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They walked down the path and out of the freshly painted white side gate onto the quiet London street. The house stood on a corner, a handsome three-storey Victorian building overlooking a large common already busy with runners, dog walkers and parents and children on the school run. The morning was crisp, the air cool on Stella’s face. A February sun hung in the cloudless sky.
The short car journey was one of her favourite parts of the day because for those ten minutes the children had no choice but to answer her questions about school, friends or plans for the weekend. Even if she had to drag an answer out of them, Stella was determined to keep them talking. She remembered how the toddler years seemed to go on forever, but now Max was ten years old and the twins eight, time was passing at frightening speed.
Once they’d been dispatched at the school gate, Stella put on the radio. Hearing the familiar first few bars to one of her favourite karaoke songs, she smiled to herself as she turned up the volume. Glancing at the clock, she decided she had just enough time to go for her weekly swim before hitting the office and by the time she reached the chorus, Stella was singing at the top of her voice.
The team weren’t due to sit down together until 10 a.m. for a general catch-up before a full day of meetings and tastings. Swimming was the only thing she did that could be classed as exercise, aside from walking the dog, which, to be fair, Simon did more than her, and she knew it would set her up for the day ahead.
She’d always loved swimming as a child and was one of the first in her class to swim a length underwater. Having spent years being picked last for netball matches, she’d never forgotten the thrill of discovering something she was good at doing.
When she swam, Stella’s mind usually cleared, but on this particular morning, as she moved her long limbs through the water, there was something niggling her and no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t shake it off. Simon’s breeziness that morning hadn’t sat right. Was it the way he’d offered to do the investor lunch alone? But that wasn’t unusual. Perhaps it was the fact he’d offered to cook later? OK, so that didn’t happen that often, she thought, but he was more than capable of throwing something together.
Then it hit her. The tie.
She’d never seen that tie before – pink and white checks. Normally, he wore dark-coloured ties, always plain, never patterned. But this one had looked quite different, not like his usual choice at all.
Stella swam on, trying to focus on her day ahead, but the image of her husband at the top of the stairs tying that unfamiliar tie played over and over in her head. By the time she had finished her allotted twenty minutes in the fast lane, her heart was beating fast. Surely, there was a simple explanation, she told herself.
As she showered and dressed, Stella again tried to steer her thoughts back to the day’s meetings. She knew there was a planning session for the book they’d been working on in the diary, followed by a photo shoot for an interview she’d given to one of the Sunday supplements. Normally, she’d be buzzing with excitement, planning outfits and answers in her head. But, instead, all she could think about was that damn tie.
* * *
The day she’d met Simon properly, in a soulless conference room at a supermarket head office, he’d arrived for their meeting before her. Stella remembered watching him as he’d unfurled his tall frame from his chair at the end of the table when she walked into the room. He’d extended his hand, smiling warmly. ‘Hello, I’m Simon. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Yes, I know who you are.’ Stella took in his features as they proceeded to shake hands for what she felt was a little longer than necessary, his blue eyes fixed on hers. ‘Stella.’ She had smiled tightly. His hair was dark, his skin tanned and, from what she could make out from the sweeping glance she’d given him when he’d walked in, the body under his smart suit trim and toned.
At the time, Stella had been single – happily so – for a while, following a couple of long relationships that hadn’t come to anything. She certainly wasn’t looking for a new one, rather she was enjoying doing what she wanted, when she wanted. Which mostly involved seeing friends on a Friday and Saturday night before spending the rest of the weekend recovering in time to face the week ahead. The fact that she could go to the cinema any time she chose to or read a book all day at the weekend if she wanted to felt liberating.
But then Simon came along, so different from anyone she’d ever known before. A little older too, in his mid-thirties. For a start, he was far more mature than most of the boys she’d grown up with from school or met at university, most of whom were still basically giant children, much as she loved them.
Simon had been brought in to streamline the business, according to her boss, so although she’d seen him around the office, she’d spent much of her time trying to avoid him. But from that first proper meeting, he found increasingly tenuous reasons to arrange further ones with her and after half a dozen more, he’d asked her out for a drink after work.
Stella had spent longer than her usual few minutes picking out something to wear that particular morning. In the end, she’d gone for a loosely cut black crepe trouser suit with a black and white striped tee underneath, completing the look with box-fresh white trainers. She’d hoped to look casual but cool, but on glancing at herself in the mirror as she left, she suddenly felt self-conscious. Too late, she’d thought, as she added a slick of lipstick to her face and grabbed her bag on her way out.
They’d met in a hotel bar in the centre of town, not too flash but smart enough to feel like a treat. She guessed he’d brought a few people here before by the way he was greeted by the Italian barman, but made a conscious decision to try not to overthink it. Over the course of two dirty martinis, Simon had asked Stella about her family and she’d told him about growing up in Oxford with her sister, being raised by their father after her mother died unexpectedly young following a brief, cruel illness. ‘Cancer,’ said Stella, tears coming to her eyes. ‘Sorry, must be the gin.’ She pointed at her empty glass, smiling to show she was OK, really.
‘Please don’t apologise. I’m so sorry, that must have been very hard for you.’
Stella nodded. ‘Well, I was only six years old, so I honestly don’t remember that much about it. Caroline, my sister, was quite a bit older than me, so I think it was tougher for her.’
‘Tough for both of you. And your father, is he still…?’
‘Yes, he’s very much alive. He lives in London with his wife, my stepmother, Susie. She’s lovely.’ Stella smiled at the thought of them. They really were her eternal cheerleaders. ‘Anyway, how about you? Tell me about your family?’
Simon had signalled to the barman’s attention, then turned back to Stella. ‘My mother died when I was quite young too and I haven’t seen my father for years. We sort of fell out quite a long time ago.’ Simon looked at his empty glass on the bar. ‘Unfortunately, he’s a bit too fond of the bottle.’
Stella had reached for his hand. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s so sad. Have you tried…’
Simon shook his head a little. ‘Yes, I have. But you can’t really reason with an alcoholic.’ He shrugged his shoulders and smiled a little.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise…’
‘Please don’t worry, it’s just how it is. But listen, enough of the sad stories for tonight, shall we talk about something else?’
There was so much more Stella wanted to ask him but now clearly wasn’t the time. ‘Of course.’ Stella lifted her empty glass and looked him in the eye. ‘Actually, I can’t have another one of these or I’ll be under the table. How about you walk me to the tube station instead?’
‘Or how about we get a taxi back to mine?’ Simon had held her gaze and she had felt herself blushing. Stella, you’re not a teenager, she told herself. He laughed and for a moment she thought she must have said the words out loud.
‘Um, that would be…’ Before she could finish her sentence, he leaned across and kissed her gently on the mouth. The room seemed to tilt a little, though she couldn’t be sure if that was down to Simon or the gin.
