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Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Are you going to fret about his schooling now? Or the cultural clash he might face when integrating with native American breeds?’ He laughed again, though louder this time. ‘Do you think the Brooklyn street dogs are going to back him into a corner, mug him of his grain-free puppy snacks, and say, “Hey, Stan, we’ve got us a Sporting Lucas here. He says he’s from Engerland.”’
I folded my arms more tightly across my chest. ‘What about my friends?’
‘You’ve seen Cordelia once in the past year.’
‘It’s not my fault she chose to move to Woldingham.’
Nick rolled his eyes. ‘You hardly ever see Kat because she lives north of the river. And when was the last time you saw Matthew?’
‘Last Friday actually.’
Nick turned to me with a frown.
‘He came with me to Cassandra’s divorce party.’
Nick raised both eyebrows. ‘You went to a divorce party? Are you supporting a different cause now?’
‘I’m not supporting divorce, I’m supporting Cassandra.’
He shook his head. ‘She’s a nut job, that one. I don’t even want to imagine what went on at that party.’
I sighed. ‘It was a divorce party, not a swingers party.’
He scowled at me. ‘It’s still weird. And not the sort of place I want my wife hanging out.’
‘Hanging out? I haven’t hung out anywhere since I was fifteen and wore Reebok Classics.’
He smirked.
‘Besides,’ I added, ‘it’s my job. You have to respect that.’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Your job is to run a business. You have matchmakers to do all the other stuff now.’
‘Ah, thanks for telling my what my job is.’
‘Well, at least I know what it is you do.’
I tutted. ‘I know what you do.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on then?’
I sat up in bed and lifted Rupert onto my lap. ‘You work in finance.’
Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, me and the rest of the working population of London. What precisely do I do in finance?’
‘You manage risk.’
‘Manage? What does that mean?’
‘It means you oversee risk algorithms.’
‘Oversee?’
I huffed. ‘Look, I don’t follow you around all day taking notes. How am I supposed to understand the intricacies of financial technology?’
‘You’re not. But it would be nice if you cared enough to find out the intricacies of my life.’
I forced a laugh. ‘Says he who didn’t even know where his wife was on Friday night.’
‘That’s because I was too busy doing a job I hate.’
‘Too busy entertaining. What a drag.’
‘It is a drag spending time with a bunch of wide boys who think Chateaubriand is a type of wine.’
‘If you hate it so much, why don’t you leave?’
Nick sat back and glared at me. ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.’
‘But I don’t want to move to New York,’ I said.
‘What about what I want?’
I glanced around the bedroom, then back at him. ‘I can’t believe you’re so quick to give up on our dream.’
Nick sighed. ‘What dream, Ellie? The dream you’ve been spoon-fed by your friends and those silly magazines you read. The dream that involves stripped floorboards, a herb garden, Petit Bateau-ed children and an ultimate migration to Surrey. The dream you’ve been trying to shoehorn your life into since the day we met.’
I looked down at Rupert. His shiny blue eyes stared back up at me. It seemed as though he knew exactly what I was trying to say.
Nick’s expression softened. He leaned towards me and squeezed my hand.
‘We can’t have children, Ellie,’ he said. ‘We have to accept that and move on with our lives.’
I snatched my hand back. ‘I’m not going to leave my clients and I’m not going to leave Rupert.’
Nick pulled himself up in bed. ‘You want to stay here instead? In a town with the highest birthrate in Europe, torturing yourself? And, what, try IVF another twenty times until you’ve bankrupted us or turned into even more of a mental case?’
‘I’m not going to give up.’
‘On what? You don’t even know what it is you’re holding out for.’
Nick pulled up the duvet, turned away from me and switched off the light. Rupert clambered off my lap, climbed onto Nick then back onto me until finally settling in the valley between us.
I lay there, listening to Rupert’s gentle snores, watching the outline of his tiny ribcage rising and falling, and wondered what precisely it was that I was holding out for.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_2fa626de-d348-5937-8b7e-4b02ab05b593)
I awoke to a damp duvet and a deep regret for co-sleeping with an eight-week-old puppy. Nick had already left for work. Usually he woke me to say goodbye so it was clear he was trying to make a point. I helped Rupert down from the bed, pulled on my dressing gown and went downstairs.
On the landing, I stopped and peered into the empty room across from our bedroom. The morning rays sliced through the centre of the room, directly across the space I’d planned to put the cot. I’d envisaged one of those old-fashioned bassinets, draped with a broderie anglaise blanket. I redirected my gaze to the walls, which were presently the dull grey of neglect. I’d planned to warm them with Dulux’s Vanilla Sunrise, topped off with a frieze I’d seen in John Lewis which was covered with Beatrix Potter bunnies. My gaze finally settled in the dusty corner opposite me. It would have been the perfect place for a rocking horse. Rupert nudged my leg as if to guide me downstairs.
In the hallway, I stopped again and glanced around the front room. It was still bare aside from a black leather sofa from Nick’s old bachelor pad. It was going to be the playroom, filled with plump cushions and airy wooden trunks overspilling with brightly coloured toys. I took a deep breath and glanced back up the stairs. Nick was right: so many rooms, now with no purpose. I let out a deep sigh. It seemed neither the house nor I would have the chance to fulfil our potential.
A whimper from Rupert distracted me from my thoughts. He was looking up at me, head cocked as if to say: I live here now too, you know. Then he bounded over to the back door and started pining.
Once I’d opened the door, he sprang across the patio slab without hesitation and began rolling in the grass. The sheer delight in his eyes reminded me of a recent episode of Dr Phil, during which he’d iterated the importance of living in the moment. There was a yogi on the show who’d explained the art of mindfulness. At the time I’d found it hard to take the expert seriously; however, now, as I looked up to the sky and inhaled the fresh morning air, I wondered if perhaps Rupert could bring new meaning to my life.
‘That’s fox poo, you know.’ Victoria’s voice hit me from above. I swung round to see her standing on her stadium-sized roof terrace, swigging an isotonic drink from a flask. ‘Hunting dogs love to roll in it. It masks their smell.’
I looked at her, then back at Rupert, who was still writhing in the grass, the orangey brown streaks along his fur now clearly visible.
‘Rupert. No!’ I shouted.
Rupert sprang to his feet and wagged his tail.
I looked back up at Victoria, who was now stretching her calves and smirking.
‘You could have told me,’ I said.
‘What?’ she said, lifting her leg up onto the glass wall around her terrace. ‘That you have fox poo in your garden? It’s been there for months. Along with the dead squirrel.’ She leaned over to stretch. ‘It’s hardly surprising,’ she continued, ‘given that degree of neglect.’ She placed her leg back down and then stared at me for a moment. ‘Why are you still in your dressing gown? It’s ten o’clock.’
I pulled the gown tighter around me. ‘I didn’t sleep so well last night.’
Victoria stared at me for a moment, then screwed up her face. ‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘I hope you’re not depressed. You know I can’t abide depressed people.’ She arched her back into a reverse downward dog, then sprang back up. ‘Or fat people,’ she added. ‘So self-indulgent.’
I watched her shake her hair out of its ponytail and then roll her shoulders before walking back inside. Then I glanced back down at Rupert and the poo smudges around his neck and shoulder. He’d even managed to embed some in his diamanté collar. I scrunched up my nose and carried him at arm’s length towards the bathroom.
According to a website dedicated to the behavioural tendencies of the Sporting Lucas, Rupert should have been delighted with his bath. Although not bred as a water dog, many Lucas-derived breeds were deeply fond of the water, the author of the website had explained, further evidenced by photos of Sporting Lucases enjoying an array of water-themed pursuits. Rupert, however, acted more like a kitten being plunged into concentrated hydrochloric acid, leaping out and desperately scrambling up the sides. I had to hold him down while applying a generous blob of his sulphite-free doggy shampoo.
Just as I was towelling him dry, the residual aroma of fox poo wafting towards me as I did, my phone started ringing. It was Matthew. I put him on loudspeaker and explained my situation.
He laughed loudly. ‘I bet Nick is loving that. Three rounds of IVF and now a dog in the bed. He’s probably wondering if you’re ever going to have sex again.’
‘Thanks, Matthew. That’s really helpful.’
‘You asked.’
‘Er, no actually, I didn’t.’
He continued. ‘So, why aren’t you at work? You’re not leaving for New York already, are you?’
I sighed. ‘No, Matthew. I’m not going. Remember?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said and then paused. ‘So, in that case you’ve taken a day off work to show Dominic you’re sulking.’ He laughed again. ‘Following which, he will undoubtedly issue you with a formal apology, cancel your travel itinerary and transfer his shares to you.’
I sighed. ‘I’m not sulking. I told you, I’ve taken a day off to settle Rupert in.’ Then I paused for a moment, wondering why there wasn’t the usual foray in the background of Matthew’s call. ‘Where are your kids?’
Matthew laughed. ‘I haven’t killed them if that’s what you’re wondering.’ There was a prolonged pause. ‘Although,’ he continued, ‘on a particularly trying day I once masterminded an untraceable and painless way to do it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You know, if the need ever arose.’
I sniffed Rupert and then towelled him some more. ‘And when, precisely, might the need to murder your own children arise?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t really thought it through,’ he said and then exhaled slowly. ‘Perhaps if there was a nuclear war and the population of Barnes became zombified and started eating each other. Or there was a localised coup and gangs of machete-wielding rebels began slaughtering families whose children went to private school.’
I shook my head and picked up Rupert’s brush. ‘So, working from the theory that the village of Barnes is still at peace, rather than the set for a real-life depiction of a Will Smith movie, where are they?’
‘Lucy’s taken them on a playdate.’
‘Isn’t she supposed to be at work?’
There was a pause. ‘She’s taking a sabbatical. I’m on strike.’
‘On strike? From what?’ I asked.
‘From domesticity. I still see the kids. Just not all day. And I’m refusing to perform any more household chores. This morning I went to the spa.’
I laughed.
He continued. ‘And today I was going to come to your offices to meet you for lunch, but since you’re sulking let’s go to Barnes Bistro instead.’
I tutted. ‘I’m not sulking.’
‘One-thirty work for you?’
Then the line went dead. I glanced down at Rupert. He looked back at me with an expression that implied he might enjoy a trip to Barnes.
After I’d brushed him and sprayed a still pungent part of his neck with doggy deodorant, there were still two hours to spare before my lunch meet with Matthew. Rather than checking the inevitable emails laden with divorce and heartbreak or barked orders from Dominic, I decided a much more productive use of my time would be to clear the garden for Rupert. I didn’t need Dr Phil to tell me that pulling up a few weeds was an infinitely simpler task than attempting to derail divorce for the masses.
Nick’s unused garden gloves were in the shed, still in their packet. The garden rake and broom still had their tags on. Like most couples we’d had grand plans when we first moved in, but somehow life had taken over and the ideas we’d had, such as laying decking across the patio and packing tubs full with sage and rosemary, never quite came to fruition.
Rupert seemed to enjoy his playtime in the garden, chewing twigs, eating grass and sniffing spiders. Each time I scooped some leaves or weeds into a bag I squeezed it tight just to make sure he hadn’t found his way into the pile. It wasn’t long before I’d filled ten bags with dead plants, rotting leaves, the remainder of the fox poo and the dead squirrel.
Every so often, Victoria would appear on her roof terrace to offer direction. She seemed genuinely baffled as to why I hadn’t arranged a ‘professional’ to do it for me.
Once I had finished, I hosed down the patio and brushed away the remaining mud and dust with the broom. Then I sat on the back step. I had two throbbing blisters on my hands but as I looked around at the courtyard with its high walls and creeping ivy—a pocket of tranquility in the busy streets of London—I couldn’t help but let out a contented sigh. As I did, Rupert jumped into my lap and closed his eyes. My eyelids felt heavy and I was tempted to close mine too, but it was nearly one o’clock and, given the bizarre mood Matthew had been in of late, I knew it would be unwise to leave him unsupervised in a licensed premises for even the briefest amount of time.
After I’d quickly changed my clothes, I looked down at the loose knit jumper and White Company trousers I’d selected, and wondered why I was dressing for the life I wanted rather than the one I had. I briefly considered digging out my old skinny jeans and Topshop T-shirts that I’d packed away in our spare wardrobe, but there was no time. I slathered on some lip gloss, tucked Rupert into his carry case, and set off to meet Matthew.
Just as I walked out of the house, my phone rang. I glanced at the screen, half expecting it to be Victoria complaining that a stray leaf had blown into her espaliered apple trees or else Matthew telling me to meet him at the nail bar instead.
As it turned out, it was an ex-client of mine, Harriet. She and Jeremy were the first couple I matched. But if I’d known seven years ago in the grounds of an eighteenth-century chateau in Versailles that I was committing to their relationship for a lifetime too, I might have reconsidered. Or at least insisted on some kind of matchmaker prenup.
Harriet was sobbing when I picked up. ‘He’s done it again, Ellie.’
I sighed. ‘Oh dear.’
‘I’ve just been through his receipts.’
‘Are you OK?’
