‘Everything’s fine. Everything’s good,’ she chanted in her head. Tendrils of sleep muddled her thoughts, and she drifted off. Until a sentence nudged its way in, and Charlotte’s eyes sprang open again.
If I find any more cards—
You won’t. I promise.
Did that mean there wouldn’t be any more cards, or… Or that next time, Dom would make sure she didn’t see them?
Chapter 7
The next month drifted by in a haze of domestic duties, the odd get-together with Ruth and a few other friends, and helping at the boys’ school. Keenly aware of being a stay-at-home mum, Charlotte salved her conscience by volunteering to accompany class groups on outings or help with reading time and arts and crafts. Ruth berated her for feeling guilty — ‘If I had kids and enough in the bank, I wouldn’t be beating myself up for opting out of the rat race’ — but that was easy for her to say. Ruth’s business was her baby, and one which she’d nurtured and coddled from birth to its current, thriving status. Watching some other mums at school tapping frantically at their phones, their sharp suits and sharper heels in direct contrast to Charlotte’s casual wear and Converse boots, did little for her confidence. Being a medical receptionist hadn’t been an intellectual stretch, but she’d prided herself on her patience, and her willingness to chat and squeeze in last-minute appointments for the tearful and desperate.
Today they’d made the final preparations for Halloween at Little Upton Primary School. That evening, children, parents and friends would assemble for a spooktastic event in the school hall. Carved pumpkins would twinkle evilly on the periphery of the car park area. Tubs of apples were ready for bobbing, fake cobwebs decked the corners of the school hall, and plastic spiders dangled everywhere. Alastair was OK with fake ones, as long as Robson didn’t drop one down the back of his T-shirt. Charlotte had been given the task of making Halloween masks and hosting Creepy Storytime. Earlier in the day she’d smothered balloons in gloopy papier mâché, gently peeling away the results and helping with the painting. Creepy Storytime would involve her sitting in a tent, backlit with a torch, and telling tales of ghosts, goblins and other terrifying creatures. The committee chair had roped her in at the last minute after another mum pulled out with a bad back.
Now, squatting on the damp ground, her face painted as a gruesome witch, Charlotte came to the end of her ghoulish story and wished she had a hip flask to hand. Her audience fidgeted, eager to get back to the sweets and fizz on offer. One little girl — Rosie, she thought — eyed Charlotte with disdain. ‘You don’t scare me!’ she pronounced, adjusting the red devil horns clamped to her head.
Huh, you haven’t seen me two days before my period. Charlotte smiled and signalled that the session was over. Off they scampered, leaving her to gather up her books, torch and a pointy tail which she suspected belonged to her nemesis.
‘Oof!’ She groaned getting to her feet. Charlotte had skipped a few gym sessions recently, putting her absence down to life getting in the way. If she didn’t go immediately after the school run, the lure of coffee, cake and more pleasurable activities got in the way. People talked about ‘muscle memory’; that the body remembered its fitness level as long as they maintained it. As far as Charlotte was concerned, her muscles suffered from a severe case of bloody amnesia.
‘We’re back!’ Charlotte ushered Alastair and Robson through the front door. Both clutched goodie bags packed with enough sugar to have dentists rubbing their hands in glee. ‘Right, you two, upstairs now. Goodie bags in the kitchen first — don’t give me that look, Robson — and get your face paint off. But don’t you dare pinch my cleanser. Soap and water, and as a treat you can shower in the en-suite.’
With squeals of delight, the boys disappeared at top speed. Charlotte collapsed on the sofa, psyching herself up to supervise the clean-up operation. Alastair and Robson loved the shower, with its giant rectangular head and smaller hand-held spray for rinsing. That bit was a particular favourite and usually resulted in the entire room being hosed down.
‘Hey, how was the party?’ Dom strolled into the lounge, shirt partly unbuttoned and a glass in his hand. His auburn hair needed a cut, although Charlotte quite liked the way it curled around his collar. Charlotte budged along to make room for him, but he stayed standing. ‘Your face is green. And a bit black around the eyes.’ Dom sipped his drink and gestured to his pristine white shirt.
‘That’s because I’m a witch. A tired, grumpy and very thirsty witch.’ Charlotte pointed at his glass, then looked at her watch. It was after nine, the boys needed to get to bed, and all she wanted was a cup of tea.
‘I’ll deal with the terrible twosome. You fix yourself a drink and … your face.’ Dom exited, leaving Charlotte unsure whether to laugh or cry. Getting to her feet, she glimpsed herself in the mirror above the fireplace. Lank, fake hair, topped by a droopy witch’s hat. The complexion of a reluctant sea traveller on the verge of some serious vomiting. And dark-rimmed eyes that weren’t entirely down to greasepaint.
Dunking a turmeric tea bag in a mug of boiled water, Charlotte yawned and tugged off the hat and wig. She went to pick up her phone, then paused. The one on the kitchen table looked identical to hers, but she hadn’t yet emptied her handbag. It was Dom’s. She turned it over, smiling at the grinning photo of the boys she’d had turned into a cover. To her shame, her phone cover boasted a smouldering picture of Liam Hemsworth. Bad mother. As she put it back, it rang. Charlotte hesitated, unsure what to do—
‘Bloody work!’ Dom dashed past her, grabbing the phone and glancing at the screen. ‘Just when you think the idiots have got their act together, another crisis rears its head.’ He scowled, shoved the phone in his pocket, and gave Charlotte a ‘what to do?’ look.
She lobbed her tea bag into the sink and faced him. ‘Are the boys OK?’
‘Yep. All clean and waiting patiently for a cuddle. I can read them a story if you like. You’ve probably had enough of that for one night.’ Dom’s phone pinged, signalling an incoming message. He ignored it and turned to go upstairs.
‘Shouldn’t you answer that? I mean, if there’s a crisis at the office.’ The niggling five percent of doubt reared its head again.
Dom shook his head. ‘I’ve fired out an email calling a meeting tomorrow. If they’d just read the sodding info in the first place—’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and Charlotte’s doubt-o-meter registered double figures.
‘OK. You go read to the monsters, and I’ll scrub up and make us some supper.’ She’d offered to make the boys scrambled eggs on toast when they got back, but they’d already stuffed their faces at the party. Charlotte wasn’t hungry either, but for different reasons.
Standing in the bathroom, remarkably dry after the boys’ ablutions, she wiped the steam from the mirror. Squeezing a blob of cleanser on to a damp muslin cloth, Charlotte wiped away the green and black make-up. She turned off the tap, listening to the faint sound of Dom reading to Alastair and Robson. They’d just got into the Captain Underpants books and — judging by the howls of laughter — were thoroughly enjoying the latest adventure.