not because there was anything remotely sinister about Terry and his sandy moustache and sensible shoes, but because it was too complicated to think of him as an actual person with a sense of humour. When he was boring-sales-rep Terry, he fitted into the tortuous equation of loyalty and resentment she’d worked out, a system of concessions and balances that allowed her to miss her real handsome, heroic dad, while also being not ungrateful to the man who’d stepped in to fill an unenviable gap. Acknowledging Terry’s realness also meant contemplating the relationship he had with her mother, and – hard as it was to imagine her mother having any truck with the sort of unhygienic activity Gina read about in Naomi’s eye-opening magazines – that made her want to die of squeamishness.
As an adult, driving down the road Terry’s P6 must have covered thousands of times in their endless family round of school, work, ‘runs out’ and shopping, Gina wished she’d smiled back. Poor Terry was just trying to build some bridges, in his diplomatic way. She felt sorry for him, then even sorrier, because her mother still wished they’d cut the apple tree back outside the vicarage, and she understood a little more of what Terry had put up with all those years.
Today 7 Church Lane’s borders were full of early daffodils, a cheerful splash of colour in the wintry sunshine.Gina paused outside the house to let another car past, and cast her critical housing planner’s eye over the freshly whitewashed exterior. Though she loved old properties, 7 Church Lane didn’t do much for her. There was so much twee period detail inside and out that you had to live by its rules, and she knew it was much darker and smaller inside than you’d think. One of those houses that’s nicer to look at from outside, than to live in. Maybe that was why Mum wanted it, she thought, then batted the mean thought away as she set off again.
The twin tubs of daffodil bulbs that Gina and Stuart had given Janet for their last ever joint Christmas present had just started to come out by the front door, pale green fingers of leaf with tightly rolled buds reaching up through compost. They were all right, but obviously they weren’t as good as the glorious golden trumpets showing off further up the road.
Gina rang the bell and stared at the shoots, a distant irritation tickling her. When those bulbs had been planted in some far-off John Lewis nursery last autumn, she’d still been married. And while she’d been juggling credit cards at 1 a.m., ordering extravagant Christmas flowers for their various families, Stuart had been covertly texting Bryony, arranging meet-ups in Birmingham. The bulbs of their divorce had been planted at the same time as the bloody daffodils. They’d even bloomed at the same time.
Stuart had never remembered birthdays or Christmases; Gina had always done it for both of their families, out of paranoia that she might miss someone’s last one. And even though her mother knew full well Gina sent the stupid planter of daffodils, she’d still cooed with delight and told Stuart he was so clever to have chosen her favourites.
Daffodils weren’t even her favourites. Janet’s favourite, Gina knew for a fact, was the carnation, the world’s dullest flower.
All these thoughts went through her mind at the speed of light, and she was still frowning at the tub when the door opened moments after she’d knocked, and Janet appeared on the doorstep, the sinews of her neck tight with concern.
Janet Bellamy was fifty-six and still attractive in a girlish way. She wore a lot of pink, and owned one pair of trousers, specifically for gardening. Gina had inherited her high, sharp cheekbones, but not her fine gold hair or her slight frame. When Janet was happy, she could easily pass for late forties; when she was anxious, which was more usual, she could look much older.
‘I was worried about you!’ she said, grabbing Gina’s arm before she’d
As an adult, driving down the road Terry’s P6 must have covered thousands of times in their endless family round of school, work, ‘runs out’ and shopping, Gina wished she’d smiled back. Poor Terry was just trying to build some bridges, in his diplomatic way. She felt sorry for him, then even sorrier, because her mother still wished they’d cut the apple tree back outside the vicarage, and she understood a little more of what Terry had put up with all those years.
Today 7 Church Lane’s borders were full of early daffodils, a cheerful splash of colour in the wintry sunshine.Gina paused outside the house to let another car past, and cast her critical housing planner’s eye over the freshly whitewashed exterior. Though she loved old properties, 7 Church Lane didn’t do much for her. There was so much twee period detail inside and out that you had to live by its rules, and she knew it was much darker and smaller inside than you’d think. One of those houses that’s nicer to look at from outside, than to live in. Maybe that was why Mum wanted it, she thought, then batted the mean thought away as she set off again.
The twin tubs of daffodil bulbs that Gina and Stuart had given Janet for their last ever joint Christmas present had just started to come out by the front door, pale green fingers of leaf with tightly rolled buds reaching up through compost. They were all right, but obviously they weren’t as good as the glorious golden trumpets showing off further up the road.
Gina rang the bell and stared at the shoots, a distant irritation tickling her. When those bulbs had been planted in some far-off John Lewis nursery last autumn, she’d still been married. And while she’d been juggling credit cards at 1 a.m., ordering extravagant Christmas flowers for their various families, Stuart had been covertly texting Bryony, arranging meet-ups in Birmingham. The bulbs of their divorce had been planted at the same time as the bloody daffodils. They’d even bloomed at the same time.
Stuart had never remembered birthdays or Christmases; Gina had always done it for both of their families, out of paranoia that she might miss someone’s last one. And even though her mother knew full well Gina sent the stupid planter of daffodils, she’d still cooed with delight and told Stuart he was so clever to have chosen her favourites.
Daffodils weren’t even her favourites. Janet’s favourite, Gina knew for a fact, was the carnation, the world’s dullest flower.
All these thoughts went through her mind at the speed of light, and she was still frowning at the tub when the door opened moments after she’d knocked, and Janet appeared on the doorstep, the sinews of her neck tight with concern.
Janet Bellamy was fifty-six and still attractive in a girlish way. She wore a lot of pink, and owned one pair of trousers, specifically for gardening. Gina had inherited her high, sharp cheekbones, but not her fine gold hair or her slight frame. When Janet was happy, she could easily pass for late forties; when she was anxious, which was more usual, she could look much older.
‘I was worried about you!’ she said, grabbing Gina’s arm before she’d
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