The Family Next Door(78)

66


ANGE


Ange had a paintbrush in her hand when the doorbell rang. She was on the back porch, muddying up a canvas with big streaks of color that clashed. She’d had the idea this morning—why not paint something? It felt remarkably indulgent. Beside her on a large piece of newspaper lay several household utensils—a spatula, a butter knife, a sponge—which she was using to create texture. Once, not so long ago, she’d have taken a picture of the utensils all lined up and posted it on Instagram (#colors; #creating; #art), but she didn’t do that today. This little piece of herself wasn’t for show. This was something that was just for her.

Ollie had come out half an hour earlier, looking appalled. “What is that?” he’d said, curling his lip.

“A painting.”

“Why?”

“I used to paint when I was younger,” she said brightly. “Why not now?”

He’d wandered off muttering: “Am I the only sane one in this house?”

Perhaps he was. Certainly the painting wasn’t any good. The colors had run together, making everything look brown and unappealing. But Ange was enjoying it. As it turned out, Lucas wasn’t the only one who could create adventures or fun in her life. She could be spontaneous too. Not once since Lucas had left had she watched a rerun of Oprah. Several times over the past few weeks she’d taken the boys out on an adventure. The first one (to the movies) had admittedly not been totally inspired, but it had been raining and she was just starting off. Last night she’d decided that on her next scheduled weekend with the boys she’d drive them to the airport and board the first flight they could get on. Oh yes, her adventures were going to be good. Maybe even better than Lucas’s.

The boys seemed to be taking the split well so far, but Ange knew there’d be bumps along the way. Ollie, in particular, had become fond of the phrase “at Dad’s house we…” Lucas had found himself an apartment in Black Rock, the next suburb, so he was still close by, and their custody arrangement had been working well. Lucas had the boys every other weekend, as well as Wednesday nights. He’d introduced the boys to their sister, which they seemed to have taken in their stride—though when Ollie had asked if Charlie could come and play at their house, Ange had just about choked on her chardonnay. She was going to be the cool, easygoing mum, but even she had her limits.

The doorbell rang again, and Ange remembered she was the only one home. Ollie had just been picked up by a friend’s mother to go to karate and Will had gone to the movies with Candace. Before he left, Ange had made a point of having a long talk with him about respecting women. He’d rolled his eyes and looked horrified, but Ange was determined to make sure he got the message—if not from his father, then from her.

She put her brush down on the newspaper, wiped her hands on a cloth, and headed for the door. It was Fran, Essie, and Isabelle, and all of the kids.

“Hello, you lot.”

“Did you forget you invited us over?” Fran said.

“Actually, I did. But come on in.”

Gone were the days when Ange meticulously prepared for visitors, shopping and cleaning and tidying everything within an inch of its life. Part of it was that Lucas had always done most of the tidying, but a bigger part was that she liked a little mess around the place now. The less perfect things were, she was finding, the more likely they were to be real.

Everyone spilled inside, and the kids beelined for a basket of toys that was on its side with its contents tipping out. The toys were virtually always strewn across the floor now, and between Essie’s kids and Fran’s, there was always someone playing on her floor. (Often, when he thought no one was looking, Ollie even riffled through the toy basket himself, playing with a figurine or a car. She loved watching those last little moments of childhood. Soon enough they will have drifted away and he’ll be interested in girls.) It was nice, living in a house that people felt like they could pop into. It was, she realized, what she’d envisioned when they’d moved into Pleasant Court.

“I have nothing to offer you,” Ange said, headed for the kitchen. “Actually … I have grapes and … popcorn and … toast. And coffee.”

“Perfect,” Fran said, joining her in the kitchen. “I’ll make the toast.”

Ange still had her share of doubts about asking Lucas to leave. Sometimes it was all she could do to stop herself from picking up the phone and begging him to come back to her. Before long, she knew, he’d find someone else and then she wouldn’t have a choice in the matter. (You just have to hang on until then, Fran had told her the other day. And to her surprise, Ange had laughed.)

Ange and Fran arranged a plate of grapes, toast, and popcorn and headed into the living room where Essie and Isabelle were talking quietly. They looked up when Ange and Fran walked in, and Ange noticed, grinning from ear to ear.

“What?” Ange and Fran said in unison.

Isabelle sat forward. “I’m pregnant.”





67


FRAN


Fran woke while it was still dark. It was quiet, but she had a sense that something had woken her. She reached for the monitor, listening for Ava. But she just heard silence. Ava had been home for a couple of weeks now, but Fran still found herself racing in there several times a night, just to watch her breathe. It was chilly and she pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and closed her eyes again. Fran wasn’t sure when it had stopped being hot. It always seemed like the warm nights dragged on and on, and then suddenly, when it did finally turn cold, everyone was aghast and furious, as though autumn was a cruel trick that had been played on them.