* * *
The next day, Eleanor’s alarm sounded as it always did—to the news at 7:00 a.m. But the stories didn’t wash over her or irritate her or niggle at her conscience, as they usually did. They instead lifted her out of her bed in pure terror, her heart hammering against her chest as the newsreader relayed details she already knew about her friend, made so much more certain by the fact that they were coming out of a radio. She dressed quickly and went to the Co-op near her house, where she was greeted by Nancy’s face on the cover of most editions, her smile looming, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. The press seemed to know all the details, and Eleanor wondered how it was possible that nothing stayed quiet or personal anymore. Her phone vibrated in her pocket as she left the store empty-handed. She didn’t want or need a souvenir of this terrible day.
When she picked up the phone, Mary said, “It’s all over the news.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How on earth do they know about the lover already? And how did they get a photograph of her?”
“The photo’s her Facebook profile picture and the house was swarming with police yesterday, and there were already press outside, so I guess someone said something.” Whole sections of life she had never before considered now seemed like a new order.
“Are you going there again today?”
“Yes, I’m on my way now.”
“Oh God,” Mary said, which was precisely how Eleanor felt.
The number of young men and women in ill-fitting suits standing outside Nancy’s house had at least doubled since the day before. A few shouted questions at her as she climbed the steps to the front door, and a flashbulb even went off behind her back. But inside, it was as if everything had been held in aspic. Nothing was different, it was all still awful, all still bitingly terrible. Nancy’s mother, Pearl, had arrived and was apparently in Nancy’s study, so Eleanor went to find her, even though she was scared by what she would find. She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen Pearl, probably at Nancy’s father’s funeral, and that was at least five years earlier.
As Eleanor climbed the stairs to the study, she remembered being annoyed at the ease with which Nancy had found work after taking nearly a decade off after Zara was born. She’d bristled when Nancy had shown her the cozy room with duck egg blue walls and a pale wooden desk, thinking of her own drab gray office in a municipal building, where she actually employed people, or how, if she worked from home, it was at the kitchen table because her flat was so small. But she remembered also how Nancy had always been so aware of her ability to irritate. How, as they’d walked back downstairs from the study, she’d said, “I feel like a fraud with an office all set up when I’ve only got a couple of jobs.”
Eleanor also remembered how she’d replied, how much she’d meant the warm words, “Well, you shouldn’t, it’s lovely.”
“I’m so glad I’m doing this,” Nancy said from behind her. “It’s taken me way too long. I’ve wanted to go back to work for ages, but I felt guilty when Zara was young. And then I lost my confidence and didn’t think anyone would want to employ me. I mean, they still might not, but at least I’m giving it a go now. And, you know, sometimes I find myself wandering around the house and think I might go mad with the fact that I don’t really have anything to do. Or nothing that seems like it means anything.” They’d reached the bottom of the stairs, and Eleanor turned to see that Nancy had flushed red, saying, “God, I feel embarrassed admitting that to you, with your wonderful career.”
“What do you mean?” Eleanor thought it was strange how she could think damning things about Nancy, but when those same thoughts came out of Nancy’s mouth, she wanted to protect her from them. “Are you talking about being a mum and making a home?”
“Yes.”
“But of course that’s important.”
Nancy looked like she was close to tears. “I know, but do you know how hard it is to hang on to that when you’re actually doing it?”
It was hard not to think about Mary as Nancy spoke, so trapped under the weight of motherhood that Eleanor could sometimes go for weeks without seeing her, and when she finally did, Mary was either being climbed over by a child or distracted by someone else’s problem. “It’s funny,” she said, “but lots of the countries I’ve worked in, which we consider third world, value domesticity very highly. Unmarried young women are usually at the bottom of the social scale, but mothers are almost worshipped.”
“Yes, but here we worship money, so of course those who earn it are prized above those who don’t.”
Eleanor had felt a rush of shame then as she realized that she too could think that way about both Mary and Nancy, although she was less inclined to with Mary because she had three young children and no money, which made everything seem more worthy. It was very confusing because they had all seemed like complete equals at university. “You know, I’m getting to that age where everybody asks me if I have kids, and when I say I don’t, they actually ask me why not, or if I want them, which they would never, ever do to a man. And there’s this kind of judgment behind the question that I’m not fulfilling my womanly duties by becoming a mother. And then I work with lots of women who have children and they’re constantly feeling guilty and definitely being judged by the same people who judge me for not having them, or you for not working.”
“How did we let this happen?” Nancy said, and Eleanor thought she saw real fear in her eyes, which made her want to pull her into a hug and tell her it was all going to be all right.
She stepped forward and put her hand on Nancy’s arm. “You know, Nance, you’re amazing, and the rest is bullshit. Really, you could do anything you want. And you mustn’t feel bad about any of the choices you’ve made.”
But Nancy shook her head so abruptly that Eleanor remembered feeling such a deep pang of love for her it almost knocked her over. Nancy’s vulnerability was so close to the surface it almost shimmered, as if it existed intrinsically, as if it would never let her go.
* * *
In the study, Pearl was sitting very still, with her hands on the desk and her gaze firmly centered beyond the window, into the garden. The room smelled profoundly of Nancy, like a bed of roses warmed by the sun. Pearl turned as Eleanor came in. Her skin was slack and pale, her eyes red and rheumy. She held out her hands and Eleanor took them, sitting as she did on the little armchair next to the desk.
“I’m so sorry,” Eleanor said. “This is just so dreadful.”
Pearl nodded, her namesakes at her ears and neck bobbing in agreement. “I can’t quite take it in.” Her voice was quiet, but even in her desolation it was as clear, as it always had been, to see where Nancy had inherited her beauty. “Did you know about this other man?” Pearl asked.
“Yes. A bit. She never really told me anything about him.”
“Just that he was called David?”
“Yes.”
“And you have no idea who he is?”
“I’m so sorry, really I don’t.”
Pearl sat back, taking her hands with her. “What was she doing, anyway, the silly girl?”