The Family Next Door(30)

Her duster hit something and a second later a hard object fell and skittered across the floor. She had to duck to avoid it. She put down her duster and picked it up.

A brand-new iPhone.

“Ange?” Lucas called from upstairs.

“Yes?”

“Ollie just threw up.”

Ange glanced in the mirror above the fireplace. She’d worked up quite a sweat. Clumps of dust sat on her head and shoulders like dandruff and her face was quite red. “I’ll be right there,” she said.

But instead of heading to the stairs, she sat in the armchair. She powered on the phone and waited as it sprang to life.





19


FRAN


Fran lay on her back, breathing heavily. Beside her, Nigel let out a soft groan. They’d just had sex. Not boring, married sex. New couple sex. Interesting sex.

“That was…” Nigel started.

“I know,” she agreed.

She rolled onto her side and laid her head on his chest. The room glowed with peach light as the sun made its descent into the bay. If the girls hadn’t been in bed, she might have suggested they run down to the beach and watch the sunset while bobbing in the ocean. She felt drunken, euphoric. Perhaps it was the fact that it had been a while? Perhaps it was because they were on the living room rug? Or maybe it was the fact that they were going to be all right. She and Nigel were moving on. Moving forward.

“Water?” Nigel asked.

“Please.”

He got up and Fran slid off his chest, watching his naked bottom as he walked into the kitchen. She sighed contentedly. It was the first day of the rest of her life. She’d always loathed that saying, but today, it was perfect. She was putting the past behind her. She was going to have sex, and lots of it. She was going to be a devoted wife and mother. She would make up for her indiscretions. If it got hard, she would work harder.

Today had been a good start. She and Nigel had taken Rosie and Ava out for breakfast, then to the adjacent park to play. It had been one of those blue-skied mornings where it felt good to be outside and alive. By midmorning it was too hot to be outside so they all came home, piled onto the couch to watch Frozen, and then everyone had a lunchtime nap. It had been bliss. Perfect family bliss.

“I might make a toasted cheese sandwich,” Nigel called from the kitchen. “You want some?”

“No, thanks,” Fran said sleepily. “I’ll just share yours.”

She could feel his grin, even from the next room.

Nigel was happier too, she realized. He had been worried about her. They’d been through a rough patch, that was all. He’d made mistakes, she’d made mistakes. Keeping the secret would, in a way, be her penance. She wasn’t returning to her job after maternity leave, she didn’t want to risk running into Mark. She’d told Nigel that now that she had two children, she wanted to stay home with the girls for a while, and he hadn’t questioned it. Probably because it was exactly what she should be doing. Focusing on the family.

From the kitchen, Fran heard the sizzle of bread in the pan, and Nigel started humming “Quando Quando Quando.” He’d sung it that first trivia night—word for word—to get them a bonus point (after already naming Engelbert Humperdinck as the original singer), and since then, it had been “their song.” Nigel didn’t have a bad voice, and he only sang it when he was happy. So far, it seemed, she was doing a good job.

She pulled a cushion from the couch and rested it under her head. They’d both put the girls to bed tonight. The four of them had sat on the floor in Rosie’s room while Nigel had read a story. Rosie had actually sat in Fran’s lap, which was a first, while Ava lay on a cushion next to Nigel and blinked up at them all in contented puzzlement. Fran had tucked Rosie in afterward and by the time she’d gotten to Ava’s room, Nigel had been sitting with her in the armchair. (“There’s nothing nicer, is there,” he’d said, “than a baby on your chest?”)

She was so lucky, Fran realized. Those girls were even luckier.

Nigel was singing loudly enough now that Fran worried he’d wake up the girls. Rosie adored it when he sang. When she was older, she’d probably roll her eyes. You’re so tragic, Dad, she’d say, and he’d probably pull her in and make her start dancing with him, the way he did to Fran sometimes. But then, dads were meant to be tragic. To embarrass their kids. It was part of the gig.

Would he embarrass Ava that way? Fran wondered suddenly. Yes, he loved her now, but what about later, when she started to show her personality? He’d always had such a connection with Rosie, but then Rosie was so much like him. Ava may not be. What if, as she got older, it became apparent that she was nothing like him? What if her eyelashes were short and pale? What if she was short and burly and full of confidence—like Mark? Would he keep her at a distance? Would he feel as though something just wasn’t right?

Fran had a sudden picture of Ava on a psychologist’s couch lamenting the fact that she’d never felt her dad’s approval and didn’t understand why. (“He’s so close to my sister,” she’d say. “But he doesn’t get me. He doesn’t even seem to want to get me.”) Adolescent girls were attuned to these kinds of things. It could ruin her for life. What if Ava spent the rest of her days searching for approval in unhealthy, even abusive relationships? Was that what Fran was doing to Ava by hiding the truth?