4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
‘ P erfect,’ said Rob as I walked my preened self into the kitchen.
‘Thank you.’ I felt constricted in my figure-hugging tailored dress. My toes pinched in uncomfortable heels, and my arms ached from the hour it had taken to straighten my unruly hair.
Rob wrapped an arm around my waist and I felt an absurd rush of pleasure that my appearance pleased him. ‘Did you have any luck with the bank?’
‘No, bunch of incompetent fools. I was on the phone for over an hour yesterday and they still couldn’t transfer me to the right department.’
‘I’m not sure what to do. I need to get shopping, pay for Bertie’s swimming lessons, settle the final bill for the plumber.’
‘Don’t stress,’ said Rob, placing a series of kisses along my neck. ‘I’ll give you some cash to tide you over. The credit card will get sorted next week.’
I tried not to let his kisses distract me. How had I reached the point that I was screeching towards thirty with no independent means, living the life of a nineteenth century housekeeper? ‘I’d better check Bertie’s ready.’
Rob stopped his kissing, frowned, and picked up his phone. ‘You mother that boy way too much.’
Wasn’t it only a few days ago he’d told me about his own mother laying out his clothes the night before? ‘I’m not fussing over him, but I know you hate being late for your parents.’
Rob ignored my explanation, his frown lines deepening as he clicked through messages on his phone. I gave up trying to talk to him and found Bertie lying on his bed watching videos on his iPad.
‘We need to get going, Bertie.’
‘I don’t want to go.’
Neither did I. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes, or be thrown into a snake pit than spend more than five minutes with my in-laws, or grim-laws as I called them in my head. I squared my shoulders. ‘Come on, it will be fun.’
‘Can I go in the pool?’
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. Despite having an outdoor heated swimming pool among their many acres of garden, my in-laws had declared it an adult-only space, insisting the risk of snot, urine and vomit was too great to allow children into its jewel-like waters. ‘Tell you what, if you’re a good boy today, I’ll think of a treat on the way home.’
‘What kind of treat?’
‘Movie night with me?’
Bertie narrowed his eyes. ‘Will there be popcorn?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do I get to pick the film?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’ Bertie jumped off the bed and shoved his iPad into his bag.
‘No iPad, Bertie. You know how Grandma and Grandpa feel about devices.’
With a dramatic sigh, Bertie swapped his iPad for a comic, before hitching his bag onto his back and taking my hand.
The memory of my first visit to my in-laws’ home still sent shivers down my spine. I’d been desperate to make a good first impression, but seeing their mansion (just a large house, according to Rob) in the Devonshire countryside, my insides had turned to mush and I’d lost the power of speech. The full list of disasters which occurred over that one weekend is too great to mention. But the highlights include: the heel of my cheap shoes breaking as I walked up the driveway, forgetting my in-laws’ names, enthusiastically joining in a conversation about polo mints, only to realise too late they were discussing a sport. But the pièce de résistance came after an evening barbecue, when I found out I had a hitherto undiscovered allergy to seafood. I’m not sure their marble-covered bathroom has ever recovered. Oh, and Rob got drunk and announced the bombshell of my pregnancy while I was reacquainting myself with barbecued squid in the bathroom.
‘Here we are,’ said Rob, pulling his Range Rover to a stop outside Rigby Manor. ‘Best behaviour, Bertie.’
Hugo and Marion greeted us at the door. I still expected a capped-headed servant to appear as the closest point of reference I had to how my in-laws lived was ‘Downton Abbey’.
‘On time for once,’ bellowed Hugo, checking his pocket watch.
‘Don’t stand there in the doorway, come in.’
I walked past Marion, nearly choking on the excessive amount of perfume seeping from her skin. ‘You look well,’ I said.
‘Thank you, Olivia,’ said Marion, not returning the compliment. She patted her neat chignon. Her thick makeup had creased into the crevices of her face, and dabs of shimmery pink lipstick clung to her teeth. She fiddled with the string of pearls around her neck. ‘Go through to the dining room. Lunch is almost ready.’
I took Bertie’s hand and led him through the house, keeping him close just in case we knocked against any priceless ornaments as we went. We sat ourselves in uncomfortable high-backed chairs at the dining table. Bertie began fiddling with his napkin. I placed a hand across his to still it.
Once we were all seated, Marion brought through china dishes filled with the various items she had prepared for the Sunday roast. Rob loved his mother’s cooking, but to my taste buds, it was bland and overcooked. To be fair to Marion, (something I was loath to do), nothing could compete with the patatas bravas, gazpacho, or tortillas my mother cooked in the days post-university when both my parents were finally bringing in a reasonable wage.
‘So, Albert, how are you getting on at school?’
Beneath the table, I twisted a napkin between my fingers. My in-laws insisted on calling Bertie Albert, having never forgiven me for adding the ‘o’ to the end of his name. Perhaps if Rob had been there when I registered the birth, he could have put his Anglo-Saxon case across, but as Cass liked to say, you snooze, you lose .
‘Um… um…’
‘He’s doing very well at school,’ I said, coming to Bertie’s rescue.
‘Let the boy speak for himself, woman,’ shouted Hugo. ‘What’s your favourite subject, Albert?’
‘Spanish.’
‘Of course it is,’ muttered Marion, taking a delicate bite of overcooked cabbage.
Already bored with the conversation, Hugo turned his attention away from his grandson and onto his son. ‘Rob, I’ve not had the latest quarterly figures on my investment.’
‘I know,’ said Rob. ‘The accountancy firm we were using turned out to be a bunch of imbeciles, so there’s a bit of a delay while we transfer all the figures and documentation across to a new firm.’
‘Humph. Well, I’d like to have those figures across my desk soon. I’ve invested a hefty chunk of change and expect to see returns quickly, or I may have to rethink where I invest my money.’
‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Marion, her voice scolding. ‘The dinner table is not the place for vulgar conversation about money. Save it for once we’ve eaten.’
‘Of course, dear,’ said Hugo.
‘Speaking of work, I’m thinking about getting a job.’ Goodness knows why I felt the need to share this half-baked plan. Perhaps it was that I knew no-one would ask anything about my life and I was fed up of being invisible.
‘A job? Goodness me, what is the world coming to?’
‘I think you’ll find plenty of women work, Marion.’
‘Yes, but a woman’s place is at home with her family. Anyway, what do you need to work for? Isn’t my son’s wage enough for you?’
There it was. The old accusation, that whilst never explicitly stated, had been perched on the tip of Marion’s tongue from the moment she met me. Gold-digger . If only she knew. Whilst being comfortably off was a luxury I didn’t take for granted, I’d never been so happy as during the years of my childhood, when we’d had little in the way of money, but plenty in the way of love.
‘Don’t worry, mother. Olivia’s having a mad-moment. It will pass.’ Rob, Marion, and Hugo laughed. Beside me, Bertie shuffled in his seat.
‘Mum? Can I go out and play in the garden?’
‘Of course you can,’ I said, knowing it would wind up my in-laws. ‘Just make sure to wear your coat. It’s chilly out there.’
Bertie leaned over and kissed me, then jumped off his chair and sprinted out of the room.
We were on the coffee phase of the never-ending lunch when I heard a voice calling from behind the door, ‘Mum!’
‘Bertie?’
‘Mum, can you come here?’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Hugo, his voice even louder than before, his cheeks mottled red from all the wine he’d drunk.
I stood up from the table. ‘Bertie needs me.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, woman. Get the boy to come in here.’
‘Bertie, it’s OK, come here and talk to me.’
The door opened an inch, a small hand beckoning me. I pushed back my chair and began walking to the door.
‘Come in here this instant.’ Rob’s voice dripped with impatience. No movement came from behind the door. ‘For God’s sake,’ said Rob, scrunching up his napkin and throwing it down on the table. He pointed a finger in my direction. ‘See? This is what happens when you spoil a child.’
Rob stomped towards the door, stopping in his tracks as he viewed his son. ‘What the hell?’ His hand reached through the doorway, and he dragged a sopping wet Bertie into the room.
It was hard to tell how much of the water on Bertie’s face was from an external factor and how much was from his eyes. I rushed towards him, pulling him into my arms, his sodden clothes dampening my dress.
‘What happened?’
Bertie’s bloodshot eyes looked from me to the other adults in the room. ‘I had an accident.’ His voice was a whisper, his clothes hanging from him, heavy and stretched from all the water they’d soaked up.
‘Have you been in our pool?’ Marion spat the words, a muscle in the corner of her eye twitching.
Bertie sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Marion bristled. Hugo tried to focus his wine-addled brain and eyes on what was happening. Rob seethed.
‘I d… d… didn’t mean to. I… w… w… was rescuing my pet.’
‘Pet? Bertie, you don’t have a pet.’ I pulled a tissue from my bag and dabbed it against his eyes.
‘I found a pet frog,’ he whispered.
‘Speak up, boy.’
I turned and glared at Hugo.
‘I found a pet frog, but when I was walking past the pool, he jumped out of my hands and into the water. The chlorine could have killed him, so I had to jump in and rescue him.’
The room fell silent. Bertie’s sodden hair had fallen in front of his eyes, and I brushed it away.
‘Did you rescue the frog?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but it took ages. He’s only small, so it was hard to find him, and he’s a brilliant swimmer.’ Bertie leaned forward and whispered in my ear. ‘He’s called Fred.’
Despite the anger from Rob and his parents seeping across the room and prickling my skin, I couldn’t hide my smile. ‘Did you put Fred back where you found him?’
Bertie shook his head.
‘Bertie…’ I scanned his body, my eyes resting on the pocket of his trousers. The fabric strained as something squirmed inside it. Bertie’s hand reached down to unzip the pocket. ‘Bertie, no!’
Before I could stop him, the pocket gaped open, and a green-brown bulbous head poked out. Bertie tried to grab it, but the frog, or toad as it turned out to be, slipped through his fingers.
‘What’s happening?’ squealed Marion. She screamed as a pulsing, slimy body landed on the table between the carrots and swede.
‘Good heavens,’ said Hugo, his chair falling to the ground as he backed towards the corner of the room.
Rob leaped forward, only catching the toad on his fourth lunge. He held his hands as far from his body as he could. As he passed me and Bertie, from behind clenched teeth, he said, ‘Wait in the car.’
I took hold of Bertie’s arm, and heads down, we shuffled from the room.