Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-one
The gallery to which Harriet and Emma were headed was in the nearby market town of Penrith. The snow had been causing problems on some of the smaller country lanes, but luckily the roads between Little Beck Foss and Penrith were an arterial route and had been well gritted. All the same, Pete—a cluckier hen than either Emma or Harriet—had made them stow blankets, snacks, and two thermoses of hot chocolate in the back of the car just in case. It wasn’t unheard of for drivers to become stranded when the Cumbrian winter weather did its worst.
“Argh, what is wrong with me! My stomach is all squiggled up about leaving the kids at the theater.”
“It’s not like you left them alone—they’ve got like fifty adults chaperoning them,” said Emma. She was hugging the steering wheel, so close to the windscreen that her breath kept leaving misty circles on the glass, which Harriet would lean across and wipe away with a chamois sponge, as though she were a surgeon’s assistant. “Wipe!”
Harriet leaned forward to do the honors.
“Yeah, but you know, they can be tricky.”
“So can the grown-ups, from what you’ve said. Won’t the sexy solicitor be there to referee?”
“No, he’s late-night Christmas shopping, apparently.”
“Speaking of the C-word, are you still set on sulking on Christmas Day rather than spending it with us?” Emma asked. “Wipe!”
“Ah, I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”
“You’ve changed your mind? Seen the light? Realized that Christmas without my children fighting is no Christmas at all?”
“No.”
“Bollocks.”
“I still want to spend it by myself but not because I’m sulking anymore.”
“So you admit that you were sulking.”
“Oh yeah, one hundred percent. But now…I feel like I need to do this, I want to. I’m going to cook a fabulous three-course Christmas dinner for one because I deserve to make an effort for myself.”
“Wow, one evening of having your brains shagged out by James and you’ve found inner self-appreciation. I need to meet this guy so that I can shake him by the hand.”
“It wasn’t the sex. At least it wasn’t only the sex, I won’t say it wasn’t good for my ego. It was Evaline too.”
“Wait, you had a threesome with Evaline? Do you want me to drive this car into a snowbank? Wipe!”
Harriet laughed and leaned forward to clear the screen again.
“No! Idiot. She was telling me the other day about her risotto and how she makes an effort for herself. And then last night, before the sex, while James was kind of forcing me to decorate the flat, I realized that I need to prove to myself that I’m enough when I’m not being a mother or a mentor or a friend. I must teach myself that I am worth creating joy for, because otherwise I’m just a vessel for holding other people’s happiness…does that make sense?”
Emma was quiet for a moment while she absorbed Harriet’s words.
“It makes perfect sense,” she said finally. “And do you know what? I’m glad. I couldn’t have enjoyed the day knowing that you were sobbing into a Pot Noodle and talking to the walls. But this new option, this sounds healthy.”
“I only need to do it once. Next year I’ll be back in the fold, quarreling kids and all. This year I need to show myself some love.”
“I’m proud of you. You’re showing me the way for when it’s my turn. Although at this point, the idea of empty nesting sounds champagne-cork-popping fantastic. Wipe!”
Harriet chuckled.
“Trust me, you’ll miss them when they’re gone.”
“We’ll see. Anyway, how was it in the land of thespians and troublesome teens today?”
“Pretty good, actually. Not too much sniping. Miraculously the play seems to be coming together. Grace and Billy have entered into a tentative truce; she brought him in a piece of homemade flapjack wrapped in foil today.”
“Awww, that’s sweet, she must know that the way to any teenage boy’s heart is through his stomach,” said Emma. “Jordan is permanently hungry. I wondered if he had worms for a while, until someone at work told me it was normal for teenage boys to be ravenous. Now I pretty much just throw trays of cooked chicken into his bedroom at regular intervals to stop him ransacking the kitchen; it’s a bit like having a pet tiger with chronically cheesy feet.”
Harriet groaned and thanked her lucky stars she’d had a daughter.
Emma found a parking space just along the road from the venue, and they linked arms as they wandered up the pretty high street. The streetlamps were wound with evergreen garlands, and little white dots of light shone out from them. Every artisan shop window showcased its wares festively; even the hardware store had managed to make hammers and bags of nails look like worthy Christmas gifts. It had stopped snowing, but the cold was biting and under the moonlight the ground was glittering with ice. They laughed nervously, gripping tighter on to one another as their feet occasionally slipped, knowing that if one went down the other would follow.
Warm light poured out onto the pavement from the windows of the gallery. A few people loitered outside, muffled in coats, glasses of sparkling wine—presumably the one Emma was promoting—in one hand, cigarette or vape in the other, their hushed conversations blended into the louder hum of the crowd within.
“They’re very popular, this mystery artist,” said Harriet, peering in at the shimmering crowd made nebulous by the thick condensation on the glass panes.
“Free booze, isn’t it?” Emma replied as she pushed open the door for them. “Except for me. I’m technically working, but I’m hoping to make up for the lack of booze by eating inordinate amounts of canapés.”
The heat enveloped Harriet. She was already clawing at her coat buttons as a server dressed in black and white with a tight bun clinging to the top of her head handed her and Emma each a glass of wine and a program for the exhibition. Harriet placed them both on a handy white plinth and pulled her coat off.
“Here, give me that.” Placing her glass on the plinth next to Harriet’s, Emma took her friend’s coat and threw it over her own arm.
“Ladies,” came a man’s haughty voice. “Kindly desist from perching your wineglasses on the exhibits.” He handed back their glasses and motioned to a printed sign in front of the plinth that read “White Noise Hiding in Plain Sight.” A statement piece by Lionel Heggard.
“It still looks like a plinth to me,” Harriet whispered.
“That’s because you’re a philistine,” Emma hissed back, and they fell against one another laughing.
“I feel so judged. I’m afraid to touch anything.”
“Just don’t hang your coat up or sit down and you should be fine.”
Harriet smiled and blew her hair out of her face. She looked properly at the program for the first time and her stomach dropped.
The Valley Gallery Presents
Interpretive Art Works by Lionel Heggard and Paintings in Oil and Acrylic by Lyra Hope
“What?” asked Emma, seeing her friend’s wide-eyed alarm.
“Look at the name!” she replied, stabbing at the program with her finger.
Emma looked confused.
“Lyra!” Harriet muttered. “The woman who was messaging James.”
“It might not be the same Lyra. There must be loads of people called Lyra.”
“It’s not that common a name. What are the chances of coming across two people called Lyra in the same vicinity?”
“Cumbria’s a big place,” reasoned Emma, and then her mouth dropped open. “Shit.”
“What?”
Emma leaned into Harriet and whispered, “James is here,” into her ear.
“You’ve never met him; how do you know it’s James?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t google the man my best friend is having casual sex with? Trust me, it’s him.”
“Shiitake mushrooms! Where?”
Emma motioned with her head, and Harriet scanned the gallery in that direction. At first, she couldn’t see him, but then a cluster of people shifted and there he was, looking back at her with an expression which was both surprised and slightly sickly. He half smiled and raised a hesitant hand. She waved limply back. This was it. The moment when her fragile hopes were going to be crushed. She was going to meet his significant other, or at least his more-significant-than-her other.
She turned back to face Emma. “I need to go.”
Emma looked over her friend’s shoulder. “Too late. He’s coming over. And he’s not alone. I’m so sorry, Harriet, I had no idea.”
Oh god!
“It’s not your fault.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Do I look sweaty?”
“No, you’ve gone rather pale.”
She tried to gather herself. “Okay, okay. I’ll say hello like a grown-up and then I’ll slip out and get a drink somewhere and you can come and find me when you’ve finished getting your photos, okay?”
“He’s here.” Emma was speaking without moving her mouth, her lips held in a frozen smile, eyes wide. “Turn around, act cool, it looks weird that you’ve got your back to him.”
“Weirder than you imitating a ventriloquist’s dummy? Mothersmucker, this is a flocking nightmare.”
Slowly she turned around. He’d almost reached her. A very young, very slender woman with long black ringlets and bright red lips had her arm linked through his, and Harriet wanted to cry for being so foolish, so taken in by his “wanting to do better” act.
“Harriet.” He smiled, the smooth veneer of professional solicitor settling over his face. “I didn’t know you were invited. And you must be Emma.” He turned his attention to Emma. “Harriet has great things to say about you.” His gaze settled back on Harriet.
Say something. Say anything.
“I. Emma. Carbon footprint. Work. Wine. Plinth.” Why couldn’t she speak? The girl on his arm—because that was about how old she looked: twenty-three at a push to James’s almost fifty—was looking at her expectantly. She had a sweet, open face, heart-shaped with a smile a mile wide.
James frowned.
“Right. Well, Harriet, Emma, I’d like you both to meet Lyra. My daughter.”
Daughter! Daughter?
Lyra held out her hand and gushed, “It’s so lovely to meet you, Harriet!” She had a strong Scottish accent. “I’ve heard so much about you. Dad talks about you all the time.”
He talks about me all the time? Then why is this the first time I’m hearing about you?
“Does he?” she managed to squeak out.
Lyra shook Emma’s hand as well.
“And you are Harriet’s best friend, married to her ex-boyfriend. I love the sound of your blended family, so cool.”
“Thank you.” Emma smiled. “We’re very lucky.”
“And Harriet.” Lyra was full of wonder, like a puppy being taken outside for the first time. “Dad’s told me all about the theater and the famous five and how passionate you are. I can’t wait to see the play.”
James shook his head. “Lyra,” he said, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” she laughed, gripping his arm tighter. “I’m just so excited to meet the people in your life.” She turned her attention back to Harriet. “He’s so cagey!”
Harriet smiled. “Isn’t he just.”
“Have you looked around the exhibition yet? I’m so nervous! It’s the first time I’ve ever exhibited, well, apart from my final show at university, but that doesn’t count, does it? I hope you like it. Dad convinced me to take the chance, I’m not sure I ever would have if he hadn’t kept bolstering my ego. There are canapés too! Would you like some? They’re delicious, I’ve been shoveling them in to soak up all the wine. Sorry, I know I’m talking too much; I chatter when I’m nervous. Mum says I gibber like a gibbon!” She laughed again, clutching at James’s arm with her other hand too, as though she needed to hold herself down. But all Harriet heard was the word Mum .
A woman in an evening gown sashayed over and tapped Lyra on her spaghetti-strapped shoulder.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But there’s a gentleman I’d like to introduce you to; he’s interested in buying some of your canvases to take back to New York.”
Lyra’s face radiated joy. It was impossible not to feel endeared; her happiness was a tangible thing like strands of light flowing out of her. However devastated Harriet felt that James had lied to her, she wouldn’t take it out on this lovely, excited girl, she wouldn’t ruin her night.
“That was the gallery curator. New York!” Lyra squealed. “Oh my god! Can you believe it?” She was smiling at James with pure delight.
“I absolutely can,” said James, gently removing her hands from around his arm and holding them in front of him. “You’d better go and speak to your new admirer.”
Lyra gave another squeak of excitement and looked between Harriet and Emma. “Let Dad show you around. I’m so happy you came. I’ve been dying to meet you.” Finally, she allowed herself to be drawn away but not before calling back, “Dad, can you tell Mum where I’ve gone? She went to see about more canapés, and I haven’t seen her since.”
Oh great, Mum’s here!
When Lyra was out of earshot, James faced her square on and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.” There were those pleading eyes again, just like that first time in Evaline’s car. But heartfelt looks weren’t going to cut it.
“Are you married?” she asked, her voice shaking with anger and hurt.
“No.”
Did she believe him? Until five minutes ago she didn’t even know he had a daughter; it wasn’t that much of a stretch to think he’d been concealing a wife too. She couldn’t believe how quickly this evening had deteriorated.
Emma’s expression was pure, unadulterated rage, and Harriet knew it was taking a herculean effort for her friend not to vent her anger at James in the middle of the swanky gallery, and that the only reason that wasn’t happening was out of respect for her. Harriet took a measured breath and summoned her remaining dignity.
“I’m leaving.” It was hard to speak around the lump forming in her throat.
“Please don’t,” he implored. “I know I owe you an explanation and I promise that you’ll get one. I’ll tell you everything.”
“You lied to me.”
“I didn’t. I promise you, I didn’t.”
“Is that some of your legal bullshit, omission not counting as a lie?” Emma asked.
James looked down at the smooth sanded floorboards. “I can’t explain myself to you here, it isn’t appropriate, but please give me the benefit of the doubt until I can.”
Harriet almost laughed at his audacity. “Why should I?”
“I…” His eyes scanned the room as though he could find an answer in the crowd. “I don’t have a good reason for you right now, you’ll just have to trust me.”
“I don’t think so.” Harriet made to walk away.
He didn’t reach for her but moved to put himself back in her line of sight.
“Please stay. It would mean a lot to Lyra.”
“I hardly think Lyra is going to care if I go,” she snapped. Though from Lyra’s response to her when they met, she knew that was a lie.
“Please.” James’s eyes were beseeching. “You can hate me; I won’t blame you. You can never speak to me again, but please…just stay for ten minutes, look at her paintings, and then make your goodbyes. Please don’t ruin her big night because of me.”
Harriet wanted to turn around and walk out but she couldn’t. She couldn’t walk out on that sweet girl, no matter how much of a nincompoop her father was. None of this was Lyra’s fault.
It took every ounce of Harriet’s willpower not to cry. She wanted to scream in his face. She wanted him to see that he had stripped away her self-confidence and her trust in her own judgment. But instead, she squared her shoulders, fingers curled so tightly around the stem of her wineglass that she thought it might snap.
“I’ll stay,” she said. “But you keep away from me. Don’t speak to me. Don’t make eye contact. I don’t want to see you.”
As she turned away from him, Emma stepped forward and spoke close to James’s face. “How dare you.” Her voice was low and dangerous.
And then she felt Emma’s hand in hers.
“Ten minutes,” she whispered in Harriet’s ear. “And then we’re gone.”
The drive home was quiet. The snow was falling like it meant it, and Emma was having to concentrate on the dark roads, her face serious, eyes squinting as she gripped the wheel like she was steering a schooner through rough seas.
Harriet was glad for the chance to not talk as her mind ran over and over it all. There was a thunderous ache roaring inside her. She didn’t care that James had a daughter; she wouldn’t care if he had twenty children scattered about the world. What hurt and confused her was that he hadn’t told her. She had laid herself bare to him in so many ways, and all the while he had kept a huge part of himself hidden. The balance of power was off, and it made her feel vulnerable and unsteady.
The snowflakes flurried down, hitting the windscreen like scraps of torn paper before being batted away by the wipers.
“Has he called yet?” Emma asked as they pulled up outside Harriet’s building.
She checked her phone; she’d kept it on silent specifically so that she could miss his calls.
“No,” she sighed.
“We left early, the party’s probably still going strong.”
“It would have been nice if he’d at least tried to appear desperate to make things right between us and given me the chance to ignore him.”
“It’s the very least he could do.” Emma was thoughtful for a moment. “But then he’s one of those overly rational types who probably thinks there’s no point in calling someone who’s clearly not going to answer.”
“Do you think he’s with Lyra’s mum and he’s just been stringing me along? Be honest.”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to have faith in a man who neglects to mention that he has a daughter.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. It’s not like he hasn’t had ample chances to mention it. What would you do in my position?”
Emma drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she considered her answer. “Well, if it were me, then I would probably burn his house down first and ask questions later. But that’s me. If I were you, then I think maybe I’d hold judgment until he’s explained his reasons. I mean, other than this admittedly major faux pas, has he given you any reason to think he might be a downright rotter?”
Harriet let out a long sigh. “No.” The answer came more easily than she would have liked, given how angry she was with him, but it was true. So either that made her a really bad judge of character or he had held back for reasons that had nothing to do with being shady.
“Then hear out his explanation. And if it’s a crock of shit, then we can burn his house down together.”
“I’ll bring the matches.”
Emma stared hard at her, studying her face as closely as she had the snowy roads home.
“Seriously, on a scale of one to ten—one being disappointed but not enough to cry, and ten, likely to spend the night wailing like a banshee and/or drown in your own tears—how gutted are you? Because I can stay, Pete won’t mind.”
The sting of having been lied to was still acute; boulders of anger and embarrassment clanked and churned in her gut like a washing machine set on the heavy-soil function. But she managed a weak smile for her bestie.
“I’m a solid seven. But I don’t need a babysitter. I need to lie in a hot bath and soak out all the poison I’m feeling so that I can sleep tonight.”
“Are you actually going to treat yourself to a bubble bath?”
“Do you know, I might.”
“The good stuff?”
“Yep.”
“Shit, you do feel bad.”
Harriet hugged Emma before she got out of the car. “You’re the best,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Call me before, if you need to.”
When she climbed into bed, fingers and toes sufficiently pruned after a good soak—she’d wondered why it had taken her so long to use Maisy’s good bubble bath—she checked her phone for messages. She had two from Maisy, alongside a picture of her and Savannah wrapped in winter woolies on an ice rink. She smiled and tapped out a reply. She’d just hit send when another message came through, this one from James.
Harriet, I’m sorry. I understand that my actions have hurt you. Thank you for not making a scene at Lyra’s exhibition, even though you would have been within your rights. If you’ll let me, I’d like to explain everything but not over the phone. Breakfast tomorrow? Before you start work. 7:30 at the little café you like on the corner? I hope to see you in the morning. x
Harriet read the message three times. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth. He still wasn’t giving anything away. She didn’t reply to his message. Instead, she pulled the duvet over her head, and let sleep roll over her, which it did for a full hour and a half before her body decided that was quite enough sleep for one night.