The Happy Place

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

A n ordinary evening: stirring spaghetti hoops while craning my neck to check on Bertie. My precious boy sat in his usual spot, glued to the Xbox screen, building a Minecraft home from colourful blocks.

‘Dinner will be ready in five minutes. Bertie, did you hear me?’

Bertie grunted a reply, and I popped two pieces of white bread into the toaster and took the pan off the heat. If Rob found out I was feeding Bertie pasta hoops and white bread for dinner, he’d have a fit. This one small rebellion made me smile. I turned the radio up and tapped my foot as Taylor Swift’s latest song blasted out. I smiled again, twirling around as I wondered what my in-laws would think if they could see me now. To them, I was Olivia , the Oxford-educated lover of classical music and Radio Four. To Bertie I was Liv, lover of cheesy pop music and kitchen discos.

The toast popped up, and I smeared an extra thick serving of real butter onto it. Not the plastic, baby-sick-coloured healthy spread Rob kept in the fridge. I slopped the hoops over the bread, catching a dribble with my finger and licking it. The taste took me back to a cramped dining room in a small house. A family of four squashed at the table, eating own-brand tinned food, which was all they could afford while the parents scrimped and saved their way through university. Those were the days.

I left the cavernous kitchen to fetch Bertie. He was sitting cross-legged, leaning back against the plush white sofa. White Dove carpet, Pegasus furniture, Fresh Kicks walls. I shuddered at the memory of my mother-in-law beating me into submission in the home decor store with her lecture on the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand shades of white. Living in our house was like being in a warm version of Lapland, the decor highly unsuitable for an eight-year-old boy.

I pulled the headset away from Bertie’s ears and leaned over to kiss his bushy black hair. ‘Dinner’s ready.’

Bertie reached up and brushed my kisses away, causing his hair to spike up like a helmet.

‘Come on, Bertie. Your food is getting cold.’

‘Is it vegetables?’ asked Bertie, wrinkling his nose.

‘Nope. Spaghetti hoops.’

Bertie held a hand aloft for me to high-five.

‘Thanks, Mum. I won’t tell Dad.’

‘Good boy,’ I said, smoothing down his hair as he walked past.

Bertie shovelled fat spoonfuls of dinner into his mouth and chewed like a cement-mixer. ‘You’d better remember your manners when we go to Grandpa’s at the weekend. No eating with your mouth full there.’

‘Not Grandpa’s, please.’

‘You know they love seeing you.’

‘They hate me.’

‘Of course they don’t.’

I’d become an excellent liar since becoming a wife and mother. Hate may be too strong a word, but Rob’s parents oozed dislike for their grandson, burying their feelings beneath a polite stream of questions about his schooling and extra-curricular clubs. Despite their forced interest in Bertie’s life, their tight smiles, winces, creased foreheads, and occasional sighs told my emotionally intelligent son all he needed to know.

After gaining permission, Bertie jumped down from the table to return to his game and his friends. I cleared away the plates, rinsing out the can, crushing it beneath my boot, and hiding it at the bottom of the recycling bin so Rob wouldn’t find it.

‘Mum? Can I have a yogurt?’

‘Only if you come and eat it in here.’

‘I promise I won’t spill any.’

‘You know how your dad feels about eating in the living room.’

‘Stupid Dad.’

‘Bertie…’ My rebuke was pointless, for the headset was clamped over his ears once more.

With Bertie’s rebellious meal tidied away, I turned my attention to the fridge. Among the olives, hummus and rainbow of vegetables Rob put in his smoothies, I found two tuna steaks, and all the condiments I’d need to make the complex garlic and herb sauce Rob loved. At least the pain-in-the-butt sauce required the use of a few brain cells, unlike any of the other tasks I had performed that day.

After chopping, crushing, sautéing and stirring, I could leave the pan for long enough to send a message to Rob.

Dinner will be ready at 6.30 x

My phone beeped, and I swallowed down an ever-growing lump of resentment at my husband’s reply: Forgot to say. Out with the lads. Back late. Stick it in the fridge and I’ll heat it up when I’m home.

It was too late to stop cooking, so I pressed on, taking out some of my frustration on the bottom of the pan as the sauce threatened to stick. Unable to leave the temperamental creamy goo, I prayed Bertie was still on Minecraft, and hadn’t sneaked Rob’s copy of Grand Theft Auto into the console.

I savoured my solitary meal. After spending a significant chunk of my evening preparing it, it seemed a crime to gobble it down in a fraction of the time. Wednesday was supposed to be one of my alcohol-free evenings, but the large glass of pinot worked its chilled, mellow magic and as I finished the last mouthfuls of tuna steak, I felt relaxed enough to consider putting on my lace nightie at bedtime.

By the time I’d bathed Bertie and read him three chapters of The Hobbit , Rob had arrived home and was ensconced on the sofa. Before greeting him, I pulled one of his low-calorie beers from the fridge. With so little challenge in my life, the least I could do was score top marks on the wife front.

‘How was your day?’ I handed Rob the beer and sat on the sofa beside him, curling my legs beneath me.

‘Same as ever. The board is being a pain-in-the-arse. Usual crap.’

‘And the drink with the lads was fun?’

‘Yeah, although Chris went on and on about his bloody stag do. He wants to go coasteering in Wales. Why can’t he go to Prague or Amsterdam like a normal bloke?’

‘He’s always been outdoorsy.’ I waited for Rob to ask about my day, but the question never came. ‘Hey,’ I said, running a finger up and down Rob’s gym-toned arm. ‘Maybe we could have an early night?’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ said Rob, not taking his eyes off the TV. ‘But I want to watch Football Feedback .’

‘Sure.’ I knew Football Feedback wouldn’t finish until eleven, and that might count as an early night if you didn’t have to wake until eight, but I knew I’d be up at six with Bertie. ‘Back in a minute.’

Upstairs, I changed into the silk and lace nightwear I wore on special occasions. It smelled a little musty, so I squirted Chanel No 5 liberally across the silk, promptly scrubbing with a tissue as the perfume left greasy marks on the fabric.

After running a comb through my thick, straightened hair, I brushed my teeth and slicked gloss across my lips. Back downstairs, rather than going over to Rob, I draped myself against the door-frame, in my best attempt at sexy.

‘Rob?’

‘Huh.’

‘Rob.’ I tried to purr, like I’d heard women do in films, but it came out gravelly, like a leery builder. I cleared my throat. ‘Rob?’

My husband forced his eyes from the television screen and looked at me. ‘Why are you wearing that?’

‘I thought we were going to have an early night?’

‘I told you, I want to watch Football Feedback .’

‘Right.’ Heat rushed to my face. I tried to nonchalantly turn, but the lace of my nightdress caught on the door handle, and Rob laughed at the ripping sound which followed.

Back upstairs, the bedroom door closed with a quiet click and I leaned against it, blinking hard to dispel the threatening tears. How many weeks had it been since Rob showed any interest in me? Not weeks. Months. Failure wasn’t in my vocabulary. Ever since the teachers at my grotty comprehensive had picked me out as Oxbridge material, everyone had me pegged for success. I couldn’t fail in my role as a wife. Apart from motherhood, it was all I had.

I pulled off the torn nightdress, scrunched it between my hands, and threw it in the bin. From beneath my pillow, I pulled out my flannel pyjamas, slipped them on and climbed into bed. The need to restore some dignity was strong, so I pulled the newspaper from my bedside cabinet and folded it on my lap. Pen clamped between my teeth, I worked my way through the cryptic crossword, grateful I could get something right.