The Secret of Happy Ever After (7 page)

Anna’s stomach tightened. ‘It’s Boxing Day, Phil. It’ll be shut. Anyway, come on. We’ve got the house to ourselves! And you owe me a massage for all that cooking yesterday.’

‘I know. But that’s what afternoons are for, right? It’s so long since we had a meal out, just you and me.’ He wriggled his shoulders. ‘I want to go somewhere that doesn’t have swings outside, or a kids’ menu. Somewhere with a dangerous pond. Don’t you fancy that? Long lunch, the papers, no rush to get back for ballet?’

‘Well . . .’

Phil looked at her sideways. ‘It’s not often I get to take my gorgeous wife out for a date. Don’t deny me that small pleasure.’

Anna felt herself leaning towards his way of thinking. She couldn’t remember the last meal they’d had, just the two of them. Lunch
à deux,
intelligent conversation, some wine . . . it might jump-start the afternoon anyway.

‘OK,’ she said, sinking back into her seat. ‘But I’m having pudding. And we’re out of there by three.’

‘You’re on.’ Phil turned up the radio and started singing in a dad-like manner that Chloe would not have permitted, had she been there.

3

‘Merry Christmas!’ said Owen, from behind the biggest bunch of white roses Michelle had seen outside a trade convention display.

‘Are those from you?’ she panted, still winded from her run. ‘Because I’d rather . . . have had . . . a down payment on your . . . outstanding loans.’

‘Nice! And a Merry Christmas to you too, Owen,’ he said, pretending to look hurt.

Michelle responded by giving him a quick, sweaty hug, ruffling his dark curls with her free hand, then bent double to get the rest of her breath back while she tried to work out whether she should be pleased if he’d brought her roses when still he owed her three months’ rent for his last house.

Owen was Michelle’s youngest and by far her favourite brother. There was a seven-year gap between her and the two older ones, Ben and Jonathan, and it might as well have been a whole generation. Owen was twenty-four, the surprise baby and recipient of all the surplus charm, good looks and luck in the family. He got away with murder with everyone but Michelle, who’d spent her teenage years filling in the mothering that their mother had been too busy to deliver. As a result, she’d built up a certain immunity to his chat, while he’d learned a few valuable lessons about talking to girls – something he’d exploited at every opportunity since.

‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said, unlocking the door. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

‘Not really. Got a lift with a mate who was going to Birmingham. Here, take these off me?’ he added, pushing the roses into her hand. ‘I feel like a bridesmaid. And I cannot tell a lie – on this occasion they’re not from me. They were on the step when I got here.’

Michelle pointed to his shoes and the rack by the door, and reluctantly he started to prise off his trendy trainers. While he was distracted, she ripped open the gift card and her throat, still raw from her run, constricted even further.

‘Sorry not to see you on Christmas Day, babe,’ said Harvey’s smooth voice through the florist’s innocuous handwriting. ‘I miss you. Let’s make 2012 our year. All my love, Harvey.’

Michelle shoved the card back into the flowers and dropped them on the table as if she’d found a snake in the heart of the bunch. She didn’t even want to see them in her house: something about them was pure Harvey – the roses were pearly and perfect, but completely scentless, force-grown and flown in at the wrong time of year, delivered on a super-expensive day because if you paid enough, you could always get what you wanted. And yet on the surface it was a thoughtful gift that only a churlish, impossible-to-please cow would find fault with.

Poor Harvey. Always trying so hard. He didn’t want Michelle to walk out on him, you know. He thought the world of her.

He wants to remind me that he knows where I live, she thought.

‘From Harvey?’ Owen asked.

She nodded. A paranoid voice in her head wondered if Harvey himself had been the ‘mate who was going to Birmingham’. No, she told herself. Harvey would fly.

‘He was asking after you yesterday at Mum’s,’ Owen went on, looking round her hall. ‘I think he was hoping you’d be there. Oi! Why don’t you have any photos of us in here?’

Carole Nightingale’s hallway was proudly crammed with photographs of her children achieving things, or displaying their own offspring. In Owen’s case, there were as many again of him just looking handsome and devilish. They made up for the pointed lack of graduation photos of Michelle, the only one without a degree.

‘Because I don’t like to scare my guests when they arrive. How come Harvey ended up having Christmas Day with you?’ Michelle added, unlacing her own trainers so her brother wouldn’t notice her shaking hands.

‘He was all on his own, poor guy,’ said Owen. ‘Mum invited him over, the more the merrier. She likes him. We all do.’

‘You don’t know him, Owen.’ Michelle had long since given up trying to explain to the rest of them, but Owen understood her a bit more than they did.

‘Don’t I?’ Owen looked reproachfully at her. ‘You can’t blame Mum for inviting him round, Shell. He’s been her son-in-law for years. Dad’s just promoted him again. And you’re still married to him . . .’

‘Technically,’ Michelle snapped. ‘In another eighteen months, I won’t be, whether he likes it or not. Separation without consent after five years. No one’s fault.’

Owen raised his hands. He hadn’t been at home when Michelle had left Harvey; he’d been travelling round India, getting stoned and acquiring a tattoo Carole still didn’t know about. He’d missed most of their marriage too, as he’d been away at college. ‘You were the one who walked out, not Harvey. None of my business, I know, but—’

‘Right. It’s none of your business.’ Michelle’s voice was harsh, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her heart rate was higher now than it had been powering up the hill. ‘I know he’s charming to Mum, and Dad thinks the sun shines out of his arse, but it’s not the same when you’re married to someone who won’t even let you—’

‘OK!’ Owen looked a bit scared. ‘OK! I get it. I didn’t come here for an argument. Am I too late for breakfast?’

Michelle took a deep breath and tried to focus on her house. Her beautiful calm home, which was all hers. Her safe haven. No one weighed her here. Or checked her emails. Or her phone.

‘No, you’re not too late,’ she said, forcing out a smile. ‘Scrambled eggs?’

‘To be honest, I’d rather have something you haven’t cooked,’ said Owen.

Owen arranged his lanky frame at Michelle’s kitchen table while she moved around, trying to assemble her leftover deli pots into some form of breakfast acceptable to an overgrown student. He’d hoovered up half her loaf of bread before she’d even plunged the coffee maker, leaving trails of marmalade and clementine peel all over the clean cloth.

‘Is this a flying visit on your way back to Dublin?’ she asked. ‘Or did you just need an excuse to get away from Mum’s? Feet off the table, please.’

Owen swung his Converse off the table. ‘I wanted to see my big sister. It’s been ages. I miss your bossy ways. And I wanted to check you hadn’t been eaten by cats, living on your own.’

‘Shut up.’ Michelle hid the glow of affection beneath a mock-outraged glare. ‘And what else did you need?’

‘Do I need an excuse?’ Owen pretended to look affronted, then dropped the act. ‘Um, Shell, actually . . . I need to ask you a favour.’

It must be bad, Michelle thought, if he’s asking me and not Mum. ‘How much this time?’

‘No, it’s not cash. Although contributions are always welcome.’ Owen looked up at her through his unfairly long black lashes. ‘I actually need somewhere to crash for a few weeks.’

Michelle flinched involuntarily as she always did at the thought of anyone staying in her house, invading her perfectly arranged space. She knew it was irrational – and she loved Owen – but she couldn’t help it. Invisible spiders crawled around her stomach.

‘What happened to the job in Dublin?’

‘Came to the end of the contract. I finished their website, and . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I told Mum there was no more work out there, but, to tell the truth, it was kind of awkward.’

‘Money, or a girl?’

‘Both?’ Again, the appealing, long-lashed look.

‘You know that cuts no ice with me,’ said Michelle. She folded her arms. ‘You’re twenty-four, Owen. Girls stop thinking that sort of carry-on’s cute round about now. It just looks like you’ve got issues.’

‘I know.’ Owen prodded the omelette she’d cobbled together. ‘I just . . . hate letting them down gently. I can’t help being handsome. It’s a cross I have to bear, like you have to clean everything in sight. What is this, exactly?’

‘An omelette,’ said Michelle. ‘Why can’t you stay with Mum? There’s more work in London, surely?’

‘She’s redecorating again. And she said you’ve got loads of room, and you could do with the company.’

Michelle translated this in her head; Carole loved Owen, but not his habit of coming home at 3 a.m. without money for the cab. And the last time Owen had stayed with Ben, their oldest brother, their au pair had gone back to Latvia without warning, and Ben’s youngest son, Hugo, had come out with a whole series of awkward questions and two new swear words.

‘I had a look at your website on the way over,’ Owen went on. ‘It’s rubbish. Might you be in need of an experienced and award-winning web designer to take a look at it and refresh your internet trade?’

‘Fine,’ said Michelle. It was typical of Owen’s luck that ‘redesign website’ had been the third thing on her to-do list for the new year. ‘But you can’t stay here. The flat above the shop’s empty at the moment – you can stay there while I work out whether to rent it out again. I’ve got my new season’s stock in the main room, but there should be enough space for you.’

‘Is that the equivalent of getting the stable with the manger and the donkeys? The flat with the storage boxes?’

‘It’s better,’ said Michelle, pouring herself a cup of coffee. ‘It has seagrass, and an en-suite bathroom.’ She pushed a mug towards him with a warning look. ‘But if there are any virgin births, Owen . . .’

‘I have no idea what you mean,’ he said, with a straight face.

Michelle had another look into Quentin’s bookshop when she drove Owen round to the flat, and as soon as she got home, she started making phone calls.

Two days later, she was sitting in an empty office at Flint and Cook solicitors, dressed in her smartest suit, waiting to speak to the solicitor handling Cyril Quentin’s affairs.

Sitting, and waiting. Michelle hated being kept waiting, especially when she had a sale to run, one which inspired a queue of impatient bargain-hunters.

She was crossly inspecting a Victorian map of Longhampton (many tanneries, a jam factory, more pubs than churches) when someone coughed behind her, and she spun round.

A tall, floppy-haired man in a tweed jacket with a green round-neck jumper underneath – three things that set Michelle’s teeth on edge to begin with – was standing a bit too close to her.

Four things that set her teeth on edge.

‘Hello,’ he said, backing off a bit to extend a hand. His strawberry-blond fringe fell into his eyes and he pushed it back. ‘Rory Stirling.’

The handshake was firm and the accent was Scottish, which created two positives, but then Michelle spotted crumbs on his jumper, which knocked him down again. She couldn’t stand food debris. Beards made her want to heave.

‘Michelle Nightingale,’ she said. And, she added to herself, in semi-wonderment, how could a man reach the age of thirtysomething and not know that you wore a
V-neck
with a tie? ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.’

‘Not at all,’ he said, gesturing towards the chair opposite as he sat down at his cluttered desk. ‘It makes a change from drunk and disorderlies. And the usual rash of post-Christmas divorce consultations.’

‘Good to be busy,’ she said.

‘Oh, it gets busier after New Year,’ Rory replied darkly. ‘That’s when the
real
effects of a week with the in-laws kick in. Nearly always get a couple of wills rewritten, or people sneaking in to ask about conveyancing. And naturally it’s the people who
don’t
have happy families who get dragged in to deal with everyone else’s fall-outs. Anyway, enough of my festive joys . . .’

Normally Michelle would have sympathised with that sentiment, being used to staffing her shop single-handed while her assistants went off to parents’ meetings and birthday parties, but she was cold, and impatient.

‘I understand that you’re acting for Cyril Quentin,’ she said. ‘The bookshop on the high street?’

‘We are indeed.’

Rory moved some papers from one messy pile to another. Michelle
hated
a messy desk.

Rory caught her eyeing a dead plant on the top of his in-tray, and pointedly moved it, dropping it in the bin behind him without looking. ‘Have you spoken to Mr Quentin?’ he went on.