Chapter Ashleigh Fitch and Remy Hughes 2002 Aged 40 #2
‘I still actually have to work though, Remy. I’m a mechanic, in case you’d forgotten, and all them cars aren’t going to fix themselves.’
‘I know, but you’ve got Lincoln to help you. He can hold the fort, can’t he?’
‘He’ll bloody have to, won’t he?’
‘It’s only for today, then I’m back to my usual shift from tomorrow onwards.’
‘Remind me why you’re doing earlies and a double shift, again?’
She held his eyeline; he knew full well. ‘Because I work for a dickhead, and I don’t want to lose my job.’
‘Got it.’ He nodded.
‘Oh, and Sophie’s coming home with us after her end-of-term show on Friday.
She was thinking of going to Newquay with some of her friends, but instead she’s got some shifts at the petrol station next week!
’ She clapped, delighted at the prospect, and happy Sophie had her head screwed on enough to know that earning money was more useful than a drunken weekend at the seaside.
Plus, when Sophie was home, Remy slept differently, knowing her daughter was safe.
Oi! It was her worst nightmare, the thought of something bad happening to Sophie in the way it had her, knowing how it could alter the course of a life.
‘Great.’ Midge huffed. ‘Well, that’s my weekend viewing scuppered.
I had it all planned. Six Nations on the Saturday and Sunday, with F1 qualifying early hours Saturday, although I don’t know why I bother watching, Schumacher’s pretty much got it sewn up with Ferrari – and now I’ll have to wrestle a space on the sofa while you and Soph huddle under a bloody blanket and cry into tissues while Leonardo Di whatever his name is, floats away from a sodding door!
It’s not like you don’t know it’s going to happen, and yet still the tears! ’
‘You have no heart!’ she yelled.
‘And you have no taste when it comes to movies!’ His counter-argument was predictable and weak.
But my God she loved him, that was the simple truth of it.
Theirs had not been the bumpy start for many who fell in love with someone who was already a parent.
Quite the opposite: he saw the addition of Sophie as an absolute bonus and stuck to his belief that as long as he didn’t try to be her dad – the girl already had one of those – they would be fine, and it had worked.
More than worked; he adored the girl, and she him.
‘Oh, and I meant to say, Jamie asked if he could come to her showcase.’
‘Fantastic!’ He gave a forced grin and a limp thumbs-up.
It was a delicate balancing act, allowing Jamie, who was still a sporadic figure in Sophie’s life, enough access to preserve the father/daughter relationship, while doing her best to preserve her own marriage, as Midge, quite understandably, thought Jamie was a knob.
Midge leaned in the kitchen doorway and gave her an approving look, the way someone did when they liked what they saw. It made her feel good, sexy, and confident, a lovely boost, no matter that she sported messy hair and crumpled Uggs.
‘Lamborghini!’ he suddenly yelled.
‘What the—?’
‘A villa in Ibiza!’ This time, louder, and she worried that Mr and Mrs Smith next door might bang on the wall. Again. ‘A fridge that doesn’t make that humming noise, and a hot tub in the back garden with a beer fridge by the side of it!’ he screeched.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ She stared at the man, who was clearly having some kind of an episode.
‘I’m manifesting.’ He chuckled. The idiot. ‘Go get ’em, tiger!’ he called.
‘I bloody love you.’ She smiled, grabbing her bag, as she opened the front door.
‘Come on, Dad! I can’t go to school if I don’t know where Morty is!’ Bertie called down the stairs.
‘Good luck.’ She blew him a kiss. ‘See you in a bit.’
‘See you in a bit, Ren.’ He smiled, as she made her escape.
Ashleigh
Ashleigh stood with her face turned up towards the shower, letting the hard jets pummel her skin and wash away the sweat of exercise.
She liked this time in the morning. These few unallocated minutes when she had already achieved so much, a six-mile run, her suit for the day selected, blouse pressed, muesli consumed, and now a hot, restorative shower.
Running her fingers over the slippery wall of the wet room, there wasn’t a day she regretted the upheaval, mess and huge expense of the building work that had created this incredible home.
It still thrilled her, to arrive home after a long day and park on the gravel driveway, looking up at the Crittall windows and the soft honey-coloured lighting coming from within, knowing this was her house!
She loved nothing more than giving her address:
‘Oh, we’re on Clarendon.’
‘Clarendon? Oh, how lovely! Which one?’
It was a road with a certain reputation, as all the palatial houses were distinct and everyone in the locale knew which house was which.
‘Erm, gosh, how best to describe, the one with the Crittall windows, the Crittall windows in grey beige, the one with the sandstone extension and the wrought-iron gates?’
She couldn’t help herself. It made her feel good, gave her a feeling of self-satisfaction that she had lived without for the longest time.
The success of her business, knowing just how to decorate their house, looking just right and spying the envy of those on the outside of her circle was enough to dilute the feelings of inadequacy that had dogged her for much of her life.
There were still days, moments when the cold creep of imposter syndrome wrapped its tendrils around her and threatened to pull her down, but in the main, she had it under control.
Her shower pulsed and beeped, letting her know it was time to get out and dry off. One of her non-negotiables, a little bit of deserved luxury, a clean and fluffy white bath sheet, fresh every day. Marguerite knew to keep a ready supply.
She descended the sweeping stone staircase that allowed her kitten-heeled Choos to echo as she clip-clopped in a kind of dance down towards the entrance hall, taking a second to admire the vast glass chandelier that hung low over the black-and-cream tiled floor.
This, a main feature of her home, based on the grand foyers of all the fabulous hotels they stayed in.
Fran, her old flatmate, and one of her dearest friends since university, always joked that for a couple with their dream home, they sure did like spending time away from it!
It was a reminder to call Fran; she hadn’t seen her for months, or spoken to her, actually. It was wild how time flew.
She found Archie sitting at the kitchen island, a broadsheet covering his face. His oaky cologne filled the room and the signet ring on his little finger caught the light where the morning sun hit it.
‘I left you a muesli pot on the side.’
‘Yep.’ He shook the newspaper. ‘Thanks, but I had a croissant.’
Ashleigh felt the grip of irritation in her gut. ‘Well, don’t moan at me when you can’t fasten your cummerbund next month if you’re going to eat croissants!’
Her husband lowered his newspaper, revealing his handsome tanned face against the collar of his pale-pink Oxford.
‘Jesus Christ! I’m allowed a bloody croissant if I feel like it.’
This was not how she liked to start the day.
‘Of course you are, you’re allowed to do and eat whatever you want. You’re a grown-up. All I’m saying is that you can’t have it both ways, getting angry when your clothes don’t fit or your shirts gape and then choosing to eat shit.’
‘How lucky I am to have you to keep me on the straight and narrow.’ He took a sip of coffee.
She didn’t have time to rise to his provocation, not today.
Not any day. It was as tiresome as it was futile, this little rut of bickering then making amends that had been their routine for a while now.
Making up was always spectacular. They’d go out for an expensive dinner, eat fantastic food, get drunk, dance barefoot in their palatial home when they returned, drink some more, smoke as if they were back at university sharing a cigarette out of her bedroom window, and not forty-year-olds with a grown-up life and responsibilities.
They’d then have sex, good sex, on the sofa or by the pool, wherever they happened to be when the music stopped.
It kept the sniping at bay, for a while.
‘Where’s Evie?’ She was yet to see her daughter, who liked to hide away, illegally watching cartoons before school.
‘In the den.’
‘Has she had her breakfast?’ she asked as she pulled the green juice from the fridge and poured a small glass.
‘Well, I hardly dare respond.’ Her husband widened his eyes.
‘You gave her a croissant!’ She was sure he did this purely to irritate her.
‘And jam!’ he mouthed, and pretended to fall backwards off the leather barstool, clutching his hand over his heart.
‘You can be such an arsehole.’
‘So I’ve been told.’ He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and re-covered his face with the broadsheet.
A quick glance at the oversized clock above the shiny black Aga told her that Marguerite would be there any minute.
Ashleigh didn’t know what she’d do without her, the woman who bought and prepared their food, gave the house a quick once-over, reminded Evie to do her homework, and took care of them all.
Marguerite was the fuel that ran the machine of their London home.
Ashleigh had made it clear after Evie was born that she needed help if her life was to work.
‘Help?’ Archie had asked when she’d announced her plans to return to work as soon as she was able.
‘Help! Yes! For when I go back to the office, which I want to do as soon as possible.’ She had worked too hard to watch the business slip through her fingers now. Plus, Guy was counting on her.
‘But, who’s going to look after the baby?’ She’d been a little taken aback by her husband’s question, assuming he’d understood her need to get back into the swing of things, knowing exactly who he had married, and it wasn’t a pinny-wearing homemaker.