Charlotte bit back a reply. Too often these days the tiniest things triggered major arguments. Only last week Dom had complained his favourite shirt wasn’t ironed, and her suggestion that he did it himself hadn’t ended well. He’d huffed his way into the utility room, spent a good fifteen minutes figuring out how to switch the iron on, then burned a hole in the front of the shirt. They’d argued bitterly about everything from who dealt with the household bills (Dom) to who took the brunt of responsibility for the boys (Charlotte). It was like a never-ending tennis match, the pair of them permanently stuck at deuce. But wasn’t that the case with most marriages?
‘Don’t forget we have the boys’ school concert tonight at seven.’ Charlotte made her coffee and passed Dom his cup from the machine, which had spluttered its way to a conclusion. Neither Alastair nor Robson were natural performers. Both preferred to stay out of the limelight, hiding (like the butter) behind the more flamboyant class members. For one night only they were part of a production of Joseph and His Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, albeit a scaled-down version. Charlotte had attended the dress rehearsal, her heart contracting at the sight of her two little darlings shuffling awkwardly, mouthing the lyrics she’d practised with them while Dom had shut himself in the study.
‘I’ll be there. Might be a few minutes late, depending on my last meeting.’ Her husband drained his coffee cup, grabbed his office bag, and pecked Charlotte on the cheek. ‘If it drags on, I’ll text you.’
‘Please try.’ Her plea wafted towards the door, drowned out by the sound of Dom crunching across the gravel driveway and firing up his Audi Quattro.
And he did try. Like so many dads and mums shackled to interminable conference calls, their lives dictated by emails that had to be read, reports that needed to be filed, conversations that couldn’t wait. None of them willing to acknowledge that their children’s lives were happening with or without their presence. Charlotte painstakingly kept photo albums charting special occasions, family holidays and other memorable events. Dom liked to film important moments, either on his phone or his camcorder, when he remembered to bring it with him.
Sometimes, when she was alone, Charlotte would watch snippets of the boys when they were babies and toddlers. Those infectious gurgles and toothless grins. Those wobbly first steps, Alastair heavily reliant on a wooden trolley filled with coloured bricks to keep him upright. They were still young, but each passing birthday reminded her they wouldn’t be her little boys forever. And that her fortieth birthday was just around the corner.
‘Don’t tell me you’re still obsessing about the big four-oh?’ Ruth, who’d jogged past that milestone with barely a backward glance, nudged her friend. ‘You’re only as old as the man you feel, which is why I fondle thirty-somethings.’
Charlotte giggled. Ruth always made her feel better, even if she had perfect grooming down to a T. Today’s ensemble was black skinny leggings with a faux leather strip down the side, and a lacy white blouse that would scream ‘early twentieth-century grandmother’ on anyone else. Charlotte was still in her gym gear, sweaty hair piled up in a haphazard knot and make-up conspicuous by its absence. She’d left her change of clothes and toiletries by the front door, distracted by her ringing mobile. Dumping Dom’s suits on the passenger seat of the car, she’d answered it.
‘Good morning, Mrs Egerton! How are you today?’ Charlotte had grimaced at the chirpy tone of her dentist’s receptionist. The suitably named Angelica was a lovely girl, but her saccharine-sweet demeanour and ever-present gleaming smile made Charlotte’s fillings ache. And the reminder that she was due a session in the hygienist’s chair tomorrow filled her with horror.
‘I’m not obsessing over it.’ Charlotte scowled at Ruth. ‘I’m just ignoring it in the hope it’ll go away.’ Like the hygienist appointment, and the layer of flab that’s taken up residence around my middle.
Charlotte tugged down her Lycra gym top and eyed her quinoa, lentil and feta salad. Two mouthfuls and she could feel her nose twitching, and her eyes drifting to Ruth’s lasagne with a side of garlic bread. The woman ate like a horse, but kept the svelte physique of a well-exercised thoroughbred. Probably all that amazing sex with much younger men.
Anyway, she and Dom still had sex. Of course they did. Just … not very often. When was the last time? Ah yes, the night of Robson’s seventh birthday, after their home had been invaded by a swarm of six- and seven-year-olds dressed in Disney costumes and intent on wreaking havoc. All her carefully planned party games for the garden had been for nothing when the heavens opened and they took over the lounge, kitchen and adjoining playroom.
An impromptu round of pin the tail on the donkey ended when Robson’s classmate Lewis decided it would be funny to stick the pin in the arm of little Lucy-May. After mopping up the tears (and droplets of blood), Charlotte stuck on some music and encouraged the marauding minions to fill their boots with sandwiches, sausage rolls and a selection of home-made ice cream. Bad move. They used the scoops as catapults, sending dollops of vanilla, salted caramel and raspberry ripple arcing through the air. Only Charlotte screeching like a banshee on uppers halted the bedlam. The tiny terrors gazed in awe, mid-throw, as Dom strode into the room and restored order. She’d gladly succumbed to his advances that night, partly as a thank-you but also because she needed to let off steam and seek sleep as fast as humanly possible.
‘What do you want to do for your fortieth?’ asked Ruth, wiping up the remaining meat sauce with a wodge of bread.
Charlotte speared a cube of feta and shrugged. ‘Dom’s been talking about a family holiday somewhere. Florida or Hawaii. Or maybe Centre Parcs. He’s got a lot going on at work, so it’s hard to plan in advance.’
‘Whatever you decide, make sure it’s all about you,’ cautioned Ruth. ‘You run yourself ragged looking after your family. Although that’s easy for me to say, as a sad singleton.’ Their server — who looked barely in his twenties — approached, and Ruth’s eyelashes fluttered at warp speed. ‘Two lattes, please,’ she murmured huskily, using what Charlotte called her ‘porn queen’ voice.
Twenty minutes later, Charlotte returned to her car and drove the short distance to the dry cleaner’s. Thanks to the distraction of the phone call, she’d forgotten to do her usual check through Dom’s suit pockets for stray coins, parking tickets and other detritus. Finding a parking spot immediately outside, she pulled the bundle on to her lap and began searching. Two fifty-pence coins, a folded-up fiver and a crumpled scrap of paper with ‘milk, bread and six sausages (butcher ones, not crap from the supermarket)’ scrawled on it.
Charlotte reached into the last pocket, the satin-lined inner one of Dom’s favourite charcoal-grey suit jacket, and felt something stiff. Gently she gave it a tug, and a business card fell into the footwell. Bending down, she retrieved it, instantly recognising the company logo. Design For Life: Dom’s employer for the past five years. His rise through the managerial ranks was a source of great pride, and the reason they could afford their current lifestyle. About to toss it aside, Charlotte glanced at the back. She felt her stomach roil as she read the message written in sparkly silver pen: To the future. Written in the stars. Gros Bisous xx