Page 2 of Lost in Translation
‘That woman you keep talking about, Sophie or something.’ Dom was as crap at names as she was. And Charlotte didn’tkeeptalking about her. She’d briefly mentioned the get-together at Le Petit Train, attended by two other school mums.
Alicia, a former ballet dancer, kept her feet permanently in first position, and quickly established that Charlotte didn’t fit into the mega-rich bracket. ‘A three-bed rental, hmm?’ she’d drawled when discussing homes.
‘Alicia lives in a lakeside mansion with an infinity pool and hot-and-cold running staff,’ whispered Sadie. ‘She likes to mingle with the poor people from time to time, to maintain her superiority complex. Oh, and her actual name is Agnes Blenkinsop. I caught a glimpse of her passport one day. Well, I sneaked it out of her Hermes bag when she wasn’t looking.’
The other mum at the gathering barely said a word. She stirred her milky coffee in endless circles, occasionally taking a sip. Sadie introduced her as Pamela, mother of ten-year-old twins Rebecca and Elspeth. They were in the year above Alastair, both pin-thin with milky-white complexions and hair in matching pigtails. Extracting information from Pamela was like squeezing the last dregs out of the toothpaste tube. She restricted her answers to: ‘Yes’, ‘No’ and ‘Not sure, really’, the latter in response to Charlotte asking if she liked it here. It was down to Sadie again to fill in the details.
‘She’s been here since the twins were babies,’ she revealed, when Pamela disappeared to the ladies. ‘Hired a nanny after a few weeks: a pretty Croatian girl who took her job very seriously. So much so that she decided to tend to Pamela’s husband’s needs too. And I don’t mean ironing his business shirts.’
Deciding that a glass of wine might be a good idea, Charlotte propelled herself out of bed, shrugged on her dressing gown and headed downstairs. All was quiet in the boys’ bedroom, and she resisted the urge to have a peek.
‘So, shall we throw a party?’ Dom followed Charlotte into the kitchen. She unscrewed the cap of a bottle of red and reached for two glasses. The satisfying glug of the liquid soothed her edginess, and she took a swig. Dom tutted — failing to say ‘cheers’ was a sin in his book — and pulled a face when he took a toothpaste-flavoured mouthful.
‘Let me think about it.’ Charlotte needed time to get her head around the idea. At some point she’d chat to Sadie and see if one or two of the other mums she was on nodding terms with at school might be interested in coming. Pamela too, and her cheating husband. They were still together, the Croatian nanny sent packing when the affair came to light.
Charlotte wandered over to the large lounge window and watched as the sun set, a kaleidoscope of colours decorating the sky. Dom came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She welcomed his embrace and snuggled into his familiar, strong arms. And yet… There’d been a time, not long before the move to Switzerland, when she’d suspected something was amiss in their marriage. Or rather, someone else. As day gave way to night, Charlotte’s thoughts drifted back to their life in England, and how they ended up being here…
Chapter 3
Six Months Earlier
‘Charlotte!We’ve run out of butter!’
On her hands and knees in the boys’ bedroom, trying to locate a vital piece of Lego under the bed, Charlotte blew out an exasperated breath. That dislodged an unhealthy wodge of tumbleweed, also known as a dust ball. No matter how often she dragged the vacuum cleaner around the house, the dust multiplied and accumulated in corners and under furniture.
Dom had been on at her to get a cleaner since the boys were little, but Charlotte wasn’t keen. She’d quit her job as a medical receptionist when Robson turned one, Dom insistent that they didn’t need her ‘meagre’ salary. His words, not hers. Charlotte had enjoyed the daily interaction with the patients: even the miserable ones, and the hypochondriacs convinced that every minor twinge signalled their eminent demise. Plus, most of her friends who had cleaners spent a good hour cleaning their homes beforehand, lest the hired help thought they were lazy bitches.
Harrumphing down the stairs, picking fluff off her black jeans, Charlotte mentally ran through her to-do list for the day. Gym at eleven, lunch with best friend Ruth immediately after, then errands to run, including dropping off a pile of Dom’s suits at the dry cleaners. She’d done a large grocery shop the day before, and could have sworn she’d picked up a tub of spreadable butter. Mind you, the so-called ‘mummy brain’ experienced in the months after the boys’ births seemed to have lingered throughout her thirties.
‘You know I can’t stand toast without butter,’ grumbled Dom, fiddling with the coffee machine, which was playing up. Instead of a steady stream of fragrant liquid, it dribbled pathetically. He ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair, still damp from the shower.
Charlotte flipped the kettle switch — instant was her drink of choice — and pulled open the fridge door. ‘Ta-dah!’ Moving aside a four-pack of yoghurt and a carton of eggs, she produced the butter with a magician’s flourish.
‘Well, how am I supposed to find it if it’s hidden?’ Dom flicked off the lid and peeled back the foil, before popping two slices of bread in the toaster.
Charlotte bit back a reply. Too often these days the tiniest things triggered major arguments. Only last week Dom had complained his favourite shirt wasn’t ironed, and her suggestion that he did it himself hadn’t ended well. He’d huffed his way into the utility room, spent a good fifteen minutes figuring out how to switch the iron on, then burned a hole in the front of the shirt. They’d argued bitterly about everything from who dealt with the household bills (Dom) to who took the brunt of responsibility for the boys (Charlotte). It was like a never-ending tennis match, the pair of them permanently stuck at deuce. But wasn’t that the case with most marriages?
‘Don’t forget we have the boys’ school concert tonight at seven.’ Charlotte made her coffee and passed Dom his cup from the machine, which had spluttered its way to a conclusion. Neither Alastair nor Robson were natural performers. Both preferred to stay out of the limelight, hiding (like the butter) behind the more flamboyant class members. For one night only they were part of a production ofJoseph and His Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, albeit a scaled-down version. Charlotte had attended the dress rehearsal, her heart contracting at the sight of her two little darlings shuffling awkwardly, mouthing the lyrics she’d practised with them while Dom had shut himself in the study.
‘I’ll be there. Might be a few minutes late, depending on my last meeting.’ Her husband drained his coffee cup, grabbed his office bag, and pecked Charlotte on the cheek. ‘If it drags on, I’ll text you.’
‘Please try.’ Her plea wafted towards the door, drowned out by the sound of Dom crunching across the gravel driveway and firing up his Audi Quattro.
And hedidtry. Like so many dads and mums shackled to interminable conference calls, their lives dictated by emails that had to be read, reports that needed to be filed, conversations that couldn’t wait. None of them willing to acknowledge that their children’s lives were happening with or without their presence. Charlotte painstakingly kept photo albums charting special occasions, family holidays and other memorable events. Dom liked to film important moments, either on his phone or his camcorder, when he remembered to bring it with him.
Sometimes, when she was alone, Charlotte would watch snippets of the boys when they were babies and toddlers. Those infectious gurgles and toothless grins. Those wobbly first steps, Alastair heavily reliant on a wooden trolley filled with coloured bricks to keep him upright. They were still young, but each passing birthday reminded her they wouldn’t be her little boys forever. And that her fortieth birthday was just around the corner.
* * *
‘Don’t tellme you’re still obsessing about the big four-oh?’ Ruth, who’d jogged past that milestone with barely a backward glance, nudged her friend. ‘You’re only as old as the man you feel, which is why I fondle thirty-somethings.’
Charlotte giggled. Ruth always made her feel better, even if she had perfect grooming down to a T. Today’s ensemble was black skinny leggings with a faux leather strip down the side, and a lacy white blouse that would scream ‘early twentieth-century grandmother’ on anyone else. Charlotte was still in her gym gear, sweaty hair piled up in a haphazard knot and make-up conspicuous by its absence. She’d left her change of clothes and toiletries by the front door, distracted by her ringing mobile. Dumping Dom’s suits on the passenger seat of the car, she’d answered it.
‘Good morning, Mrs Egerton! How are you today?’ Charlotte had grimaced at the chirpy tone of her dentist’s receptionist. The suitably named Angelica was a lovely girl, but her saccharine-sweet demeanour and ever-present gleaming smile made Charlotte’s fillings ache. And the reminder that she was due a session in the hygienist’s chair tomorrow filled her with horror.
‘I’m not obsessing over it.’ Charlotte scowled at Ruth. ‘I’m just ignoring it in the hope it’ll go away.’Like the hygienist appointment, and the layer of flab that’s taken up residence around my middle.
Charlotte tugged down her Lycra gym top and eyed her quinoa, lentil and feta salad. Two mouthfuls and she could feel her nose twitching, and her eyes drifting to Ruth’s lasagne with a side of garlic bread. The woman ate like a horse, but kept the svelte physique of a well-exercised thoroughbred. Probably all that amazing sex with much younger men.
