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“Sorry. That took me by surprise.”
“The hugs or the tears?” her mum asked rather shrewdly, and Sarah let out another laugh as she sank into a chair at the kitchen table.
“Both, really.” She shook her head slowly. “I’m scared, Mum,” she said so quietly she wouldn’t have been sure her mother had heard, save for the widening of her eyes.
“Sarah, what—”
“Nathan…” She paused, glancing down at the table as she traced the worn grain of the wood with one finger. How many happy meals had she had at this table? How many board or card games, conversations filled with laughter… Her sense of bittersweet nostalgia morphed into something shrewder and more realistic. How many times had she sat here and done her homework, books spread out, face screwed up into a focused frown? How many times had she, as an adult, bolted a cup of tea that her mother had pressed on her, discreetly—or not so discreetly—glancing at her watch, thinking about the next oh-so important thing on her to-do list? How many times had she turned away from this table, claiming she didn’t even have time to sit down at it at all?
“Sarah?” her mum prompted gently as she sat down opposite her, reaching out to clasp her hand. “What about Nathan? Is he… is he ill?”
Of course her mum would draw that conclusion, considering her own recent battle with cancer, as well as her kindly nature. She’d never assume the worst about someone, the way Sarah was struggling not to.
“Not as far as I know,” Sarah replied with a sigh. “He’s working all the time. He says he’s pressed at work, trying to get some new client, and I believe him—at least I think I do… but it feels like something more is going on. Something he doesn’t want me to know about.”
She swallowed hard and then glanced up to see her mum looking more flummoxed than afraid.
“Don’t know about?” she repeated, sounding as confused as she did incredulous. “What sort of thing do you mean?”
Annoyance, which felt slightly better than fear, needled her. “I don’t know, Mum,” she replied with another sound like a hiccup. “What do you think?”
Her mother shook her head slowly. “Sarah… you can’t mean… you can’t think…”
“I don’t knowwhatto think. I only know that Nathan is spending more time at the office than at home, and sometimes it feels as if he… as if he barely tolerates my presence.” The truth of her words thudded through her; she hadn’t let herself think it before, not properly, never mind actually say it aloud to someone else. To her mother. “Everything I do or say seems to annoy him, and maybe that’s becauseI’mdifferent, but it still feels like… like we’re almost strangers to one another now.”
“You’re different?” Her mother frowned, picking the one part of her tearful confession that Sarah hadn’t meant to let slip out. “What do you mean by that, Sarah?”
“I don’t know.” There was only so much a body could confess in one go, Sarah thought wearily. She had a feeling her mother was going to try to reassure her that Nathan was simply busy with work, and maybe distracted by it, and right now she wasn’t sure she wanted to go down that well-worn route. It was the line she’d been feeding herself for months; she didn’t need her mum to join in, as well. “Never mind,” she finished, standing up as a way to end the conversation. “I’m probably just paranoid and tired. Don’t listen to me.”
“Have you talked to him about it—” her mum pressed, and Sarah shook her head.
“I’ve tried, but he just says it’s work.”
“Maybe it is just work—”
Just as she’d thought. “Never mind, Mum. Really. I’m fine.”
Her mum gazed at her unhappily. “I feel like I’ve let you down,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, Sarah. If your gut is telling you something is going on, then maybe something is going on.”
Now that was unexpected and, Sarah realized, was far more unpalatable a thing for her mother to say than the tried and tired platitude about how he was just busy. She didn’t want something to be going on.
And yet maybe something was… and she knew she had to face it.
“Hey!” Ellie popped her head into the kitchen with a bright smile. “Are you ready? The journalist is going to be here in half an hour!”
“Yes, amazing,” Sarah replied in the same bubbly-bordering-on-manic voice Ellie had used. “What needs to be done? Everything looks fantastic, by the way.” She avoided her mother’s far too compassionate gaze as she followed Ellie out of the kitchen, toward the sitting room, which was decorated to within an inch of its life—lots of red and gold, with the occasional quirky—and really rather odd—accessory. “Is that the old tree Matthew got as a Secret Santa present one year?” Sarah asked with a huff of surprised laughter. Somehow, she hadn’t clocked it before, amidst all the bustling around.
Ellie rolled her eyes. “Yes, I think it is.” She glanced anxiously around the room. “Is it all a bit… toomuch?”
“No,” Sarah replied, because even if it was, she wasn’t about to say so to Ellie right now, with the photographers and journalists practically on their doorstep. “It looks lovely,” she told her, which was true. The room looked amazing.
“Well, we’ll see what the journalist thinks. I know it’s not a patch on some of the really classy hotels—”
“But you always knew we could never aspire to that,” Sarah reminded her, with a kind smile. “Right?”
“Yes…” Ellie didn’t sound convinced.
“The guests who come here are looking for something else,” Sarah reassured her. “Like the families who left yesterday. They loved the laidback vibe, the familiarity, the casualness of it all. That’s what you need to aim for.”
