Chapter Ashleigh Brett and Remy Hughes 2012 Aged 50 #2
When Evie had pitched up the following weekend as if nothing was amiss, she chose not to mention it, doing her best not to pressurise her child, understanding that life picked up a gear at this age.
It was when she had learned so much about herself, spending time with boys in the sixth form at St. Jude’s, practising for grown-up-hood that had felt just around the corner, and watching with envy as Remy and Tony danced to their favourite music and shared in-jokes that left her feeling a little excluded.
Conjoined!
This one word alone used to send them into hysterics, making her feel like an outsider. She had no idea why it was funny but was damned if she was going to ask.
Each weekend without Evie’s company was a jab to the ribs and a small erosion of her confidence when it came to her mothering skills.
She had done her best to get to know her daughter, cooked for her every Saturday night and even attempted a roast dinner on the odd Sunday.
They shopped together, if not harmoniously, an almost impossible task when their tastes were so different, then certainly with a sense of commitment.
There were moments of laughter too that she carried in a small pocket under her heart, like the time Ashleigh had parked up so that Evie could run into the store one rainy night to get milk, chocolate and crisps, watching as her daughter left the shop and attempted to jump in a random car parked in front, getting a little confused in the dark and drizzle.
It was made all the funnier as the car for which she tried the handle, and banged on the passenger window, belonged to two police officers on patrol who had not quite seen the funny side, as her teenage daughter tried to force entry with an armful of snacks.
She smiled at the sight of her sister, who now stood by the bedroom door, grinning.
It was lovely to be here, like this, knowing Evie was having a good time and was just along the hallway with Bertie.
At sixteen, the cousins shared a love of Call of Duty, whatever that was, a game, apparently, that they played on Bertie’s computer.
Her sister’s village home was cutesy, with a quaint porch and roses around the door.
It made her laugh, it was so twee, so perfect and just the right place for her and Midge to be, living in their blissful bubble.
She didn’t envy her twin, exactly, but was certainly made aware of what she might be missing.
Especially when Remy squeezed into any gap next to her husband and he, without hesitation, placed his arm about her shoulders, on her thigh, her neck, anywhere contact was possible.
It was no more than Remy deserved, and was, she observed, a nice way to live.
Not that it was a life for her. No matter how lovely it was to be here for a long weekend, she knew she’d be glad to get back to the hustle and bustle of London life, her regular haunts, the coffee shop and bakery where she was guaranteed a warm welcome, and the market where she took her time picking fruit and vegetables.
She also missed the pristine desk, her workspace in the hallway from where she ran her bespoke agency, finding homes for wealthy foreigners who were househunting in London.
It was hard work, but lucrative and, crucially, it was all hers.
‘It’s about time we started to get dolled up, and you need to put these on!’ Remy reminded her as she walked towards the bed.
‘No! Don’t even think about it!’ Ashleigh slunk down under the duvet and tried to hide from her twin, who was wearing a pair of oversized sparkly sunglasses and brandishing an identical pair in her hand. They were made up of the numbers five and zero!
‘You’re in my house, and you will wear my celebration glasses!’
‘I’ve told you already, I’m not being fifty!
I’m staying at forty-nine. In fact, I might go back to forty-eight.
’ Ashleigh giggled like a teen and knew there was no better place or way to spend this day, which she had been slightly dreading.
It was hard to explain why, but fifty felt like the beginning of getting old.
Not that she was old – no way! In great shape, a keen walker and tennis player, her tweakments kept any threatened wrinkles at bay and her hair was still, with the help of regular visits to JoJo, her beloved hairdresser of many years, blonde and straight.
But fifty – fifty! It felt a bit like turning a corner and finding herself on a one-way street.
Not that she’d be sharing this with Remy, who by the look of things was intent on embracing their half century.
‘We have to wear these all night!’
‘We should be somewhere fancy! Are we sad, having a joint fiftieth with the family?’ she half joked, thinking of the kind of birthday Archie might have prepared for such a milestone.
‘Yes! We are sad, but my house is fancy, thank you very much.’ Remy flopped down on the end of the bed.
‘I’m here for it. Besides, there’s no backing out now.
We have the CDs loaded, Mum’s made enough sausage rolls to build a replica of the Great Wall of China, and Sophie has made bunting, which Harper is putting up as we speak!
Our guests will be arriving in approximately’ – she looked at her watch – ‘an hour, and Midge has enough prosecco chilled to ensure the evening goes with a pop!’
‘How’s Harper doing?’ It was a tentative enquiry, aware as she was that her sister worried so about her middle child, who found life trickier than most. She was a wonderful girl who was dogged by anxiety and moved as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, and Ashleigh was wary of stirring up concern when Remy’s mood was so buoyant.
‘She’s having a good day, and so let’s focus on that!’ She clapped.
‘Yep.’ Ashleigh nodded. ‘And Sophie’s so clever!’ She was, as ever, in awe of her niece’s skill with a needle and thread. ‘Can’t believe she’s found time to make bunting.’
‘I know – superwoman!’ Remy spoke with obvious pride.
It was hard to fathom how quickly Sophie had grown into a woman and was now a mum herself to one-year-old Elio, and married to the wonderful Riccardo, who was a gem.
‘Mum called. Her and Dad are going to come over early, so they get a seat, apparently.’ Remy rolled her eyes.
‘What do they think? That it’s like musical chairs, last one here has to stand?’ She laughed, kind of loving their eccentricity and their funny little ways.
‘God only knows what they think, but I do know Mum has been fretting over her hair and which handbag to bring. She’s spent an age pressing Dad’s good shirt and has bombarded me with messages, asking exactly what time they will be eating the buffet, as Dad likes to know!’
Buffet . . . The word reminded her of her wedding, a long time ago now and a most stressful couple of days at Mulverton as she had run around trying to get everything ready.
This, of course, made her think of Guy, her lovely friend, who she still missed and whose awkward confession she had never told to a soul.
If the hurt she had felt at Archie’s betrayal was a splinter, then the same from Guy, in her weakened state, had been a whole log that flattened her.
After she had confronted him about the partnership, he had gone quiet.
This man who had been her great mate, her confidant, her rock, had simply gone quiet, the coward.
He too had, quite obviously, chosen Archie. Her hurt, even after all this time, still had the power to bring her to tears.
After Guy’s silence, letters began to arrive from solicitors, all communiqués signed with a friendly flourish, very best wishes . . . but not even the pleasant sentiment or the handwritten signature could disguise the proposals of a gut-wrenching nature, all suggesting how they might proceed.
The options were numerous. A few stuck in her mind still:
To redefine the partnership, three ways, with Ashleigh as a minor partner . . .
To rename the company Gallow and Gallow, cutting out the Fitch bit altogether . . .
To close the company down, both walk away, start over, and Guy would take over the rental agreement and retain the premises . . .
To buy Guy out, with money that she didn’t have . . .
To let Guy buy her out with money that he did have . . .
The latter had felt like the least unpalatable option.
Ashleigh had reluctantly agreed, upon the completion of which Guy had installed Ada, who no doubt sat at Ashleigh’s desk and maybe made her jam from there, with Ben and Ben running around her ankles as Clara poured coffee for their wealthy clients.
It was as hard for her to imagine as it was gut-wrenching.
The people she would have discussed such options with were Archie and Guy.
And with her phone in her hand, sitting in her car, unable to go home, unable to go to the office, unable to phone either of these men, she knew she had never felt so desperately alone.
Remy, true to her word, had been on the end of the phone, but knowing how full her sister’s life was, Ashleigh never wanted to overburden her.
It was some weeks before she found the courage, dried her tears, and called Gigi, telling him to buy her out and that he could shove their friendship up his arse.
He had, without hesitation, done both.