The names were as familiar as friends on her old school register. Rupert Campbell-Black. Jake Lovell. Helen. As each character appeared, swimming into focus in her mind’s eye, Michelle began to get odd flashbacks to school, to the places she’d been when she’d first read Riders and these characters had first sauntered across her imagination, with their jodhpurs and Jack Russells and their cruel mouths that bruised girls with Marlboro-tinged kisses.
Michelle never thought about her past life, but now it came back to her in pin-sharp detail.
The library. She had a sudden, almost physical memory of the cool, green smell of the oak-panelled school library in summer, where she’d snatched a few chapters when she should have been revising. The too-sweet perfume of the tiger lilies that sat in the Gothic alcove above her usual place. The moment the narrator’s voice caressingly described Rupert’s horse’s flanks, and then his, Michelle could smell the flowers again, and knew where the rest of her English set would be sitting, in their usual places too. She remembered the disorientating but delicious embarrassment at reading something so sexy so close to other people.
She shook her head and missed a few steps, nearly tripping over her own feet as she tried to get her stride back.
But now she was listening to the book it started to come back in twin streams – the story, with its passionate crushes and twists and yearning love triangles and sweating horses; and the memory of her reading of it for the first time, in a place she’d pushed so far to the back of her mind she’d almost forgotten it had been real.
By the time she got to the park, deserted at this time on a Sunday morning, the narrative had moved relentlessly on and she had no way of escaping it. A tidal wave of emotion swept over Michelle, so fierce that she felt as if she were choking under the weight of her own need.
I wanted to be loved like that, she thought. That’s how I thought it would be when I was grown-up. And it’s not. It’s not.
She stumbled to a halt and held on to the railings, pretending to be stretching her hamstrings, but really bending her head so she could fight back the tears. She yanked the ear buds out of her ears, but the voice carried on in her own head; Michelle remembered now how the story ended, and something scraped inside her chest with longing for a happy ending like that.
Once upon a time, she’d actually believed it was round the corner. She could remember believing it, sitting in the library, confident that that sort of jolly, easy, vigorous love was about to arrive in her life.
She stared unseeing at the park railings, the black paint flaking away in chunks, exposing the Victorian iron beneath. Why hadn’t it come? How had she got to thirty-one, been married and nearly divorced, and never felt the knee-weakening passion even frumpy, mousy Tory Maxwell had enjoyed?
Michelle knew herself well enough to know the answer. Because she hadn’t let it come. It was easier to keep everything at arm’s length, under control, because this new Michelle, the bright tough Michelle, was not the sort of girl who let things happen to her, not like hopeless romantic Tory.
The old Michelle, the girl who’d sat in the library with her shoes off, reading when she should have been revising, reading when she should have been training, reading when she should have been listening to good advice and not believing in easy happy ever afters . . . That Michelle let things happen to her, not the other way round.
Her heart contracted as if an invisible hand were trying to squeeze it dry. I want to be loved, she thought in one sudden clear pang. I want to be held. I want to be swept away by someone. When was the last time someone kissed me and I felt like that?
Thirteen years ago. The last time she’d felt her whole body go light with lust was thirteen long years ago. Ed Pryce.
Michelle bent her head and let the pain rush through her, clinging to the railings as her chest throbbed. She had no idea where all this pain was coming from, but her body was aching as much as her heart, and big sobs were racking her chest, the sort of gulping child-like sobs she hadn’t had in years, the sort that wouldn’t stop until they’d blown themselves out.
She pulled herself nearer the railings, trying to make herself invisible in the clipped box hedge.
‘Are you all right?’
She felt a hand on her shoulder, and spun round.
Rory, of all the people in Longhampton, was standing right behind her, too close as usual, with Tavish by his side, not on the lead. Tavish looked pleased to see her, Rory less so.
To her mortification, Michelle couldn’t stop the sobs. ‘I’m fine,’ she hiccupped, trying to hide her face.
‘No, you’re not.’ He peered at her. ‘Are you hurt? Have you pulled a hamstring?’
‘No!’ The hiccups made it almost unintelligible, but she couldn’t stop them. Her chest was aching doubly now with a sobbing stitch.
‘Do you want me to look at it?’ he persisted, as if he was actually keen to investigate her injuries. ‘I’m the first-aid officer at work. I’ve been on a course for—’
‘Fuck off,’ gasped Michelle. ‘Please!’
Rory took a step back, apparently realising she was crying, rather than moaning in pain. Michelle flapped her hand, hoping he’d take it as a sign to go away, and for a second, she thought he might.
Then he took a step nearer again and put his hand on her shoulder, with a gentleness that nearly set her off again. ‘You’re not all right. Please let me take you home.’
It wasn’t an order, like Harvey would have issued. It was concern, and for a moment, Michelle thought about letting Rory lead her home like a lost dog. Then she grappled her dignity back under control.
‘I’m fine,’ she hiccupped, and wiped her face with her hand, amazed at how wet it was. She dragged a breath into her lungs. The only thing to do was to run it out, to run away from Rory and force her body to start doing something else.
To run away from yourself, you mean, said a cool voice in her head; but she ignored it, pushed herself off the railings and set off in the opposite direction without turning back.
Crying and running was hard, but it distracted her mind and by the time Michelle turned back down towards the canal, it was nearly eight, and her face was normal enough not to raise concern from the early morning dog-walkers she encountered on her route.
She jogged slowly down Swan’s Row, lining up a whole morning’s worth of tasks to blot out the lingering embarrassment, and slowed even more when she saw a figure sitting on her front step.
Rory, and Tavish. Rory was eating a croissant from a paper bag and Tavish was waiting patiently for crumbs. A thick wodge of Sunday papers was on the step next to him, along with a Sainsbury’s bag of breakfast ingredients.
‘Oh God,’ breathed Michelle out loud, as he got up to welcome her.
‘Morning,’ said Rory, brushing pastry flakes off his trousers with a flick of his hand. ‘I’ve got to bring Tavish back early today so I thought we could do brunch and papers . . .’
‘You didn’t think I might want to be on my own?’
‘What could I do?’ Rory pointed at the dog. ‘I’m at his beck and call. We’re merely his hand-maidens.’
Grudgingly, Michelle reached under the terracotta dovecote, withdrew the house key and let them in.
Rory insisted on making breakfast while she showered, and when she came downstairs in fresh jeans, her hair damp and unblowdried, the smell of a full English was filling the house and Rory was busy at the hob, a tea towel over one shoulder.
Michelle assessed the damage to her clean kitchen. He’d used four pans, five bowls, several plates and had still managed to get crumbs over the countertop. Tavish was also sitting right underneath his feet, wearing the guilty but triumphant air of a dog who’s been fed from the kitchen work surfaces.
Michelle looked more closely and saw that Tavish had crumbs in his straggly black beard. ‘Rory,’ she began, ‘has Tavish had—’
‘Sit down,’ said Rory, without looking round. ‘I’m bringing it all to a precision finish. Timing is
crucial.’
Reluctantly, Michelle sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of tea from the pot. Then she put the pot on a trivet and coasters under the mugs in advance.
‘There. Eat that.’ Rory slid a full plate in front of her and one in front of himself, and proceeded to cover his bacon in tomato sauce, then brown sauce. ‘Dig in,’ he added, when she didn’t start immediately.
Michelle ate a bit of sausage and had to admit that Rory could make good scrambled eggs. Her churning stomach began to feel better the more bacon she shovelled into it.
When Rory had cleared his plate, and Michelle was halfway through hers, he pushed back his chair and regarded her with his cool, clear gaze.
‘Well, while we’re both here, I want to tell you about me and Esther and Zachary,’ he said.
‘Why?’ She carried on eating to hide her surprise. ‘It’s none of my business.’
‘Yes, it is. You’re judging me all the time about being a selfish absentee dad. Don’t deny it. All that stuff you keep implying, like I only volunteer at the old people’s home to drum up business, you don’t think I can take care of Tavish properly . . .’
‘That’s not true.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes it is. Anyway, l want to tell you, not because I like a gossip or want sympathy but because it’s not what you think. I can see why you’d think I was a bit of a shit, but believe it or not, I’m not. If you still think I’m a shit after I’ve told you, then fair enough, but let’s get this out of the way.’
Michelle shrugged. Rory’s privateness was something she liked about him; it went both ways. This changed things, and she wasn’t quite sure how. ‘Go on then, if it makes you feel better.’
Rory leaned on the table, steepling his fingers, and looked her in the eye. ‘Esther Wiseman was my first girlfriend. She was a clerk in the Magistrates’ Court – we met when I was had up for armed robbery and arson. No, of course I wasn’t,’ he said, as Michelle’s head jerked up in surprise. ‘I met her during a very dull morning prosecuting television licence-fee avoiders when I was a trainee. We bought a house not far from here, in Milton Road.’
‘Poet streets,’ said Michelle. ‘Very nice.’
‘Is it?’ Rory looked as if he wasn’t quite sure what she was getting at, but carried on. ‘Anyway, we’d been together for a while when Esther started talking about getting married and having a family – not necessarily in that order – but I wasn’t ready. I worried about money, wanted to get promoted first, bigger house, usual sort of thing. Like the dog – she wanted a dog, I wasn’t sure, hence the volunteering at the rescue that you think is so sinister. It was a compromise. Long story short, Esther got sick of waiting and she ended up having an affair with a friend of ours from the pub quiz team – Adam, nice guy, I liked him – and she got pregnant.’
‘Oh,’ said Michelle, in surprise. This wasn’t turning out quite the way she’d expected. She’d been guessing something more along the lines of Rory being caught cheating – although the more she got to know him, the less probable that seemed.
‘Esther decided, since she was thirty-seven, that she wanted to keep the baby, but she didn’t know whether it was Adam’s or mine. That was a bit of an issue, so I told her I wanted to sell the house, and moved into the flat above the bookshop.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I’m not particularly proud of that bit, but . . . you can imagine things were a bit turbulent on both sides.’
‘How long had you been together when this happened?’
Rory fiddled with the teapot. ‘Um, nine years.’
‘Nine years?’ Michelle widened her eyes. ‘You’d been living together for nine years and you weren’t sure whether you wanted to get married or not?’
‘She didn’t have to have an affair,’ he pointed out.
‘I’m not saying either of you did the right thing. But nine years . . .’
Rory mimed someone banging a gavel. ‘Both guilty. Bam. Next. Is that your final decision?’
She ignored that. ‘And so whose was it? I mean, he, Zachary? Who’s the daddy?’
‘Well, Esther was fairly confident he was Adam’s, and she was in a relationship with him by the time Zachary was born, so she wouldn’t do a DNA test for a long time. But we found out earlier this year that he’s mine. Hence the visits. I’ve seen him three times since he was born. He’s very sweet, as little children go. I’m no expert. Obviously.’
Michelle bit her lip. Just three times since he was born. No wonder he’d been so arsey the day the buggy got stuck; what kind of day had that been? A whole world of awkwardness.
‘How do you feel about that?’ she asked.
‘I don’t really know what I’m supposed to feel about it, to be honest,’ he said warily. ‘We’re still feeling our way around what the right thing to do is.’
The initial spiel had sounded rehearsed but these words sounded hesitant, as if he hadn’t actually spoken them aloud before. He looked at her as if he wanted her opinion, but was reluctant to ask.
It occurred to Michelle that maybe he didn’t have anyone to ask. That maybe all that hanging around he did in the bookshop – talking to Becca about law school, discussing Norwegian children’s stories with Anna – was not because he wanted to air his extensive knowledge, but because he didn’t have many friends. Maybe he was trying to learn about women and parenting by osmosis.
She felt a sudden sympathy for Rory. Off duty in his jeans and weekend shirt he didn’t look so middle-aged as he did in his weekday suit. She felt a tug of something, but immediately pushed it down.
‘That’s all you can do,’ she said. Hadn’t Anna said something very similar to her, when they first met? That she was still feeling her way around? ‘Most families now have some kind of complication. It doesn’t mean you can’t build a relationship with Zachary. The more people kids have around them who love them, the better, no?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rory admitted. ‘I keep reading about how mothers have this powerful love-urge thing when they see their baby. I’ve seen Zachary three times. I’m not totally convinced I could pick him out of a baby line-up.’ He looked mortified. ‘You know, you’re the only person in the world I could say that to. It’s parental sacrilege.’
‘Thanks,’ said Michelle. ‘So I’m a child-unfriendly monster too? Joking,’ she added when Rory started to apologise.
They were silent for a moment.
‘Do you regret it?’ Michelle asked. ‘Losing Esther?’
‘No.’ Rory looked sad, then buttered another slice of cold toast, dipping the knife into the marmalade. ‘I think we both knew things had run their course well before she had the affair. Neither of us wanted to call it a day – you know, it was just . . . over? Esther wanted a fresh start and I thought it was better to let her go, and yes, she is with Adam now, and yes, they are very happy, and yes, Zachary calls Adam “Daddy”.’
‘Are you happy with that?’
A long pause. ‘Not really,’ he said slowly. ‘Well, I don’t know. It’s messy. I don’t like mess. We’re discussing what appropriate maintenance should be, given that she’s marrying Adam. I think Esther would really like to pretend none of this ever happened. I don’t know whether pretending it never happened is the kindest thing for Zachary, or whether that would be a mistake.’
‘Maybe,’ said Michelle. ‘But what about when he’s twenty-one, and he finds out his dad walked away without a backward glance? That’s major league therapy. I suppose the best thing you can do is to keep things civil. Like Anna and Sarah and Phil. Well,’ she amended,‘as far as you can. It’s hard.’
‘It is.’
Rory chomped down on his toast and regarded Michelle carefully. ‘Still think I’m a baby-abandoning bastard?’
‘No. A messy, bossy one, maybe.’ She helped herself to a slice of toast and cut it in half. ‘Are you wanting me to perform some kind of absolution? Ten Hail Marys and a Dan Brown novel?’
‘I could have handled it better,’ said Rory. ‘I should have
been brave and ended it, instead of putting her in a position where we both behaved badly. But it’s like my old landlady once said, God rest her soul – nice people sometimes do terrible things because they don’t want to do one small mean thing. It doesn’t automatically make them a bad person forever.’
‘That’s very true,’ said Michelle. ‘Even if it does sound like something you’ve said more than once in court.’
‘Ha. Very good. So,’ he said. ‘Your turn. How about you tell me the real story of your divorce.’
‘What do you mean, “the real story”?’ Michelle reeled. ‘I don’t even recall telling you I was divorced.’
Rory waved his toast dismissively. ‘It’s common knowledge. Don’t remember who told me – Anna, or Rachel? I sort of assumed that you drove him away with your endless nitpicking about scatter cushions and obsession with lists, but you can tell me different, and dispel my misapprehensions.’
Michelle opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again. Was that how she came across? Was this how Rory had felt, knowing she and Anna and Kelsey were discussing his buggy issues?
Rory was looking at her and she thought about telling him to sod off, but he’d just been very honest with her. And her anger with Harvey was still tingling enough to override her shame.
She took a deep breath. ‘Well, there’s not much to tell. I got married very young – too young, probably – to a guy who worked with my dad. Unlike you, I worked out reasonably quickly that we didn’t have much in common, and when I started lying to the doctor that I needed anti-depressants again because my grandmother had died, I realised maybe I should leave instead.’
Rory was staring at her and Michelle felt uncomfortable. Well, she hadn’t really explained herself. What bits could she tell him without revealing the worst stuff?
‘He made me give up my job,’ she went on. ‘Harvey wasn’t very keen on me working, because he thought all the male customers were hitting on me, so eventually I stopped and stayed at home. And that wasn’t ideal, for either of us, because I’m not really the housewife type. I got into decorating because I was bored. He used to come home and mess things up “to give me something to do”. And move things in the night, and joke that I was losing my marbles.’