Page 79 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Cheers.’

Frances cleared her throat. ‘I guess I should say thank you. You’ve done a great job with the kids.’

‘It’s my pleasure.’ Beatrice was taken aback, but also relieved. This didn’t feel like it was going to be a telling-off. ‘And my job, obviously. But they’re amazing kids. I… I’ve become really fond of them.’

‘Yes, well.’ Frances sighed. ‘I’m afraid I have some news for you, Beatrice.’

Normally, even once the children were in bed, Frances called her Bibi.

She took a gulp of wine. ‘What’s that?’

‘Peter had a call today from his CEO in New York. There’s been a restructure in the senior leadership team. Someone’s had to be let go, and they need Peter back at HQ as soon as possible.’

At first, Beatrice didn’t understand what she was saying. ‘Peter’s moving back to New York?’

‘We all are,’ Frances explained slowly, patiently, as if Beatrice was a child. ‘There’ll be a handover period with his cover here, but he’ll be starting full time back at the Wall Street office in January.’

‘January?’ Beatrice echoed.

‘Yes. But there’s no point me and the kids shuttling back and forth, or staying here while he’s in the transition period. I gave notice at work today, and I’ve got holiday saved up, so I can wrap things up in a few days.’

‘You mean…?’ Beatrice’s whole body felt numb and floaty, as if she’d necked the whole bottle of wine instead of just taking a couple of sips.

‘We’ll be home by Thanksgiving. The kids’ grandparents haven’t seen them since we moved here – they’re delighted.’

‘So are you saying I…?’

‘Sadly, of course, we won’t be needing you any more. Juanita, who was our nanny in New York, was temping while we’ve been away and she’s free to start back with us. But we’ll pay you two months’ wages, as per our contract, and we’ll be sure to give you a glowing reference. We’ve been very happy, all things considered, with how you’ve grown into the job and especially how you’ve bonded with the kids. We can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve…’

Frances carried on, heaping fulsome praise on Beatrice. But Beatrice barely heard a word.

She waited until Frances finished speaking, slowly draining her wine. Then she returned her employer’s thanks, said goodnight and put on her coat, all on autopilot. She didn’t see the elevator door sliding open or the lights glinting on the river when she emerged at street level.

All she could see was the children’s faces and how they might look when she said goodbye to them for the final time. That, and Orla’s face.

I never understood, she thought, almost in wonderment. I never had any idea what it must have been like for her. But now, even though it’s only a fraction of what she must have felt, I know.

I understand now.

FORTY-NINE

For quite a long time, I was unaware of what was going on between Beatrice and Orla. Their relationship had been tense for so long that the new, additional tension passed me by unnoticed. Besides, Rachel’s revelation and the shockwaves it had sent through my relationship with Luke took up almost all my attention. With the end of the year approaching, work was busy and I was getting back to the house later than usual in the evenings, and Orla herself was absent more often.

That is, until one Friday night. I’d managed to leave the office on time – the first time in a while – and returned home just before seven. Orla had mentioned that she had been persuaded to go to the pub with the committee of the historic buildings Preservation Trust, which had roped her in as a member. Beatrice, I presumed, was still at work, and as for Luke – I didn’t particularly want to speculate about where he might be.

So, unusually, I had the house to myself. With winter drawing in, it was cold – the sort of cold that seeps into your bones and can only be banished by getting into bed or having a hot bath. I opted for the bath.

For once not having to worry about hogging the bathroom, I filled the tub with hot, scented water, watching in satisfaction as steam rose up to the high ceiling, fogging up the mirror and probably adding to the damp problem. I lowered myself in and wallowed, in between shaving my legs and putting a treatment on my hair, for almost an hour until I’d exhausted the boiler’s supply and my fingers and toes were shrivelled like prunes.

Finally warm, I got out, wrapped myself in my dressing gown and hurried along the chilly landing to the relative warmth of my bedroom.

Beatrice was there. She was sitting on my bed, still in the jeans and red wool jumper she must have worn to work. Her feet were tucked under my duvet and she was crying.

‘Hey.’ I paused in the doorway, dismayed. ‘Are you okay?’

She shook her head mutely.

‘Can I get you anything?’