Our House(21)

‘Pretty well. In fact, I’d say he’s been almost, I don’t know . . .’

‘What?’

‘Well, almost submissive.’

‘Submissive? Bram?’ She gave a shout of laughter. ‘No, that can’t be right. That must be the good twin he never told you about. They’ve swapped identities. The real Bram will be at a beach party in Goa. Or at least down the pub.’

‘I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. When he came to the house on Wednesday he looked, I don’t know, grateful. I think he might really be appreciating what a lifeline this is.’

‘I should hope so!’ Polly exclaimed. ‘Even he must realize how close he came to losing everything. And would have with any other wife.’

Even now I’d split from him, even now scar tissue hardened my heart, I was deemed too soft on him. (How easy it was to imagine Polly telling her friends: ‘Get this, she’s finally sent him packing – to the room across the landing!’)

‘The thing is, Fi, this bird’s nest set-up all sounds great on paper, it’s very fashionably liberal and all that, but do you trust him to do his share? Every Friday and Saturday, sole charge? You’d have no problem getting full custody, would you? You could be in the house seven days a week and he could be here. Why throw him a bone like this?’

‘Because he’s the centre of the boys’ world – in many ways, he’s a better parent than I am. He makes them laugh and shout and dash around like mad things.’

‘That’s a good parent? I think I prefer the boring kind that keeps them quiet – oh, and protects them from the effects of adultery.’

I smiled. ‘Well, they’ve got one of each. And the boring one wants them to be able to stay in their home and sleep in their own beds every night, not on camp beds somewhere like this. She wants them to have what they’ve always had: football in the garden with their dad, building dens for the dog we’ll probably never get . . .’

‘Hmm.’ Her nephews’ welfare held Polly’s interest only so far. A year into her current relationship and not yet a parent, she was doubtless thinking she would never be foolish enough to find herself in my predicament. ‘How does it work if you or Bram start dating someone new?’

‘There’s no rule against it, obviously, but we’ve agreed no third parties at Trinity Avenue.’

‘Third parties?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not what they call them on Tinder.’

‘Well, whatever they call them, I’m too old to find out, so it’s not going to be an issue.’

‘You’re only in your early forties, Fi.’

‘I feel in my early hundreds.’

‘That’s what marriage to Bram does to you. He won’t have any qualms about bringing people back here.’

‘And I won’t have any qualms about him not having any,’ I insisted.

My sister considered her verdict, which, when delivered, was in my favour only by chance. ‘I have to say, it really is the most perfect solution. You get the best nights here: Friday and Saturday. The grown-up nights. You can have a private life and keep it completely separate from him and the kids. From everyone.’

I laughed. ‘Did you not just hear me say there isn’t going to be a private life?’

‘Maybe not at first. I give you a month.’

That’s Polly’s way: she’s so certain she knows what’s going to happen before it does. She thinks she’s seen it all before.

But even she admits now that she could never have predicted this.

#VictimFi

@LorraineGB71 Something really horrible is going to happen in that flat.

@KatyEVBrown @LorraineGB71 There’s a reason why no one stays longer than six months . . . *turns on menacing soundtrack*





13


Bram, Word document

Right, enough scene setting. Lies, infidelity, best bird’s-nest intentions, you get the picture: I was already a fucking moron before we even get to the main event. To the tragedy that should never have happened. The grave I dug for myself.

(Second thoughts, maybe that’s not the best metaphor.)

It was the third Friday of the new custody arrangements and I had a company away-day at a country house hotel near Gatwick. I was second on the bill to present, along with another sales manager, Tim, who, conveniently for me, had written the thing. It was a complicated journey involving a change of trains at Clapham Junction and a taxi at the other end and when I missed the first train from Alder Rise, even before the ‘Delayed’ sign flashed up for the next, I calculated that I wasn’t going to get to the venue in time. Standing there on the mobbed platform, I found it impossible not to think of the Audi parked a minute away on Trinity Avenue, especially when the calendar app showed no activities that might require its use after school. Best of all, Fi was not at home, as she usually was on a Friday, but had left early with Alison to go to some antiques fair in Richmond, driving in Alison’s Volvo, which meant I could nip to the house and get the car keys without running into her.

So I slipped from the station and took the back route past the school and along Wyndham Gardens to the house. I considered texting Fi that I was entering the property without prior agreement, but I couldn’t spare the half-minute that would take.