There was a muted exchange on the other end, and her father abruptly came on the phone.
‘Hello, love,’ said Eric. He didn’t have a lot of time for Diane’s machinations. Louise could almost hear him whipping his reading glasses off and rubbing his eyes with frustration after listening to the other side of their conversation for so long. ‘About this shower. Just get the right one and we’ll pay for it. Doesn’t matter what it costs.’
‘But Juliet won’t let you buy it for her. She’s really proud about things like that.’ Louise hesitated, remembering the last time she’d tried to help out, offering their old sofa. ‘She won’t like the idea of us sticking our noses in.’
‘I’ve a big enough nose to deal with that,’ said Eric, and recited his credit-card number.
An hour’s conversation dealt with in under a minute; Louise had to hand it to her dad, he knew how to get things done.
The kitchen had been a bombsite when Louise had dashed upstairs, but when she came down from putting Toby to bed, it was spotless. Three candles were flickering on the kitchen table and the good wine glasses were out.
She looked at them stupidly, trying to work out why Peter hadn’t just used the recycled ones that went into the machine. And why he’d put linen napkins on the plates. They never used napkins – they hadn’t used napkins even when they didn’t have the machine on seven hours a day cleaning up after Toby, the human laundry-maker.
Louise picked up the one on her plate. It still had the wedding-list crease in it. From Auntie Cathy, who’d actually said, ‘Well done, Louise, you’ll never be poor with a computer boffin!’ in the receiving line.
‘Is everything OK?’ she called into the utility room. She could hear the fridge opening and shutting.
‘That was quick.’ Peter reappeared looking flustered. He was wearing the stripy barbecue pinny over his suit, with his shirtsleeves rolled up underneath. In one hand was a bottle of wine; in the other was a chiller bucket. He smiled, showing his small white teeth, and waved at the table. ‘Sit down. Let me get you a drink – white wine OK?’
Louise pulled out a chair. She knew she should be bowled over by this display of attention, especially since Peter had been at some big software conference all day too, but an unwelcome knot of tension had begun to turn in the base of her stomach.
‘Should I go back upstairs and get changed?’ she joked uncomfortably. ‘I feel a bit underdressed.’
‘No, you’re fine,’ said Peter, but there was a second’s hesitation, and she knew he was taking in the saggy knees of her yoga pants. Louise had pulled on her old mummy uniform of black Lycra separates as soon as she’d got in; there was only really one office skirt that fitted, and she didn’t dare risk any accidents.
‘I’ll get changed,’ she said. It was silly, but she didn’t feel relaxed, him in his suit, her with VPL, probably. A bit of her died inside. She hadn’t given VPL a moment’s thought until today. That’s what being back in a pencil skirt did. ‘Give me a moment, I’ll nip upstairs and get—’
‘No, just sit down!’ Peter’s frustrated tone was too forceful, but he heard it and smiled, quickly, softening his voice. ‘No, there’s no need. You look great as you are. Just sit down and relax. Tell me how today went.’
‘Um, it went pretty well,’ she said, editing out her skipped lunch and sneaky ‘what phone call?’ dash to pick up Toby. ‘I’ve been in court most of the day, waiting for witnesses. Some of them really milk it, turning up in shades and everything. You’d think they were on X Factor, the way they keep us waiting. Douglas has given me a really boring set of cases to start off with, probably checking my brain’s still where I left it.’
‘’Course it is.’ He poured a glass of wine and handed it to her.
Louise eyed him. Was Peter actually listening? Didn’t he realise how genuinely worried she was, that she might not be able to pick it up again, especially with budget cuts?
‘How was your day?’ she asked politely, and Peter launched into a story about some approach from an ad agency in America who wanted them to write some viral game software for ‘a top secret client’, but who his co-director Jason reckoned might be some other company she hadn’t heard of either.
Louise tried to listen and keep her face alert and engaged, but it was tough. She was tired. And Peter never focused on the interesting bits, like what the viral game might be. Or how long after Techmate’s first big-league deal ex-stoner Jason had stopped wearing trainers to work and started buying handmade Italian shoes.
It had been exactly the same when Louise was at home: Peter would ask a few questions about Toby – the last thing she wanted to talk about after a whole day of nappies – then ramble on about work. He didn’t even sympathise with how knackered she was. He, on the other hand, was positively chirpy, as befitted someone who’d slept through Toby’s nocturnal operatics.
Louise let him talk. It was easier. While he explained about the new engine Jason was developing, he served up a Waitrose Dine at Home chicken supreme with some salad, which Louise ate instead of the potatoes, mindful of her skirt. Peter was still rhapsodising about the commercial possibilities when he brought out a pair of crème brûlées.
Louise let herself eat half, then pushed hers over to Peter. He tucked into it happily. He had the metabolism of a racehorse. It had been one of the things she’d fancied about him when they first met: his lanky arms sticking out of the hooded college sweatshirt. The archetypal cute geek.
‘Is there any reason for this?’ she asked, unable to stop herself as he topped up her wine glass. ‘I mean, the lovely meal and candlelight treatment?’
Peter raised his eyebrows. ‘I know you spend a lot of time with devious people, but does there have to be a reason to make my wife supper?’
‘No,’ said Louise. ‘It’s just . . . you’ve gone to so much trouble.’
‘Well, I know we can’t go out without a big military operation, so I thought I’d bring the date home.’ He topped up his own glass and raised it in a toast. ‘Saves on the taxi. And babysitter.’
‘So this is a date?’ Louise’s mouth twitched.
‘Of course. Table for two at Chez Peter, couple of glasses of Chardonnay, Classic FM – limited menu, I’ll grant you, but the service is better than at La Galette.’ He smiled across the table, and the candlelight caught the romantic look in his eye. ‘And no one’s going to hurry us out after dessert.’ Peter stretched out his hand and slid his fingers between hers. ‘Or object if we get a bit amorous at the table. Or under it, even.’
Louise squeezed his hand, then pointed her spoon over the crème brûlée she’d pushed over to him. ‘Or make me feel bad about helping myself to this last bit of pudding! Mmm!’
She was starting to sense where this was going, and she felt as if she was in a little boat heading towards Niagara Falls, paddling hopelessly against the current. Her foot curled itself round the leg of her chair, just as Peter’s foot sought hers and missed.
‘That sort of thing,’ said Peter, and Louise thought she detected a faint note of flatness in his voice.
Guilt flooded her. She should be grateful to have a husband who not only tried to seduce her over dinner, but actually heated up the dinner himself. Come on, Louise, she scolded herself. Get over this.
‘Well, it’s lovely. Really lovely. If I’d known, I’d have dressed up,’ she gabbled, wanting to tell him what he wanted to hear.
‘You don’t need to. You’re gorgeous as you are.’
‘I’m not, I’m all . . .’ Louise started, but Peter reached out and put a finger on her lips. She wondered if he expected her to bite it saucily.
Because if he did, he was going to be disappointed.
‘I just wanted you to know that I’m really proud of you for going back to work,’ he said. ‘Very proud. You’re a great solicitor, as well as a great mum. But – let me say this, OK? – there’s no pressure from me to stick it out if it’s too much stress. If you decided that, actually, no, you’d rathe
r be at home with Toby, then I’d be fine with that.’
‘I’m not—’
‘No, hear me out, Lou. I’m not trying to undermine you. I just want you to know that you don’t have to prove anything. We can work the money out. If you’re there a few months and it’s just too much . . . I’m not going to say I told you so.’
Louise looked up into Peter’s face. He was still a cute geek, she thought, but she didn’t get that shiver deep inside that she used to. His eyes were deep brown and he suited his ironically nerdy glasses. His cheekbones were sharp and Anka, their cleaner, always blushed and fanned herself if he came in after a run. He ran a lot more often, since Ben died. But just lately . . . noting his handsomeness was an observation, not an instinct.
‘I want to contribute to our family,’ she said, falling back on her best reason.
‘You do! You contribute more than I do just by bringing Toby up,’ Peter replied, almost hurt. ‘That’s the most important job anyone can have.’ He ran a hand through his dark hair and pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Let’s go next door.’
He picked up the wine bottle in the cooler. ‘Another advantage of Chez Peter – don’t need to get a cab to a late-night bar. Remember that? Chasing around London, trying to find somewhere that was open after one?’
‘And always ending up in that terrible place that you thought was a transvestite bar but wasn’t?’ Louise knew she was playing for time at the table.
‘No danger of that here.’ Peter pretended to think. ‘As far as I know. Come on, come next door. Into the Lounge of Lurve.’
Slowly, Louise took the glass and got up, blowing out the candles on the table.
In the sitting room, Peter dimmed the lights on his fancy remote control, setting the bottle and the baby monitor on the coffee table. The music had moved on to some Ella Fitzgerald collection – grown-up, world-weary songs.
He kicked off his shoes and settled himself on the big loveseat sofa they’d bought in the Heal’s sale two years before Toby was born. It was cream suede, shaped like a waltzer, gloriously impractical.
That seemed like someone else’s life, thought Louise with a pang. The days before I even considered whether something wiped clean or not.
Peter patted the space next to him.
‘C’m’ere, Lulu,’ he said, and a voice in her head told her that her husband looked devilishly handsome in the low light, his hair tousled like a film star, his eyes clearly admiring her, even in these manky old yoga pants.
Louise walked over, clutching her glass. When she sat down, Peter caught her bare feet and swung them over his lap, so she was in his arms. Gently, he removed the glass from her hand and tipped her back so they were snuggled against each other.
‘How long has it been since we had an evening to ourselves on the sofa?’ he asked, nuzzling into her neck. ‘We should do this more often.’
‘Mmm,’ said Louise. She could feel her body tensing up, even as her mind was telling her to relax, that if she just went with this, the feelings would come.
‘You know, the other thing I wanted you to know was that if you decided that it’d be easier to take some more time off now and focus on the family, then go back full-time in a few years, I’d be right behind you.’
Focus on the family? What exactly did he mean by that?
Louise said nothing, but Peter carried on, his voice slurring a little with the wine. He’d polished off most of the bottle while she’d sipped nervously at hers.
‘You’re so amazing with Toby. And he’s amazing too. I never thought I’d be one of those men who go all gooey about children, but he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I know I wasn’t as keen as you in the beginning, but . . .’ He curled his finger softly under Louise’s chin so she had to look up into his eyes and see how serious he was.
Then he said the words she’d been dreading.
‘I’d really like us to have another baby, Lulu.’
Louise’s heart sank, but she made herself smile. ‘Would you?’
‘I know we said there should be a gap, so you could get back to work, but to be honest, I just wasn’t sure how we’d cope. I think we’re coping pretty well, though, aren’t we?’ He leaned forward and traced a line of kisses from the curve of her ear down her neck. ‘I don’t think another baby would be that much more work.’
The kisses made Louise shiver, but not in the way Peter hoped.
He would say that, she fumed inside. He wasn’t the one waking up to deal with stinking nappies at three in the morning, or easing cracked nipples into a bra that felt like it was made of sandpaper. Peter’s vision of parenthood was based entirely on her own desperate efficiency.
She bit her lip so as not to let that out.
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think they’d go mad at the CPS if I came back from work and immediately buggered off on maternity leave again? It’s hardly professional, when Douglas had to pull strings to get me back.’
‘Let them sue you. There are rules about letting intelligent, gorgeous women have as many babies as they possibly can. Or there should be.’ He lingered in the hollow of her neck, his warm breath making a hot spot on her skin. ‘Anyway, it might not happen at once. It might take months. Which is why we need to get practising . . .’
‘Mmm,’ said Louise, because she felt that was the least she could do. Peter’s arm was round her now; he was stroking her waist, his long fingers inching under her T-shirt. ‘Peter,’ she murmured, pushing his hand down.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know if it’s the right time. I mean, Juliet . . .’
‘What about Juliet?’
‘She’s still grieving. Mum says she gets really tearful about the kids she’ll never have with Ben. I know . . . I mean, I think she was thinking about starting a family. And now she’ll never be able to.’
Peter sat up, frustrated. ‘Well, I understand that, but we can’t put our family on hold in case Juliet gets upset. Surely she’s already upset about Toby if that’s the case?’
That hadn’t escaped Louise’s notice. ‘Maybe she is. I’ve seen her with Minton. He’s like her substitute child. The way she talks to him, plans her days around him. It makes me sad, thinking she might never have a baby of her own.’
‘She will! She’s only thirty. Plenty of time to meet someone and have as many as she wants.’
‘Thirty-one. And they won’t be Ben’s. That’s the problem.’
Peter gazed at her, stroking the hair out of her eyes. ‘You know, you’re the kindest woman I’ve ever met.’
‘I’m not . . .’ Louise winced.
‘You are. You’re so thoughtful about other people. It’s just one of the many things I love about you. And that’s why I feel it’s my duty, as your husband –’ he punctuated each word with a nuzzle – ‘to make sure you’re wined and dined, and kept very, very happy at home . . .’
He hadn’t listened to anything she’d just said, thought Louise despairingly, as Peter went in for a proper, passionate kiss, holding her tightly in his arms so she couldn’t move. After a second’s resistance, Louise made herself relax and let it all happen to her, registering in her head that Peter was doing every single thing that used to turn her insides to water – from the angle of his kiss to the way his hand was caressing the curve of her waist, the one part of herself that she was completely happy about.
She let her hands roam on autopilot too, finding the soft spot behind his ear, half stroking, half scratching his head. From the muffled noises he was making into her throat, it was working for him, even if she was just going through the motions.
Louise felt as if she was floating above herself, watching the scene like one of the police forensic team. I’ve changed, she thought. But when?
At what moment did I go from someone who spends thousands on ‘an investment sofa’ to someone who spends thousands on baby clothes that last days? At what moment did my desire for this very desirable man drain away, leaving just the s
hell of the loving wife he still sees? Was it sudden, or slow?
Louise knew from the pages and pages of Internet advice she’d consumed over the last few months that experts would point to the moment that Toby was born, when suddenly there was a new love in her life, an irrational, fierce one that would barge all other distractions out of the way.
Deep down, though, she knew it wasn’t that. The love she felt for Toby had been the same love she felt for Peter, but magnified. It was a good excuse, the post-baby world realignment, but it wasn’t the truth. Louise’s legal mind could pinpoint the exact moment when her whole world had tilted and begun the awful slide into secrets and doubts. Lies and behaviour that she couldn’t believe was hers.
It was the day her sister phoned her and told her that Ben, tanned, cider-drinking, life-loving Ben, two years below her at school, had dropped dead of a heart attack. That had been the catalyst for all this.
‘Louise,’ murmured Peter, quite urgently. ‘Unfold your arms.’
She realised her left arm was clamped tightly against her side, stopping him from lifting her T-shirt above her head. She didn’t want Peter to touch her. She didn’t want his hands on her skin, in case something in her body gave her away and suddenly he saw that she was a very different person.
Louise’s stomach churned. This mental floundering scared her, after a lifetime of knowing her own mind with analytic precision. A new baby might bring them together; it would be company for Toby; it would be a fresh start; they were lucky enough to afford a bigger family. It might even be a little girl. On the other hand, it would mean time off work again, it would mean stepping backwards, and Louise’s eyes were fixed firmly forward now. There was no going back.
‘Louise,’ Peter repeated, and she could feel the mood draining away for him.
Come on, she told herself. You just need to get into it. Fake it till you make it. You can’t let this turn into a pattern.