Before I Met You

51


1921




ARLETTE PULLED OPEN the box.

Leticia watched her sadly, with her hands knitted together.

‘I think your room came out of it quite well,’ she said softly. ‘Obviously, I don’t know exactly what you had in there, but it does seem there was very little damage. Your wardrobe stood untouched, and luckily the door was closed so there may be a slight whiff of smoke, but ...’ She fluttered her fingers together, nervously. ‘Oh, I do hope you’re not too disappointed.’

Leticia had done nothing but apologise for the past three days. She had vowed never to drink another drop of alcohol. And her husband had vowed never to leave her again. Lilian had vowed to relax now that someone was taking responsibility for her mother, and Philip had vowed to take Lilian to stay in his family’s beach-front apartment in Cannes for the whole summer. In many ways the fire had been a blessing. In other ways it had been a tragedy. Family heirlooms turned to ash. Much-loved dresses smoke-damaged beyond repair. All of James’s toys burned to nothing. Photographs gone for ever. And also, intangibly, but overwhelmingly, a loss of the sense of gay innocence that had sat over the house and its inhabitants since the very first moment Arlette had set foot there nineteen months earlier. She’d thought it a magical, enchanted place, and now it was a black carcass, and the family who once lived there all robbed of their sense of entitlement and certainty. Now, for a while at least, it was as though they were no different from anyone else.

She reached her hands into the box and pulled out her dressing table set, her hair decorations, a box of jewels, framed photographs of her mother, her father in his uniform, a photo album, bundles of Godfrey’s postcards, some delicate underwear, silk stockings, flyers from nights out at clubs, an old cigar box filled with photographs, all in a good state. She pulled out a tapestry she’d been working on, a half-knitted hat, a dozen or so paperback novels and there, right at the bottom, she pulled out a small scrap of muslin. She stared at it for a moment. It had been in the drawer of her bed-stand, where it had lain since she’d first put it there, the day she’d brought it home from Liberty’s perfumery. Another world. Another life. She brought it to her nose and inhaled. It smelled, mainly, of smoke, but beneath the nutty smoke, it still lingered: vanilla and sandalwood. The smell of Godfrey.

‘Well,’ said Leticia, ‘are you happy? Has it mainly been saved?’

‘Yes,’ said Arlette. ‘Yes. It’s all here. Everything important. Thank you.’

Leticia sat down heavily and brought her hand to her clavicle. ‘Oh thank goodness. Thank goodness. Finally, some good news. Finally ...’

Arlette had not seen Godfrey for three days. There had been so much to sort out here, with the Millers. She had not felt able to swan off and leave them to it. But tomorrow they would be moving into a suite of rooms attached to Mr Miller’s London office and a firm of builders had been commissioned to start rebuilding the house. Now she felt it would be perfectly acceptable to move on with her life. And so she prettied herself at the mirror of the room she was sharing with Lilian at the neighbours’ house, changed into a fresh dress and headed for Bloomsbury, to Minu’s rooms.


‘I saw Gideon last night,’ said Minu, her hand holding her hair up on top of her head while she fixed it in place with grips.

Arlette blanched at the mention of his name.

‘He looked terrible,’ Minu continued.

‘I can’t say that I am terribly unhappy to hear that.’

Minu glanced at her. ‘I wish I could understand,’ she said. ‘You two were once the closest of friends. So easy together. It doesn’t make any sense to me that you are now so indisposed towards each other. I feel as if a large chapter of the book is missing.’

She kept her gaze on Arlette for a second or two, inviting her to confide, but Arlette merely smiled and said, ‘Love follows no rule book. And what of you? Still no dream of a man waiting in the wings to whisk you away?’

Minu laughed wryly. ‘I am afraid not. No. But it serves me well to be a spinster, since my novel is all about a beautiful but lonely girl, looking for love in the city.’ She smiled and adjusted her hair. ‘There,’ she said, ‘now I look divine. And so do you. Let’s go and find this lovely man of yours and tell him to marry you.’

They arrived at the Blue Butterfly half an hour later to find someone’s birthday party in full swing. Judging by the number of diarists in the room and the air of barely contained anticipation, it was clearly the birthday party of someone terribly important. Arlette and Minu leaned conspiratorially towards the receptionist and said, ‘Whose birthday, tell tell!’

‘Oh, now, girls, I couldn’t possibly say.’

‘Of course you can!’ they teased. ‘Tell us immediately!’

‘It’s Bertie Langhorn.’

‘Oh my goodness!’ they both cried. ‘And he, just this minute, parted from his lovely wife.’

Arlette smiled at Minu and Minu smiled at her. Bertie Langhorn was a famous actor, very pretty, very rich and recently separated from his childhood sweetheart. Minu had had a terrible crush on him for months. Suddenly the night opened up before them serendipitously, ripe with potential for drama and fun. They took each other by the hand and headed into the club, eyes bright as diamonds, hearts full of mischief, neither of them suspecting for a moment what an unhappy turn the night would take by its closing moments.


There was a girl backstage whom Arlette had never seen before. At first she thought she might be a cleaner, or a stagehand. But then she saw her coat draped over her arm and her hat held in her other hand, and by the way she was scanning the room, it was clear she had just arrived from the street and was looking for someone.

Arlette paid her no more attention for a moment or two until she heard her asking a passing man if Sandy Beach was available.

‘Just finished the encore, love,’ said the man. ‘He’ll be out in a shake or two.’

‘Oh, thank you.’

Arlette stared at the girl. She was young, about the same age as Arlette, possibly younger. She had dark blond hair cut into a bob and was dressed simply in a grey tunic dress and flat shoes. Her face was drawn, her eyes were slightly red. She looked as if she had spent a night crying instead of sleeping. Arlette felt a bubble of something odd and sour rise through her. The girl passed her coat awkwardly from arm to arm. She cleared her throat and peered anxiously towards the aisle that led from the stage to the backstage. She cleared her throat again and then Arlette saw her pass her hand gently around her stomach, first a circular motion, then a cupping motion. The gesture was so fleeting and minute that she almost missed it, but the meaning of it hit Arlette fully in the gullet.

Subconsciously she took a few steps back, so that she was standing in shadow. She heard the final cheers from the raucous, champagne-sodden crowds, then she heard the sound of sprightly, triumphant footsteps as the musicians left the stage. She pushed herself deeper into the dark corner and held her hand to her throat as she watched the next few moments unfold.

‘Esther! Hello! What a pleasant surprise!’ said Godfrey, looking torn between being pleasantly surprised and utterly horrified, his words sounding overly bright.

‘I couldn’t do it!’ she heard the girl called Esther hiss. ‘Here,’ she delved into her bag clumsily and pulled out a handful of crumpled paper notes. ‘Here’s the money. Every last penny of it. But I couldn’t do it, Sandy. I just couldn’t.’

She started to cry and Godfrey pulled her gently into a quieter corner.

‘Ssh, ssh,’ he whispered gently into her ear. He pulled her close to him and held her tenderly inside his embrace. The gesture was sweet, but Arlette could see fear etched onto his face as he stared over her shoulder at some point of neutrality.

Arlette pulled in her breath and held it there.

‘Tell me what happened?’ he said to her. ‘Was it the doctor? Did you not like him?’

Esther shook her head crossly. ‘No! It wasn’t the doctor. He was lovely. It was just ... the baby. The baby, Sandy. Doctor said I’m seven weeks in, maybe longer. But I mean, look, Sandy ...’ She pulled down at the fabric of her loose-fitting dress to reveal a slight curve. ‘I’m showing. Already. I reckon I’m further along than that. I just couldn’t, Sandy, I just couldn’t. I’m so sorry! So, so sorry!’

Godfrey stroked her hair and shushed in her ear and Arlette didn’t wait to hear another word.

The future wrote itself out in bold capitals across her consciousness. That girl was carrying Godfrey’s child. Godfrey would stand by her. Probably even marry her. But even if he didn’t, that girl’s child, unlike her own blighted foetus, would be born breathing and kicking and ready to live a long and full life. That girl’s child would spend its whole life being Godfrey’s son or daughter, regardless of what happened to its parents. And the life that Arlette had persuaded herself she wanted – the little house in south London, the friendly neighbours, the trip to the Caribbean with the two adorable piccaninnies in tow – all of it turned to ash in her heart, like the contents of the Millers’ house.

She stumbled from the back doors of the club onto a cool, shadowy mews, where her dainty heels scrambled and spluttered against the cobbles. She pulled them off and held them in her hands and she ran then, in stockinged feet, down the mews, around the corner onto Piccadilly and into a waiting taxi.

She watched the streets of London through tear-streaked eyes, the golden pinkness of the gaslamps, the glittering façades of nightclubs and bars, the people, so extraordinary in either their finery or their rags, the wide pavements and the shops full of things that nobody really needed.

Everything was bright and clean, nearly every front door and shop front repainted after the war, every light bulb replaced, every paving stone scrubbed white. London was gleaming but Arlette’s heart was dirty.

She thought of her twenty-second birthday, of Gideon’s terrible betrayal and the grey months that had ensued in that house on the river. She thought of her baby, taken away to an incinerator before she’d even seen his face. She thought of the Millers’ house, so perfect, like a picture-postcard dream of a London villa, burned down to a dirty carcass. And then she thought of that girl, just now, with her bitten fingernails and her swollen stomach and Godfrey’s expression of mute terror.

Too much, she thought to herself, too much.

It was over.

Back at Philip’s house on Abingdon Villas, Arlette sealed down the lid of the box Leticia had given her that morning and she put it in a trunk. She laid out an outfit suitable for travelling and she wrote three notes: one for Lilian, one for Minu, one for Godfrey. The following morning, while the house still slept, she put on the travelling clothes, she called the houseboy and asked him to call her a carriage to take her to the station and she followed behind him as he pulled her trunk towards the front door. She left the notes, sealed in envelopes, on a circular table in the hallway, and then she climbed into the carriage and let it take her to the station, where she boarded a train for Portsmouth. At Portsmouth she bought a ticket for a ferry to take her back to where her journey had started: to a big, empty house on a cliff, with distant, tantalising views towards the white cliffs of Dover.





52


1995




SOMEONE HAD CALLED while Betty was talking to the vicar at St Anne’s. She didn’t recognise the number so she called it back and found herself talking to John Brightly.

‘You didn’t die in the night, then?’ she began.

‘Sadly not. No, apparently I am fit for duty. Or, at least, fit to continue with my pointless existence.’

‘Well, that’s brilliant news, then.’

‘I guess so. But listen. Alex gave me your number. She came to see me, tried to talk me into staying at her place.’ He paused. ‘But actually, if it’s OK with you, it would be great if I could bed down at yours. Just for a night or two. While I sort myself out with somewhere new.’

‘Yes!’ The word leaped from her mouth like a rubber ball. ‘Yes. Of course!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘God, yes! Definitely. And I’m out tonight. Doing an overnight babysit at Amy’s place. So you can have my bed.’

‘Oh, no, you wouldn’t want me in your bed. Seriously, I’m sweating like a pig.’

‘Well, maybe not then, but listen, I’m on my way back now. Can you get there soon, because I’ve just found out something about Clara Pickle and I need to get to a library straight away.’

‘I’m packed and ready to go,’ he said. ‘I can be there in fifteen minutes.’


‘You look better,’ she said, greeting him on the landing. ‘How’s the wound?’

He pulled off his hat and showed her a neat row of stitches.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No,’ he said, pulling his hat back on, even though he was indoors and it was about twenty-five degrees outside.

‘So no lasting damage?’

‘Only time will tell,’ he said. ‘But so far I feel every bit my usual curmudgeonly, antisocial self.’ He waved a paper bag at her. ‘Enough antibiotics to keep a small nation in good health. So no boozing for me. And monthly check-ups for a few months, just to make sure everything’s as it should be.’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘Drama over.’

‘Drama over, and mystery climaxing,’ Betty said, picking up her bag. ‘I’ve got to shoot.’

‘Can I come with?’

‘Don’t you have Ultravox picture discs to sell?’ He smiled drolly. ‘That was an aberration,’ he said.

‘It was an abomination.’

‘That too. I don’t even know how it got there. But no, I think I can probably risk a day off.’

Betty looked at him and smiled. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘because this is going to be a really boring job and I could do with another pair of hands.’


‘Right,’ she said, flopping twenty London phonebooks onto the table in front of John. ‘We are looking for a woman called Clara Minchin. Or CT Minchin. But it’s possible, of course, that she married and changed her name. So let’s just look for any Minchins. Rippon Road is in Blackheath, apparently, so let’s start with the south-east, and then we can work our way up and out of London after that.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s two. I’ve got to be at Amy’s at six. Four hours. Should be plenty. Let’s go.’

John looked at her and then at the tower of phone directories on the table in front of him and smiled defeatedly.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

Betty grinned at him. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad we both understand our roles here.’ He raised an eyebrow at her and opened his directory, and Betty opened hers.

It was a strangely companionable thing to do together. The library was virtually empty on this sunny June lunchtime, and there was something hypnotic about the rhythmic turning of the pages, the occasional pause to write down a number or to take a sip of coffee from the paper cups they’d brought with them.

‘Anything interesting?’ Betty asked after a few minutes.

‘A few Minchins, nothing conclusive. You?’

‘Same.’

They carried on turning the pages, pushing directories to the side once they’d finished with them until suddenly John slammed his hands down on to the directory in front of him and said, ‘There’s a Minchin! In Rippon Road!’

‘What!’

‘Yes! Look! Derek Minchin. 24 Rippon Road, SE3.’

‘Give me that.’ Betty pulled it away from him and stared at the listing. And there it was. In black and white. Derek Minchin. ‘Oh!’ She inhaled loudly. ‘Oh my God. This is it. This is it. We’re there. Oh my God.’ She put her hands over her mouth and stared at John incredulously. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and phone him!’


John watched her intently as she pushed in the number on her mobile phone outside the library a moment later and she smiled at him nervously. She cleared her throat and patted down her hair, and then she stood up straight when the phone was answered on the third ring.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hello, is that Derek Minchin?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Oh, hi,’ she said, ‘I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for someone called Clara –’

‘Yes,’ he interrupted, smoothly.

‘Clara Minchin,’ she continued.

‘Clara Davies, these days,’ he interrupted. ‘My sister.’

Betty blinked. And then she paused as a massive swell of euphoric laughter threatened to overwhelm her. ‘Oh,’ she said eventually. ‘That’s wonderful, that’s –’

‘What’s it regarding?’ Derek Minchin asked, suddenly sounding suspicious.

‘Well, it’s kind of a private matter. I wondered if you might have a number for her?’

‘Well,’ Derek drew in his breath audibly. ‘I think you can understand that I might not want to do that. Not without knowing what the matter is regarding. I mean, it’s a matter of privacy, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Yes. I see that. But maybe you could ask her to call me? As soon as possible.’

‘Well, that wouldn’t be easy. She’s in Benidorm.’

‘Benidorm?’

‘Benidorm. With my other sisters. They go every year. But I can’t go because of my problems, you know?’

Betty had no idea, but said, ‘Oh, I see. And when will she be back?’

‘They’re coming back in tomorrow, I think. Hold on, let me check ... Dad! Dad! When are the girls back?’

Dad, thought Betty. Dad?

She heard a muttering in the background and then Derek came back on the line and said, ‘Yes. Tomorrow, getting in late apparently. But I’ll give her your number, let her know to call you. Is there anything you can tell me, so that, you know, she has an idea why she’s calling you?’

‘Tell her it’s an inheritance.’

‘Ooh,’ said Derek, ‘an inheritance. That’ll be nice. What a run of luck she’s having. She just won a thousand on the lottery, too.’

Betty laughed. ‘Lucky Clara,’ she said.

‘I’ll say,’ said Derek. ‘So, tell me what your name and number is, hold on, let me just get a pen ... oh, flipping hell, there’s never any pens what work in this bloody house. Here, right, off you go ...’

She gave him her name and number and then, before she hung up she said, ‘Can I just ask you one thing, before you go, about Clara?’

‘Try me.’

‘Well, this might sound like a strange question – you’ll probably think I’m mad for asking – but Clara ... is she ... I mean ... what colour is she?’

‘Ha, how funny that you should ask. Well I never, but yes, Clara is a black lady. Yes, she is. Rest of us is white. She’s black. And there’s a story behind that. If you’re interested. But maybe I’ll leave Clara to tell you all about that. When you see her.’

Betty smiled. She suspected she already knew.


Betty had taken all three children to a café around the corner from Amy’s house, to get them out from under her feet while she ran around frantically organising caterers and sound equipment. Betty breathed out in relief as silence fell upon their table and the three children sat eating happily and quietly. It had been a truly extraordinary, overwhelming day. As she sat here, Clara Pickle/Minchin/Jones/Davies would be enjoying her last evening in Spain, sitting in a bar perhaps, or on the balcony of a sea-facing apartment, drinking Sangria and wishing that she could stay for ever. This time tomorrow she would be on her way to the airport and by Monday morning, she would know that she was the recipient of the contents of the bank account of a lady from Guernsey who’d once loved her father.

A shiver ran down her spine at the prospect.

And then she saw Donovan about to knock a large glass of organic orange juice across the café table and she stretched her arm out to catch it, and as she did so another arm appeared, clothed in black leather and attached to the body of Dom Jones.

‘Steady, mate,’ he said to Donovan, who immediately jumped to his feet and ran around the table and into his father’s arms.

‘Daddy! Daddy!’

Betty smiled uncertainly, unsure how this impromptu visit fitted into Amy’s vision for the night and also how she felt about seeing Dom again after their fractious encounter the previous morning.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Dom, smiling sheepishly over the top of Donny’s head, ‘I’m not planning on taking them anywhere. Amy knows I’m here. I’ve just been to the house and she said it was OK. And listen,’ he sat himself on Donovan’s seat, with his son held upon his lap. ‘I just wanted to say I am so, so, so incredibly, unbelievably sorry about yesterday morning. I mean, really. I was completely out of order. Totally. A total and utter prize ...’ he silently mouthed a derogatory one-syllable word.

Betty smiled grudgingly. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘you were a bit.’

‘And you were absolutely right to stop me taking Donny out.’

‘No!’ shouted Donny. ‘She was absolutely wrong!’

They both smiled at Donny, who frowned back at them both and stuck his fork grumpily into his eggs on toast.

‘No, really. You were very professional. You did your job well. Thank you.’

Betty’s smile softened. She shrugged and rubbed her elbows.

‘Where’s Daddy’s egg?’ Dom asked Donovan, his mouth opened wide.

Donny slowly and very seriously detached a hunk of bread and egg with his fingers and offered it to his father. Dom gobbled it up and licked Donny’s fingers and squeezed his son tight to him. ‘Dee-licious,’ he said, kissing Donny’s neck and squeezing him again. ‘Thank you. And how are my girls?’ he asked.

Acacia glanced at him across the table and blew him a kiss, her newest trick, before turning her attention back to her scrambled eggs and mushrooms.

Dom pretended to catch the kiss and drop it into his heart. Acacia looked at him again through her long lashes and sighed, as though her father was truly the most magnificent man in the world. The baby sat in her high chair and smeared ice-cream into the tray with two flattened hands.

‘You’re so good at this,’ said Dom, surveying the contented brood. ‘You make it look so easy. When you eventually get round to having your own –’

‘Not for a very long time,’ Betty interjected.

‘No, not for a very long time. But when you do. Lucky kids ...’ His gaze dropped to the top of Donny’s head and he smiled again.

Betty smiled. Having her own children felt about as distant a concept as time travel. ‘Are you going to the party?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘Oh, f – God, no. No way. If ... flipping hate all those people. Half the reason we ...’ he mouthed the words ‘split up’. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a gig tonight.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In fact, yeah, I’d better push off in a minute. But not until I’ve had a bite of Donny’s fairy cake.’

Donny snatched the waiting cake towards him and clutched it at his chest while Dom pretended to try to steal it.

Betty watched him, curiously. He was doing it again, that human chameleon thing. Here he was, sober, apologetic dad, playing by the rules, doing low-key mucking about with his children, before heading off to work.

He caught her staring at him and smiled. ‘I want to square stuff with you, Betty,’ he said. ‘I want to explain myself. What are you doing tomorrow?’

‘I’m doing this lot,’ she said, gesturing towards his children, ‘until Amy can face doing them herself.’

Dom smiled wryly. ‘Right, so, late then. Send me a text message when you’re heading home. I’ll come and ring on your bell,’ he said.

‘I’ve got a houseguest.’

‘Well, come and ring on mine.’

‘I’m not sure, Dom ...’

‘Just to talk.’ He skewered her with an intense look. ‘I just want to talk to you.’

She shrugged. ‘OK,’ she said.

He smiled, and the smile took the breath out of her. It was real and sincere. It was, she felt, utterly without guile, a rare sighting of the real Dom Jones. And she liked it. She felt an overwhelming compulsion to jump to her feet and squeeze him hard. Instead she laughed.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘nothing.’

He smiled at her again, that sweet sincere smile and she smiled back. And then, after a round of hugs and kisses and nibbles of various children’s fairy cakes, he was gone into the summer evening, off to be a pop star.


The party was a crashing disappointment, lots of people talking about schools and nannies and restaurants with Michelin stars in Chelsea. Betty made her excuses at 11 p.m. and headed up for bed. She peered through the window of her bedroom (a boxroom next to the baby’s room) at the street below. The pavement was pooled in yellow light from the ornate Victorian streetlamps, and Primrose Hill itself was bathed in blue, a luscious swell of bucolic splendour rising from the heart of north London. And there they were, like rats in jackets, the paparazzi, hoping for something shocking to splash all over the front pages of the Sunday papers. Betty felt like opening the window and shouting out, ‘Go home! They’re all really boring!’ But instead she climbed into her pyjamas and got into bed.

It took her a while to fall asleep that night, the sounds of the bass from the sound system banging through the bones of the house and into the very marrow of her. She eventually dropped off at about midnight and when she woke up an hour and a half later, her first thought was that one of the children must have set off the monitor and disturbed her, but then she realised there was someone in her room. She sat bolt upright and searched for the light-switch with her hand.

‘Ssh,’ said a voice, ‘it’s just me. It’s just Amy.’

Betty groaned and croaked, ‘What? Are the kids OK?’

Amy took a few steps towards Betty’s bed. ‘Kids are fine,’ she said. ‘I just went in and checked on them.’

‘Oh,’ said Betty, running her hands down her bed-messed hair and rubbing her eyes. ‘Good.’

‘They look so beautiful when they’re asleep,’ Amy breathed, perching herself gently on the edge of Betty’s bed.

Betty pulled herself up into a full sitting position and moved towards the wall.

‘Like angels. You think you couldn’t love them any more. You think you’re going to die of it. Their beauty. Their innocence. Their little hands curled up into those tiny fists. And then they wake up the next morning, and Jesus f*cking Christ, you wonder why the f*ck you ever had them.’

She laughed and then sighed. ‘I don’t really mean that,’ she said. ‘Of course I don’t. It’s just, you know, they’re all so little and I don’t really know them yet, and I know that one day, when they’re older – you know, proper little people – I’ll be so so grateful I had them, but right now ...’ she sighed again. ‘Jeez. I dunno. It’s such hard work. Even with my beloved Betty.’

She squeezed Betty’s hand under the duvet and smiled into the darkness, and now that Betty’s eyes had adjusted to the dark she could see that Amy was drunk. Or if not drunk, incredibly stoned.

‘What would I do without you, my wonderful Betty? You know, I do honestly believe that my husband is a humungous prick of the highest order, but he got it right with you. I’ll give him that. That was a good call. Good call, Dom!’ She paused and stared at Betty. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

Betty smiled awkwardly. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said. ‘It’s a pleasure. Your children are great.’

‘Aren’t they?’ smiled Amy. ‘And you know, shit, I watch you with them and I think, shit, why can’t I be like that with them? Why can’t I just be patient and kind and gentle like that? Like Betty? You’re a special girl, Betty Dean. A very special girl. You know, forget the two-week trial. Seriously. I’m sold. I’ll sort you out on a salary from Monday. OK?’

Betty nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

And then Amy slowly lowered her face towards Betty’s and kissed her gently on her cheek.

Betty froze.

Amy stroked her hair away from her face.

‘Sleep tight, pretty Betty,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

She paused and stared at Betty dreamily for a moment, before squeezing her shoulder and tiptoeing quietly from her room.


The following morning it was as if the whole thing had been a dream. Amy came down just after eleven, showered and bleary-eyed, dressed in a vintage summer dress and slippers, her titian hair woven into two plaits. Betty and the children were in the garden playing in the sandpit.

‘Good morning, my lovely children,’ she called from the kitchen doorway where she was clutching a mug of coffee and a strip of painkillers. ‘Good morning, Betty.’

Betty smiled at her brightly. ‘Morning!’

‘How was your night?’

‘Fine,’ said Betty. ‘Fine. Astrid woke up at three for a bottle, Acacia woke up at four for a cuddle and Donovan was standing in my doorway at quarter to six, ready to start the day.’

‘Oh God, poor you.’

Betty shrugged. ‘It’s fine. I thought it would be worse to be honest.’

Amy popped two pills from the strip and knocked them back with a gulp of coffee. ‘You’re a star,’ she said. ‘A total star. I’m taking the kids to Kate’s for lunch today, so you can go home then, say about twelve thirty?’

Betty smiled again. ‘Great.’

‘Great,’ echoed Amy.

And then she was gone.