Chapter 18
The day after their arrival is Christmas Eve, and Ollie has taken the men for a round of golf across the peninsula.
Nancy, Hamish, and my mum and dad have taken the youngest kids on a walk around the grounds, while one teenager has taken over the TV in the guest lounge and the other is firmly attached to a phone screen up in their bedroom, leaving me and Mira alone with the three wives.
I’ve suggested making Yule logs, which has been a Haines family tradition for me and Mira since we were young, but now, only the two of us are making them while the others have pulled stools up to the kitchen island and are nursing cups of tea and watching us.
‘Oh, Luce, you’re so lucky.’ Michelle leans back and gazes wistfully around the huge kitchen. ‘This beautiful place and a husband who still looks at you the way Oliver does.’
‘I’ve noticed it too,’ Orla says. ‘Extraordinary to still have him so smitten after so many years.’
‘Oh, he’s not.’ The thought makes me feel tingly inside, but I have to wave it away with my batter-covered spoon as I spread the chocolate cake mixture into the shallow tin. Ollie’s not really smitten, he’s just a good actor. I know that, even if they don’t.
‘Oh my God, he so is.’ Mira joins in even though she knows the truth. ‘The only thing Brian looks at like that in our house is his PlayStation!’
The others groan in mutual agreement.
‘Or his work laptop,’ Michelle says.
‘His bloody air fryer, for God’s sake. The air fryer gets more affection from Clint than I do,’ Gisela adds.
They all look at me expectantly and I know I need to make something up to fit in. ‘Oh, yeah, Ollie’s, um, office. He spends more time in there than he does with me.’
‘What’s your sex life like?’ Orla asks, and I choke like I’ve just swallowed a string of tinsel.
Gisela giggles. ‘Lucy’s not used to your particular brand of directness, Orla.’
‘Oh, no, it’s fine. We’re all adults here, aren’t we?’ I do an awkward laugh but realise I really am going to be expected to answer the question. ‘It’s, er, very good. Very nice.’
Has anyone ever described their sex life as ‘very nice’ before?
Surely, somewhere beneath this castle, there is a sinkhole that could swallow me up?
I didn’t realise this was going to become that much of a girlie sharing session, but I can feel the sense of comradeship between these women.
We all share husbands who do the same job and, from the sounds of it, are equally married to it rather than to them, and they have no reason to believe I’m not one of them.
If Ollie really was my husband, I’d probably be in exactly the same position too.
I’ve struggled not to rip his clothes off a few times since we started sharing a bed a few nights ago, but consummating our fictional marriage in a very real way has felt like crossing a boundary. If we don’t draw the line somewhere, where does this pretence end?
‘What about yours?’ I ask.
‘Non-existent!’
‘Cringeworthy!’
‘To be honest, the nights when he sleeps at the office are better!’ Michelle says it as a joke and everyone giggles, but there’s such a hidden sadness behind it.
‘Oh, don’t make me laugh like that!’ Orla scolds. ‘My pelvic floor can’t take it!’
‘My pelvic floor hasn’t been the same since giving birth. Has yours?’
‘We, er, get by,’ I say, like my pelvic floor and I are struggling to pay a bill together. ‘It has its moments.’
‘You’re just trying to make us feel better,’ Michelle says. ‘You’re younger – wait until you reach our age and you’ll see the comeuppance of having popped out two babies!’
‘One is bad enough,’ Mira says.
‘Try two at once, Luce!’ Gisela adds with a semi-hysterical laugh that suggests she’s reliving her worst nightmare.
Luce. I like how they keep shortening my fake name like I’m an old friend they’ve known for years, and I suppose they have, in a way.
I’m finally a face to a name they’ve only previously associated with a long list of medical conditions.
They certainly know more about my kidney stones than I do, and my pelvic floor, apparently.
‘Seriously, how do you keep the love alive with him working as much as he does? Tell us your secrets!’
‘Don’t tell us it’s just because you’re young and Oliver’s got the energy to work and engage in extracurricular activities!’
I know why she’s asking. Ollie leaves before 8 a.m. every morning, does overtime after the office is closed, and doesn’t get home until 7 p.m. or later, and those are the days when he doesn’t have to commute much, much further.
The past couple of weeks, the evenings and weekends have been great, but before that, he spent most of those working from home as well.
If I was working normally too, it’s easy to see how we’d become the proverbial ships that pass in the night…
‘We, er…’ I get my cake out of the oven and roll it up while it’s still warm, which buys me time while I struggle for an answer.
They think I know some great secret to making a marriage work because I’m being paid to pretend to be a happy wife, and it makes me feel the worst kind of dishonest. Until now, I’ve been avoiding the prickles of guilt at deceiving people in this way, feeling like it’s something far away and disconnected from me, but these ladies have accepted me fully into their inner circle, and I don’t deserve to be there.
‘We’re not,’ I finish eventually. ‘We’re in the same boat as you, really.
We’re just making the most of having time together over Christmas. It’ll be back to the grind in January!’
I hate saying it, but I don’t know what else to say. And it’s not entirely untrue, is it? We are making the most of Christmas, and when January comes… No matter what, I won’t be Ollie’s wife any more.
‘January,’ Orla mutters. ‘Today, more like. You know they’ve only gone to play golf for a chance to talk about work, don’t you?
Bloody work, and on Christmas bollocking Eve too.
It’s too much to ask for them to even pretend they want to spend time with their families.
And don’t think we didn’t appreciate the embargo on work talk, Luce. It was a valiant effort.’
‘I’d rather hang out with you girls, anyway. Can’t stand my husband half the time,’ Michelle says.
‘Can’t bear him the other half,’ Orla adds with a cackle.
‘All Clint cares about is work. He’s been trying so hard to get this promotion, but none of us want him to.
He expects us to move to bloody London for it, even though the kids don’t want to go.
Between us girls, I think it might be the final straw.
If he gets it, I’m going to call the…’ Gisela’s whispered voice drops even quieter. ‘D-i-v-o-r-c-e lawyer.’
The others gasp in horror, and Mira and I glance at each other. This is a conversation that’s not meant for us.
‘But what about the money he’ll earn?’
‘There comes a point where no amount of money is worth it. I don’t want my kids to grow up trying to remember what their father looks like because he’s always at work.’
‘I only tolerate Halston for the money. I can use his bank account to shop so much that I forget the loneliness. I might be miserable but at least I look good on it.’
‘I’m having an affair.’
All four of us turn to look at Orla with an audible gasp.
‘What if he finds out?’ Mira asks, losing her focus on melting butter and chocolate together for the icing.
‘I’ve had…’ She counts on her fingers. ‘…seven so far and he never has, this one won’t make any difference either. He’s not attentive enough to notice.’
‘What about you, Luce?’ Gisela asks before I have time to dwell on it. ‘Will you be happy if Oliver gets the promotion?’
I don’t have a chance to answer before Orla leans across the counter.
‘Between us girls, Oliver’s a shoo-in. The London job is his.
The only doubts my husband and Halston had were about, well…
you. They didn’t entirely believe in you, Lucy.
But coming here, meeting you and the kids…
it’s a done deal. And you won’t have to worry about divorce lawyers, Gisela. ’
‘That’s a shame, I was quite looking forward to it,’ Gisela mutters in what I’m not entirely sure is a joking manner.
They carry on chatting about anything and everything while Mira and I realise we still need to cover our Yule logs with icing, and I can tell we both feel like we’ve eavesdropped on a conversation we shouldn’t have heard.
I never answered the question about how I’ll feel if Ollie gets the promotion.
I should be ecstatic, especially now I know he will get it.
He deserves to get absolutely everything he wants out of life, but I don’t think it is what he wants, and I don’t know if he’s ever going to be bold enough to admit that to himself.
* * *
Nancy’s shooing us out of the kitchen so she can start dinner when the boys get home from their round of golf and the wives all greet them with air kisses like they haven’t just spent the morning talking about divorce lawyers and affairs.
I’m looking around for Ollie as the others disappear into the castle when a hand reaches out from the cloakroom door and pulls me inside.
‘How’s it going?’ he whispers, pulling me into a corner so we won’t be overheard.
‘Great. I’ve reached the inner circle of discussion about pelvic floors and our sex life. I’m guessing those ladies spend a lot of time together while you men are off talking shop on these company retreats?’
He nods, his hands are both holding my forearms now, his fingers rubbing up and down against my skin.
‘How’d you get on at golf?’
‘I have no idea, but they seemed happy.’ He leans even closer so he can whisper into my ear. ‘I hate golf. I’ve been pretending for years but I still have no idea what I’m doing. I hit the ball and wait for their reaction to tell me whether I’ve done it well or not.’
‘Oh, Ollie.’ I scrunch my nose in sympathy. Every part of his working life is a lie, from the big things to the small and seemingly insignificant things. ‘Tell me one thing your bosses know about you that’s actually true?’
‘My name?’ he says with a shrug.
And even that’s not true, is it? Oliver at work, Ollie at home. I’m becoming more and more convinced that’s a choice to keep some part of himself separate from what he does, otherwise his job would swallow him completely.
I think about telling him what the wives said about his likelihood for the promotion, but when I go to say it, the words get stuck in my throat, and Hamish bustles in before I can work out how to say them.
Ollie and I spring apart like we’ve been caught doing something illicit, and Hamish’s look addresses the elephant in the very small room: why are you still pretending when no one’s watching?