Page 20 of A Midlife Marriage

‘…personal journey …’ Nick’s voice tailed off.

Kay turned; it was Lizzie who had cued the music. She’d been wheeled across to Craig, who stood winking back at Kay as she stared. He lifted his phone, still winking, still grinning and pointing to a speaker on the table.

‘…personal journey …’ As Nick tried again, he was drowned out by a chorus of voices rising in tight harmony, with soaring energy.

It was cue that everyone seemed to recognise and bemused, Kay watched as Wendy and the other canteen ladies pushed chairs back, as Patrick piled them into stacks, as Daniel threw open windows … So, by the time the drum and base of Queen’sFat Bottomed Girlsbegan, the room had been cleared.

Standing up, she laughed. There was no doubt who was behind this interruption. Lizzie. When she had been headmistress, this was how she had ended every term: with an impromptu party in the staffroom. With Abba and Queen on the stereo and a couple of bottles of warm Lambrusco. Lizzie, grabbing every opportunity for a bit of fun, every chance to dance, living her life for herself and her lost love.

Patrick emerged from the throng, his lone lock of grey hair flying like a victory flag.

‘Care to dance?’ he said.

‘Of course!’ she answered, twirling under his arm until she was in the middle of the room with Lizzie, in her wheelchair, on one side, a bent and tiny arm raised as she fist-pumped to the music, and her father on the other, elbows wide, bobbing along.

16

With a slight but steady breeze drifting in through the open window, Caro lay on the bed stripped to her bra and knickers. She had her hands stretched above her head as she held her phone high and scrolled through. To her surprise she only had one text from Matt.

30+

For a smart man,he was useless with words.

Excellent,

she texted back.

She knew what he meant.They had surpassed the goal, and the offering had already passed thirty million. She dropped her phone and rolled onto her side. As she did, another messagepinged through. This time a photo of Matt and a few of the crowd from the office. They were obviously finishing the day at the pub. Eyebrows knitted, she tapped the screen and zoomed in. Even Mel, her former secretary was there, and looking at the familiar faces a strange feeling came over Caro, a feeling that if she hadn’t known better, she might have mistaken for envy.

But she had nothing to be envious of. Two years ago, still recovering from a traumatic miscarriage, and numb with shock at her mother’s catastrophic stroke, she had walked out of the office into a nightmare. This was when she had met Tomasz, on what was probably the worst day of her life. The evening she had taken Libby’s baby and walked too long, and too far with him. The evening the police had been called, the evening she had put Libby and Helen through so much pain. Tomasz had come to find her. Sat down next to her and asked if she knew where she was.Let me take you back,he had said, and from the ashes, wings of hope had stirred. The hope of a different life. The hope of being loved.

Matt had been magnanimous when she had explained she would not be coming back. Empathy embodied, until the share price in Eco-Innovate had taken what looked like an irreversible decline.

‘Consultancy only,’ he’d offered. ‘No pressure. No deadlines. No stress and no high-net arseholes ringing you up at midnight.’He’d even sent a photo of a pair of Gucci loafers, the suggestion being that he could find no-one to fill her shoes. Remembering this, Caro smiled. Sometimes words were superfluous and picking up the phone to him had been like picking up the phone to a still-beloved ex. They had, after all, had the perfect work marriage, and if today hadn’t proved the truth of that image of the loafers, nothing would. It had been clear that she’d known more about the current market than anyone else in the room.

Rolling onto her back again, she stared at the ceiling. The stress in the office these last few days had been off the scale, and she had thoroughly enjoyed it. What she had said to Helen was true, a change was as good as a rest and now, having spent the last year doing not much more than growing tomatoes and visiting potential smallholdings, she felt thoroughly rested and raring to go.

She picked up her phone and opened Matt’s message again, smiling back at all the faces in the photo. The problem was there was nowhere for her to go. That was it. This had been her last job and without a deadline she didn’t know where to start, without pressure she could feel her edges slackening like a balloon deflating.

The bedroom door swung open.

Sitting up, she swiped her phone behind her back.

‘Are you OK?’ Tomasz stood in the doorway, a tea-towel over his shoulder.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just tired. The train was hot.’

‘Do you want to rest? I can do the poo-pick.’

‘The poo-pick?’ Caro rubbed her eyes. In the five days she had been away she hadn’t thought once about the chicken-coop poo-pick, a daily chore that was her responsibility. Along with feeding the goats their pellets and checking their hooves and raking away their manure. Or, if she was completely honest, any of regular jobs required to keep the smallholding going.

‘I’ll do it.’ The door was closing. ‘You rest.’

‘I’m OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’

Tomasz looked at her. ‘You need food,’ he said. ‘I can keep it warm. Just say when you’re ready to eat.’

‘I’m not sure I can face it.’ How could she tell him? How could she begin to describe that table of champagne and oysters, the lobster, the caviar. How could she explain what fifty million sounds like? Or how it feels, as a woman in a roomful of men,to stand as a queen on a stage in the sky. How could she confess that she had said,I would have loved to.

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