But as sorry as he felt for her, ultimately she had brought it on herself. All of it. And she’d been right: the baby had had a narrow escape.
He was surprised by her tenacity when it came to working three jobs, but he didn’t mention it, so as not to appear patronising. He’d expected her to have quickly found a replacement for him, if only to provide financial stability for the children. But he’d seen to it that one man in particular could never have been an option for her.
So far, she’d not mentioned anyone else; it appeared she’d muddled along alone. He admired that, as he did her return to dressmaking. He recalled how she’d believed that hobby had destroyed their family. But secretly he knew it wasn’t to blame. Not at all. And he understood how financially destitute she must have been to have picked up a needle and thread again.
For every story he’d recounted of his adventures without his boring wife and children, she was torn between bringing him back to the brutal reality he’d left behind and making sure he was aware of what she’d accomplished.
No one could ever really appreciate her lows unless they’d lived through them with her. She knew he understood grief, as they’d walked that path together. But he couldn’t comprehend the pain of losing someone without ever knowing if they were truly lost.
She wanted him to feel the same misery he’d inflicted upon them, but she didn’t need his pity. Besides, with his golden tan and tailor-made suit, he hardly resembled a man wracked with remorse or who had faced hard times.
She just desperately needed to witness some human emotion in his steely exterior, or proof that she’d not been completely blind to him throughout their relationship. That inside him, some compassion remained.
She thought she’d spotted it briefly when she told him about their Christmas without him. She noticed the uncomfortable twitch of his middle finger against the print of his thumb. It meant he didn’t like what he was hearing. She would use that to her advantage, she decided.
If he was going to play games by making her wait before he told his truth, then she’d use that time to make him feel as awkward as possible. And her children would be her weapons.
But, most importantly, she would try her hardest to show him she was not the same naive fool he’d left behind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-five years earlier
New Year’s Eve
‘You’re drunk, Mummy,’ whined James.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I snapped, yanking the hem of his costume down further still. ‘And for God’s sake, stop fidgeting.’
‘Ow! You’re hurting me!’
I was trying to finish his Batman outfit for the New Year’s Eve fancy-dress party at the village hall. I’d accidentally jabbed a pin into his ankle and wasn’t in the mood for his whingeing.
It’d been a relentless week. I’d had all our costumes to make from scratch for an event I couldn’t give two hoots about. I’d worked an extra fifteen hours of overtime at the supermarket over two days and had a list of sewing requests as long as my arm. And I hadn’t even begun to tackle the baskets of unironed clothes stacked up in the hallway. There just weren’t enough hours in my day. So who could blame me for having a glass of wine here and there to help me through it?
Well, James, for starters.
Habitually, I’d uncorked the first by breakfast. And by early evening, one more empty bottle was lying on its side by the kitchen bin. But I certainly wasn’t drunk, I told myself, and it annoyed me my son had the nerve to presume I was.
‘Shut up, it’s only a little prick,’ I barked. James’s eyes filled up, which irritated me even more because he was only going to slow me down. I raised my voice and dug my fingernails into his wrists until he squirmed. ‘Right, you can either stop your sniffling and let me get on with this, or you can go to the party looking like a fool and have your friends laugh at you. Which one are you going to choose?’
Even as the words tripped off my tongue, I knew I was sounding like my mother. I heard a lot of her in myself these days and I didn’t like it. But the colder I became, the more frequently she reared her head.
It wasn’t James’s fault I was in such a foul mood. I’d missed Simon more than ever over Christmas. The new year was about to begin and I couldn’t see how things were going to get any easier.
It wasn’t helping that it was also my thirty-fourth birthday – my first birthday without him since we were eleven years old. I wanted to throw myself under the quilt in an alcohol-induced coma and wake up seven months earlier. Then I’d never let him out of my sight for the rest of our lives. Instead, I was going to a party filled with couples who’d remind me of what I was missing.
I also resented the kids for not remembering my birthday, even while I was trying to forget it. Four unopened cards and gifts from friends lay on the kitchen table, but there’d been no special kisses or cuddles from my own family – just relentless demands for food, costumes and attention. I longed to be the centre of someone else’s attention again.
‘There, it’s done, now take it off or you’ll get it creased,’ I grumbled as James stomped out of the room.
I sat on the living room floor alone, staring at the last drop of wine in both the glass and the house. I cursed the kids for taking up so much of my time that I hadn’t got the chance to stock up at the off-licence before it closed early. When everything else around me went wrong, wine was my safety net, and it made me angry if there wasn’t a bottle to hand if I needed it. I dreaded waiting another three hours for the party to begin before I could have another drink.
A loud crash in the kitchen was the final straw. My mother and I roared together. ‘Bloody shut up now, or there’ll be no party and you’ll all go to bed early!’ I screamed, hoping the kids would give me an excuse to be a hermit.
Their voices quietened to whispers, then giggles, then squeals.
‘Right,’ I bellowed and stood up, steadying my jelly legs against the arm of the sofa and going to confront them. Their backs were towards me but Robbie couldn’t hide the glue and scissors in his hands or the torn newspapers scattered across the worktops and floor.
‘What the hell are you doing? Look at the mess in here! And you know you’re not allowed to play with scissors. Get upstairs, now!’
My words were a little blurred but my outburst dazed them. As they separated, a homemade birthday card with a drawing of our cottage and family lay on the table. They’d framed it with dried pasta tubes and gold Christmas glitter.
‘Happy birthday, Mummy,’ they mumbled together as Emily handed it to me. Inside, it read: To the best Mummy in the world. We love you very much. They’d all signed their names in different-coloured crayons and wrapped up their favourite things for birthday gifts – a seashell, a dinosaur and Flopsy.