Page 3 of Lost in Translation
Anyway, she and Dom still had sex. Of course they did. Just … not very often. When was the last time? Ah yes, the night of Robson’s seventh birthday, after their home had been invaded by a swarm of six- and seven-year-olds dressed in Disney costumes and intent on wreaking havoc. All her carefully planned party games for the garden had been for nothing when the heavens opened and they took over the lounge, kitchen and adjoining playroom.
An impromptu round of pin the tail on the donkey ended when Robson’s classmate Lewis decided it would be funny to stick the pin in the arm of little Lucy-May. After mopping up the tears (and droplets of blood), Charlotte stuck on some music and encouraged the marauding minions to fill their boots with sandwiches, sausage rolls and a selection of home-made ice cream. Bad move. They used the scoops as catapults, sending dollops of vanilla, salted caramel and raspberry ripple arcing through the air. Only Charlotte screeching like a banshee on uppers halted the bedlam. The tiny terrors gazed in awe, mid-throw, as Dom strode into the room and restored order. She’d gladly succumbed to his advances that night, partly as a thank-you but also because she needed to let off steam and seek sleep as fast as humanly possible.
‘What do you want to do for your fortieth?’ asked Ruth, wiping up the remaining meat sauce with a wodge of bread.
Charlotte speared a cube of feta and shrugged. ‘Dom’s been talking about a family holiday somewhere. Florida or Hawaii. Or maybe Centre Parcs. He’s got a lot going on at work, so it’s hard to plan in advance.’
‘Whatever you decide, make sure it’s all about you,’ cautioned Ruth. ‘You run yourself ragged looking after your family. Although that’s easy for me to say, as a sad singleton.’ Their server — who looked barely in his twenties — approached, and Ruth’s eyelashes fluttered at warp speed. ‘Two lattes, please,’ she murmured huskily, using what Charlotte called her ‘porn queen’ voice.
Twenty minutes later, Charlotte returned to her car and drove the short distance to the dry cleaner’s. Thanks to the distraction of the phone call, she’d forgotten to do her usual check through Dom’s suit pockets for stray coins, parking tickets and other detritus. Finding a parking spot immediately outside, she pulled the bundle on to her lap and began searching. Two fifty-pence coins, a folded-up fiver and a crumpled scrap of paper with ‘milk, bread and six sausages (butcher ones, not crap from the supermarket)’ scrawled on it.
Charlotte reached into the last pocket, the satin-lined inner one of Dom’s favourite charcoal-grey suit jacket, and felt something stiff. Gently she gave it a tug, and a business card fell into the footwell. Bending down, she retrieved it, instantly recognising the company logo. Design For Life: Dom’s employer for the past five years. His rise through the managerial ranks was a source of great pride, and the reason they could afford their current lifestyle. About to toss it aside, Charlotte glanced at the back. She felt her stomach roil as she read the message written in sparkly silver pen:To the future. Written in the stars. Gros Bisous xx
Chapter 4
Parents and grandparentspacked the school hall, wedged into the rigid plastic chairs that induced bottom numbness within minutes. Excited boasts of ‘My Adam has totally aced his Elvis as Pharaoh routine!’ and ‘Wait till you see Jess in the costume I made!’ vied with grumblings from a few, put out that their progeny had been demoted to sheep or onlookers. Charlotte felt numb too, but in a different part of her anatomy. Her heart felt frozen, and icy tendrils of fear clawed at her insides. Only five minutes until curtain up, and there was no sign of Dom. Anger at his non-appearance vied with the other emotions. No message either, although she’d switched her phone to silent following a stern warning by the headmaster.
As the lights dimmed and the curtains parted in clunky fashion, Dom slipped through the doors. Charlotte raised her hand and moved her jacket from the chair she’d reserved for her husband.Her husband. Father of the two little boys now visible — but only just — at the back of the stage. Ignoring Dom’s hushed apology, she tried to catch either Alastair or Robson’s eye, but they were staring straight ahead. The opening bars of music struck up, the narrator — an impossibly poised and heavily made-up thirteen-year-old girl — taking centre stage. After a few irate shushes, the audience settled down to enjoy the show.
* * *
‘The boys did pretty well,didn’t they?’ Charlotte and Dom stood together in the school foyer, each clutching a plastic cup of tepid wine.
‘Sure, if you can call shuffling from side to side and looking like a couple of rabbits caught in headlights “doing well”.’ Dom downed his drink and glanced around for a refill.
The tears she’d fought back since discovering the business card threatened to overwhelm Charlotte. Why did he have to be so mean? She was no tiger mum, but criticism of her boys cut her to the quick. When Alastair’s teacher called her in to have a chat about his progress, she’d listened in disbelief to her description of him as ‘immature for his age.’ He’d just turned nine, for Christ’s sake! She’d stormed home in a rage and let rip at Dom, who hadn’t sided with the teacher. Then again, he hadn’t exactly disagreed with her assessment, simply suggesting that both boys join the local rugby team. Luckily he hadn’t used the expression ‘man up’, as Charlotte had been dicing carrots with a lethally sharp knife at the time.
‘It’s just not their thing, OK? At least they took part, which is what really matters.’ Charlotte wished she could have a refill too, but Dom had knocked back his second glass of wine and a third was on the cards. They’d arrived separately, and common sense dictated she would drive them all home and leave his car until the morning.
‘Mummy! Can we go home now and have hot chocolate with sprinkles?’ Robson bowled into Charlotte’s legs, the remains of his greasepaint smearing her white jeans. Alastair lolloped behind, deep in conversation with the narrator who towered above him. Alannah Jones was the pin-up girl for the pre-teens, still flailing around in a muddle of pre-pubescent hormones and emotions they didn’t know how to express. The younger ones, like Alastair, basked in her attention. With two little sisters, Alannah knew how to captivate an audience both on and off the stage, regardless of age.
‘Great job, Alannah!’ Charlotte knew her voice was unnaturally high. Like the boys’, before theirs eventually broke, along with their hearts or those of the girls they might meet. Or boys, of course. She’d chatted to Dom once about how he’d react if either of the boys were gay. He’d laughed and told her to stop dwelling on stuff that hadn’t happened. Probably wouldn’t happen, was the unspoken subtext. Charlotte knew she’d love her boys unconditionally, unless they turned out to be serial killers. That might prove more challenging. All Charlotte really wanted was a simple life. Not that life was ever simple. One minute she’d been blithely going about her day-to-day business, the next a small rectangular card had thrown her entire existence off-kilter.
‘Thanks, Mrs Egerton.’ Charlotte realised Alannah was staring at her, her perfectly smooth brow creased in puzzlement. The boys were now waiting impatiently by her side, costume bags packed. Dom herded them to the door, shaking hands or nodding at other fathers he knew vaguely.
‘Right, better be off.’ Charlotte dug out her car keys, her fingers touching the business card she’d rammed into the small interior compartment of her bag. She’d contemplated tearing it up, pretending she’d never seen it, but the words remained etched on her mind. Part of her wanted to toss it in Dom’s face and demand an explanation. Another, larger part knew he’d find a way to wriggle out of it.
Charlotte had never suspected him of cheating before, but now her brain flipped through innocuous incidents, aborted phone calls when she entered a room, late nights at the office and their dwindling sex life. Round and round it went, like a washing machine on spin cycle, until she wanted to bang her head against a wall.
* * *
Charlotte remainedquiet throughout the brief journey home. As an apology for his snide comment earlier, Dom had filled the silence with forced compliments about the boys’ performances. Robson stared moodily out of the window while Alastair flicked through a comic, sniggering occasionally. Once home, Dom whisked them off for a bath and Charlotte gathered together the necessary for hot chocolate. She fired off a text to Ruth, asking if they could meet up the next day. The desire to share her discovery was overwhelming.A problem shared is a problem halved,her mum used to say.Stillsaid, even though she and Charlotte’s dad lived in Florida and their telephone and FaceTime chats only happened twice a month. They were close, if not geographically, but Charlotte couldn’t raise her fears about Dom’s fidelity with her parents. Her mum, Rita, would get tearful and insist on flying over, whereas her dad, Pat, would disappear after a few gruff words claiming it was women’s talk.
Hot chocolates drunk, teeth brushed and clean uniform located for school, Alastair and Robson disappeared to bed. Both were shattered, and Charlotte felt guiltily relieved to be off the hook for a bedtime story.
‘Fancy a brandy?’ Dom had changed into jogging bottoms and a tight T-shirt, which emphasised his athletic build. There was a gym near his office where he spent a lot of his lunchtimes. Or at leastclaimedto. Now Charlotte didn’t know what to believe. She nodded, and he poured them each a generous measure. ‘By the way, I have a later start in the morning, so if you could drop me off to get the car on the way to school, that’d be great.’
‘Sure.’ Charlotte took a sip, hoping the warming liquid would loosen her tongue and release everything she wanted to say. ‘Dom, I need to—’
‘Mummy!’ A scream from upstairs jolted Charlotte out of her thoughts. Brandy slopped over the rim of the glass, and she hurriedly placed it on the table and sprinted upstairs.
Bursting into the boys’ room, she saw Alastair cowering under his duvet. Robson stood on his bed on tiptoe, swiping at something on the wall.
‘It’s an enormous spider,’ Alastair whispered, pointing at the corner where Robson was jumping up and down, wielding his favourite Harry Potter plastic wand. Both Alastair and Dom hated spiders. Normally Charlotte disposed of them — either gingerly picking them up or using a glass and a piece of paper — but lately Robson had got in on the act.
‘It’s tiny,’ he retorted, prompting his brother to toss a pillow at his head.
‘OK, one minute.’ Charlotte dashed into the upstairs hallway, meeting Dom on the landing. ‘Spider,’ she mouthed, waggling her hands in suitably spidery fashion. He pulled a face and scurried into the master bedroom.
