The Family Next Door(29)

“It’s the heat,” Lucas had said to her earlier this evening.

The heat was the catchall excuse for everything at the moment. Mothers at the school were using it to explain their children’s brattiness, Ange’s employees blamed it for their not sleeping well, Ange herself had blamed the heat for the fact she couldn’t do a thing with her hair. She almost felt sorry for the poor old heat, taking the blame for everything. Especially since it was in no way to blame for her agitation.

It was Erin.

Ange couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was irritating. All day she’d been popping into her mind, out of the blue. And the image was always of Erin standing next to Lucas at the hospital, her little girl, Charlie, clasped to her hip.

Ange would have loved a little girl. When she was younger, she’d always imagined she’d have two daughters with blond curls and old-fashioned names like Goldie and Ivy. Ange was going to dress them in navy-blue pinafores with red stockings, black Mary Janes, and red bows at their temples. Goldie and Ivy would have had fairy parties and dollhouses and tutus.

Instead Ange had Minecraft parties and football and farts.

When she had Will, she hadn’t been devastated. A daughter will come next, she told herself. Maybe, when they were older, her daughter would date Will’s friends and he’d keep an eye on things. A protective older brother. Yes, that would be perfect, she’d told herself. Except the younger sister hadn’t come. Instead, Ollie had arrived, far too happy with himself, thankfully, to consider that he was ever anything less than coveted. Ange loved him for that confidence. It had given her the space she needed to grieve.

She knew she wasn’t supposed to think these things. But then again, what were thoughts for if not to process the awful things you couldn’t say out loud? It wasn’t as if she didn’t love her sons. Will was handsome and gentle and sweet, and Ollie—well, it was impossible not to adore Ollie. Today, for instance, after driving him across town to a friend’s place, he’d announced: “You are the best, Mum. When you’re old, I’m going to buy you a walking stick. Diamond encrusted!”

Random, she’d thought. But also lovely.

“Thank you, Ollie,” she’d said. “I’ll be the envy of everyone in my nursing home.”

Ollie was funny and stubborn and downright charming. He could make you want to throttle him one moment and kiss him the next. Ollie understood the fragilities of relationships in a way most adults never would. He’d never get her a walking stick, but he knew what she needed to hear in that moment. He knew that lies were necessary sometimes. He got that from her.

After all, the way he’d come into their lives hadn’t exactly been honest.

Ange stood up. She’d been sitting too long, she realized. Sitting lent itself to obsessing about things best left in the past. There was a message on her phone, and she turned her attention to it. It was Julia, from the office. Perfect.

“Hey, Ange, sorry to bother you. I finally got hold of Isabelle Heatherington’s workplace to check her employment status…”

Ange groaned. The landlord had been in a hurry to rent the place as the fire had left him without rent for months, so when Isabelle applied they moved her in quickly, thinking she could check the paperwork later. Of course the first time she did this, they’d run into trouble.

“… Isabelle listed her place of work as the Abigail Ferris Foundation, but the number she provided didn’t work so I called the head office. The person I spoke to said they didn’t have any record of her working for them.”

Ange ran her finger along a high shelf of the built-in cabinet, bringing away a trail of dust. She wasn’t worried about Isabelle. Employers had become increasingly reluctant to give out information about their employees and it was not uncommon for employers to refuse to even admit they’d heard of the person in question. She’d just speak to Isabelle tomorrow about getting someone to release the information.

“Anyway, let me know what you want me to do,” pre-recorded Julia continued. “She’s paid her first and second months’ rent and her bond. Byeeeee.”

Ange ended the call on the way to the laundry. Her house needed a good cleaning, she decided. She found the feather duster and returned to the front room and started dusting. When was the last time she’d dusted? Usually the cleaners did it—but clearly they weren’t doing a great job of it. Dust was flying all over the place. Next, she’d have to vacuum.

“Muuuum?” Ollie called from his room.

“I’ll go,” Lucas called to her.

Ange kept dusting. There was something vaguely calming about it. Maybe Ange would start dusting for relaxation. It would be like yoga or meditation or adult coloring. What did they call it these days? Mindfulness, that was it. She would dust mindfully.

Once she’d had such plans for her life. She’d been passionate about everything. Refugees. Women’s rights. Religious freedoms! She marched in marches and signed petitions. On the weekends she took a canvas outside and painted, just for fun. Now, she made lunch boxes and signed permission slips and was passionate about breaches in her social media etiquette. She made a point of not getting too up in arms about anything and whenever anyone got too passionate, she felt her eyes start to glaze over.

What had become of her?

Maybe she needed to get passionate about things again. Start volunteering for some committees, raising money for a good cause. She could start a foundation, or at least offer her time to an established foundation. Maybe she’d pick up a paintbrush again. Her children weren’t babies anymore, maybe she could get some of her life back? Maybe she could get some of her self back. Then she’d stop obsessing about Erin and her daughter. After all, she had secrets too.