Page 38 of Lost in Translation
‘Anyway,’ Dom continued, ‘how’s he doing? You didn’t say much, just that he’d taken a tumble at football. It’s not serious, is it?’
Tempted as she was to exaggerate Alastair’s condition to amplify Dom’s guilt, Charlotte couldn’t. Not that guilt appeared to be an emotion her darling husband was familiar with. ‘He’s got a nasty break above the elbow of his left arm, and he's trussed up like an oven-ready chicken,’ she said. ‘I spent ages at the hospital with him, and he can’t take part in any sports for at least six weeks.’
It had been on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to mention Jürgen’s presence, but she decided against it. She doubted Dom would give a toss, seeing as he was up to something which she more than suspected involved a certain business colleague. And she’d bet her last Swiss franc it had nothing to do with Design For Life financial forecasts.
‘That’s too bad,’ said Dom. ‘Give him a cuddle from me, a gentle one, and tell him I’ll be back soon. These things happen, although I’ve never broken a bone in my life, touch wood.’
Don’t speak too soon,thought Charlotte, eyeing the unwashed pizza stone and picturing herself smashing Dom repeatedly in the face with it. She blinked away the brutal image. Charlotte wasn’t a violent person, even if her mind was scrolling through myriad ways to make Dom suffer.
‘And how are your parents?’ she asked. ‘You haven’t said much about them.’
‘Not bad, not bad,’ replied Dom. ‘Actually, Charlotte, Mum’s waiting for me to help pack up a stack of old books to take to the charity shop tomorrow. She’s feeling much better, thankfully, but now she’s on a declutter mission, so I’d best be off. Love to you and the boys!’
And like mother, like son, Dom cut off the call, leaving Charlotte gasping like an escaped goldfish. She grabbed her wine glass and filled it, knocking half back in one gulp. How could he keep up the pretence so convincingly? All that bollocks about helping his mum! If she didn’t know better, Charlotte would have swallowed the story, maybe even felt pleased that Dom was doing something useful.
Now she had two choices. She could call him back and tell him she knew the truth — except she didn’t, did she? — or she could wait till he got home. Charlotte pictured each scenario, weighing up her options as carefully as the flour and yeast she’d measured out for the pizza base. Knowing Dom (although Charlotte now thought of him as a shadowy stranger capable of dismantling their lives with calculating ease), he’d wriggle out of a phone conversation. He probably wouldn’t evenanswerthe phone. That meant forty-eight hours of letting her rage and hurt reach boiling point before ripping Dom apart face to face.
Tiptoeing into the boys’ rooms for a last check before she dragged herself to bed, Charlotte listened to Robson’s snuffly snores and smiled at Alastair’s awkward position. She straightened up their duvets and kissed each of them on their warm cheeks. Her family, the perfect unit of four, to all appearances blessed. Then Charlotte headed to the bathroom, scooping up damp towels and neatly aligning the shower gel, shampoo and other mess.
Sitting up in bed, staring blankly at the pages of a book, Charlotte flipped between wanting to cry her eyes out, and stuffing all Dom’s clothes in bin bags and lobbing them out of the window. Turning off the light, she thumped the pillow with venom, imagining it was her errant husband’s smug face.
Charlotte curled up in her favourite foetal position, allowing the cooling silk pillowcase — meant to ease morning crease marks — to soothe her anger. As sleep proved a forlorn wish, the fabric grew damp…
Chapter 32
‘Hello, my lovely. What’s occurring?’Ruth’s cheery voice was a welcome balm to Charlotte’s jangling nerves.
It was the day before Dom’s return, and her mood swung between icy calm and psychotic rage. The boys were at camp, Alastair content to follow indoor pursuits including origami, although how he’d manage that with one hand remained a mystery.
‘I’m OK.’ Charlotte attempted a smile at Ruth, although the corners of her mouth seemed set on a permanent downward trajectory. She’d covered her eye-bags with a liberal coating of concealer and hoped that on camera she looked better than she felt.
‘I’m detecting a distinct lack of enthusiasm. What’s up? Are you worried about Alastair?’ Ruth was positively glowing. Possibly because of her pregnancy, a subject they hadn’t broached for some time.
‘No, not really. He’s coping pretty well but the stupid cast thing keeps sliding around, so I might have to take him back to the hospital to see what they can do.’
Dropping the boys off that morning, Charlotte had bumped into Jürgen and Marcus. When she explained her concern, Jürgen had offered to take them at the end of the day. He’d even called the hospital, spoken to the consultant, and been assured they had other options.
‘So why the long face?’ Ruth raised a mug of something, took a sip, and crinkled up her nose. ‘By the way, if anyone tells you green tea is good for you, they can take a hike. It’s bloody revolting, but coffee just makes me want to hurl.’
‘Speaking of hurling, how are you? Have you, erm, you know, decided?’ Charlotte hated that she wasn’t with her best friend to lend a sympathetic ear and give advice. Being hundreds of miles apart was rubbish and speaking via the internet a poor substitute.
‘Hon, believe me, I’m thinking of little else. I know I can’t stay in limbo, but I still can’t picture me as a single mum. Or a mum, full stop. Creaking up to the school gates in my fifties, surrounded by youngsters convinced I’m the wee bugger’s granny.’
Charlotte giggled. ‘Don’t be daft, Ruth, you’re only forty-two. Loads of women have babies later in life these days. Didn’t that blonde actress who was married to Sylvester Stallone have a baby well into her fifties?’
‘Brigitte Nielsen? Huh, that’s fine if you’ve an army of nannies and staff to organise your life. I know how to run a business, but changing nappies, pureeing bananas and breast feeding is way out of my comfort zone.’
‘It doesn’t come easy to most mums. Trust me, I know from experience, particularly with Robson. He went from a placid little pumpkin to the squalling son of Satan within a week. Honestly, my eye-bags were down to my knees, and don’t get me started on the state of my nipples.’
Charlotte shuddered at the memory. On the advice of her no-nonsense health visitor, she had thrown in the breast-feeding towel after six weeks. Dom struggled to watch her express milk with a pump, and Charlotte decided there was no shame in switching to formula. At least that way she could occasionally pass the buck — or the bottle — to her husband.
‘You’re really not selling this motherhood gig, are you?’ Ruth gave a wry smile. ‘Look, I know the clock’s ticking — and I don’t mean my biological one — but this is probably the toughest decision of my life.’
Charlotte nodded. Right then she wished she could reach through the screen and give her friend an industrial-strength hug.
‘So, best friend wearing a palpable look of pain, are you going to fess up? Is it constipation, PMT, or something to do with darling Dom?’
Charlotte wriggled in her chair. She didn’t want to burden Ruth with her fears, but the weight of Dom’s likely treachery lay heavily on her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she filled Ruth in on his cock and bull story about visiting his folks, and her suspicion about what he’d reallybeen up to.
