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This is the first time I’ve been home since a brief trip here in the summer with James. Back then, everything was in full bloom and looking amazing. Even in winter, though, the approach to my parents’ home is impressive. You drive for what feels like miles through the dappled light of the woods, and then the trees fall away and you get your first glimpse of the house. There was some grotty run-down old manor here when Dad bought it, but he persuaded the council to let him knock it down and build the house that stands here now. It’s Georgian in style, even though it’s modern. It’s also enormous; although I spent most of my later childhood and adolescence here, I never quite got used to the size of it.
As I pull on to the gravel in front of the house, the front door swings open and our housekeeper, Margot, comes running out waving her arms and shouting. I have to wind down the window to hear what she’s saying over the noise from the engine.
‘Trade round the back please!’ she’s calling. ‘You should have seen the sign to direct you. The front of the house is family only, I’m afraid.’
I stop the engine, open the door and climb down. She stops in her tracks.
‘Sophie, is that you?’
‘Hello, Margot.’
‘What on earth happened to you? You look, well…’ She runs out of words and resorts to flapping her arms at me again.
I glance down at my filthy overalls. ‘I had a puncture on the way,’ I explain to her. ‘I had to change the wheel.’
She looks absolutely horrified for a moment but, to give her credit, she recovers quickly.
‘Goodness!’ She exclaims. ‘I expect you’d like a hot bath. Come in and let me run you one. What a lovely surprise to see you. Don’t worry about your luggage, I’ll get Gerald to deal with that.’
She doesn’t quite drag me into the house, she’s much too polite for that, but she makes it very clear through her body language that she’s expecting me to follow her.
‘Mrs Beresford-Smith is currently in the studio with her Pilates instructor,’ she tells me as we hurry into the hallway and up the stairs. ‘They should be finished in another half-hour or so, and then I’ll tell her you’re home. She’ll be delighted to see you. I’m afraid Mr Beresford-Smith is staying in town tonight, but we expect him home tomorrow. I noticed quite a lot of luggage in your car – are you planning to stay for a while?’
‘I don’t know,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘One which your mother will hear in due course, I’m sure.’ Margot always makes a point of ‘not intruding on our privacy’ as she puts it. It makes me laugh, because she’s as inquisitive as anything and always seems to know exactly what’s going on.
‘As soon as I’ve run your bath, I’ll pop down and let Donald know that you’re here, so he can adjust supper accordingly,’ she continues. Donald is the chef; like Margot and Gerald, he’s been here for as long as we’ve lived here. My father may be financially cautious, but he knows the value of good staff, and ensures that his are paid significantly more than they’d get anywhere else to ensure their loyalty.
‘Here we are!’ she exclaims as we reach the door of my childhood bedroom. ‘I trust you’ll be comfortable in here? The bed is all made up and there are fresh towels.’ She switches on the light and follows me into the room. Although the posters that adorned the walls when I was a teenager are long gone, it’s still instantly familiar. The queen-sized bed that I used to get lost in as a child has the same soft pink bedclothes, and most of the other furniture is also unchanged. James always said sleeping in my childhood bed made him feel weird, like some sort of paedophile, so we never stayed in here when we visited my parents together. However, Margot has obviously picked up that something’s not right with me and selected the room that’s going to make me feel most at home. She bustles into the en-suite bathroom and busies herself with running the bath.
‘If you want to get undressed, I’ll take your dirty clothes down to the laundry with me when I go. There’s a dressing gown in the wardrobe,’ she calls. I smile as I start to wriggle out of the overalls; it suddenly feels just like I’m twelve again. I remember having to beg my mother to let me bathe on my own, as I was hitting puberty and it suddenly felt uncomfortable being supervised by Margot. I wrap the dressing gown around me and pick up my phone from the bedside table. I’ve just remembered James’ message. I unlock the phone and read it. It’s short and to the point:
Sophie, I get that you’re upset and it was stupid of me. Please don’t do this though. I’m sure we can work it out. Give me a call when you’ve calmed down and we’ll talk, OK?
I need time to work out how to respond, so I set the phone back down on the bedside table. I’ll deal with it later.
As soon as the bath is ready, Margot calls me through. She’s put some bubble bath in it and the whole room smells amazing. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and suddenly I understand why she and the assistant in M&S looked at me oddly to begin with. My face has a huge black smudge running across it, and my left ear and the surrounding hair are completely black. I look a bit like one of those camouflaged army commandos that you see on the TV adverts.
I wait until she’s left the room before carefully closing and locking the door behind me. I slip off the dressing gown and sink gratefully into the bath. I try to keep my mind empty and focus on the blissful sensation of the warm water lapping against my body as I wash off the grime of the journey, but it’s not as easy as that, and I find myself mulling on James’ message. I try out various responses in my mind as I wash and dry myself and, by the time I emerge, wrapped in the dressing gown with my clean hair in a ponytail, I’ve decided on the best one.
I open the app on my phone and delete his message without replying.
13
Gerald has brought all my stuff in from the car and stacked it neatly outside the bedroom while I was in the bath but, beyond carrying it in and selecting a clean pair of jeans and jumper to wear, I haven’t unpacked any of it. I have no idea how long I’m going to be staying, and I don’t want to give the impression of having moved back in without talking to my parents first. To be honest, my initial plan didn’t extend much beyond getting away from my philandering husband and his awful mother. Now that I’ve dealt with the immediate problem, hopefully I’ll be able to free up some mental space and decide what I’m going to do next. There is one thing I ought to do sooner rather than later, though. I pick up my phone and navigate to our housemates’ group in WhatsApp.
Sophie: James did it again, so I’ve left him. Currently at Mum and Dad’s.
I wait, and it’s not long before the replies start coming in:
Maudie: Oh no! What a bastard. Are you OK?
Kate: Did you hurt him? Please tell me you did.
Di: Group call?
The phone is buzzing before I have a chance to reply and it’s so good to talk to my best friends. I fill them in on everything that’s happened, and Di laughs uproariously when I replay my conversation with Rosalind this morning. They’re all completely supportive, reassuring me that I’ve done the right thing and berating me for not doing James any permanent injury. We do explore a number of possibilities, most of which seem to feature some form of genital mutilation and a great deal of hilarity, which I definitely need after the last twenty-four hours. They also promise that we’ll all get together soon, once I’m sorted, which gives me something to look forward to.
