Chapter 12
I woke to my phone buzzing and with no idea how long I’d slept. I had gone from never sleeping to always sleeping. Neither seemed to have improved how I felt.
After a lengthy search in the covers (and the dog), I found the device. Nigella’s name looked at me from the screen. It was Monday morning. I’d been dead to the world for half a day.
“Hello?” I croaked.
“Darling,” she said. I nearly started crying. “I’ve heard everything. You poor thing. Are you decent for visitors? The boys are at school, thankfully, so I’m free for the day. Be over in twenty.”
After putting the phone down, I dragged my sorry, lifeless arse to the bathroom where I tried to make myself look human. Did everyone else jump in fright when they saw themselves in the mirror? No, just me?
I sat on my back step, drinking coffee, and hoped Kenny didn’t decide to run around the front of the house where several photographers waited for me. Thankfully, he sniffed about the back happily.
Nigella crested the hill above the garden. She waved as she made her way down through the field, and I clambered to help her hop over the ancient stone wall. “That took an age,” she said. “Had to wander halfway to Winterborne and then get up this hill to avoid those bloody reporters.”
She arranged her summer dress in a more becoming manner and smiled serenely. “I’ve brought muffins,” she said and led me indoors, stopping to give Kenny a pat on the head.
We sat at the breakfast bar, and encouraged by the magic of her soothing middle-class tones, I was able to give the full rundown of everything since I’d fled the room at Honningtons.
“Darling.” She rubbed my arm. “You’ve been in the wars, I mean, obviously others have it a bit worse – we’ll speak about that in a minute – but you poor thing. Do you really think they’ll cancel your contract?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
She rubbed my arm again. “Do you want to discuss finding … you know.”
I shook my head. “What was this other thing you wanted to speak about?”
“Oh. The village is rallying around Simon. I’m going to his place later to offer some moral support.
I spoke to him last night.” She checked her watch.
“He said his parents were driving down to Edinburgh to get a flight. They should be getting in soon. I’ve got a shepherd’s pie in here.
” She patted the reusable canvas shopping bag she’d brought.
“Do you have a speciality you can whip up?”
I went cold. “Apple crumble?”
“Oh, that’d be perfect. Everyone will need a treat. I didn’t know you baked.”
I remained silent and instead took a big bite of my muffin. Nigella continued to witter on for a while. She folded a tea towel for the seventh time.
My eyes narrowed. “Gella, is everything alright with you?”
“Silly really,” she said in a small voice, looking away.
“Go on, spill. You’ve heard my latest self-induced crisis.”
She kept folding the tea towel. Eventually, however, she began to speak. “Ahhh, um – well … Matteo – and I – have decided to separate,” she said quietly.
She looked at me, and I instantly went to her. Her eyes were glistening with tears. “Gella, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s so bloody hard, Arden. This is not how I thought it’d be.” She paused, shocked at her own candour. “Kids, house, jobs. We’ve been married for twenty years. I thought we’d last forever. We just … are. We’ve been together most of my adult life. I can’t remember who I was before I knew him.”
I guided her to the table and sat across from her. She looked pale and tired. I held her hand.
“It’s … it hasn’t been working for a couple of years.
He’s never bloody there, and when he is, he’s always emailing and dealing with work.
Never even looks at the boys. Then he says I’m not interested in him, that I’m turning into a gossipy old woman.
That he misses the old me. What old me?” she scoffed and reached up to wipe tears from her eyes.
“Is he back in Milan now?” I asked as gently as I could.
“Yes, of course, where else would he be? Back with mamma in the bloody palazzo. I have an appointment with a lawyer booked for a few days from now.”
My face must’ve given off my surprise.
“He says there’s no need, but how many times have you heard this situation and wondered why the woman let herself not get a lawyer.”
“Do the boys know?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. God, Arden. I don’t know how to do this. I’ve been half of a couple for so long that I can’t remember how to be on my own. Nigella and Matteo. Mrs Pettoni.”
I hugged her, and she hugged me back and sniffled into my shirt. “Oh, no, I’ve gone and cried all over your polyblend. Darling, why don’t you go up and change into that lovely green one you have, and we’ll make a move down to Simon’s?”
We both knew I was being told to wear something nicer, and I didn’t argue.
Feeling guilty, I spoke up: “Can you do some magic with the apple crumble? It’s still in the dish.
There are some old plates in the cupboard beside the sink to put it on.
” The last thing I needed was to lose Mrs Bliss’ favourite pie dish.
“Of course, I’ve a knack for it.”
I left her in the kitchen wittering to herself about how surprised she was at my baking acumen.
Upstairs, as I changed into my nice green shirt (it was more olive) and a pair of black chinos, I wondered if it was appropriate for me to be at Simon’s.
Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to offer my support on what was probably the worst day of his life, but whether he wanted me there was another thing. We were hardly friends.
This isn’t about you, Arden, I told myself. Other people have problems too. Turn up and do the dishes or something, keep your head down and stay in the kitchen.
I thundered down the stairs, where a happy Kenny met me. “Sorry, lad, not really a dog-friendly environment, you’re gonna have to stay here and keep an eye on Roosevelt and Eisenhower. But I promise we’ll go on a big walk tonight when I get back.”
Kenny walked off into the living room without a second glance. “I’m getting the silent treatment,” I told Nigella.
“It’s to be expected. Right, sensible shoes, I’m afraid. That trek halfway across the county round the hill is not ankle friendly.”
I grimaced but waved her on. She grabbed her canvas bag, which had my plastic-wrapped apple crumble on top, and we made our way to the top of the garden.
The walk back around the edge of the village required some subterfuge in order to make it up the hill without being seen.
We made a sharp left and walked parallel to the main road going south out of the village before swinging into a bank of trees that emerged into the field at the back of Simon’s street.
The cul-de-sac he lived on was full of 1960s houses that sat on the southern side of Lilbury, on the opposite side of the main road to the rest of the village. Lilbury was shaped like a pregnant woman’s belly – Simon’s road was a tail pinned on at the bottom.
The street was well kempt, though. Unlike the child-centric residences around the church and school, old-age pensioners almost exclusively inhabited this area.
A lot of the houses were split into maisonettes, like Simon’s, which was a two-bedroom flat on the first floor with access to a long, thin garden out the back.
The intersection, where a tiny lane took you up the hill to my cottage, was a few hundred yards to the north of us.
Beyond that were the backs of the few shops on the high street and then the pub.
A copse of trees ran along the fences at the back of the houses.
There was a vague dirt path connecting each garden gate to the trees.
Outside were many piles of firewood, wheelbarrows, and other outdoor supplies, showing that most of the residents here used the area as an extension of their gardens.
Nigella let go of my arm, which she’d been holding on to since we left my house and opened a white gate to one of the better-kept gardens, which I assumed was Simon’s.
I’d only ever visited the front of his house and couldn’t remember which one it was.
The door to the house opened as she did so, and a pleasant-looking woman with sandy blond-grey hair stood at the back door and spread her arms out to Nigella.
“Marion,” Nigella walked to her. “How is he? How are you?” They embraced, and when they parted, Marion gave a shuddering exhale.
“About as well as you can imagine,” she said in a Scottish accent. She looked me over.
“My manners. Marion, this is Arden Forrest, a friend. Arden, this is Marion, Simon’s mum.”
Great. The mother. But instead of glaring at me, like I usually got from mothers, she beamed at me. “The famous Arden! Gosh, it’s lovely to put a face to the name. Simon’s told us all about you. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’d hoped it’d be in slightly different circumstances!”
I struggled to arrange my face in a way that hid my surprise. Simon … talked about me? To his mum? In positive tones?
She grabbed my arm and dragged me inside. “So sorry about all that business with you in the paper. How awful for you. I’m sure you didn’t need that dragged up. But what can you do? We don’t choose our family.”
Inside was a small landing and then a steep staircase that led up to the flat on the first floor. A door at the top opened into a surprisingly spacious kitchen, which was freshly decorated in greys and whites.
A man stood at the sink and looked like he was struggling with several dishes, most of which seemed to be filled with various kinds of pasta.
“What are you doing? Back away.” Marion swatted the man and shooed him from the counter so she could look at the scene. He grinned at me and held his hands up in defeat as he took a place on the other side of the kitchen.
“Eleventy billion pasta bakes, and nowhere to put them,” Marion muttered. She remembered the rest of us. “George, you remember Nigella. And this is Arden.”