‘I don’t want him to go.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Then can’t you stop him?’
And there was my little girl, trusting eyes turned on me, expecting that I could sort out the problem, and somehow repair the rift that Leo had created in the family. Could I? Should I? It was an impossible situation. I couldn’t see any way that I could make both Leo and the children happy; no way that everyone could have what they wanted. How could I insist to the children that they should never settle for second best – that they were marvellous people and could have whatever they wanted – and then prevent Leo leading by example?
‘I think we have to let Dad do whatever will make him happy,’ I said. ‘You’ll still see him as much as you want.’
‘No, I won’t. He won’t be there when I go to bed, and he won’t be there when I wake up.’
She was right; and how much worse would it be for me, going to sleep and waking up with an empty expanse of bed at my side, beginning and ending each day with the reminder that I had failed? That despite everything I had done, every instinct I had suppressed, every burst of temper I had stamped down, every ambition I had given up, it hadn’t been enough? That in the end, my genes had caught up with me, and delivered the fate I had been determined to avoid since my mother had driven away my dad?
It turned out that I’d been wrong, on that day when the Blacks moved next door all those years ago, to think that my loneliness was over. It had been a reprieve, that was all. Leo moved into the spare bedroom that night; he thought it was appropriate now the children knew, less of a mixed message for them. We’d had occasional nights apart before, but he had never seemed so far away as he did now he was on the other side of the internal wall. I could still hear his snores, but only faintly; couldn’t hear the funny snuffle he made, half snore, half sigh, when he was deeply dreaming. Usually I would stretch out, glory in all the extra space. But today the bed felt hard and cold and just plain wrong – a pretty accurate reflection of my whole life right now.
Sunday lunch was traditionally a big affair in our house: three generations, three courses, and sometimes three bottles. It was a chore – Leo was useless in the kitchen, and left me to do it all – but the reward was seeing all my family gathered close, reinforcing our bond, however bumpy the previous week had been. There was no Sunday lunch this weekend. Some bumps were too high to smooth away with a roast chicken and chocolate sponge. Leo had gone to pick up his brother Ethan from Manchester Airport, which we all accepted as the excuse for the abandoned lunch.
With time weighing on my hands, I decided to take the dog for a walk, despite the freezing December temperatures and the mist hanging so low it cocooned my head like a balaclava. Dotty was officially Ava’s dog, a gloriously mad goldendoodle that we had travelled to South Wales to buy for her tenth birthday; but since her obsession with dogs had become an obsession with horses barely six months after Dotty’s arrival, it was generally me who had to look after her.
I didn’t mind today: the opportunity to tramp the fields around Stoneybrook, our village located deep in the Lancashire countryside, letting the fresh air sting a trail down to my lungs and the cold numb every sense, was exactly what I needed. It was good to exchange hellos with normal people, who had normal lives, and who knew nothing of mine. Or I hoped they didn’t – but as the walk went on, my paranoia grew. Was there something suspicious in that smile, something judgemental in that look? Was I being scrutinised for signs of trauma? Then, as we were on the home straight, squelching through the field that backed onto our house, a greyhound and its owner caught us up: my fault for dawdling, reluctant to get home.
I knew the owner, a tall, stocky man in his early forties: he was a teacher at Broadholme school, where Jonas and Ava were pupils, and had taught Jonas art in his first couple of years – a vague connection we acknowledged with a nod and a smile if we ever passed on our walks. I was more wary of acknowledging him today. There had been a group of teachers at the Christmas charity dinner. What if he had been one of them? Was he sneakily weighing me up, curious about the woman who had driven her husband gay? I hunched down into my scarf, and quickened my pace, tugging on the extending lead, but Dotty had other ideas. She pounced on the greyhound as if they were long-lost best friends; a manic, wagging, bouncing bundle of fluff, while the greyhound gazed nobly into the distance, refusing to acknowledge her.
The man – Owen Ferguson, I remembered, from two excruciating parents’ evenings, when we’d all had to fake enthusiasm for Jonas’ artwork – smiled and tipped his head towards Dotty.
‘Quite a handful, I imagine?’
‘Yes.’ I examined his words for hidden layers of sarcasm or innuendo, but couldn’t detect any. ‘She certainly throws herself at everything with unchecked enthusiasm. Literally,’ I added, as Dotty leapt up at the greyhound again. ‘Sorry. Dotty! Come here!’
She ignored me; my voice had a unique pitch that neither dogs nor teenagers could hear. Owen whistled and the greyhound sauntered immediately to his side.
‘Impressive,’ I said, tugging the lead to drag Dotty back. ‘Do you use that trick on the children too?’
‘No, they’d never hear it over the ear pods.’ His smile flashed up, a deep, brief smile that reminded me of Leo. ‘I need a klaxon to round them up.’
I smiled back, but it faded quickly, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Are things … okay?’ Owen asked. I nodded, once, and he repeated the movement back at me, which could have looked odd, but was strangely comforting. ‘Good.’ He bent down and ruffled Dotty’s head. ‘Goodbye, Dotty. I expect we’ll see you around.’
He headed off diagonally across the field towards the village, while I went straight on to the kissing gate that opened onto the road a little way down from our house. As Dotty stopped to water the bottom of a telegraph pole, Leo’s car approached and pulled onto the drive. He got out and slammed the door, a rare sign of temper for Leo. Seconds later, the passenger door opened and Ethan emerged. It must have been two years since I had seen him, but he had scarcely changed: hair as thick and blond as ever; immaculately dressed despite a seven-hour flight; confident, athletic movements, even in the way he pushed the car door shut and hauled his suitcase from the boot. It would be impossible to guess, from looks, character, or temperament, that these two were brothers. I watched as they paused in front of the car. Raised voices carried towards me, the words muffled by the mist, but the anger behind them clear; and then Ethan turned and looked right at me. Leo followed his gaze, and after one final heated exchange, they stalked off in different directions, Leo to our house, Ethan next door.
Clark was joining us for Christmas lunch. It had been my idea, and I still wasn’t sure if it was the best or the worst one I’d ever had. But I wanted Leo to be with the children for one last Christmas – wholly with us, body and mind, not sneaking off to make furtive phone calls, or leaving before the pudding in an attempt to split his day between us. So Clark had to come; and the delight on Leo’s face when I issued the invitation clarified things for me. It was the best idea for him, and the worst one for me.
The present opening was a subdued affair, despite the jolly Christmas music, the defiantly twinkling fairy lights, and glasses of Buck’s Fizz all round. It all went on too long: I had overdone it during a manic spending spree the day before, as if somehow a bigger stash of presents could compensate the children for the impending loss of Leo. They were pleased; they smiled; but it wasn’t the carefree joy of previous Christmases. I couldn’t see how we would ever get that back.
I had agonised over whether to buy a different present for Leo. In my usual efficient fashion, I had ordered his Christmas gift months ago: a handmade pair of silver cufflinks, each one in the shape of a miniature book, engraved with the title of his favourite novel by the Victorian author Alice Hornby, Lancashire’s answer to Charlotte