Chapter 2
TWO
TASHA
I sip from the huge wine glass in my hand, savouring the hints of cherry and dark chocolate.
Georgie, Beth and I have claimed our usual table in the corner of the pub, near enough to the fire for the warmth but not so close our hair will smell smoky tomorrow.
I love The Anchor Inn. Love that it’s five minutes from Magnolia Close and the school – the perfect location for tonight’s PTA meeting about next week’s quiz night.
I love the exposed beams, the soft amber lighting, the rich scent of roasting meat and rosemary from the restaurant side of the bar. I love the wine they serve too.
It’s my second glass, and it’s a fight not to gulp it down as fast as the first as I try to stop my mind racing right back to the never-ending to-do list in my head. Of course it goes there anyway.
Across the table, Georgie and Beth are finalising one of the quiz rounds. Like always, Beth is quiet. She’s happy for Georgie to take the lead as she nods along, absently twirling a lock of her long red hair. I can’t seem to hold on to the conversation.
Have I paid for Matilda’s ballet classes? Did I order a new swimsuit for Sofia? My phone is resting on the table, and I’m itching to pick it up and do it now. When else will I get time?
Georgie says something I don’t catch, but the cackle – that raucous Georgie laugh – makes me smile.
She’s what Marc calls a ‘go-getter’. He doesn’t mean it as a dig, but it always stings.
I tried to explain it once, how it felt like a comparison.
Like what he was really saying was he wished I was more like Georgie.
But my husband just pushed a hand through his short dark hair and rolled his eyes before he stuck my comment in the box of ‘I guess we’re just different’.
Georgie’s notebook snaps shut. ‘Done,’ she declares, and I realise I’ve barely listened to a single word she’s been saying. I’ll add ‘terrible friend’ to my growing list of failures.
Another gulp of wine. If I can’t stop the list, then maybe I can drown it.
A wide grin spreads over Georgie’s face as she reaches for the bottle and tops up our glasses.
‘So,’ Georgie says with a light double clap of her hands – the kind of gesture that would be annoying from anyone else, ‘I’ll collect the wine and snacks on Monday, and you’ve got the tablecloths to iron, haven’t you, Tasha?’
I nod, adding ‘find the tablecloths’ to tomorrow’s list.
‘A bad turnout tonight,’ Beth says with an arch of her brows.
Georgie waves a hand like it doesn’t matter. ‘The other mums always say they’ll come and then send their excuses.’
‘Like we don’t have kids to put to bed too,’ Beth says.
I nod. All that and more. Tonight’s meeting is the last thing I need.
Especially with Marc leaving for the airport in three hours.
A two-day business trip to Brussels – something about helping a client streamline a new human resource filing system.
He’s the only one in his company who speaks French, Dutch and Italian, so it’s always him who’s sent.
He’s a project manager. His job is to make chaos look easy.
The gliding swan, serene above the waterline while the frantic paddling happens out of sight.
He’s brilliant at it. Efficient. Organised. Cool under pressure.
I just wish he’d bring even a fraction of that energy home.
Because when it comes to our life – to our girls, our house, our marriage – I’m the one juggling the chaos.
I’m the one staring down the barrel of two nights and three days of solo parenting while he eats dinner in a hotel restaurant and sleeps in crisp white sheets, returning home with a suitcase of clothes that need washing, telling me how exhausted he is. How hard his life is.
And it’s Wednesday tomorrow. It isn’t one of Lanie’s nursery days, which means I’ll have to take her to the supermarket then across town to my parents.
Then back for Matilda’s assembly, school pick-up, the drop to Beavers, tidying, cooking, the ever-growing pile of washing, and reading with Sofia and Matilda.
Opposite me, Georgie straightens the neckline of her navy cashmere jumper and snaps a selfie with her wine. Three taps on her screen and it’s on her Instagram story. I look down at my yellow silk top and feel dowdy. It’s my only nice top. The one I grab without thinking and always wear.
There’s a lot I didn’t know about life before meeting Georgie.
Before moving to Magnolia Close when Matilda was four months old.
I remember following the removal van down the narrow private road and through those big black gates, squeezing Marc’s hand, barely believing we were moving from a two-bed flat in town to a detached house in a private gated community, thanks to his promotion and an inheritance from his granny.
Georgie was the first one out of her door to greet us – wide smile and two bottles of wine. ‘I didn’t know if you preferred red or white, but thought you’d need both after moving day is over.’
Over the years, I’ve learned a lot from Georgie.
Like the importance of a good sports bra when tackling a busy day.
Like always keeping frozen pizzas in the freezer for when a doorstep chat turns into a playdate and tea for the kids.
Like sending voice notes to myself on WhatsApp with reminders to do something, grab something, be somewhere.
But if there’s one thing I don’t buy into about Georgie, it’s her mantras.
‘You get out what you put in.’
I’m sorry, but that one is utter crap. If I got out of life what I put in, then my life would be all glitter and sunshine. All I do, every minute of every day, is give and stretch and juggle. All I do is put in!
I shut the thought down, clenching my teeth together until the hollow scream whipping around my vocal cords settles into a throbbing in my temples.
‘I know the other PTA mums are flaky,’ Georgie says. ‘But we get a lot more done just the three of us. And now we can talk about us instead of making awkward small talk with the other school mums. But first we need more wine.’ And with that, Georgie is out of her chair and striding to the bar.
More wine is the last thing I need. I push my wine glass further away on the dark oak table.
I just won’t drink any more. Two glasses is plenty.
Two means my head won’t be foggy when ten-month-old Lanie shouts for breakfast at 5 a.m. with her wide, gummy smile and those bright brown eyes that melt my heart even when the exhaustion feels like I’m wading through sludge.
Not to mention the lecture I’ll get from four-year-old Sofia, who, as the middle child, is as precocious and opinionated as my mother-in-law.
I can already imagine Sofia’s sing-song voice on the walk to school tomorrow morning.
‘Wine is very bad, Mummy. You are very bad.’
I had no idea wines like this existed before meeting Georgie seven years ago.
Even Marc’s become an expert since we moved to Magnolia Close, and we’ve shared countless bottles of wine with our neighbours.
He says his expertise is in his blood. His mother is Italian, his dad English.
It’s one of the reasons we were so drawn to each other when we met in college.
With my Sri Lankan parents and his dark Italian looks, both of us felt like we didn’t quite belong.
Marc even jokes about running away to the countryside and building his own vineyard one day when the girls are grown up.
‘I’ll use my full name of Marco, and you’ll be my Tesoro,’ he’d say in an Italian accent, calling me his treasure.
Sometimes when I lock myself in the bathroom, press my hands to my eyes and hold back the tears – grabbing a minute of peace – I imagine that other life.
What it would feel like to run away from it all and start again.
But that’s all it is – a dream. We have a life here. Responsibilities. Bills to pay. The Magnolia Close community. The girls are happy and settled, and there’s my parents, of course. I can’t leave them.
My thoughts draw back to tomorrow, and the taste of the dark cherry Pinot Noir turns sour in my mouth as tomorrow’s tasks stack up. Like always, the stress feels like I’m being buried alive, weighed down, running out of air.
My eyes drag back to my phone, sitting face down on the table. I’m really not sure I did pay for the ballet classes. I can’t forget again. There was something else I need to remember. Something about the garden…
For a moment, it feels like the guilt will consume me – a monster from one of Matilda’s nightmares swallowing me whole. That constant feeling of disappointing everyone. Marc. The girls. My parents. Especially my parents.
I hate this feeling.
It’s just… since the summer, everything has felt harder, bigger. Impossible. The smallest things – a forgotten PE kit, a lost shoe – send me spiralling. Before the summer, I had hope. There was a light at the end of the tunnel – a way forward. Now, there’s no escape.
And it’s all Jonny’s fault. He is the reason – the sole reason – my life is as hard as it is. All my stress, every burden I carry, is heavier because of what he did.
I wish Jonny Wilson was dead.