Page 5 of Lost in Translation
Dom nuzzled her neck. Charlotte’s slumbering libido gave a yawn, stretched a little, then gave a defiant two-finger salute. She stepped away, determined to see the conversation through to a credible ending.
‘Amelie and I worked on something together. It came out better than we expected, hence the future reference. She’s into stars and alignment and a lot of bollocks, to be honest. As I said, it’s just her style.’
Charlotte looked at her husband. He looked back, guileless, with ‘how could you think such terrible things?’ written all over his face. He was either a serious Oscar contender, or—
‘And the big kisses? Does she share those with everyone, too?’
Dom reached for her hands, and she accepted his grasp. She’d always loved his hands, big and strong in contrast to her dainty ones. He gave hers a squeeze, then cupped her face. ‘Charlotte, trust me. There’s nothing going on. I’m sorry you got the wrong end of the stick, but we’re good.’
Approximately 95 per cent of Charlotte wanted to believe him. She leaned in for a kiss, and Dom reciprocated. For a few seconds she shoved her residual doubts aside and breathed in his familiar scent. No dodgy hint of another woman’s perfume. Just the feeling of his lips brushing against hers, and the familiar cologne she bought him every Christmas. ‘OK, I believe you. But if I find any more cards—’
Dom silenced her with another kiss. ‘You won’t. I promise. Now, I’ve got some work to do for tomorrow morning’s meetings, so I’ll let you chill with a bit of TV.’
Charlotte watched his departing back as he headed to the study. She rarely got to choose what to watch in the evenings. Dom dominated the remote control, and she generally binge-watched her favourite shows on catch-up during the day or when he was away on business.
With the dishwasher loaded, and a glass of wine in hand, Charlotte sprawled on the sofa. She was midway through a gritty crime drama, one episode into a frothy comedy with an irritating female lead, and dithering over a supernatural thriller with high ratings. Back and forth she switched, her attention span that of a bored amoeba. Exasperated, Charlotte switched off the TV and decided a bubble bath was in order. But first, she should update Ruth.
All OK. Just a silly message from an airhead colleague. Phew! C xxx
The reply popped up a few minutes later, as Charlotte sat on the end of the bed, peeling off her socks. She grimaced at her feet: chipped nail polish, and hard skin tough enough to grate Parmesan.
Right. That’s good. As long as you’re sure, hon. Later R xxx
Hunting out a foot file in the bathroom cabinet, Charlotte realised she needed a fresh towel. She wandered into the hallway, pausing as she heard the low mumble of Dom’s voice behind the closed study door. Tiptoeing across the plush carpet, she pressed her ear against the door. She couldn’t make out anything he was saying, but his side of the conversation was punctuated with chuckles. Maybe Harry Hill was on the line? Or maybe Amelie…
Charlotte sucked in a deep breath and moved away. Dom had told her his version of events, and she believed him. That annoying five per cent whispering in her ear could bugger off.
The bath was deep, hot and soothing. Charlotte scraped away at her callouses, vowing to remove the nail polish in the morning. She hoped the boys were having fun. She missed picking them up from school, hearing their excited chatter about the day’s events, or carefully examining the latest handicraft. Her favourite two mugs in the world were hand-painted by Alastair and Robson. One featured a Jedi knight with a wobbly light sabre; the other an equally wonky heart with ‘Love you, Mummy’ written on the side. Their friend, Sam, was a sweet boy with an equally lovely mum, Jasmine. Charlotte imagined them all eating pizza or whatever together, before heading out into Jasmine’s garden for a kickabout. It was Friday night, no school tomorrow, and Charlotte would pick them up some time in the morning.
Dom was closeted in his study. Charlotte was scraping dead skin off her feet. Shouldn’t they be out on a date night, or something? It wasn’t often they had the house to themselves. The boys were usually mooching around, needing help with homework or wanting either Dom or Charlotte to play some silly game with them.
Pulling the plug, Charlotte climbed out of the bath and wrapped herself in a fluffy cream towel. She ran a brush through her dark, mid-length hair and dabbed on some eye cream and moisturiser. Ruth often said Charlotte looked like a younger Elizabeth Hurley. As if! When she first met Dom, he likened her to Monica inFriends.Minus the neuroses. Charlotte would describe herself as reasonably attractive, or ‘scrubs up pretty well’ as an ex-boyfriend once commented.
Back in the bedroom, she located her tub of body butter and slathered it liberally all over. If Dom walked in, he might be overcome with lust at her glistening frame and bend her over backwards… Nah, if he grabbed her she’d more likely shoot out of his arms like a well-oiled rocket.
Donning her pyjamas, Charlotte slithered under the duvet. Just then, Dom popped his head around the door. ‘Ready for bed so soon? Sorry, still got a pile of crap to deal with. Sleep tight.’ And then he was gone.
Charlotte tried to read, but the words swam before her eyes. Physically she had done little, but the emotional strain of challenging Dom about the card had taken its toll. She switched off the bedside lamp and took some deep, calming breaths.In, out. In out. You do the hokey cokey and… Mindfulness wasn’t her thing, she figured. She’d tried yoga a few times, but could never switch off her brain sufficiently to get in the zone.
‘Everything’s fine. Everything’s good,’ she chanted in her head. Tendrils of sleep muddled her thoughts, and she drifted off. Until a sentence nudged its way in, and Charlotte’s eyes sprang open again.
If I find any more cards—
You won’t. I promise.
Did that mean there wouldn’tbeany more cards, or… Or that next time, Dom would make sure she didn’t see them?
Chapter 7
The next monthdrifted by in a haze of domestic duties, the odd get-together with Ruth and a few other friends, and helping at the boys’ school. Keenly aware of being a stay-at-home mum, Charlotte salved her conscience by volunteering to accompany class groups on outings or help with reading time and arts and crafts. Ruth berated her for feeling guilty — ‘If I had kids and enough in the bank, I wouldn’t be beating myself up for opting out of the rat race’ — but that was easy for her to say. Ruth’s business was her baby, and one which she’d nurtured and coddled from birth to its current, thriving status. Watching some other mums at school tapping frantically at their phones, their sharp suits and sharper heels in direct contrast to Charlotte’s casual wear and Converse boots, did little for her confidence. Being a medical receptionist hadn’t been an intellectual stretch, but she’d prided herself on her patience, and her willingness to chat and squeeze in last-minute appointments for the tearful and desperate.
Today they’d made the final preparations for Halloween at Little Upton Primary School. That evening, children, parents and friends would assemble for a spooktastic event in the school hall. Carved pumpkins would twinkle evilly on the periphery of the car park area. Tubs of apples were ready for bobbing, fake cobwebs decked the corners of the school hall, and plastic spiders dangled everywhere. Alastair was OK with fake ones, as long as Robson didn’t drop one down the back of his T-shirt. Charlotte had been given the task of making Halloween masks and hosting Creepy Storytime. Earlier in the day she’d smothered balloons in gloopy papier mâché, gently peeling away the results and helping with the painting. Creepy Storytime would involve her sitting in a tent, backlit with a torch, and telling tales of ghosts, goblins and other terrifying creatures. The committee chair had roped her in at the last minute after another mum pulled out with a bad back.
Now, squatting on the damp ground, her face painted as a gruesome witch, Charlotte came to the end of her ghoulish story and wished she had a hip flask to hand. Her audience fidgeted, eager to get back to the sweets and fizz on offer. One little girl — Rosie, she thought — eyed Charlotte with disdain. ‘You don’t scare me!’ she pronounced, adjusting the red devil horns clamped to her head.
Huh, you haven’t seen me two days before my period. Charlotte smiled and signalled that the session was over. Off they scampered, leaving her to gather up her books, torch and a pointy tail which she suspected belonged to her nemesis.
‘Oof!’ She groaned getting to her feet. Charlotte had skipped a few gym sessions recently, putting her absence down to life getting in the way. If she didn’t go immediately after the school run, the lure of coffee, cake and more pleasurable activities got in the way. People talked about ‘muscle memory’; that the body remembered its fitness level as long as they maintained it. As far as Charlotte was concerned, her muscles suffered from a severe case of bloody amnesia.
