guided to a chair. ‘He had a good mower, didn’t he? Tony?’ he said, sagging into the seat.
Lilian swallowed. ‘He did,’ she said faintly, still holding on to him. Time seemed to stop and everything felt magnified: the slow sliding tick of the clock, his soft cotton shirt beneath her fingers, the perfumed scent of the blue hyacinths on the window ledge, her own racing heartbeat – boom, boom, boom. ‘Yes, love, he did.’
Chapter Six
Self-reinvention or not, there was nothing like Sunday lunch at the in-laws’ to bring you back down to earth with a bump, thought Alicia. And in the twenty or so years she’d been with Hugh, she’d racked up a good number of those, a veritable parade of gravy boats and roast potatoes, of cracker snaps and terrible jokes, of clinked glasses and slurred voices.
Funny to think that the very first time she’d come here, she, David and Charlie had all been teenagers. David had been in the midst of A-levels and was pale and stressed, like a plant that hadn’t seen the sun for ages, while Charlie had white-bleached hair and acne, and wore ripped jeans and grungy T-shirts. It seemed just days ago in some respects, yet a whole generation had rolled by in the meantime. She could chart the progress like a procession of snapshots flicking through her head. David starting at Swansea uni and returning with a girlfriend from the Valleys – Angela, with the dirtiest laugh you ever heard. Charlie vanishing down to Cornwall, then London, then Goa, then Bournemouth, returning each time with his tail between his legs, having run up enormous debts. Her, with her sapphire engagement ring sparkling in the Christmas photos. David moving to Bristol and landing a great job, Charlie made redundant and refusing to come downstairs one Christmas Day. Hugh getting a promotion and cracking open champagne. Her again, with her gold wedding band and flushed cheeks, a bump, a babe-in-arms, a toddler, another baby . . .
The Christmas turkey getting bigger by the year. A long line of girlfriends for Charlie, then Emma appearing with David like an exotic bird from afar with her pea-green coat, the jangle of beads around her neck and glittery eyeshadow. Job news. House moves. New wallpaper. New curtains. The garden rising and falling, blooming and dying in the background.
Alicia didn’t appear as much in the photos from then on; she was always tending to some child or other, or helping in the kitchen, steam sending her hair frizzy, a gulped glass of wine mottling her cheeks. If she did make it into a frame, she’d always be the last one still with a lopsided paper party hat on her head, the others all having removed theirs by the time the cheese plate came out. Typical of her.
Still, it didn’t have to be like that, though, did it? Nobody was forcing her to blend into the background for the rest of her life. With this in mind, she’d sat at her dressing table that morning spritzing on perfume and styling her hair, then put on a pretty blouse and skirt and carefully applied her new lipstick. She looked at the woman in the reflection and smiled experimentally. Maybe, just for once, she’d sit back after the meal today and let Hugh help his mum with the fetching and carrying. Maybe David or Emma would offer to pour drinks or make coffee this time, so that she didn’t have to. And maybe, instead of acting like a meek little skivvy, she’d be sparkling and witty, regaling others with funny stories and pithy quips.
‘Alicia, where’s my blue shirt? Have you ironed it?’ came Hugh’s voice just then.
She opened her mouth, helpfulness rising in her automatically. Then she caught the gaze of the woman in the mirror and thought again. ‘Not a clue!’ she called back gaily.
For the first time ever, they arrived late at Mulberry House. Unaccustomed to fending for himself, Hugh had hunted through all of the dirty washing and the entire ironing pile before eventually finding his blue shirt hanging pristine and
Lilian swallowed. ‘He did,’ she said faintly, still holding on to him. Time seemed to stop and everything felt magnified: the slow sliding tick of the clock, his soft cotton shirt beneath her fingers, the perfumed scent of the blue hyacinths on the window ledge, her own racing heartbeat – boom, boom, boom. ‘Yes, love, he did.’
Chapter Six
Self-reinvention or not, there was nothing like Sunday lunch at the in-laws’ to bring you back down to earth with a bump, thought Alicia. And in the twenty or so years she’d been with Hugh, she’d racked up a good number of those, a veritable parade of gravy boats and roast potatoes, of cracker snaps and terrible jokes, of clinked glasses and slurred voices.
Funny to think that the very first time she’d come here, she, David and Charlie had all been teenagers. David had been in the midst of A-levels and was pale and stressed, like a plant that hadn’t seen the sun for ages, while Charlie had white-bleached hair and acne, and wore ripped jeans and grungy T-shirts. It seemed just days ago in some respects, yet a whole generation had rolled by in the meantime. She could chart the progress like a procession of snapshots flicking through her head. David starting at Swansea uni and returning with a girlfriend from the Valleys – Angela, with the dirtiest laugh you ever heard. Charlie vanishing down to Cornwall, then London, then Goa, then Bournemouth, returning each time with his tail between his legs, having run up enormous debts. Her, with her sapphire engagement ring sparkling in the Christmas photos. David moving to Bristol and landing a great job, Charlie made redundant and refusing to come downstairs one Christmas Day. Hugh getting a promotion and cracking open champagne. Her again, with her gold wedding band and flushed cheeks, a bump, a babe-in-arms, a toddler, another baby . . .
The Christmas turkey getting bigger by the year. A long line of girlfriends for Charlie, then Emma appearing with David like an exotic bird from afar with her pea-green coat, the jangle of beads around her neck and glittery eyeshadow. Job news. House moves. New wallpaper. New curtains. The garden rising and falling, blooming and dying in the background.
Alicia didn’t appear as much in the photos from then on; she was always tending to some child or other, or helping in the kitchen, steam sending her hair frizzy, a gulped glass of wine mottling her cheeks. If she did make it into a frame, she’d always be the last one still with a lopsided paper party hat on her head, the others all having removed theirs by the time the cheese plate came out. Typical of her.
Still, it didn’t have to be like that, though, did it? Nobody was forcing her to blend into the background for the rest of her life. With this in mind, she’d sat at her dressing table that morning spritzing on perfume and styling her hair, then put on a pretty blouse and skirt and carefully applied her new lipstick. She looked at the woman in the reflection and smiled experimentally. Maybe, just for once, she’d sit back after the meal today and let Hugh help his mum with the fetching and carrying. Maybe David or Emma would offer to pour drinks or make coffee this time, so that she didn’t have to. And maybe, instead of acting like a meek little skivvy, she’d be sparkling and witty, regaling others with funny stories and pithy quips.
‘Alicia, where’s my blue shirt? Have you ironed it?’ came Hugh’s voice just then.
She opened her mouth, helpfulness rising in her automatically. Then she caught the gaze of the woman in the mirror and thought again. ‘Not a clue!’ she called back gaily.
For the first time ever, they arrived late at Mulberry House. Unaccustomed to fending for himself, Hugh had hunted through all of the dirty washing and the entire ironing pile before eventually finding his blue shirt hanging pristine and
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