Beneath the Skin(62)
Her reaction as she gazed at him was heart-thrashing and overwhelming shyness. She hadn’t expected to see him and she’d made no effort with her appearance. But she was relieved, happy and incredibly nervous.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, her voice a husky croak.
‘Waiting for you.’
He took his feet off the leather pouffe. ‘We need to talk,’ he said and her heart sunk, even as she noticed that his socks didn’t match.
Olivia hasn’t had time to think, which is a good thing. On the other hand, she hasn’t had time to do anything else either. She committed to the NCT breast counselling malarkey years ago. Breast Is Best, as the slogan says. It seemed important to Olivia at the time, but everyone is so bloody right-on in Chorlton that every mum breastfeeds their precious offspring.
‘It’s a sin to cross the Beech Road border and feed your baby formula milk,’ she laughs with her sister on the telephone. But this means she is very busy with numerous new mums who are struggling to feed their babies with engorged breasts, cracked nipples or even mastitis, and who are racked with middle-class guilt.
‘If I had my time again,’ Olivia recently confessed to her sister, ‘I’d go for formula milk or employ a wet nurse! Don’t you dare tell anyone. They’d shoot me.’ Only she is having a ‘time again’ right now, a time again she needs to do something about.
‘Daddy! Daddy’s home!’ she hears Hannah shout from the bay window.
Blusher, she thinks, glancing in the mirror in the downstairs loo, I should’ve used blusher. But Mike is already through the front door, smiling and relaxed.
Happy, she thinks. Mike is happy.
‘You’re early. I haven’t put on the pasta yet. Anything up?’ she asks, trying for a light tone.
Mike shakes his head. ‘Not at all. Thought I’d pop to White Gables later. Do my ten K around Mottram for a change. Thought it only fair to see you girls properly first.’
‘You are good.’ She feels vaguely guilty that she hasn’t yet made the effort to visit Antonia herself. Antonia is nice, she undoubtedly needs support, but Olivia just doesn’t have the time to drive all the way to the sticks at the moment. Or the energy.
Hannah reaches up to Mike for a hug. ‘Mummy was sick this morning.’ She looks at Olivia with narrowed eyes. ‘You closed the bathroom door, but I saw you.’
Olivia doesn’t miss a beat as she scoops up Hannah to hide her blushing face. ‘Yes, thank you, with a bug you brought home from school, young lady!’
She can sense Mike’s eyes on her. ‘Are you OK? I don’t need to go out. I could go running tomorrow.’
‘No, I’m fine. Absolutely. You go.’
Her fixed smile is exhausting.
It’s dark outside but Sami is still at work, trying to catch up from his late start to the day. There’s a slight quibble at the back of his mind about the interlude with Jemima yesterday, but he hasn’t glanced at his private line even once. His predominant thoughts are of Sophie.
He didn’t stay long with Jemima. As soon as they were done he was itching to get home. He suddenly felt overwhelmingly apprehensive. He had no idea what to expect. Sophie drunk, Sophie dead, Sophie hurling abuse?
‘Take a firm line, man, it’s the only way,’ he repeated to himself as he drove the short journey home.
The townhouse was silent as he let himself in. The kitchen lights revealed a shambles of empty bottles and crisp packets, dirty dishes and cluttered work surfaces. No discernible difference to how he’d left it two nights before. He looked quickly into the empty lounge and saw the splintered whisky glass on the carpet where it had landed. He felt the heat of the radiators, his heart pounding, only now really focusing on what he might find. He bounded up the stairs and took a deep breath before pushing open the bedroom door. Then he looked. The bedroom was empty. Thank God, thank God.
The disappointment set in then. He missed Sophie, he wanted to talk to her, to listen to one of her comically spiteful observations about Claudia Winkleman’s fringe, or the lesbian neighbours, her mum or Princess Kate’s eye make-up. He lay down on the jumbled bed to reinstate his resolve, and slept deeply until morning. It was light when he woke and to his surprise he was fully clothed. He squinted at his watch, realised it was Monday, then muttered, ‘Sod it. I’m not going into work today.’ He peeled off his sweaty clothes, showered for a long time, then sat in the lounge, waiting.
He resorted to turning on the television but didn’t like the invasion of sound, so turned it to mute. He searched the cupboards for chocolate and biscuits, but they were too sweet and too dry, even washed down with a pint glass of Coke. Nothing seemed the same without Sophie. Then finally he heard her key in the latch.
‘We need to talk. This drinking has got to stop,’ were his first words. Whatever he expected to do or to say, it wasn’t that.
‘I know,’ Sophie replied.
It was as easy as that.
Antonia’s been engrossed for some time in the rhythm of kneading dough for some brioche and the sharp rap of the knocker in the silence makes her jump. She rubs her hands together to remove most of the flour and then washes them under the tap in the centre of the island. It seemed decadent when the plans were originally drawn up: two sinks, four taps, all in such close proximity. But the kitchen designer from Knutsford knew his stuff. One sink for washing up, the other for everything else. Like the two ovens and the integrated coffee machine, it all added to the huge cost of the renovation, but David had been firm. ‘Pick the best. Let’s do it properly. We have the money, my darling. Besides, you’re absolutely worth it.’