. I kept jumping at every crash.

After what seemed like an eternity, a fetid gust signalled the arrival of someone. The metal shutter was pulled back. Then a dark-haired policeman I hadn’t seen before came in, carrying a paper cup. Another person to feel humiliated in front of. Sitting there in a garb more suitable for carrying out a crime scene investigation made normal interaction impossible. I didn’t even dress up for fancy dress parties. The hairs on my arms lifted with static as I crossed them over my chest.

‘Are you OK?’ His voice was gentle. None of Pikestaff’s hostility.

I shrugged, then nodded.

‘Here.’ He handed me the tea. ‘Can I give you a word of advice? Don’t turn down the duty solicitor.’

‘Why? I shouldn’t even be here.’

‘I’d have one, just in case. It can be a bit weird on your own the first time. It is your first time, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ I wanted to add, Of course.

‘Get someone to help you who knows the ropes. I shouldn’t tell you this, but they’ve taken a statement from your husband.’ He bit his lip and glanced at the door. ‘He’s going to press charges.’

I gasped. I didn’t think anything Scott did could shock me any more. I was wrong. Just a day ago I’d thought we were in a calm period. We’d discussed Scott’s next trip to Australia to check up on one of his building ventures, had a curry and watched the news. Then we’d gone upstairs and had sex, good sex.

And now he wanted to take me to court.

My God. I was actually going to need a solicitor. Lord. That meant rights and tapes and statements. I started shaking. Up until then, I hadn’t really believed Scott would go through with this charade. I wanted to throw myself around the policeman’s legs and beg him to get me out of here. I dug deep. And strangely enough, thought of my father and his favourite mantra. ‘You can get anywhere with a bit of backbone, Roberta, it’s what defines the Deauville family.’ I don’t think my father ever expected me to grow a backbone to use against him, but I was grateful for it now.

I swallowed and concentrated on breathing. ‘Could you organise a solicitor for me, please?’ My voice wobbled. ‘And I think I’d better phone someone.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll let them know at the desk.’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Stop shaking. You’ll be OK. Who do you want to phone?’

I dithered. Who would have the Get out of jail free card? Scott? Beg him to come down and tell them it was all a stupid joke? That obviously wasn’t part of his plan. My mother? No, she could transform serving up a Sunday roast into a national emergency – ‘Oh my God, I’ve forgotten the horseradish. Just a minute, get started, it will all go cold, nothing worse than cold food, come on, get eating.’ Me, my bra and the police cell would probably put her on Prozac for good. My father? I wasn’t sure whether he’d rush to my rescue or say, ‘Serve you right’.

The policeman looked down at me, waiting for an answer. I trusted him. Even his name – Joe Miller, according to his name badge – was solid. GI Joe. He looked like the sort of chap who knew how to fix a dripping tap, who could change a tyre without swearing, who could accept there might be an opinion in the world that was different from his.

‘I’d like to call my best friend, Octavia Shelton.’

He ushered me out of the cell to a side room and I told him the number to dial. I knew she’d be in bed. I imagined her spooned up to Jonathan, all fleecy nightshirt and woolly socks. I was always teasing her about her utilitarian choice of bedwear. Scott would never have put up with it. She seemed to take forever to answer. GI Joe announced himself as calling from Surrey police, quickly saying there was nothing to worry about – though that, of course, depended on your perspective. He handed the phone to me.

Relief coursed through me. Octavia would get it sorted.

She always did.

Octavia

I hated the bloody phone ringing in the middle of the night. Good news could always wait until morning. My first thought was Mum. I’d never liked her living alone in that big house after Dad died. I was awake on the first ring; it just took me a little longer to find the flaming handset under yesterday’s jeans.

I was still trying to get my head around the Surrey police announcement when Roberta came on the line. She sounded strained, as though she was being forced to speak in front of a hostile audience. As soon as she said, ‘Arrested’, she started blubbing and couldn’t get proper sentences out. I got ‘Scott’ and ‘solicitor’ and something about bringing a T-shirt. I ended up speaking slowly into the receiver, not sure whether she could even hear me.

I told her I’d be there as soon as I could, already grabbing a jumper from the end of the bed. Then the police officer came back on the phone. When I asked if I’d be able to see her, he told me that ‘detainees weren’t permitted visitors while in custody’. That did freak the shit out of me. Even though he said he didn’t know how long it would take for Roberta to be ‘processed’, I decided to go down anyway.

I pulled at Jonathan’s wrist, trying to read his watch in the dark. Nearly one o’clock. He shrugged in his sleep. I shook him. Then again, much harder. The whole family could be hacked to death with a machete and Jonathan would just tug the duvet a little higher. In desperation, I held his nose. I thought he might suffocate before he opened his eyes. Panic that Roberta might be in real trouble made me pinch hard.

When he did finally gasp into life, he squinted around as though he’d never woken up in our bedroom before. If the house had been on fire, I would have saved the three children, dog, hamster and been back for the giant African land snails before Jonathan had worked out where he was.

‘Roberta’s been arrested. I’m going to the police station,’ I said, while he was still peering round, mole-like. It really hacked me off that my husband could breathe life into any ailing computer but had the slowest thought processes on the planet when it came to getting to grips with the bare bones of a midnight phone call.

‘Arrested? Wha-? What’s happened?’ He started getting out of bed, almost knocking over his water glass. ‘Is she hurt?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘How long are you going to be?’

‘I don’t know, she couldn’t really speak. Not sure what’s happened, something to do with Scott.’

‘God, bloody Roberta. She can never have a drama at a civilised hour, can she?’

‘She can’t help it. Let’s hope she hasn’t murdered Scott,’ I said, tying my hair back with one of Polly’s school hairbands.

‘Can’t see that the world would be a worse place if she had done away with that arrogant git.’

‘Don’t say that. Anyway, go back to sleep.’ I wasn’t up for a rant about how Scott thought he was the dog’s bollocks with his great big banger of a house, even if it was the truth.

He snuggled down again but stuck out his hand to squeeze mine. I held it for a second. He was warm, as always. I flicked away the grain of resentment at having to turn out on a freezing December night to hoover up the shards of someone else’s life. Just for once I would have liked Jonathan to come and help me de-ice the car, make sure the stupid Volvo started. I snatched up my handbag and hoped Roberta hadn’t done something very silly.

Though God knows, Scott deserved it.

Roberta

By the time I knew I was going to be released, I’d been swabbed, fingerprinted and photographed like a common criminal. I’d explained everything to a solicitor, then again to yet another policewoman who kept telling me that she knew how difficult this was for me.

Actually, she didn’t have the faintest clue. Everything about Scott had been complicated: meeting in Italy when he was on a gap year and I was an art student, the ensuing courtship that survived to- and fro-ing from Australia to England, our differences in culture, manners and upbringing.

Not to mention everyone else’s opinions on the subject.

I’d tried to be that obedient girl, destined for a future with a City boy. But I was no match for Scott’s persistence. He’d torn through my staid world, bringing spontaneity and irreverence. Springing out on me in the university library, straight off the plane from Australia. Spraying ‘I love you’ in shaving foam on the Mini my dad bought me for my twenty-first. Asking me to marry him in Sydney’s Waverley Cemetery, overlooking the sea.

This softly-spoken DC Smithfield probably thought I was a spoilt housewife, clinging on to a wealthy husband so I could shop for shoes every day. I didn’t have the energy to explain that we’d toiled away together, building up Scott’s property business, renovation by renovation.

By the time I signed the caution, accepting my guilt, I was punch-drunk, too exhausted to care about anything as long as I could lie down soon on a bed that wasn’t in a cell.

DC Smithfield told me that they’d have to finish processing me outside the custody suite because they were dealing with some ‘violent detainees’ in there. I wasn’t about to start splitting hairs over my preferred exit location. She led me into the normal part of the police station, where I’d once come to report the lawnmower being stolen from our shed.

And to my delight, Octavia was sitting there. My whole soul lifted as though I’d been staggering along with a box of encyclopaedias and had just found a table to rest it on.

She rushed over. ‘What the hell’s going on? Are you okay?’

I threw my arms round her, breathing in a trace of White Musk, the perfume oil she’d been wearing since we were about thirteen. I’d be able to pick her out blindfolded. Octavia was quick to prise me off her. She preferred the Swiss Army knife approach to drama.

She stepped back to look at me, taking in the boiler suit. ‘Jesus. Didn’t know you’d be dressed as Frosty the Snowman. Did you get the T-shirt I brought in?’

I shook my head. The detective constable looked apologetic. ‘I’ll check what happened there. Anyway, you can get changed back into your own clothes now.’

‘Have they finished with you already?’ Octavia asked. ‘I thought I might be here all night.’

‘They did me first while they were waiting for the others to sober up.’

DC Smithfield gestured for me to wait while she found the paperwork.

I sat with Octavia, relief flooding through me. She leant into my ear and whispered, ‘Tell me you didn’t kill him.’

I glanced towards the desk and kept my voice low. ‘God, no, nothing like that. It’s all resolved now. I just need to collect my belongings. Things got slightly out of hand. It was six of one and half a dozen of the other.’

‘So what did happen?’ Octavia said.

‘Same old, same old.’ A sudden weariness engulfed me. I was tired of talking about what had happened, of thinking about it.

Octavia was shaking her head. ‘Hardly same old. You’ve never been arrested before.’

‘Same old, but one step further. Scott was furious because I’d let Alicia wear an off-the-shoulder T-shirt to go to the cinema. It wasn’t a sexy thing, just an ordinary T-shirt. He thought it was too tarty.’

‘So?’

My stomach clenched as I remembered Scott shouting in my face, his Sydneysider accent becoming more pronounced.

‘The Australian side of the business isn’t going well and he’s been a fight waiting to happen recently. I carried on cooking dinner, refusing to get dragged in. He wouldn’t let it drop, kept on and on, right at me, how I’m so self-obsessed I can’t see that my daughter is turning into a little floozy, and I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t disappear back to Australia with her, the usual stuff. I tried to push him away but he was standing there, holding me back with one arm and laughing.’ I paused to stop the sob leaking out into my voice. ‘Then he said it was probably a good job that we hadn’t had any more kids as I was such a hopeless mother and I just lost control.’

A look of disgust flashed over Octavia’s face. ‘Vicious bastard.’ She squeezed my hand. She was one of the few people who understood how much my two miscarriages still hurt, over a decade later.

‘I picked up the frying pan and cracked it into the side of his head. The edge caught his forehead and it poured with blood. You know me, I was lucky not to faint. I shouldn’t have done it. Though if I’d known he was going to send me here, I’d have cracked it a bit harder.’

Octavia flickered out a smile at that. ‘Whoo-bloody-hoo. Poor little Scott got a bit of a bang on the head, bless his little cottons. Presumably he didn’t bleed to death and stain the limestone?’ As the words left Octavia’s mouth, I saw her lips twitch. I started to giggle too, a spirally sort of laughter that made a good alternative to crying.

Octavia grew serious again. ‘So how did you end up here?’

‘He phoned the police. Said I’d assaulted him. So Watermill Drive had the glorious spectacle of blue lights flashing outside our house and me being escorted away in handcuffs. No doubt the Surrey grapevine is quivering as we speak.’

‘He called the cops on you? Did they not look at the fact that he’s about fifteen stone with arms like hams and you are, what? About eight stone? Bloody hell. I suppose they don’t count all the times he’s locked you out or sworn in your face? Talk about a piss-up in a brewery. No such thing as common sense in British policing, then.’

Octavia’s shoulders went back. For one horrible moment, I thought she was going to march off and start grabbing a few ties over the reception desk. I was poised, ready to grip her arm. Luckily, they were busy dealing with a drunk who was complaining that his bike had been stolen and collapsing into hysterics every time he tried to spell his name.

I attempted to answer her. ‘Scott’s behaviour has never been serious enough to report. And I shouldn’t have hit him.’

‘He bloody deserved it. Anyway, it doesn’t take a brain box to work out that he could probably stand up for himself. What was it? A scratch? I’ve got a plaster in my bag. Perhaps I’ll pop over there and put some ice on his little head while I’m at it. Maybe he’ll piss off back to Sydney and do us all a favour.’

‘Don’t. His mother arrives tomorrow for Christmas.’ I looked at the floor.

Octavia stared. ‘Tomorrow? Make her stay in a hotel. You can’t go home as if nothing has happened after this.’

‘I have to. It’s Christmas and I am not ruining it for Alicia. When it’s over, I’ll work out what I’m going to do. If anything.’

Octavia was shaking her head. ‘You can’t stay with him now. You just can’t.’ It was astonishing how much disapproval I’d managed to engender in my life.

I shrugged. ‘It’s not as though I’ve got a proper criminal record. It’s just a caution.’

‘A caution? What for?’

‘Actual bodily harm.’

‘Actual bodily harm? For a scratch and a bit of a bruise? That’s bloody ridiculous. What an arsehole.’

‘I shouldn’t have allowed him to antagonise me. I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said about the babies. You know how devastated he was at the time. And a caution doesn’t mean anything unless I want to work in a school. Which obviously I don’t.’ I tried to smile. I loved my own daughter but had nothing like Octavia’s natural affinity with kids.

‘Could you have refused to accept the caution?’

‘Yes, but if he didn’t drop the charge, then it would have gone to court.’

‘Scott wouldn’t have done that, surely? Maybe he liked the idea of you sweating in a cell for a bit. He should have married some brainless drip, who never stands up to him. What would all his beefy business mates say if they found out his missus had clouted him one with a frying pan? He’d be a laughing stock.’

Octavia knew that Scott had a quick temper but I’d been economical with how often and how ferociously we’d argued. She simply wouldn’t get it. She’d always seen marriage as a pie chart of household chores, parenting and work, with the tiniest sliver of romance and passion. The rollercoaster ride of love and anguish that I’d experienced with Scott was alien to her, though we’d never plumbed these depths before.

Octavia had her hands on her hips, waiting for me to explain.

‘Scott made a statement. He said he would definitely press charges, so the solicitor advised me to admit “the offence”, as he called it, and agree to the caution. I just wanted to get out of here.’

Shock washed across Octavia’s face. She spoke in a low voice. ‘Robbie. Where is all of this going to end? Are you going to stay with him until he’s sucked every last bit of joy out of your life? Perhaps next time he’ll get you sent to prison. You can’t go on like this.’

‘I know that.’

Octavia was expecting me to be like her. Make a decision, there and then, pack suitcases and be gone. I owed it to Alicia to get through Christmas, at least one more time. It was a massive leap from accepting that I couldn’t live like this to separating from Scott permanently. If he went back to Australia, I’d probably never see him again. My growing- up history, the bedrock of my adult life, would be wiped out at a stroke.

There would be plenty of people celebrating that.

‘Do your mum and dad know you’re here?’ Octavia asked.

‘No. I decided I didn’t need to burden them with this latest escapade. I think I’ve probably heard enough “Oh darling!” to last a lifetime.’

‘You wouldn’t consider going to stay with them for a few days?’ Octavia asked.

‘Definitely not.’ There wouldn’t be enough room in Surrey to accommodate such a vast quantity of ‘I told you so’s.

‘Come and stay at mine, then. Bring Alicia. I’ll put Immi in with Polly. You can have her room,’ Octavia said.

‘I won’t, but thank you. Alicia’s been looking forward to spending Christmas with her grandmother for months and I’m not going to disappoint her. Scott probably didn’t mean to push it this far. It’s a cultural thing. You know how he feels about people respecting him. I suppose smacking him over the head with a frying pan wasn’t quite the adulation he thought he deserved. I imagine he’ll be grovelling apologies when I get home.’

Octavia rolled her eyes. ‘Respect. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Whatever he says now doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s downright bloody cruel. Are you really going to go home and act like nothing’s happened? Cup of tea, darling? Polish your shoes?’ She was throwing her hands up in frustration. ‘Blow job?’

Black. Or white. That was Octavia. I usually envied her decisiveness. And I loved her for her loyalty. But right now, I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture on the absurdity of my life. I could see her point. I didn’t know how I was going to go home and put my Happy Christmas face on.

But going home I was.

Octavia

I sat on the bench watching Roberta sign for her stuff. I was reeling from the idea that my friend, my funny, gorgeous friend, now had a police record. I had no doubt that a week from now she’d be blaming herself and make out that Scott landing her in the clink was no big deal, simply the inevitable downside of a passionate relationship. God knows why a woman like her put up with a man like him. This was the girl who got a new boater and lacrosse stick every year while us scholarship girls were fannying about in grey gym kit and blazers several sizes too big. The girl who carried off her posh name with such ease, whereas I still cursed my working-class parents for landing me with the cumbersome ‘Octavia’ in the hope that I’d be ‘someone’, someone who’d require a name that stood out. Roberta was the girl who never had to sit out at school dances, who should have glided into the perfect life, bubble-wrapped from care, struggle and worry. But she could never pick the easy option.

I watched her talking to DC Smithfield and another policeman. The faint sense of guilt I always felt surfaced again. At heart Roberta was a goody-goody, all dainty teacups, poncey art exhibitions and god-awful obscure authors. But she’d been desperate to be my friend at school, joining me on my shoplifting jaunts, though never stealing herself, hanging out with me while I smoked my dad’s fags at the park, helping me pierce my ears with a needle we’d sterilised in some hot Ribena. The fact that my dragon tattoo was on my arse rather than my shoulder was down to Roberta taking charge in the tattoo parlour.

If she hadn’t met me, she’d probably think that taking back her library books late was a walk on the wild side. I’d introduced her to the joys of rebellion and that had led her straight into the arms of Scott, the biggest rebellion of all. I wondered, not for the first time, if I could have done more to stop her marrying him. On the few occasions I’d broached the subject, she’d made it quite clear that if we were to stay friends it was a case of ‘Love me, love my feckless, repugnant choice of husband’.

I looked at my watch. Nearly three o’clock. I was going to be knackered for open day at work the next morning. I needed to be firing on all cylinders to convince sceptical parents that my outdoor nursery with its dens and mud kitchens would inspire their toddlers far more than plastic saucepans and dolls’ prams. Bed would be good right now. The dark-haired police officer was emptying a plastic bag and passing things to Roberta. I strained my ears to hear what he was saying and managed to catch, ‘Is there somewhere you can stay for the time being until you get things sorted out?’

I wondered if he’d be so bothered about a chubby, brown-haired woman with the beginnings of a double chin and no ankles – just feet stuck onto legs.

Roberta flicked her long black hair over her shoulder. The gesture was familiar. I knew she’d be dropping her head and raising her eyes, those dark brown eyes that whistled men to her. She had no idea how attractive she was. Yet another thing Scott had squashed out of her.

‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry. My friend is going to take me home,’ Roberta said.

He handed Roberta a leaflet. ‘Don’t forget about the domestic abuse helpline. You don’t have to put up with it, but we can’t help you unless you report it.’

The words ‘domestic abuse’ shocked me. We’d both dismissed Scott’s outbursts as him ‘having a short fuse’. Roberta’s catchphrase was, ‘You know what he’s like.’ But the policeman was right.

I walked up to the desk and tried again. ‘Please come back with me. You can text Alicia from mine.’

‘No, it’s OK. I’d better get home and check on her.’

I glanced at the police officer. I wanted him to forbid her to go back. For him to have the argument with her so that I didn’t have to. His eyes flicked to Roberta, then to me, in a way that was more than just a casual taking-in of scenery. The pressure had somehow switched to me to prove I could make Roberta see sense. I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint the Plod. ‘Robbie, Alicia will be asleep by now. You can talk to Scott in the morning when everyone’s calm.’

I glanced over at Plod. He was nodding. I looked at him expectantly. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, ‘Come on, mate, you get your shoulder behind the elephant and give it a shove uphill. I’ve been pushing for over a decade now, so a bit of a hand any time soon would be a right old bonus.’

Roberta had that set face on. She managed to look tear-stained, fragile and defiant. I was quite sure that I would have looked like a lump of defeated corned beef had the tables been reversed.

Plod finally waded in with a feeble, ‘It’s sometimes better to let the dust settle, Mrs Green. Why don’t you go with your friend?’

Roberta smiled warmly and thanked him, without actually answering. DC Smithfield led her into a side room to get changed, carrying her boots for her. Everyone wanted to look after Roberta.

Except the bloke she married.

Roberta

Usually Octavia kept a very tight silence when I tried to explain away Scott’s bad behaviour. Now, as she drove me home, she’d abandoned all pretence, adopting my mother’s helpful stance of ‘But what about …?’ as though that particular set of soul-sapping doubts would never have occurred to me.

I turned away from Octavia and watched the trees flash past in the dark. I knew he could be a bastard. I didn’t need telling.

‘You can still change your mind and come to mine,’ Octavia said, without taking her eyes off the road. The immense effort she was making not to overrule me engulfed us, killing all conversation.

Octavia was so generous but I knew what Jonathan would be like. He’d pretend to be happy about me staying, then walk into the kitchen with a little too much purpose, radiating huffiness like a cat ejected from the warm spot in front of the fire. He’d snatch up my coffee cup before I’d finished and pass me my handbag every time I put it down somewhere. In this fragile frame of mind, I knew I’d also struggle with the chaos of Octavia’s household in the morning. The children would be wandering about spilling Coco Pops everywhere, while Jonathan followed them around with a dustpan and brush. I never understood how Octavia could stand the children screaming with laughter, Charlie on his drum kit, often with Stan, their huge Alsatian, barking away, far too big for their little house. And that was without the TV on in the sitting room and kitchen.

I’d trained myself to find one child noisy enough.

No, I didn’t want to go to Octavia’s. I wanted to disappear up to the second floor of my own home and lock myself in the guest suite. Every bit of me yearned to snuggle under a clean duvet, pull down the blackout blinds and blank everyone else out.

Octavia rolled to a halt under the big chestnut tree outside our house. ‘Shall I come in with you?’

‘No. You’ve done enough, thank you. I’m not going to talk to Scott now, even if he’s still awake. Don’t wait. You’re going to be worn out at nursery – go and get a few hours’ sleep.’ I gave her a big hug. Everyone needed someone they could call in the middle of the night.

I pointed the fob at the electric gates, got out of the car and walked up the lonely drive of my life, the cold slicing into my lungs. My key wouldn’t turn in the front door. I stood fiddling with it for a moment, but I knew. Of course, I knew. Scott had dropped the latch.

Bastard.

Octavia’s car still hadn’t moved. Her concern was beginning to smother me. I wanted her to go so I could sift through the debris of my life in peace, even if it meant sleeping in the summerhouse.

I flicked the fob at the garage door and it rolled back. I waved at Octavia, forcing a smile, making shooing motions with my hand. This time I heard the creak of her ancient suspension as the car lumbered into reverse.

I picked my way past the gas barbecue and huge gazebo Scott used for summer parties, in his guise as the neighbourhood Lord of the Manor. The door into the utility room was unlocked. Not a total bastard, then. I put my boots in their little space on the shelf and tiptoed upstairs. The house was still. I prayed that Scott was asleep. The morning would be soon enough for that confrontation. Our door was shut, thank God. I looked in on Alicia, bunched up into a tight ball. I smoothed her hair, tucked the duvet round her and hurried to the top floor.

I could smell the stale air of the police station on my skin. The en suite shower was singing its siren call to me but I didn’t want to wake Scott. Before I did battle with him, I needed some sleep. I stripped off my clothes, then hesitated. I put my underwear back on. Some discussions couldn’t happen naked. I climbed under the duvet, my shoulders and neck releasing tension into the fat, downy pillows. Contrary to my expectations, sleep sucked me down into immediate oblivion.

And Scott catapulted me out of it.

He strolled into the room, clean-shaven, favourite blue shirt, handsome. A more sophisticated version of the spirited surfer boy who’d enchanted me in Venice nearly nineteen years ago. Far too flaming refreshed for someone who should have been lying awake, guilt-ridden and repentant.

‘Hi. What time did you get back?’ He sounded as though I’d been up to London for cocktails with the girls. He put a cup of tea on the nightstand. I was failing to match the affable man in front of me with the vindictiveness of the previous evening.

My head felt as though someone had filled it with stones. My eyes were dry and gritty. It was years since I’d gone to bed without cleansing and moisturising. I was blinking as though I’d been living underground, my mind slowly ordering the events of the previous day.

‘I don’t know what time. About three-thirty, maybe, no thanks to you.’ I was scrabbling for accusations and anger. I had expected to fly at him, grab him by the perfectly ironed collar of his shirt and shake an explanation out of him. Instead, I was like the split beanbag in Alicia’s den, a million little polystyrene balls littering the floor, leaving an empty casing in a heap. I waited for him to piece together some fragments of the puzzle that had transported me to that pit of a police station.

Instead Scott drew the curtains a fraction, running his finger along the sill. ‘I’ve never understood why this room suffers so much with condensation.’

I hadn’t either, but unlike Scott, that conundrum was number four thousand and twenty-nine on my list of immediate worries. Silence sat in the room. I just wanted him out of there, so I could have a shower and pull myself together. ‘You’re up and about early.’

Scott rarely scheduled any meetings before ten-thirty. ‘Mum’s landing at 11.30. You never know what the traffic’s going to be like round Heathrow.’

I started. Adele! I had to get up, get going. The cleaner had changed her bed, but I needed to sort out some toiletries, towels, pop out for some flowers. I wanted to check that Alicia was OK before Adele swept in, taking over with her incessant chatter.

Scott standing there so nonchalant filled me with fury, giving life to my limbs. I felt as though I might leap out of bed and start snatching pictures off the wall to crash over his head. My throat had tightened so much, I wasn’t sure I could force enough air through it to produce speech.

‘Just so you know, I’m staying for Christmas. For Alicia’s sake. Over the next few days, I am going to forget what you did to me and do my best to carry on as normal. But when your mum has left, we need to have a serious talk.’ My jaw was so tense, I could feel my wisdom teeth grinding together.

I expected him to bristle and start off down the ‘Don’t threaten me’ route. He shrugged a brief acknowledgement. I waited for an apology or an excuse. Something that indicated that he understood I wouldn’t just brush this under the carpet along with all the other hurts that had gnawed away at the great monolith of love we’d started out with. This time he’d pushed me too far. Instead he said, ‘After you left yesterday, I took that quiche you were making out of the oven and put it in the fridge. Wrapped it in silver foil. Hope that was OK.’

Quiche. My God. I’d been in a cell half the night and we were talking about quiche. We’d be auditioning for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest next. It was like being trapped in a reality show where the participants were selected on their ability to behave like lunatics. I could easily have obliged, launching myself at him, pummelling his chest and clawing his face with sheer frustration that all the love that we’d treasured, fought for and defended, lay shattered around us, with barely enough strength to plead for one last chance.

Scott walked towards the bed as though he was going to kiss me goodbye.

Before I could react, he stopped a couple of feet away and waved. ‘I’ll be off then. See you later.’

Either he’d read my face or he saw that there was something of the great unwashed about me. Scott was a man who liked his women fragrant, plucked and waxed. I didn’t know whether I could go back to being that person now. I tried to imagine going downstairs, packing my stuff and walking out of the door.

The problem was I couldn’t conjure up any images in the black beyond.

Octavia

There weren’t many days when I regretted setting up my holistic nursery but today, two days before Christmas, was one of them. My eco-ethos meant I couldn’t fob off the kids with sticking a bit of glitter on a few polystyrene stars. Instead, we’d done a full-scale expedition down to the woods to gather ‘material’ for decorations. This had led to a couple of four-year-olds getting covered in dog poo, a little girl collecting rabbit droppings to use as food for Rudolph and another boy sitting in a puddle pretending he was a duck. The morning had ended up being less about decorations and more about turd control.

By the time I’d picked the girls up from my mother’s and popped into the supermarket on the way home, I was officially knackered. My heart lifted as I squeezed the car in next to Jonathan’s Rover. His company had obviously found a little Christmas cheer and let them go early. He could help me lug in the shopping. I’d fought my way round Tesco trying not to barge into people who’d left it until the twenty-third of December to decide they needed a Christmas pud. I’d got all the basics in place but I liked my vegetables fresh. Immi and Polly had bickered from start to finish: the illogical mind of an eight-year-old pitched against the pedantic tendencies of the ten-year-old. They were still having a ding-dong over who was having the chocolate Santa on the Christmas tree. With the last pinch of patience I could muster, I told them to ring the doorbell to ask Daddy to come and help. Charlie eventually came to answer, bringing with him the distinct smell of an unshowered teenager who’s been glued to a screen all day.

‘Where’s Dad?’

‘He’s in bed.’

‘Is he ill?’

‘I don’t think so, just said he was really tired and needed a lie-down.’

I’d give him a lie-down. As usual, Jonathan would rock up to Christmas without writing a single Christmas card or chasing the end of the Sellotape, let alone coming into contact with a supermarket trolley or a vegetable peeler. He’d then dice with death on Christmas Eve by saying, ‘Did we send a card to the boss and his wife?’

I slammed the boot shut, shoved a couple of carrier bags at Charlie and stomped up the stairs. I burst into our bedroom to find Jonathan in his Y-fronts, face down on the bed, shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm of deep sleep. I shook him.

‘Jonathan. Jonathan. Do you think you could give me a hand to bring the shopping in?’

He gurgled and snuffled his way back into consciousness.

‘What are you doing in bed? I need help with the bags. Now would be good.’

Jonathan rolled over and groaned. ‘Can you get Charlie to do it?’

‘I can, but given that you’ve got the afternoon off, perhaps you might like to move your lard and lend a hand rather than tipping up on Christmas Day wondering how the fairies did such a marvellous job. I’ve had a gutful of the girls going at each other, so feel free to chip in.’

He pulled himself into a sitting position and ran his hands over his face. ‘I haven’t got the afternoon off.’

‘What’s the matter with you then? Are you ill?’

‘No.’ He hugged his knees into his chest. ‘I’ve been made redundant.’

All my aggression seeped away. Guilt rushed into the space left behind. I hadn’t seen that coming. I didn’t know what to say. I sat down on the bed and reached for his hand. ‘Bloody hell. When did they spring that one on you?’

‘As soon as we got in this morning. Called in five of us, one after the other.’ Jonathan’s voice was flat, monotone. His face was pale and blotchy. I hoped he hadn’t been crying. One of the things I loved most about Jonathan was that he was solid. Resilient. Which was just as well because my wifely qualities were a bit sparse in the knee-patting category.

‘Why you? They were telling you how crucial you were to their management strategy in your last review.’

‘Cost-cutting. We need to be able to compete with the Asian market and there are plenty of bright young things coming in from university who can do what I do, maybe not better, but certainly cheaper. Seems that experience in computing isn’t as important as I thought. So “Cheers, mate, thanks for all your hard work, of course there’ll be a period of ‘consultation’ but don’t forget your jacket on the way out.”’

‘Wankers. They’ve always been out with the old and in with the new. Think of all those bloody Bank Holidays you’ve worked because there was no one else they could trust to keep the systems running.’ I could understand how people stormed back into their former workplaces and smashed everything up. I needed to step away from the mallet myself.

I snuggled up to him. ‘Poor you.’ I couldn’t imagine Jonathan without a job. That’s what he did. Got up and went to work every day. He took a boffin-like pleasure in being ‘in computers’, a geeky delight in the ‘sounds very clever’ comments from people who didn’t want him to elaborate further in case they had no idea what he was on about. Shock was giving way to practicalities. How would I cope with him in the house every day while I rushed three children out to school and went to work myself?

The volcano effect was my forte – the most pressing thing came to the priority surface. Jonathan, on the other hand, spent any time when he wasn’t being a workaholic tutting over milk cartons opened in non-date order, spoons in the fork section of the cutlery drawer and tea towels gaily discarded on the back of chairs. Disorder caused him pain, whereas the kids and I didn’t even notice.

When I’d unexpectedly found myself with the proverbial bun in the oven, aged twenty-two, I’d been grateful for Jonathan’s practical approach to life. Over the years, though, the über-organisation Jonathan required became a barrier to having fun. God forbid a trace of paint, glitter or glue should sully our kitchen table after a craft session with the kids. His latest obsession – putting the honey on a little square of kitchen roll in case it left a sticky ring on the shelf – made me want to drizzle it around the skirting boards and stick Stan’s dog hairs in it. The idea of Jonathan lying in wait when I trollied in after work, leaving a trail of shoes, coats and bags, didn’t spell harmony for us.

It seemed the wrong time to mention the little matter of money, but I’d never been good at picking my moment. We couldn’t survive on my wage as a nursery manager.

‘Did they give any indication of your package?’

‘Statutory pay.’ He looked down at his hands.

I didn’t want to turn the knife by asking for an exact figure – though my mind was working out a savings versus mortgage payment ratio – but anything statutory didn’t sound good. It was too late to do any Christmas cost-cutting. I was regretting the XBox splurge, cross with myself for letting Charlie suck me in with his ‘everyone’s got one’.

I found a smile. ‘Never mind, love. On the upside, you won’t be called in on New Year’s Day and you can have a proper holiday, a real rest. There’ll be something out there for you, something better. In the meantime, it’ll be great to have you at home.’

I turned to hug him. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered.

I kissed the top of his head and went downstairs to heave in the shopping.

And yes, I had sent a bloody Christmas card to the boss and his wife.

Roberta

‘Happy Christmas, beautiful. Thought we’d get the day off to a good start.’

Seasonal goodwill to irrational men and jailbait wives was shining all around, from Scott’s perspective at least. I was still sleeping in the guest suite. When Adele had arrived in her usual whirlwind of news from Down Under a couple of days before, Scott and I had embraced an entente cordiale worthy of the Middle East, all ‘Coffee, darling? Sauv Blanc or Chablis? Soup or salad?’ As soon as Adele and Alicia were in bed, I’d retreat up to the second floor, with barely a hiss goodnight.

Now here he was, holding out a glass of pink champagne, like every other Christmas.

I took it, resting the delicate stem on my stomach, trapped between so much and so little to say. Scott took a large swig from his glass, then sat on the edge of the bed.

I knew that look.

He pulled back the edge of the duvet, looking playful and cheeky, the same sun-kissed maverick I’d met in Italy where I’d been studying art history a lifetime ago. He was nothing like the boys I’d known before who twiddled away at me as though they were trying to tune into Capital Radio, downing pints and not thinking beyond their summer bar jobs. I’d spent three days resisting having sex with him before he headed off on his bus tour, promising to write. Octavia – as usual – had teased me something rotten. ‘Australian sex-god meets Britain’s answer to Mother Teresa. You won’t hear from him again.’ She was wrong. At twenty-two, Scott knew what he wanted from the world – money, property, status – and me.

‘You’ve got a gorgeous body,’ he said, leaning over to kiss my neck. I turned my head away.

‘Come on. We always have sex on Christmas Day.’

‘This isn’t like any other Christmas Day though, is it?’ I said.

‘It could be.’

‘How can it be? Really, Scott, how can it? Do you understand this goes beyond one of our normal rows? That you have actually overstepped a line?’ I slammed my glass down on the nightstand.

‘You know I didn’t mean it. I got carried away in the heat of the moment. I’d had such a tough day. The bank pulling the plug on that property up in Queensland, that venture capital guy messing me around. I took it out on the wrong person. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said.’ He paused. ‘It still does me in, too, you know. I would have loved those babies.’

There was no mistaking the tight knot of rage in my stomach, even though I wanted to believe that he was sorry. God, I was desperate to accept he was so sorry that he was coming apart at the seams, trembling in his shoes about whether I would forgive him this time. However furious I’d become in the past, I’d never truly considered leaving him.

But then he’d never taunted me about my babies before.

A door banged downstairs. Alicia would be getting ready for our present-opening ritual. I shrugged, unable to voice any thoughts that wouldn’t inflame me further. Christmas morning wasn’t the right morning to embark on a big discussion because I had no idea where it might end. Octavia had been right all those years ago: Scott was too unpredictable, though that was rich coming from her.

It was one of the things I’d loved about him.

I sipped my champagne, feeling the bubbles spread their soothing tendrils through me.

Scott was the picture of contrite. He smoothed a strand of hair behind my ear. I shook him off. ‘Come on, doll. I made a big mistake. What can I do to make it up to you?’

I drew my knees up to my chest. I could still feel the stickiness and grime of that police cell no matter how many times I showered. ‘Nothing.’

‘It’s Christmas. Let’s enjoy ourselves. For Alicia’s sake.’

I wavered, unsure whether Scott was just trying to weasel his way out of trouble or was genuinely regretful. I did want Alicia to have a lovely day.

In case lovely days were suddenly in short supply.

Maybe, over time, I could forgive him.

He swung round to face me, his index finger under the silk shoulder strap of my nightie.

But definitely not yet.

‘No. Just no. Get off.’

He stood up, backing away, hands raised in surrender. ‘OK, OK. No need to turn nasty.’

Pot. Kettle.

I got out of bed. ‘Come on, we need to get downstairs. Alicia still gets excited about presents.’

Scott drained his glass, shaking his head as though I was completely irrational. He paused at the door. ‘I hope you’re not going to spoil today by sulking.’

I waited until he’d disappeared downstairs to hurl a pillow at the wall.

I heard Alicia shouting down the landing. ‘Mum? Mum? When are we doing presents?’

I called down to her. ‘I’m up here. Shower’s not working properly in our bedroom. Be down in a mo. Can you see if Granny Adele wants a cup of coffee?’

As soon as I arrived in the kitchen, Adele was right there, getting in the way of the fridge, standing in front of every cupboard I wanted to open, like a dog I’d forgotten to feed.

‘Where’s Scotty?’ she said. ‘He used to love Christmas, first one up. When my Jack was alive, we’d all get up at six to make the most of the day. I used to buy kilos of potatoes, parboil them, fluff them up in the colander. And Jack, he was in charge of the turkey. We used to get it from Mr Saunders. His is the house on the corner of our road, you know, the one with the blue gates and the boat-shaped bird table on the front lawn …’

Endless detail rained down in the strong Scottish accent Adele had retained despite emigrating to Australia in her late teens, fifty years earlier. I put the coffee machine in motion and nipped into the loo to text Octavia. She’d sounded wrung-out when she’d filled me in on Jonathan’s redundancy the day before. With three kids who all came with a bewildering array of after-school activities, I knew they struggled to keep their heads above water even when Jonathan was earning. I wondered how I could persuade Octavia to let me lend her some money.

Happy Xmas – hope you are OK. All bearably festive here. Kilted kangaroo bouncing about but calm everywhere else. Going out for lunch shortly. When can you escape for a walk?

We’d always gone out for a walk on our own on Christmas Day. As teenagers, we’d examined each other’s new eye shadows and compared appalling knitwear. In our twenties, I’d tried to play down Scott’s extravagant presents. Even when we were broke, he’d still decorated the tree with little love messages, souvenirs from places we’d been, postcards of paintings I loved. Once Charlie was born just after Octavia’s twenty-third birthday, Jonathan appeared to skip romance and went straight to the practical. Octavia laughed it off. ‘Anyone can buy fancy knickers. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a husband who can build a cupboard to keep them in.’

Since we’d had children, our walk on Christmas Day was simply a pressure cooker valve – a breather to let off steam about our families so that we could return with smiles on our faces. Today, more than ever, I’d be glad of the escape.

A beep on my mobile signalled Octavia’s reply.

Jonathan deep in the doldrums and moaning about how much I’ve spent. Mum quoting gloomy figures from Daily Mail about job market. Kids high on sugar. Happy days! Can’t wait to go for our walk – 4-ish?

Poor Octavia. I didn’t know how she stood Jonathan and his penny-pinching. I’d pointed it out early on and we’d had one of our few proper rows about it, descending into a slanging match about me being born with a silver spoon in my mouth. All credit due to her though, she’d been the first to cheer me on when Scott and I shunned my dad’s money and made a living doing up tatty old houses.

Was it really all for nothing?

Octavia

Jonathan usually loved choosing the Christmas tree. He would spend hours in the local garden centre, debating with the children until they found the perfect specimen, the one and only Norwegian spruce that could grace our lounge. Then he’d haul it into the right place, the exact spot between the fireplace and the dresser. Immi and Polly would decorate it according to Jonathan’s rigid spacing and ornament eking-out rules, with Charlie chucking the baubles on willy-nilly.

But this year Jonathan had come up with ‘I haven’t got time/the girls don’t want to go today/the trees will be cheaper nearer the day’ until the one ritual I could delegate without guilt had plopped back onto my plate. The result was spindly and lacklustre. Instead of the usual good-natured banter over whether to have the fairy or the star on top, the kids had argued over who was going to hang up the bloody glass reindeers and who got stuck with the crappy old snowflakes. Resentment had sliced into my fantasies of a cheery household floating about singing angelic bursts of Once in Royal David’s City, and lingered right through to Christmas Day itself.

Mum had arrived at eight o’clock that morning as though we would need five hours to prepare a roast lunch for six people. She stood in the kitchen hovering but not actually ‘doing’ until the hairs on my neck were quivering with irritation.

I managed to shoo her out to play Scrabble with Immi, which meant I could slosh industrial quantities of Chablis into my glass without copping the fourteen units a week speech. This year’s project of knocking our lounge and dining room together to make one big living space was beginning to look like a mistake. Instead of being tucked away with the XBox, Polly and Charlie were right under Mum’s nose. As Mum thought anything more hi-tech than a landline was the path to all evil, it was only a matter of time before she decided to deliver the ‘Give a child a cardboard box and they’ll be just as happy’ speech.

Normally, Charlie would laugh and say, ‘Oh Nanna, get real,’ but this year, a huge bellow of ‘Jesus Christ, we’re not in the 1950s’ came echoing through to the kitchen. A door slam followed.

I poked my head through the hatch and saw my mother rear up like a meerkat on its look-out mound, turning from Jonathan faffing about with the precise angle of the serviettes, to me, waiting to see how we were going to deal with – shock, horror – God’s name being taken in vain on Christmas Day.

Jonathan rolled his eyes and went back to straightening the knives and forks that Polly had thrown down in a slapdash manner. I tried Roberta’s New Age bollocks of visualising lying in a hammock in Barbados, but discovered that only a hiss at the husband would do.

‘Jonathan, do you think you could go and deal with Charlie, please, while I finish off lunch?’ I probably sounded calm to the casual listener but sixteen years of marriage had taught him to recognise the meaningful ‘—CCCHHH’ on the end of that sentence. With one last tweak of the table mats, he made his way upstairs.

I shouted through to Polly. ‘Come and take through the cranberry sauce for me, love.’

No answer. I shouted again.

‘In a minute.’

‘No, now, we’re nearly ready to sit down.’

‘I’m just finishing this game.’

I bit back a bellow of ‘Come now!’ Never mind a flipping virgin birth, my kids doing what they were told the first time I asked them would be the true miracle of Christmas.

Instead of Polly appearing, Immi came into the kitchen instead. ‘My tummy hurts. I don’t want any lunch.’

Honestly, next year I’d just do beans on toast.

‘It’ll make you feel better if you have something to eat. I’ve made your favourite, cauliflower cheese.’ I stroked her strawberry-blonde curls.

‘I’m not hungry. I already ate all my selection box. Do you want to know what I had? I had a Curly Wurly, a Mars bar, a Milky Way, a Twix – I’ve got one stick of that left – and a packet of jelly babies.’

At this rate, we’d need an appointment with the emergency dentist. ‘I thought Dad said you could only have one thing.’

‘He did, but then when I asked him if I could eat the rest, he just went “hmm” and carried on reading his book, so I thought it was OK.’

I could feel a bit of a Jesus Christ incident coming on myself.

‘I gave the Maltesers and Revels to Stan, though. I wasn’t that greedy.’

‘You shouldn’t give chocolate to dogs. It’s bad for them. Anyway, never mind.’ I turned back to stirring the gravy, which had now gone all lumpy.

I took a deep breath and called through to the front room. ‘Mum, it’s ready. Can I pass you these things through the hatch?’

Mum scurried over and busied herself with the food, just as Jonathan reappeared.

‘Charlie won’t come down.’ There was something pathetic in his tone, a waiting for me to get it sorted.

The food was getting cold, which made me want to have my own tantrum. It was definitely early-onset middle age – more bothered about chilly carrots than my son having a Yuletide meltdown. Not for the first time, I mourned the era of spending every holiday backpacking on a diet of beer and crisps. I trudged up the stairs, shouting ‘Start serving’ in the general direction of Mum and Jonathan in the hope that between them they might summon up the initiative required to get a few Brussels on plates without me.

‘Go away.’ Charlie was nose-down in his pillow.

‘Please don’t spoil the day, darling. I know Nanna’s irritating. She irritates me as well and no doubt, when I’m old, you’ll bin my false teeth so you can’t hear what I’m saying either.’

‘I hate Christmas.’

‘So do I.’ And I really meant it.

That made Charlie sit up. ‘How can you hate Christmas?’

‘How can you?’ I smiled, trying not to think of my gravy getting a skin on it. ‘Come on, love, help me out here.’

He got to his feet, torn between wanting a hug and wanting to be bolshie. ‘OK. Sorry.’

I squeezed his hand, or rather the cuff of his sweatshirt. At fifteen, Charlie didn’t seem to have hands any more. He scuffed down the stairs, still my little boy under that gangly mini-man.

In the dining room, I jollied everyone along, praying that Mum wouldn’t choose right now to need an apology. ‘Let’s pull the crackers.’ Polly snatched the fat end of the cracker from Immi, claiming ownership of some plastic earrings. Immi burst into tears and slid under the table, refusing to come out even when Polly handed them over.

As I slopped the chipolatas wrapped in bacon onto plates, I heard Stan throwing up his honeycomb centres in the kitchen. Season of festive fun, my worn-out old arse.

I wondered when I’d last enjoyed Christmas.

An image of peeling off wetsuits, dragging a windsurf up a deserted beach and huddling round a fire with a couple of beers and some prawns on skewers rushed into my mind. I could almost smell the Mediterranean maquis that grew along the seashore. My twenty-one-year-old self, with pink hair, toe rings and a penchant for batik, would be hard-pressed to recognise me now.

The age-old longing that I kept buried, occasionally bunging another layer of earth on top, caught me off-guard. I wondered if he ever thought about me.

Roberta

Christmas Day in the Green household was a day for singing twee Australian songs. This year, I clung to the ritual as proof that we were still a family, rooted in our customs and traditions. I closed my eyes as I sat in the passenger seat, marvelling at Scott who was blasting out ‘Waltzing Matilda’ as though he were off to Bondi Beach with no more on his mind than the state of the surf. Despite Alicia’s entreaties, I couldn’t join in.

When we arrived at the hotel, I prayed that I’d made a good choice this year. I wasn’t sure I could face one of Scott’s forensic investigations into why they’d run out of red cabbage today. Scott strode in, making himself known to the staff, booming a big Happy Christmas to all. Alicia was right behind, light on her feet in her silver sandals, as wispy and delicate as Adele was stocky and stout. Granddaughter and grandmother linked arms together, pointing out the tree covered in glittery hearts and crimson ribbons. I glanced around at the other families and wondered if any of their smiles camouflaged upset so intense that they could feel it trembling in their chests.

Staff in black and white uniforms offered us Buck’s Fizz at the door to the wood-panelled dining room. Scott picked two from the tray. As we sat down, he handed one to Alicia.

‘She’s under eighteen. She can’t drink that in here,’ I said.

‘Lighten up. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake. Bloody British licensing laws. They’re not going to chuck us out. It’s only like a bit of lemonade and orange juice.’

Alicia looked at me, not knowing which way to jump. She’d been pretty subdued since my return from the police station and I hated her having to be the peacemaker, in the impossible position of trying to protect me without angering Scott. I put on a smile. ‘I’m sure Daddy’s right. Just don’t draw attention to it.’ She glanced round and took a big gulp.

Adele was cooing over the log fire. ‘In all these years I’ve never got used to Christmas in the sunshine.’ Off she went on her usual discussion about what it would mean to move back to Scotland now, but with all her brothers dead, and barely knowing her nieces and nephews, except that wee Caitlin who would keep coming out and staying for months on end …

Scott yawned and beckoned for some more drinks. Alicia started texting God knows who. Adele paused just long enough to order her meal then continued to reel off a never-ending list of relatives with respective geographical locations. ‘My cousin Archie is still in Aberdeen, but his wife, Siobhan, she passed away in 1999. No, let me think. Not 1999. It must have been 2000, because it was the year Sydney had the Olympics …’

My will to live was seeping away by the time the scallops on pea puree arrived. Scott raised his glass in a toast. Alicia’s glass was empty and two bright spots had appeared on her cheeks. I ordered her an orange juice. We drifted in and out of conversation, with Alicia quizzing Adele about whether you could tame a kangaroo while Scott quaffed the Châteauneuf he’d chosen.

Enormous platters of roast goose arrived. ‘I wonder how Octavia’s getting on cooking for her brood,’ I said. ‘It’s such a luxury to have it all done for you.’

Scott looked over at me. ‘She hasn’t trained Jonathan right, has she? Unlike you, who’s never cooked from day one.’

I put my mouth into a smile and kept my tone light. ‘That’s not true. I do cook, though I get a bit stressed if I’m catering for a lot of people or your business colleagues.’

Scott always liked to make out I was too idle to do anything myself, but the truth was he thought paying other people to clean, fix and garden was a sign that he’d arrived. He loved boasting that his wife didn’t have time to work because ‘managing the staff was a full-time job’. Despite Scott’s dismissive words, cooking was the one area where I still retained a little control.

Adele was brewing up opposite me, no doubt ready with some comment about how she always makes double the amount and freezes half of it, but Scott hadn’t finished.

‘Come off it. When did you last cook a proper meal? Something that wasn’t out of the freezer or the microwave?’ He stuck a whole potato in his mouth and sat back with his arms folded.

Alicia frowned and put her fork down. ‘Dad, that’s not true. Mum was cooking fish pie the other night when you called the police on her. And she’d made that asparagus quiche she’d seen in a magazine.’

Adele jerked round to face Scott. ‘Police? What police? Scotty?’

Scott ignored her. Everything in me tightened, ready for blast-off. Before I had time to think of a cover-up, if a cover-up were possible, Scott turned on Alicia. Bits of potato flew out of his mouth, sticking to his wine glass. ‘If you hadn’t gone out dressed like a little trollop then I wouldn’t have got angry with your mother.’

I put out a calming hand. ‘Anyway, that’s all over and done with. We were both a bit silly. Come on, let’s not spoil Christmas Day.’

I expected Alicia to back down and appease Scott as she usually did, but she surprised me. ‘I’m not spoiling it, Dad is. I wasn’t dressed like a trollop, was I, Mum?’ Alicia said.

‘I’m not going to discuss any of this now,’ I said, making a conscious effort to keep my voice low.

The Buck’s Fizz had unleashed a bravery in Alicia I’d never seen before. ‘There was nothing wrong with what I was wearing. It’s called fashion, Dad. You’re always ruining everything. Keira’s mother saw the police taking Mum away on Thursday night. All my class were asking me how many years she’d got and pretending to put handcuffs on me.’ Her bony shoulders were hunched up around her ears.

‘Why did the police take Roberta away?’ Adele was wide-eyed. ‘Scotty? You didn’t tell me that.’

I was just working out which words I was going to put together to form an explanation that wouldn’t wreck the whole day when Scott slammed down his knife and fork with such force it made the glasses chink together.

Scott scraped back his chair but didn’t get up. ‘Mum, shut up. It’s none of your bloody business.’ I had my hand on his arm to quieten him down, but it was too late. ‘Don’t you dare shush me. If you weren’t such a shit mother, I’d never have called the police in the first place.’

The silence in the dining room dominoed from table to table until the only noise was the laughing and banter from the customers by the window. I steeled myself to look round. The Maître d’ was bristling his way over.

‘Everything all right, sir?’

‘Yes. Fine.’ Scott didn’t sound contrite or conciliatory.

The Maître d’ didn’t go away. I was aware of the woman at the next table telling her children to be quiet and turning their heads away from us. I closed my eyes. I wanted to smile and pretend everything was OK. I looked down at my plate and picked up my fork. My stomach wouldn’t co-operate. It had shut down, closed over like a pair of lift doors. Alicia was huddled in her chair, tension radiating from every pore.

Adele stepped in. ‘Sorry for the noise. My son is a very passionate man and I think I may have spoken out of turn. That’s families for you. We know how to push each other’s buttons, don’t we, Scotty?’

Scott mumbled something and the Maître d’ offered a crisp, ‘Very well, sir,’ and clipped off again.

Nobody spoke. Not even Adele. Alicia sat opposite me with fat tears dropping onto her plate. I reached over for her hand. She gripped my fingers hard, like she used to when she was a toddler and a dog sniffed at her. ‘I can’t eat any more.’

Maybe it was the rasp in her voice. Or the whispers in the dining room. The heads craning round pretending to look for a waiter, but having a jolly good stare at the wife with the atrocious husband instead. Alicia’s humiliation was tangible, her whole body rigid. We were supposed to protect her, not invite ridicule. I looked at Scott. His jaw was set, that familiar look of self-justification clamped around his features. A hot rush of emotion coursed through me. Then a surge of release as though I’d removed a pair of crippling shoes.

Just because I wanted our marriage to work didn’t mean I could make it work.

I was never going to make it right. Never. I got quietly to my feet, fished in my bag and handed the BMW key to Alicia. ‘Just pop out to the car for a minute, darling.’

Alicia hated being the centre of attention, and relief mingled with her confusion. She scuttled past Scott before he had time to argue. I looked at Adele, who was fiddling with her necklace and looking every one of her sixty-eight years. ‘I’m sorry, Adele. We shouldn’t have let you come over this year. We’ve had a bit of a tough time lately.’

I sucked myself in, clenching every muscle in my stomach in case I suddenly jellyfished onto the floor. There was only one chance to say this. I screwed up my eyes, then dived in. I forced out little more than a whisper.

‘I’m leaving you.’

Scott sat back in his chair, hands in the air in disbelief. ‘Don’t be silly. Where are you going to go? Come and sit down.’

I couldn’t say anything more. Too many eager faces were waiting for my next move. Yet another occasion when a random crowd would witness Scott ‘having his say’. I’d add it to the list of sunny barbecues spoilt by a wine-fuelled argument with the host. Parties when Scott had decided to ‘have a word’ with a guest he deemed to be flirting with me. Meals where the chef’s opinion on what made the perfect dish differed from Scott’s. Enough of my life had been played out in public. I stared at the man I’d loved for so long.

Maybe I still loved him. Now I had to save myself. And Alicia.

He looked like he didn’t believe me, as though he somehow thought he had the magic word, the clever spell to bring foolish Roberta back in line. My last glimpse of him was sitting there puzzled, as though he’d been showering me with compliments and I’d taken umbrage at nothing.

I turned round and concentrated all my energy on putting one foot in front of the other. I squeaked out a ‘thank you’ and a ‘sorry’ to the Maître d’ at the door without stopping to hear his reply. Just a corridor to go. A courtyard with a Christmas tree. A patch of grass. Then the car. Alicia was standing by the passenger door as pale as an icicle in the sun. I pushed out the last words I could manage.

‘I’m sorry, darling. I’ve left your father.’

Octavia

Christmas Day wasn’t a day for unexpected visitors, so when the doorbell rang, I assumed it was carol singers and left Jonathan to deal with them while I organised the Christmas pud. I’d poured the brandy over it and Polly was about to take centre stage lighting it, when Jonathan shouted through to me.

‘Roberta’s here. And Alicia.’ Jonathan didn’t do gushing welcomes.

I came out into the hallway, squeezing past Jonathan and all the anoraks breeding away on the coat hooks. Jonathan clearly thought he’d covered the social niceties and disappeared back into the dining room. I hugged Roberta. ‘Happy Christmas. Hello Alicia, darling. Come on in. Have you had a good day? You’re early. I thought we were walking at four.’

Before she could reply, Polly shouted from the dining room. ‘Mum! Mum! When are we going to light the pudding? Charlie says he’s doing it, but I want to.’

‘I’m coming. Just a sec.’

I turned back to Roberta. She was silent, flicking at the tassels of her scarf. My smile faded.

She stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry to do this to you on Christmas Day. I know you’ve got your own issues to deal with.’ She didn’t get any more out. Just stood there, silent tears running down her face. Alicia was wary, her face buttoned-up and defensive. I did an inward sigh.

‘Not more trouble with Scott?’

Roberta nodded.

Polly shouted again.

I took Roberta’s arm. ‘Oh God. Shit, just let me do the Christmas pud with Polly, then I’ll be right with you. Come through.’

‘It’s OK. I’ll sit in the kitchen. You finish lunch. We don’t want to get in your way.’ Roberta looked gaunt. I wanted to bring her in and warm her up with chunky soup and beef stew.

I ushered her down the hallway. ‘Make yourself a cup of coffee. Alicia, there are some little chocolates on the side, lovey, help yourself.’

I dashed into the dining room and sat back down next to Polly. Jonathan raised his eyebrows. Turning away so Mum couldn’t see, I pulled a ‘yikes’ face at him. As Polly snatched up the matches, I put my hand out for them. ‘Here, let me show you.’

‘I can do it. I’m not a baby.’ She scraped away until the match snapped.

‘Isn’t Roberta coming in to say hello?’ Mum asked.

‘Not just yet. She didn’t want to interrupt our lunch.’ Roberta wouldn’t need Mum’s tuppence-worth today.

‘It’s very rude to leave her in the kitchen.’

I cut Mum off, leaving her pursing her lips and muttering about common courtesy. I turned back to Polly.

‘Right, darling. Have another go. Strike it gently, but quickly.’ I was itching to put my hand over hers and hurry her along, conscious of Roberta sitting next door with her life going up the Swanee while we were faffing about with the finer points of pyrotechnics.

Tongue out in concentration, Polly raked the match across the box until, to everyone’s relief, it finally burst into flame. I pushed the pudding across to her. The brandy lit with a whoosh. Polly beamed. I glanced through the hatch at Roberta. I wondered if she wanted to stay the night. Jonathan had already given me the belt-tightening speech, as if I needed it. He wouldn’t be sharing out his dinner too eagerly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Polly lean forward to sniff the brandy that was licking about over the pudding in a purple haze. I managed to say ‘Careful’ before a flame burned its way up a length of her brown hair. She screamed. Jonathan grabbed a serviette and his glass of wine and belted round the table, sloshing and smothering. I shot out of my chair, patting at her with the edge of the tablecloth.

Polly started crying, ‘My face, my face.’

The room smelt as though I’d let a pan of rice boil dry. Jonathan dashed into the kitchen, shouting at Roberta to get some ice out of the freezer. Immi came flying round and clung to me, shock pinching her face. I cuddled her while I inspected the damage.

A chunk of hair had burnt off about halfway up, the charred ends black against the pale brown. A red welt ran vertically up her cheek.

Jonathan raced back in with a bowl of iced water. Polly was shaking as we bathed her face. Jonathan held back her hair, shushing her gently. ‘It’s going to sting for a bit, but you’ll be OK.’

‘What about my hair? They’ll all laugh at me at school.’ Her little chest was heaving up and down.

‘We were going to get it trimmed anyway. The hairdresser will sort it out.’ I leaned towards Jonathan. ‘Do you think she needs to go to hospital?’

I thought I’d whispered, but Polly wailed, ‘Hospital? I don’t want to go to hospital.’

Jonathan frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so. Let’s see what it looks like in a few minutes.’ He carried on holding Polly’s hand and telling Immi not to worry. Charlie had already decided that Polly was being a drama queen.

Roberta’s head appeared through the hatch. ‘Is she OK?’

I nodded. ‘I think the skin might blister a bit but it’s not too bad. You’d better stay out there.’

Roberta nearly managed a smile. At the sight of anything worse than nettle rash, Roberta was a great one for fainting to the floor like a Victorian duchess.

While we held Polly’s cheek in the water, I murmured to Jonathan that Roberta might need to stay the night.

‘On Christmas Day?’

I must have looked incredulous that Roberta’s whole world was going tits up and Jonathan was quibbling over a clash of diaries.

‘Go and deal with them. I’ll look after Polly,’ he said, pulling her into a cuddle.

I called Alicia through and persuaded Charlie, with a bribe of cheesy footballs, to show her how to play Rugby League Live on the XBox. Alicia perched on the footstool, straight-backed. She always looked as though she was doing you a favour by sharing the air in the room. I could see why my children found her hard to warm to.

I grabbed a bottle of Shiraz and another of Chablis, and went to join Roberta. Wine cutbacks would have to start another day.

‘What’s happened now?’ I poured us both a huge glass of wine.

‘I’ve left him. I hope I’ve done the right thing.’

An uncharitable suspicion that she’d be back with him within the week stopped me dancing an immediate jig. Instead I tried to take a neutral stance though I was dying to say, ‘About bloody time! Arsehole! Hoo-raaaah!’ Overt hostility to Scott had led to Roberta practically severing contact with her family. She’d drawn a definite line in the sand many years ago about how much criticism she would tolerate from me.

So I kept quiet as she told me bits about her day, including him thinking that a quick shag would sort everything out.

I hoped his balls had blown up.

She was just filling me in on the Maître d’ hovering with intent when there was a knock on the door. Stan leapt up barking, nearly overturning the kitchen table.

Christ. I’d already had a jobless husband, a husbandless friend and a hairless child to contend with. I wondered what I was missing. I threw the door open.

Of course. The wifeless wanker.

‘Octavia. Hello. Happy Christmas.’ Scott had that honey-voiced thing going on. He was all charm, head tilted on one side, big white smile dazzling away.

‘Hello.’ I anchored my feet, wondering whether I would be able to stop him barging in.

‘Where’s Roberta?’

‘She doesn’t want to see you.’ I concentrated on sounding matter-of-fact.

‘Come on, I just need a quick word to sort things out.’ He stepped forward slightly.

I stood firm, but my adrenaline was flowing. ‘I’m sorry, Scott. I can’t let you in. She’s exhausted. She can’t deal with you right now.’

He gave my shoulder a friendly little squeeze, as though he was going to produce such a winning argument I couldn’t possibly refuse him.

I didn’t move and I didn’t reply.

Then the charm was gone. He leant over me, chest jutting, chin out.

‘Christ, you piss me off. You always think you know best. Sticking your bloody beak in where it’s not wanted. Telling me when I can see my wife. Just get her out here so I can talk to her.’

I had my hands on the wall barring the door. I concentrated my weight in my heels to stop my legs shaking. And then, praise the Lord, Jonathan arrived. ‘Everything all right?’

I wasn’t certain that Jonathan was the ideal peace negotiator, given that the two men had failed to bond at the hundreds of social occasions we’d shared over the years. Jonathan thought Scott was a knob and I was pretty sure that Scott had an equivalent anatomical description for Jonathan.

On the other hand, if Scott lost his temper, Jonathan’s ability to stay calm might avoid bloodshed, given my tendency towards the hotheaded end of the spectrum.

‘I need a little chat with Roberta.’ Now he was using a completely different tone, as though he’d popped round to borrow the latest Ian Rankin.

‘Sorry, mate. Go home and cool down. Talk about it tomorrow.’

‘Johnny, just get her out here for a minute, will you?’

Jonathan hated people calling him Johnny. He put his hand on the door and made a slight movement to close it. ‘Time to go. She’s not going to speak to you today.’

Scott stood with his hands on his hips. Builder’s hands. Great big shovels that could take the side of your face off with one swipe. He stepped forward to lean on the doorjamb.

Jonathan ushered me backwards. ‘You go in, Octavia. Scott and I will sort this out.’

Lamb and slaughter sprang to mind, but I darted behind him. Jonathan put his hand on Scott’s forearm. He must have heard me gulp. Scott shook him off but backed down the steps. ‘I bet you two love this. A big drama in your sad little lives. It’s pathetic. Forgot to say, I was really sorry to hear you got the push, Johnny, mate. Shame.’

Jonathan slammed the door shut, flicking the ‘v’s. I hugged him, weak with relief. He’d get another job. Scott would always be a wanker.

Roberta

The arrival of New Year’s Eve made me want to take to my bed at eight o’clock until the need to look cheery about the coming year had passed. Octavia was impervious to my pleas to be left at home alone. I wasn’t sure I could dig out the brave face she’d expect: every time I thought about Scott, I wanted to rush back home and double-check we couldn’t resurrect all that love that I’d once thought could carry me anywhere.

But Octavia was determined to drag me to the party at Cher’s, my irreverent and exuberant neighbour. Cher had recognised a kindred rebelliousness in Octavia when I’d introduced them. Whenever Cher had a ‘bit of a knees-up’, Octavia was always on the invitation list. Which, right now, was not working in my favour. Since Alicia and I were still living at Octavia’s, waiting to be rehoused like tabby cats with one eye, doing our own thing was impossible.

I’d intended to move into a hotel straight after Christmas until I discovered that Scott had emptied our joint account. I kicked myself for not pre-empting it. I couldn’t believe our relationship – all that passion, all that deep and sustained effort – would become distilled down to pure finances.

Instead of blowing the little money I had squirrelled away in my own bank account on a hotel, Octavia convinced me to use it to rent a flat in the New Year. But the longer Alicia and I squashed into Immi’s bedroom, the more appealing patching things up with Scott appeared.

I hated myself for being so ungrateful. Octavia had tried to make me so welcome, jollying Jonathan along and giving meaningful stares to the kids. In a house already bursting at the seams, me wading in with several suitcases of belongings, hastily collected when I knew Scott was taking his mother to the airport, wasn’t ideal. Nor was the bathroom situation. If I didn’t get a bit more privacy for my ablutions soon, I’d be needing more than a bowl of prunes for breakfast. I wasn’t sure what was worse: Jonathan hovering around clearing his throat outside their only loo because I’d inadvertently taken his ‘slot’, or coming back later to find the seat was warm.

I knew we’d put a strain on Octavia’s festivities. I didn’t want to ruin her New Year as well. She refused to go to Cher’s without me. Cher herself had wasted no time in ringing to find out why she’d seen me going off in a police car. I didn’t have the energy to invent something, so I’d given her a sanitised version of the truth. She was outraged on my behalf and told me that Scott was ‘officially disinvited’. Eventually, I’d resigned myself to an evening of embarrassed shuffling while people fidgeted about for the right thing to say to a newly single woman.

Contrarily, even Jonathan was keen to party. Despite his oft-aired view that most of the people Scott and I mixed with were – in his words – ‘up their own arses’, he thought Cher’s husband, Patri, was a ‘top bloke’. Patri’s family had moved from Sardinia to Britain in the fifties, set up a successful café-deli chain over the ensuing decades, and had now diversified into a huge import-export business. But Patri, despite his love for sunglasses inside and a good Barolo, still called a spade a spade. As a host, he was second to none in the generosity stakes, which seemed to eradicate most of Jonathan’s chippiness about grand houses and the people who inhabited them.

Octavia adored Cher, even though she mocked her endlessly for being a footballer’s wife. Although she pretended to disapprove, Octavia loved the whole extravagance of Cher’s life, the cook, the housekeeper, the way Cher simply tipped her Pinot Grigio down the sink if she was in the mood for Chardonnay. Not for her a life of cling film and leftovers.

And if I’d ever thought I might be able to resist, Cher extending the invitation to Alicia made refusal impossible. Cher’s granddaughter, Loretta, was sixteen and Alicia’s epitome of cool, with her kohl-lined eyes, fake eyelashes and hair extensions right down to her behind. It was the first time Alicia’s face had shown anything other than indifference or worry since we’d left the restaurant on Christmas Day. I had no doubt that as an only child, she was also looking forward to a bit of time away from Octavia’s raucous trio, who were distinctly put out to be left at home with their grandmother.

So in the end, I put on the long jade dress Octavia had snatched up when we’d gone back to the house. I disguised the bags under my eyes with concealer and located a smile that threatened to wobble at any moment.

When the taxi drew up outside Casa Nostra – Patri’s little Mafia joke – I stared back at my old home next door. The lights were on in the drawing room. I wondered whether Scott was there. He refused to tell me what he was doing as ‘he was no longer married to me, it was none of my concern’. I just couldn’t cut myself off like that. I couldn’t imagine that a year from now we’d still be apart. Or that I’d never step through my front door again.

Alicia hooked her arm through mine. She looked over at our house, all spaniel-eyed. Scott never had much patience with her: he thought I’d spoilt her and was always telling her to ‘get real’. Alicia hadn’t asked about Scott once. All her questions had been related to how soon we could leave Octavia’s. I didn’t blame her for hankering after the peace and quiet of home but I couldn’t investigate her feelings right now, when I was barely holding myself together. Talk, yes. But now, no.

Octavia stepped in to distract us both. ‘You look lovely tonight, Alicia. Your mum used to have a miniskirt like the one you’re wearing. In fact, believe it or not, we both did.’ The tension in her eased as Octavia went on to describe my leg warmer phase and penchant for putting my hair into hundreds of tiny plaits overnight so that the next morning I looked like I’d accidentally stuck my finger in a socket.

When we got to the front steps, Jonathan ushered me forward. I’d noticed before that black tie made men more chivalrous, and Jonathan was no exception. One of the Filipino staff – ‘Patri’s Fillies’, as he called them with a cavalier disregard for political correctness – answered the door. Cher tottered across the marble foyer looking as though she was fresh from a performance in the Big Top. A feather boa curled round her neck and her long dress was slashed almost to the waist. Her taut face contrasted with a décolleté that had spent too many summers frying in baby oil on the Costa Smeralda.

‘Happy New Year, everyone. Hi, Alicia. Go on up, Loretta’s upstairs with a few friends. They’re on the karaoke machine.’

I waited for Alicia to ask me to come with her but she gave me a little wave and headed off across the hallway, long limbs under her miniskirt like a baby giraffe.

Cher launched into a stage whisper. ‘So glad you came, Roberta. I told that husband of yours to sling his hook. Us girlies have to stick together, don’t we, ladies?’

I hoped Scott wasn’t sitting on his own working his way through his collection of single malts. Perhaps he’d have gone out with the chaps from the rugby club. I hadn’t spent a single New Year’s Eve away from him since we met. I wasn’t sure I wanted to start a new tradition now. I forced my thoughts away from next door.

Gold bangles jangled as Cher swept us into the drawing room. About ten other couples were already standing among clusters of red and silver balloons. Several Filipino maids were weaving about with platters of goat’s cheese crostini and trays of Kir Royale. It felt so odd to be here without Scott, I almost baulked at the door. He was the one who dived into social situations, shaking hands and sweeping me into the centre of things. Octavia gave me a little wink and walked ahead. I braced myself for a chorus of ‘Where’s Scott?’ but Cher had already rescued me on that front. Sometimes indiscreet friends were an advantage.

Patri came striding over, sunglasses balanced on his head, quite the ageing rock star with his velvet jacket and greying shoulder-length hair. ‘All right, Octavia, Jonathan? Roberta, darling. You look gorgeous, not a day over twenty-one. A lot to celebrate in the coming year, then?’ He took my hands in his.

‘Celebrate?’

Frankly, I felt like throwing myself on the log fire that was crackling away behind me.

‘Yeah, getting rid of that husband of yours. Never did like him. Couldn’t understand what a classy girl like you saw in an oik like him. My granddad was a peasant, worked the fields. Me dad was a brickie, but we was brought up to treat women nice. You’ll find someone who deserves you now.’ He took a big drag on his cigar and blew a smoke ring upwards. He stopped a waitress. ‘Here, have some bubbles.’

‘He had his good points, Patri. It was as much my fault as his.’ I wondered if my desire to defend Scott would ever wear off. How many more people were going to come out of the woodwork now and say they’d hated him?

‘Don’t do yerself down, girl, I know what that Scott was like, his way or the highway. He should of recognised his good fortune when he had it. Anyway, cheers, doll. All the best to you.’

He raised his glass to me and off he went, slapping the blokes on the back and the women on the bottom.

I clinked glasses with Octavia and Jonathan, and tried to contain the gathering force of sadness wrenching its way up my chest. Jonathan, with a rare flash of empathy, tried to help me out. ‘I know Scott had his moments, but he could be great company when he was in the right mood.’

Octavia couldn’t quite contain herself. ‘Yes, but the right mood had become rarer and rarer of late.’

I forced my lips into something like a smile and dabbed my little finger at the tears stinging my eyes.

Octavia shook her head. ‘I’m not going to be nice to you in the interests of your mascara.’ Before I could escape to the loo, the Lawsons from a couple of doors down spotted us. Michelle’s two topics of conversation were the catchment areas for good senior schools and her IBS. On the upside, if we were locked into a discussion about too much or too little fibre, there would be less airtime for anyone to investigate the demise of my marriage. We were soon in a kissy-kissy bump-noses-and-cheeks fiasco that the British never mastered properly.

Michelle said, ‘How are you?’ as though I’d been through a gruelling operation to have an embarrassing lump removed and was on the road to recovery. After a cursory greeting, Michelle’s husband, Simon, a forceful man who thought he was wittier than he was, turned to Jonathan to rant about government cuts in the health sector.

Before we became too engrossed in the merits of rice milk, Cher banged a huge brass gong and waved us through into the dining room, where an enormous oak table shone with crystal and silver. She searched me out and showed me to my seat. ‘Roberta, I’ve put you next to Patri. He’ll look after you.’ It hadn’t occurred to me that I wouldn’t be next to Octavia. I resisted the urge to cling to her and make everyone swap places.

‘Lovely, thanks.’ I took another gulp of champagne and waved to Octavia as she took her seat down the other end of the table.

I kept my hands in my lap, staring at the pattern on the elaborate silver cutlery. I didn’t want to look up in case people were whispering about me. I wasn’t sure I could even pick up my wine glass without knocking everything over and shattering Cher’s finest Waterford.

Michelle sat opposite me. As always, Patri – who loved a bit of pomp and ceremony – had had menus printed up. The waitress handed one to Michelle, who immediately called her back. ‘Has the mushroom soup got cream in it? I can’t eat venison. It’s barbaric. Did Cher organise any alternatives? Butternut squash risotto? Rice doesn’t agree with me. Could you see if they could make it with quinoa?’ The poor girl backed out to the kitchen, promising to see what she could do.

My heart sank as Simon plonked himself next to me. ‘Patri on the other side of you, is he? A rose between two thorns.’ He looked over at Michelle. ‘Alright, Miche? Better bring a packed lunch for you next time. Don’t want you eating the wrong thing and farting us out of the room.’

Simon looked round at Patri and me for approval. Patri clicked his tongue and frowned. Michelle hissed back at him whilst I concentrated on buttering my roll.

He turned to me, nodding at the bread in my hand. ‘Nice to see a girl with an appetite. Better not overdo it, though. Being back on the market and all that. Don’t want to get too chubby. Men like a bit of flesh, but not too much.’

I looked down at his stomach. It bulged out like a cushion between his braces. I slathered on a little more butter and ignored him, although I soon realised he was like a dog that creeps out from under the table to mount your leg as soon as the owners aren’t looking.

‘So. Approaching the New Year as a single girl, then.’

‘It’s early days. I’m still coming to terms with it.’

‘Must be a bit lonely.’

Patri saved me by banging his spoon on a wine glass with a satisfying ching. ‘Before I get too piddled, Cher and me would just like to welcome you all to our New Year’s Eve dinner. I did too much waiting on tables when I was younger, so I’m not doing it any more. In this house you’ve got to help yourself, or ask one of the Fillies.’ He pointed his cigar at the rows of wine on the sideboard. ‘On the plus side, you can have anything you want. If you go home saying, “Christ, that was a dry old do,” then you’ve only got yerself to blame. Buon appetito!’

Patri sat down, stubbing out his cigar on his side plate. ‘It’s me lucky night tonight, doll, sitting next to you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You doing OK? Where you living?’

‘I’m staying with Octavia at the moment. I discovered Christmas Day wasn’t a terribly good time to look for a house to rent.’

Simon was practically dipping his chin into my soup to catch the conversation. He stuffed a large piece of bread into his mouth. ‘Come and sleep in my spare room any time. You can pay me in blow jobs. Haha.’

He guffawed away, specks of olive ciabatta landing in wet blobs on my bare arms. I didn’t dare look at his wife. I tried to think of a suitable response, if such a thing existed.

But Patri wasn’t having any of it. ‘Simon. Shut up. Have a bit of respect.’ He’d put his spoon down and turned towards him, elbow on the table.

That familiar queasy feeling started to rise, panic that confrontation was on its way. I smiled, blocking Patri’s view of Simon. I caught sight of Michelle’s pursed lips out of the corner of my eye. ‘It’s fine, it was only a joke, Patri, come on.’

Simon patted my arm, not the slightest bit abashed. He drained his glass. ‘Roberta knows how to have a bit of fun, don’t you, sweetheart?’

Patri settled back in his chair, but his gold signet ring tapped out irritation on the surface of the table. I glanced over at Michelle. She touched her spoon to her lip before pushing the bowl away. It was going to be a long evening. I looked down the table for Octavia. She had her head thrown back, laughing at some new friend’s joke. Even Jonathan looked jolly for once, though he usually cheered up when he was drinking other people’s Pouilly Fumé rather than his own supermarket special.

By the time the main course arrived, my fragile brave face was cracking. Patri had devoted himself to listing Scott’s shortcomings, waving his forefinger about to make his point.

‘Never liked the way he spoke to my dog, porco cane. Never trust a bloke who drinks that bloody Mexican beer. Madonna, should’ve been doing a thank-you dance to the love gods that you was prepared to put up with him.’

That took him through seconds of venison and thirds of celeriac – or ‘cheleriac’, as Patri called it. There were moments when Patri was so accurate about Scott’s failings – ‘Only saw the good in himself, that one’ – that I had to smile. I knew he meant well, but the communal need to lambast him at every opportunity made me feel a total idiot for marrying him in the first place. I was terrified that a laugh might turn into a sob at any moment. On the upside, Simon was finding himself fascinating elsewhere, recounting anecdotes about going on a deer shoot to some bored faces opposite. Michelle had sucked in half of her face with disapproval, but I couldn’t decide whether that was related to Simon’s hunting stories or whether her entire life was failing to live up to her expectations.

Just when I thought I might be able to guide Patri away from me and onto the other guests, the pecan pie arrived and he changed tack, sifting through his social network for replacement husbands. ‘Maybe Sharky. Bit old for you, early fifties. Good bloke though. Spends his summers in Antibes. Got a nice pad in the Bahamas.’ Now and again, he’d shout down the table to Cher. ‘Oy, doll. Freddie got divorced yet from Queenie? How about him for our Roberta here?’

Then Cher would call him a daft old bugger and tell me to take no notice. ‘Half of them are ex-cons, Roberta. Don’t you be getting mixed up with them. You’ll have to dig up the cash in the back garden before you can go to Waitrose.’

Then she cackled at her own joke while Octavia mouthed, ‘Are you OK?’ at me.

I decided to take some respite from smiling by escaping to Cher’s downstairs cloakroom. It was like something out of a Parisian hotel with gilt mirrors, feathers and fairy lights. I killed a bit of time working my way through her range of creams, starting with the lavender hand balm and finishing with a rub of spider lily body lotion into my elbows and calves. Smelling like a florist’s stall couldn’t be worse than Patri’s cigars. I examined the various perfumes and aftershaves. Cher’s favourite, Poison, gave me a headache. Charlie reminded me of my teenage years. Issey Miyake Pour Homme. Very fresh.

No homme to buy it for.

I picked up a smoky purple bottle. Soul. Hugo Boss. Scott’s favourite. I sprayed some on my wrist. A picture of Scott getting dressed, clean-shaven, shirt open, flashed into my mind. I banged the bottle back down. I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and get back to the party. Michelle was waiting as I came out. ‘Sorry. Didn’t realise I was holding everyone up.’

‘How’s it going, Roberta?’

‘Fine. I feel a little strange on my own, but Patri and Simon are looking after me.’

‘I suppose we’ll have to keep an eye on our husbands now you’re single. Simon doesn’t like Sloaney brunettes anyway.’

I looked at her to see if she was joking, but her eyes were all squinty and suspicious. Everything about her was sharp and jutting, like an aggressive toothpick. Inappropriate jokes were obviously the uniting factor in the Lawsons’ marriage.

Scott had always schmoozed Simon and Michelle for Simon’s City connections. It dawned on me that I didn’t have to toe the couple line any more. ‘Don’t worry. You’re safe. I don’t like fat bullfrogs.’

I click-clacked back across the foyer without waiting for her reply. I detoured to Octavia on the way back to my seat and whispered that I would slip off home after coffee. ‘Don’t do that. You’ve got to see New Year in. Anyway, Patri’s given all the youngsters some sparklers and Chinese lanterns to set off. Alicia’s having a ball. We’ll leave straight after twelve. Come and sit with us.’

I glanced around at her company. All couples. One woman was telling everyone how amusing her husband was; another man was gently untangling his wife’s hair from her necklace. Even Jonathan was resting his arm round Octavia’s shoulders. I hadn’t appreciated what a luxury it had been to have a husband at my side for all those years.

‘I will in a moment, just going to find a cup of coffee.’

Octavia nodded vaguely and joined in a joke about men and their inability to change loo rolls. I could have said I was off to trap a mountain gorilla in the back garden and she wouldn’t have noticed. Compassion fatigue and red wine had set in.

Patri was holding forth about the merits of Sardinian cheese on the other side of the table and I couldn’t face Simon on my own. I slipped into the hallway and out into the orangery. I loved that room. Cher was brilliant with plants. She was the only woman I knew who’d managed to grow an avocado tree from a stone. I bent down to admire her amaryllis. Shouts, laughter and the sound of Cher doing her Dolly Parton Jolene, Jolene, Jolene party piece drifted through from the dining room. I peered through the windows into the garden. Moonlit sky. Perfect night for romance.

I couldn’t imagine kissing anyone other than Scott.

‘Waiting for me, were you?’

I swung round. Simon.

‘What’s a gorgeous girl like you doing all on her own?’

‘I was just going back to the party.’ I started to move towards the door. He was heavy on his feet, staggering.

‘Come here, give me a New Year’s Eve kiss.’

He lunged towards me, managing to land his big fat lips on my bare shoulder. I could smell the wine on him. I pushed him away.

‘No, stop it, Simon. Don’t be silly. Get off.’

‘Playing hard to get now? You girls knocking forty can’t afford to be too choosy.’

He made a grab for my breasts. I shoved him off and he blundered into a shelf of spider plants. They went smashing to their death, earth and terracotta slithering across the floor. I snatched up the Yucca plant next to me and held it in front of me like a sword. I cursed my long dress, which kept catching on the heels of my stilettos.

‘You don’t know what you’re missing. You frigid bitch. Bet Scott was playing away if this is the sort of welcome he got at home.’

‘Simon. Here’s some free advice. Get lost. And never speak to me again.’ Brave words that might have been more effective if my voice hadn’t come out all tight and strangled.

He stepped towards me again, sweat shining on his forehead. ‘You’ll be begging me for it in a few months.’

I was debating between pushing the spiky Yucca in his face or hurling it at him and making a dash for the door when the whole orangery lit up, leaving us blinking like a pair of moles. I didn’t have time to say anything before Patri marched in, grabbed Simon by his jacket and dragged him across the hall.

‘Porca miseria. You prick. Get out. Get out now. And take that miserable bitch of a wife with you.’

Patri flung the front door open and hurled him out. Simon was concentrating too much on shouting ‘Prick tease!’ and not enough on the frosty steps outside. His behind caught the edge of them with a dull thump. Well-cushioned as it was, it would still have hurt. Patri was bellowing in the hall, not caring who heard, instructing one of the Fillies to find Michelle and get rid of her now. Or rather ‘NOW!’ Within moments, Patri was thrusting Michelle’s cashmere wrap into her arms and propelling her outside. For a chap in his late sixties who’d be snapping his fingers for another glass of brandy on his deathbed, he didn’t mess about.

He slammed the door. ‘Bastardo. Roberta, what can I say?’ He spread his arms open wide. ‘You’re my guest, you come to my house and a guy, a friend, thinks he can have a go with you?’

My heart was slowing down. I wanted a hot flannel to scrub at my arms and chest where Simon’s fat fingers had manhandled me. I used to be a person who could see the funny side of everything, always laughing when I shouldn’t have been. ‘I’m so sorry about the mess. Look at Cher’s poor plants.’

‘The plants? No one cares about the plants. Bloody bloke. He won’t come here again. Tell me how I can make it up to you for having such stupid friends.’

‘You don’t have to make amends. He’s not your responsibility. I can look after myself.’ I pressed my fingers into my eyes. I didn’t know whether that was true.

‘No, I want to do something for you. What do you need?’

More than anything, I needed a house, but I didn’t want to involve him in my life to that degree. I knew Patri, he wouldn’t just keep an eye out for properties, he’d make it his life’s mission. Scott was always telling me how we ‘owed people dinner’ or he ‘owed them a favour’. I didn’t want to owe anyone anything any more. But Patri wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I glanced through the doorway to Octavia, hoping she might come to my rescue. But she was in full flow, recounting a story that required much flapping about of hands. No one would ever know she was worried sick about money.

I turned back to Patri, suddenly inspired. ‘There is one thing you could do for me.’ I explained about Jonathan’s redundancy. ‘He works really hard. He could fix or set up any computer systems you need.’

Patri nodded. His dark eyes narrowed. ‘OK.’

I wanted to ask, ‘OK what? OK you have something for him? OK you’ve heard me?’ I was desperate to run over to tell Octavia some good news, but no hopes were better than false hopes.

Patri took my hand and led me back into the dining room. ‘Come on. Nearly midnight. I’m going to get the kids down for the Chinese lanterns.’

Marvellous. That meant it would soon be time to go home. Octavia hurried over to me. ‘What was all that kerfuffle about? I didn’t realise you were out there.’

‘Tell you later. Let’s watch these lanterns, then I’m definitely going to call it a night.’

We thronged out into the garden. Patri, Jonathan and the teenagers crowded round, all vying to take charge. Alicia was joking and laughing. One boy with a messy shock of blonde hair seemed to be paying her special attention. I listened hard. No swearing. Well-spoken. He took off his scarf and tied it round her neck. Her face lit up. Loneliness sucked me down somewhere dark.

The buzz of interest faded as the lanterns refused to light. Patri threw down his matchbox and dispatched various Fillies to find torches and lighters, the ratio of Italian to English increasing with his frustration. Octavia and I went to sit down by the fence. She turned her face to the sky, her words slurring.

‘Whenever I see stars, I think of Xavi. There were so many of them in Corsica. I wonder if he can see what we can see. Prob’ly better cos they don’t have all the light pollution. If he’s there. Could be anywhere.’ Her head lolled onto my shoulder. I couldn’t believe that after nearly two decades, Octavia was still going on about Xavi. She hadn’t mentioned him in ages. She should have whitewashed him from her memory after what he did.

‘Sshhh. Jonathan’s coming over.’

Octavia wasn’t to be derailed. ‘I still don’t know what I did wrong. I loved him. Why do people leave if they love you?’ She stabbed a drunken finger in my direction.

I had no answer for Octavia’s romantic catastrophes from years ago. My own disaster was so fresh, oozing agony into the darkness. I was the last person to claim insights on relationships. I shivered, huddling up to her under her faux fur wrap, the cold of the wooden bench creeping into my thighs. Octavia didn’t seem to need a response.

I caught a familiar sound on the other side of the fence. Throaty, lusty laughter. Not broken-hearted, brave-faced laughter.

Scott’s laughter.

Octavia was swaying, slumped on the bench, her eyelids drooping. I was bolt upright, ears straining for voices.

One high-pitched one. One deep teasing one. The clunk of the cover from our outdoor hot tub. The gurgle of bubbles. Playful screams. Loud splashes. Giggles. Silence. More silence.

My stomach lurched. He knew I was here, next door. I realised I’d imagined that Scott would be devastated, plotting how to get me back. But that wasn’t his style. Far easier to find someone else to impress with his big-man talk, and punish me into the bargain. After all these rollercoaster years, all the times I’d longed to walk away, I was still hoping there was a little ember of love left, waiting to be fanned. I reminded myself of Octavia’s words: ‘What man puts a woman he loves in a police cell?’ She was right. He didn’t deserve for me to miss him. But I did.

I wanted to pole-vault the fence and see what was happening. I wanted everyone to stop talking so that I could listen. My mind was searching, craving innocent explanations but coming up blank. A cheer went up as the first Chinese lantern struggled into the air, hovered over the summer house, skimmed the branches of the sycamore tree, then disappeared high into the sky, a tiny glow against the universe.

I hugged my arms around myself and offered up a wish for a time when my whole life didn’t seem rotten from the inside out.

Octavia

January passed in a flash. After Jonathan had exhausted the job opportunities within a 10-mile radius of where we lived, I’d encouraged him to apply for jobs abroad. The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. The idea of exploring somewhere new made me want to rush to a map of the world and draw up a wish list of destinations. Italy. Barcelona. Paris. I’d love to introduce the children to a different culture and watch their minds expand: it frightened me that Immi thought Scotland was the capital of England but knew Jack Wills and Superdry were far more must-have than anything from Asda. When I was with Xavi, I’d dreamt of having bilingual children. Maybe I still could. And yet, despite my best efforts highlighting jobs in Tokyo, Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur, by the time Jonathan’s birthday rolled around at the beginning of February, he was still fixated on jobs within half an hour’s commuting distance.

Birthday cheer, then, was in short supply. Obviously, I’d known he was going to be thirty-nine for the last three hundred and sixty-four days – but that hadn’t stopped me racing from the nursery to the supermarket for fillet steaks on the very eve I needed to cook them. We’d been living on an economy diet of lentils, chickpeas and turkey mince, so I was glad of an excuse to splash out. I’d just arrived home and was bunging the meat in a sherry and mustard marinade when Roberta turned up.

Post-marriage, we didn’t do many unannounced visits. Though since she’d rented a ridiculously tiny flat in a fancy new development shortly after New Year – ‘I’d rather have pristine and small than grotty and spacious’ – she’d been round much more often. For a brief moment, I thought she’d popped round with a present for Jonathan. I glanced down, but there was no sign of the shiny gift bags Roberta couldn’t live without. She was huddled into her mac and looked so pinched and miserable that I bundled her straight into the kitchen, batting away the children with a packet of HobNobs and a promise that tea would be ready soon.

As soon as the door was shut she told me, in a strained voice, that Scott was thinking of moving his new girlfriend, Shana, into her old house. ‘I know I should be delighted, because it will stop him hassling me and telling me what a rubbish mother I am all the time. But I keep thinking about how special he’ll be making her feel. All those little details he’s so good at. Alicia told me she runs her own lingerie business and that Scott keeps raving about what a brilliant businesswoman she is.’

I couldn’t see that Scott directing his attentions onto some other poor woman was anything other than a cause for cracking open the champagne and setting off the party poppers. I could hear the frustration in my voice as I said, ‘When did he last make you feel special? I know he did all that dramatic crossing-continents and grand-gesture malarkey at the beginning but apart from the odd bunch of daffs he gets his secretary to send you, he hasn’t been putting on the Ritz lately, has he? He’ll soon turn nasty with this Shana floozy when he doesn’t get his own way.’

Roberta sighed. ‘Maybe if I’d insisted on having my own career instead of just renovating our houses, he might have had a little more respect for me.’ Roberta sounded brittle, as though something inside her had tightened too far.

‘You have had your own career. It was your input and your designs that made the houses so saleable. If you hadn’t project-managed every detail, sorted out those bloody builders, architects and landscape gardeners, you’d never have made so much profit. Without you, he couldn’t have built up his property business.’

Roberta was so smart in so many ways. I just couldn’t comprehend why she had this blind spot when it came to Scott. I busied myself getting mushrooms out of the fridge so that she couldn’t see my exasperated face. I tried to sound sympathetic. ‘Scott didn’t want you to go out to work. As far as I can remember, that hotel chain offered you a job revamping that place on New Road and he practically forbade you to do it.’

‘I don’t think he forbade me to do it, did he? I think he just thought the timing wasn’t terribly good because Alicia was so young and it would be tricky finding the right childcare.’

Especially if your husband thought his part of the bargain stopped at the sperm donation stage.

‘That’s not how I recall it. Anyway, whatever the rights and wrongs, you can’t escape the fact that Scott was a bully and you’re better off without him.’ I clenched my teeth and waited. Even when Scott was behaving like a total turd, Roberta had never liked me criticising him.

I wasn’t sure that had changed.

Roberta swirled her coffee. ‘That’s just it. I don’t think I am better off. We’ve been talking a lot lately, mainly about arrangements for Alicia but about us, too. It’s almost like talking to the old Scotty, from years ago, before he got so aggressive. I do wonder if he ever dealt properly with the miscarriages.’

‘No one wanted those little boys more than you, and you haven’t got all bitter and twisted.’ I was so cynical about Scott and his motivations that I couldn’t find it in myself to be sorry for him.

‘I know.’ A pause. She looked away. ‘He did say that if I wanted to come back, he would finish with this other woman.’

My head ached with the effort of not telling her to go and get her chakras realigned or her aura smoothed, or whichever one of her bollocky New Age therapies it would take to make her see sense. ‘Woo-hoo, what a ringing endorsement. He might dump the other Sheila if you’re prepared to forgive and forget. Not “I’ll always love you and I’ll be sitting here broken-hearted and experimenting with razor blades until you give me a second chance.” He should be licking the floor in front of you, begging forgiveness.’

‘We were happy most of the time. I know he could be difficult, but he was a good provider. He’s got a girlfriend now, but he wasn’t a philanderer.’

I shook some balsamic vinegar into the marinade and tried to sigh quietly. ‘I think it’s human nature to remember the good times and forget the bad ones. Can I give your rose-tinted specs a little polish? Half the time you couldn’t even speak to your friends on the phone in case the spotlight wandered off him. Then there’s the small matter of that little trip in the cop car. Plus the fact that as soon as you left him, he stopped you getting access to any money – money that you had helped him create – never mind that you still had his daughter to take care of.’

Roberta rested her head on one hand. ‘I know. I did have that conversation with him. He admitted he’d been out of order, said he wasn’t thinking straight when I left him. He’s sorted out an allowance for me now, until we get things onto a more formal footing. That’s if I don’t go back.’ Her voice was small, sinking down into her chest.

By contrast I thought my voice might start bellowing out of mine until the neighbours could hear. ‘Why would you want to?’

‘I never imagined being a single parent. I feel like I’ve let everyone down after insisting that I knew what I was doing, marrying Scott. I don’t want Alicia growing up without a father. I keep hoping that she’ll get closer to Scott as she gets older. That won’t happen if he has a baby with this other woman.’

‘But you also don’t want Alicia growing up thinking that it’s OK to let a bloke swear at her or lock her out when the mood takes him. If Alicia got together with someone who treated her like Scott treats you, you’d think you’d failed as a mother. And she’s not growing up without a father. He sees her whenever he wants, doesn’t he?’

Roberta was shrinking into herself, dwarfed by the collar on her coat. Hard to believe this was the woman who’d run the debating society at school. Who’d petitioned her MP about cuts in funding for the arts. Whose letters to The Times were legendary. Scott had worn her down over the years until she wouldn’t recognise her own opinion if it took a chunk out of her arse. But maybe I was turning into Scott, haranguing her until she agreed with me, whether she thought I was right or not.

I was working out how to do a quick backpedal so she didn’t feel the whole world was against her, when Jonathan came through. He looked amazed to see Roberta, even though he’d only been on the other side of the hatch. His face always took on a wary look when Roberta appeared, in case she might suddenly come and stay again for another ten days.

‘Hiya. How are you? Things falling into place a bit better now?’

Roberta shrugged. ‘We’re fine, thanks.’

Jonathan glanced at me. ‘Flat working out okay?’

Roberta nodded and his shoulders relaxed.

That was enough to convince Jonathan that no further investigation was needed. ‘Is it nearly dinnertime? I’m looking forward to my birthday steak.’

Roberta gasped. ‘Oh God, is it your birthday? Sorry. I’d better go.’

‘You’re all right. I can make myself a sandwich if you want to stay a bit longer.’

I was caught between not wanting to chuck Roberta out and feeling that for once, Jonathan did deserve to come top of the pile. He only managed to fight his way past the kids, and even the dog, about once a year.

Roberta took the hint when Jonathan fetched out a kilo of bargain-bucket margarine and started making an enormous doorstep, hoovering up a whole pack of ham. It took all my birthday goodwill not to start nagging. Instead of birthday sex, it would be birthday row if he sat down to my steak and declared he wasn’t hungry.

I showed her out and we stood chatting on the threshold. Jonathan never understood how we saw each other so often, yet never ran out of things to say. I sucked her into a big hug. Her shoulder blades were so bony, she was in danger of slicing through my arteries.

‘Maybe you need to think about finding a distraction yourself?’ I said.

‘Such as?’

Sometimes the woman was so slow. I laughed. ‘How about a new man?’

‘Oh God. I couldn’t bear it. How would I meet anyone anyway?’

‘The internet. At least you can see what they look like first, so you don’t end up with some warthog.’

Roberta pulled a face. ‘I can’t think of anything worse. Can you imagine if I actually had to have sex with someone new? All that fumbling and getting in a tangle with your underwear.’

‘Don’t be silly. The men you’ll meet will have worked out the whole bra thing by now. I’d be more worried about whether they can still get it up. We could look on a website – what about that one they’re always advertising on the radio – Just Clicked? You don’t actually have to go out with anyone. We can just have a nosey and see what’s available. Go on, it’ll be a laugh.’

‘Oh yes, an absolute hoot, for you, maybe.’ But she didn’t sound dead set against it.

Given that she was dithering over Scott again, there was no time to lose. ‘Right. I’m going to come over tomorrow evening and we’ll crack on with your new life. We can always give you a false name.’

‘You can come over but I’m not going to let you matchmake.’

‘We’ll see.’

As she headed to her car, her step had lightened slightly.

Roberta

When Octavia had an idea in her head, she was impossible to resist. Before she came over the following evening, I was determined that I wasn’t going to let her bamboozle me into looking for a man online, but she breezed into my apartment with a bottle of fizz ‘to celebrate a new beginning’.

Before I knew it, we were sitting at the tiny breakfast bar, poring over the pictures on the Just Clicked website. Octavia was drawn to the skinny guys, whereas I could never envisage going out with a man who could fit into my jeans. I preferred men who looked like they could take on a bear and win if the need ever arose. She liked dark, broody men, even though she’d ended up with Jonathan, who was gingerish. I leaned towards men at the Scandinavian end of the spectrum.

Octavia pointed to a man who epitomised the word ‘ordinary’. ‘He looks nice. Friendly eyes. Shirt’s quite trendy.’

‘Trendy? He looks like he buys his clothes from Topman. Bet he reads Angling Weekly. How about this one? He’s rather attractive.’

‘No. Too serial killer. Look how pale he is. Looks like he’s been living in a cupboard under the stairs.’ Octavia scrolled down. ‘What about this one?’

‘I’m not that desperate. Forehead like a skating rink. Too thin.’ As we dismissed whole chunks of the male population on their hairline alone, I dreaded to think what they would say about me if I ever dared to put my picture out there into the brutal world of internet dating.

I trailed my finger down the page. ‘Bet he’s called Quentin.’

‘Cuthbert.’ Octavia laughed into her champagne.

‘Cuthbert’ was the name we used to give to any boy we didn’t want to dance with at the school disco. ‘Nick’ was for the ones we liked. For a moment, it was like being fifteen again, judging a man on his haircut and shirt. If I’d messed up the first time around when I was approaching life optimistically and open-minded, I didn’t rate my chances with bitter baggage, teenage daughter and a ring-fenced heart in tow. But Scott appeared to be getting on with his life, so I’d have to do the same. It might even do me good to meet someone new, someone I could be myself with, the self I was now. Not the self I was when I was twenty.

Octavia picked out a guy who looked Slavic, with high cheekbones and slightly protruding eyes.

‘A bit amphibian-looking. Like his jacket though. And he’s got attractive hands. OK, let’s put him on the possibles list. He can be my middle-aged Nick,’ I said.

‘OK, let’s choose one more, then we’ll set up your profile.’ Octavia filled our glasses again. ‘What about him? He looks a bit Mediterranean. He’s got gorgeous hair. Reminds me a bit of Xavi.’

‘Everyone reminds you of Xavi. About time you blew out that ancient torch for him. Never let it be said that Octavia Shelton is fickle. I wonder where he ended up. Maybe he finally came back to Cocciu after all that travelling, married a girl in the village and is now a staid old man, out on his fishing boat at weekends.’

‘Doubt it. I can’t imagine a tiny island containing him for the rest of his life.’ Octavia’s hard edges still softened when she talked about him.

‘Do you ever think about contacting him? You must have Googled him at least?’

‘Nope. It just seems so disloyal and a bit slippery-slopey. Even if I found him, what would I do? I’ve got the life I’ve got now. Anyway, I’m probably a distant shag he can barely remember.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You broke his heart. He absolutely adored you. If your dad hadn’t died, you’d have gone travelling the world with him.’

Octavia threw up her hands. ‘Can you imagine Mum if I’d have dropped out of university and gone tazzing off to New Zealand with Xavi? Mind you, might have learnt more there than wasting my time finishing off a stupid French degree. Not essential for running a nursery and teaching two-year-olds Humpty Dumpty. Anyway, do you want to include this bloke or not?’ She drained her glass.

‘Go on then, I’ll have the Xavi lookalike in homage to that flame – or should I say that bonfire – you never quite managed to snuff out.’ I dutifully wrote his name down.

‘It would never have worked. He was far too wild for me.’

‘Fibber. You were waxing lyrical about him on New Year’s Eve. Anyway, back then, you were rather wild yourself.’ I dug a couple of bottles out of the bijou wine rack and waved them at Octavia. She went with the Rioja.

‘Maybe I was, but you’ve got to grow up eventually. You can’t keep travelling aimlessly. I couldn’t have dragged the kids all over the world. Xavi was just a mad fling before I found Mr Right.’ Octavia sighed. ‘Let’s sign you up. I’m going to use Cuthbert as your password.’

I recognised Octavia’s closing-down tactics. She was absurdly defensive about Jonathan. If I ever dared to point out that he didn’t seem very exciting, she would get all snippy, saying he worked so hard to support three children, as though one child didn’t require a moment of effort. It would be interesting to see if Jonathan became a powerhouse of football/rugby/netball match attendance now he didn’t have work as an excuse. I didn’t know how she stood all his fussing about, running his fingers along the banisters checking for dust.

Her calling him Mr Right brought out the devil in me.

‘I bet Xavi would be on Facebook. You could have a quick peek without him even knowing.’

‘Yes, I could, but I’m not going to. I’m very happy with my life, thank you. Let’s fill in the questionnaire about personality.’ Octavia immediately started laughing. ‘God, this is sophisticated. Tick the boxes that apply to you. ‘I like to converse at an intellectual level.’ Big fat tick. ‘I enjoy luxury.’ Huge double tick. ‘I get discouraged easily.’ Think that’s another tick.’

‘I don’t get discouraged easily.’

‘You do at the moment. At the New Year’s Eve party, you told me every time I spoke to you that you’d never meet anyone.’

‘Pardon me for being a bit depressed. I’d only left Scott six days before.’ No doubt Octavia would have led them all in the conga and a burst of the hokey-cokey.

Half a questionnaire later, with my imperfections glittering in cyberspace, I needed a break. ‘Come on. Let’s see if we can find Xavi.’

‘We’re supposed to be finding a man for you,’ Octavia said, but her protest was weak.

I shuffled her out of the way, logged on to Facebook through Alicia’s account, and typed in Xavier Santoni. No results.

‘He’s probably living in the Corsican mountains and working as a shepherd,’ I said, preparing to click back onto my dreaded dating profile.

Octavia put her hand on my arm, ‘Try just putting in Santoni – might bring up one of his rellies.’

I nudged her. ‘I thought you weren’t interested anyway.’

‘You’ve only got yourself to blame. You’re the one who’s let the genie out of the bottle. I’ve spent years telling myself “Step away from Google”.’

Forty-six results for Santoni. I scrolled down. She pointed to the screen.

‘Click on that one. I think that’s his cousin, Magali.’

I went into Magali’s photos. We stared at the pictures, trying to ascertain whether they were taken in Cocciu or not.

Octavia squinted at the screen. ‘That might be Xavi’s mother. Or maybe Xavi’s aunt. Ooh look, I bet that’s Magali’s daughter. She looks just like her. I think that’s his parents’ garden – I’m sure that’s the view down the hill, where we saw those wild boar with their babies when you came to visit me.’ Happy memories were lighting up her face in a way I rarely saw any more.

She then insisted on clicking on every Santoni who lived in Corsica, searching through their friends, looking into the crowds in party shots, peering at children for any resemblance to Xavi. I felt as though I’d taken a bit of fun and turned it into something desperate.

Eventually Octavia sighed. ‘He’s not there. Probably living in a yurt in Ulan Bator. Anyway, let’s stick to the task in hand.’ She pulled out her mobile phone to take my picture. She’d lost some of her playfulness. I knew I’d touched a nerve.

Xavi had been special in a way Jonathan wasn’t.

Xavi had such energy, approached life with such gusto. He was the perfect match for Octavia’s whirlwind of ideas, her zest for the zany. Though now I reflected on it, it was a long time since she’d made us wash our faces in the dew on the first of May for eternal youth, or read the Tarot cards. Little by little, her quirkiness had descended into something more pedestrian. Maybe it was age. Maybe it was having three kids and a demanding job. Maybe it was Jonathan. I hoped I wasn’t going to become one of those bitter women who saw faults in everyone’s marriage because my own had imploded. I pulled a face at the camera.

‘Stop it, or you’ll only get the boss-eyed axe murderers emailing you.’ Octavia was zooming in far too close for my liking.

‘I won’t date anyone, anyway.’

‘Of course you will. When they start telling you how gorgeous you are, how you look like a young Audrey Hepburn and that they’ve got a holiday home in Andalucia, a yacht in Antibes and by the way, you’re going for dinner at The Savoy, you’ll be dying to go out with them. Anyway, you’re not looking for a husband, just someone to go to the cinema with.’

‘I’ve got you for that.’ I nodded as Octavia showed me a photo that didn’t make my complexion look like a piece of ageing Stilton.

‘You’re not going to meet a bloke toddling off to the Odeon with me to watch a rom-com, are you?’

‘You sound more excited about this than me.’

‘If I was in your position, I’d go absolutely wild. Fill my boots. Shag myself silly. You might get married again in a few years’ time and be stuck with the same bloke for half a century.’

I heard something in Octavia’s tone that made me swing round to look at her.

Envy.

Octavia

I had ignored the alumni newsletter from the Middleton School for Girls when it arrived before Christmas. I’d confounded everyone’s low expectations by getting good A-levels, but two decades later, I still resented my time there. The biggest lesson I’d learnt was that I was pretty crap at conforming. If it hadn’t been for my symbiotic relationship with Roberta – our uniting sense of humour, plus her need for a little rebellion and my need for someone who knew the system so I could work it to my advantage – I would probably have dropped out and gone to tech college instead.

So my enthusiasm when she rang to say she wanted to go to the school reunion was underwhelming. ‘Who do you want to see? Old Bristles Birtwistle for a quick Latin test? Penelope Watson for a quick rundown on Daddy’s new Bentley and Mummy’s latest steed? I can’t afford it, anyway.’

‘I don’t want to see anyone in particular. I’ve rung up and they said there are still a few last-minute tickets left. Might be a way of extending my social network away from all the friends I share with Scott. I’m finding sitting in every night quite tedious. Go on. I’ll pay. Pleee-aaase.’

‘I can’t let you pay. You’re already spending a fortune on that shoebox you’re living in.’ I still couldn’t understand why she’d chosen somewhere with a concierge, a lobby and water features, rather than useful features, like bedrooms and a garden.

‘Scott’s in a generous phase at the moment. He’s agreed to cover the rent till we can sort out the finances. He’s trying to keep me sweet so I don’t start claiming half the business, I think.’

‘And you’re going to roll over?’

Roberta sighed impatiently.

‘I just want a decent settlement so I can get on with my life. I’m not squandering thousands of pounds in lawyer’s fees trying to prove how much money Scott has got. I’ve no doubt the lion’s share will be in some obscure bank account on the other side of the world by now. Anyway, will you come with me?’

‘Christ. I hated that school. You were the only good thing to come out of it.’ Still, I was impressed that Roberta was thinking positive. And slightly ashamed that I was more inclined to go if it wasn’t my £35 I was wasting. Because, as Jonathan never missed the chance to point out, there was no money to burn.

‘You would never have set up a holistic nursery if the rigidity of school hadn’t scarred you for life. It’s your opportunity to go back and show them what you achieved.’ Never mind interior design, Roberta should have carved out a career as a hostage negotiator.

‘True. Though that’s a perverse way to be thankful for years of detentions and lectures on being responsible,’ I said.

‘You did leave school over twenty years ago.’

I hesitated, knowing that I was going to give in. Anything to keep Roberta from going back to Scott. ‘OK, then. I’m going to regret this.’

Once I’d agreed to go, I brushed away any discussion or plans. Thinking about any of them – teachers or pupils – reminded me how stifled I’d felt through all my teenage years. Roberta saw my household as liberal compared with her dad’s strict rules of staying at the table until everyone had finished breakfast and not coming downstairs in your nightie. She loved learning how to dressmake with my mum or watching TV in our dressing gowns all day, legs dangling over the arm of the settee.

But my parents weren’t liberal, they were good solid working-class stock, with ambitions for me, hence the pushing and prodding of their only daughter into a scholarship at a school for the posh and privileged. I wasn’t sure they could deem their experiment an unqualified success.

On the night of the reunion, Roberta picked me up. She arrived all gussied-up with a cloud of dark hair, white palazzo pants, a lacy blouse and high heels that would have made me look like I’d just finished my pole-dancing shift. I’d meant to spend a bit of time titivating myself but Jonathan was sulking about me going out without him, cottering about how we didn’t have money to waste on ‘fripperies’ then still managing to be cross when I told him Roberta was paying.

He’d decided his best use of time was to review our pensions that evening. Producing the relevant documents from my ‘bung-it-in-a-box’ filing system resulted in a mere fifteen minutes for a makeover, hampered by a missing eyeliner sharpener and my one decent top gone AWOL. In the end, I’d gone for a pair of black trousers I wore for work, spent a precious five minutes taming my hair so it didn’t stick out like a monkey puzzle tree, and chucked a dried-up mascara wand into my bag to do my make-up in the car.

‘I’m a bit nervous,’ Roberta said. ‘I thought I was OK talking about Scott, but now I’m not sure.’

‘Don’t be silly. They’ll all be looking at you and thinking what an idiot he was to let you get away. We’ll have a laugh.’ Which was ironic coming from me, given that my dread was increasing with every junction we clocked up towards our leafy Sussex school.

Roberta seemed more excited than nervous. As we drew through the gates, she started pointing through the window. ‘Look, that’s Veronica. And Cinzia. Oh my God. Elfrida looks amazing. She’s really glamorous. I don’t remember her being like that at school.’

I wanted to be interested. But I felt just like I had then. The dumpy poor girl who had to dye her hair a kaleidoscope of colours to get noticed.

‘How soon can we leave?’

Roberta yanked up the handbrake. ‘What is it you say to your youngsters at nursery? The only difference between having a good time and a bad time is attitude?’

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