I close the door with a little too much force; the slam reverberates throughout the house. In the instant that the bang disappears I notice the emptiness. A void. Silence. I consider shouting ‘Hello’ but I know there is no one to answer. The blankness shouldn’t be a surprise. This is the third September I have returned to an empty home after a long summer break and noticed the all-consuming silence. The calm is partly a relief, partly heartbreaking. This year the hush is particularly distressing because I did not have to cajole, bribe, beg or threaten my boys to get them to surrender their vice-like grips at the school gate. This year, Sebastian ran into the playground without so much as a backward glance, let alone a kiss goodbye, and even Henry (normally the most openly affectionate twin) was only prepared to wave at me. From a distance.
Haven’t I done a marvellous job? Excellent. Wonderful. I should be congratulated. I have produced confident, independent and secure boys. Well done me.
I think I’m going to cry.
I briefly consider pouring myself a glass of whisky. But dismiss the silly idea because in reality the only spirit in my cupboard is cooking sherry. I could have a glass of wine. I think there’s half a bottle of Chablis in the fridge but I content myself with putting on the kettle. Strong coffee is the more sensible choice and I’m famed for my sensible nature.
The phone rings; its cheerful tring is a Red Cross parcel. I pick up hastily and gratefully.
‘It’s me.’
Me, in this case, is Connie, one of my best and oldest friends. She sounds tearful and I remember that it’s her eldest daughter’s first day at school.
‘How was Fran’s drop-off?’
‘OK,’ she mutters; she doesn’t sound convinced.
‘She looked amazing. The uniform is so cute. But...’
‘But.. . ?‘ I prompt.
‘Is it usual for them to cling to your leg and sob? I couldn’t pry her off; she was like a tiny monkey. She
kept begging to come home with Flora and me. She even offered to tidy up her Barbies — that’s unprecedented.’ Connie is trying to laugh but I’m not fooled.
‘Very usual,’ I assure her. ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’
‘I want vodka, but I’ll settle for coffee. I’ll be with you in five. I’m just around the corner.’
If I round up, Connie and I have known each other for nearly twenty years, which is phenomenal and un-believable. To have known someone that long must mean I’m a fully fledged adult, and digesting that fact requires a mountain of sugar, not a teaspoon. We originally met through my sister, Daisy. Daisy and Connie went to university together; they were very tight. Connie and I have only become particularly friendly in the last five or six years. We both have kids and, sadly, Daisy doesn’t. I’ve found that kids pull you towards women that you would never have considered being friends with if you didn’t have children in common — it’s one of the perks of the job. Besides, Connie was very kind to me when my husband left me for one of our mutual friends.
The situation was officially ugly.
Connie was a great pal of Lucy, the mistress, but despite that she’s managed to walk a diplomatic line and remain friends with both of us. Sometimes, I think I should have demanded that Connie take a more moralistic stance. I should have asked her to spurn her old buddy and my deceiving ex but I couldn’t risk it. Friends were thin on the ground at the time and so few people are prepared to see the world in black and white. Extremism isn’t fashionable. Not even extremely nice. People who are extremely nice are mistrusted or taken advantage of. Believe me, I’m talking from experience. So, I make do with knowing that Connie is a great friend to me and I ignore the fact that she’s a great friend to Lucy as well.
Since Peter left, I’ve battled with every instinct when talking to Connie and somehow I’ve trained myself to make only casual, polite enquiries about Peter and Lucy. I do not allow myself the indulgence of ridiculing or vilifying them, which would embarrass and compromise her. I limit myself to the type of enquiry one makes after an old work colleague two people might have in common — civil, distant, even a little distracted — and I glean the occasional piece of choice information using this covert method.
Sometimes, in the early days, I couldn’t help myself; little bits of pain or grief would eke out however tightly I tried to guard my feelings — and I’d mention Peter’s name. I might have moaned about him or admitted I missed him. Yet I did this with the absolute certainty that I could trust Connie. She’d never, ever repeat to Lucy anything I say about him. This is a remarkable feat of self-restraint for anyone, but for Connie it’s a breathtaking tribute to our friendship. Connie isn’t discreet and it must kill her to keep mum. I’ve never allowed myself to reveal my true feelings about Lucy at all. The thing is I don’t have the vocab — I don’t like using expletives.
I don’t worry that Lucy talks about me to Connie. I know that if she does Connie will be loyal and supportive of me, but I can’t imagine the scenario ever arising. I don’t think I’ve ever entered Lucy’s consciousness, not even when she was eating Sunday roast at my house and giving my husband a quick blow-job in our cloakroom before I served up the pudding and coffee. She was always too busy giving literal meaning to the words ‘Let’s take an intercourse break’ to think about me. I’m not glamorous enough to rank among her friends and I’m not rich enough to be her client.