I run out of paint halfway through the second coat. I’m a little snow-blind anyway. It’s late, there’s no natural light and in the electric light it’s hard to see where I have layered the second coat and where I haven’t.
I admit as much to Ben and he comments, ‘That suggests a second coat is unnecessary. Come on, love. I’ve made you a cheese and pickle sandwich. You should eat something. Come and sit down for five minutes and tell me what the rush is.’
It’s too welcome an invite to resist. I collapse into a kitchen chair. Ben squeezes my shoulder and I lay my cheek on his hand. He feels warm, smooth, comfortable. ‘We’re expecting a guest,’ I explain.
‘We are?’
‘Yes.’
‘My mother?’ He looks a bit aghast as he places the sandwich in front of me.
‘No.’
‘Who, then?’
‘My friend, Abigail Curtiz.’
He sits opposite me, scrunches up his eyes the way he always does when he’s trying to recall someone. ‘Oh, the woman who emailed this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘When is she coming?’
‘Thursday.’
‘This Thursday?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re redecorating because someone is coming to dinner?’
‘She’s staying with us for a few days.’
‘How long is a few days?’ he asks suspiciously. Ben is a social man, he’ll accept pretty much any invite that comes our way and we reciprocate, too. However, he has his limits. He likes waking up in his own bed and he doesn’t like entertaining before breakfast, so he’s not a big fan of stayovers.
‘I’m not sure. As long as she needs,’ I reply, vaguely.
‘But why?’
‘I told you, she’s getting a divorce.’ I realise this doesn’t address the question he is asking. Why would I invite someone he’s never heard of until today to stay with us? We rarely have house guests. Theoretically we have a spare room but it’s incredibly small and currently stacked with boxes full of Christmas decorations, old clothes, files and photo albums as well as unused gym equipment and the ironing board. ‘I think it will be nice,’ I say breezily.
‘How will it be nice? It will be cramped.’
‘Cosy,’ I insist. I start to devour my sandwich. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until I stopped painting. Besides, with my mouth full I can’t answer any difficult questions.
Ben studies me. ‘Will it be OK, her staying here for a few days?’
‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it be OK?’
‘It’s just I haven’t heard you talk much about this Abigail Curtiz over the years. At all, actually. I didn’t realise she was a particular friend, not the sort you offer our spare room to indefinitely. I mean, who is she?’
‘Well, we were once very close. People lose touch.’ I hope Ben won’t push. I can’t bring myself to articulate exactly why we had to go our separate ways. Why me having Liam made it impossible for me to continue to be her friend. He must understand our lives went in very different directions. While I was trying to secure a place for Liam at nursery, Abi was stepping onto the stage to receive her certificate that confirmed her first-class honours degree. While I was spooning goop into Liam’s mouth, Abi was being interviewed for her first job in TV as the assistant to Piers Morgan’s assistant. ‘No big thing. We just drifted,’ I say with a shrug. ‘You’ll like her. I promise. Everyone does.’ I stand up, lean across the table and kiss him briefly on the lips. He stands too and puts his hand on the back of my head, kisses me hard and long. Even after all these years, that particular manoeuvre makes me melt.
‘I have cleaning to get on with,’ I mumble, breaking away.
‘We’ll be quick.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Liam’s out and the girls are asleep. Why wouldn’t we?’ He’s kissing my neck now.
‘What’s got into you?’ I ask, giggling. ‘It’s a Monday night.’
‘It must be the paint fumes,’ he replies. He slips his hand up my T-shirt and works his thumbs under my bra strap. My body leans into his; instinct, habit, pleasure. I’m aching from painting and tidying all day but suddenly I realise this is what I need, what I want. It delights me that Ben knew as much before I did.
‘You are not suggesting doing it on the kitchen table, are you?’
‘I thought that was why you cleared the clutter.’
‘Are you mad?’ I ask, laughing.
‘About you,’ he replies, cheesily.
We compromise and do it on the sofa in the sitting room.
Tuesday 20th February
Neither airports nor aeroplanes particularly excited Abigail; she’d become accustomed. She didn’t bother looking at the tax-free luxury products that were available because she could afford to buy them at full price, if she pleased. She didn’t grab the in-flight entertainment brochure and get excited by the movies that were showing because often she’d been to early screenings, even premieres. She wasn’t interested in the glass of champagne that was complimentary in business class, because alcohol was dehydrating and it was important not to look drained after a flight. Today she visited duty-free, bought the first perfume and lipstick that came to hand, put it on his credit card; she’d have bought more but they were calling her flight. And while she did still ignore the in-flight entertainment, she put herself in danger of becoming it, as she helped herself to four glasses of champagne and knocked them back swiftly, ignoring the slightly concerned looks on the flight-attendants’ faces.
Abigail felt cheated.
He’d stolen from her. Her dignity, her youth, her opportunities, her time.
Him, and that woman. She wasn’t going to take it lying down. She was going to even up the score. She was owed. And she was going to collect.
Thursday 22nd February
Abigail insisted that she’d get a cab to ours rather than allow me to go out of my way to pick her up. I’m grateful because it gives me a bit more time to dash around the house, making last-minute adjustments. The box room has been cleared to the extent that it is now at least possible to see the sofa bed. The musty old boxes have been shoved into the attic. I promised Ben that I would sort them one day, maybe when all the kids leave home and go to university. I’ve put the exercise bike, which I insisted upon buying about a year after I had Lily, into Liam’s room. He wasn’t best pleased but I pointed out he could throw his clothes over the handle bars, rather than on the floor, which means I won’t have to stoop