Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (read book txt) 📗

final drag of her cigarette, her lips pursed tightly. ‘Means a lot.’ She breathes smokily, closing her eyes again, stubbing it out. ‘A lot.’

I force a smile. ‘Don’t be silly.’ I try not to think about the fact that, actually, I was judging her a bit.

When I get home that night, I see Daniel’s trainers on the dust sheets in the hallway, where the builders have been traipsing in and out with drills and spades, preparing for the basement dig. Normally it would annoy me – how many times have I asked him to put them away? – but tonight, instead of being cross about it, I think, again, how lucky I am not to be Rachel. How grateful I should be to have a loving husband. Imagine being pregnant and going home to an empty house. The thought makes me shudder.

I put Daniel’s shoes in the cupboard under the stairs and head into the kitchen, rolling up my sleeves. I prepare some fish and roast vegetables for dinner. While they are cooking, the landline rings. I wipe my hands and snatch up the phone, wedging it between my ear and shoulder.

‘Hello?’

There’s silence for a few seconds, the click of the connection. Then a voice, faraway-sounding.

‘Mrs Thorpe, hello. I’m just calling with regards to your remortgage. Are you OK to go through a few things now, or should I call back?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The remortgage on your property. We’re just putting the final details together for the application.’

I frown. Remortgage? Then the line crackles lightly. There is a delay. It’s obviously some dodgy call centre somewhere. I know these calls all too well.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her coldly, ‘you must have the wrong number. There’s no remortgage application.’

‘Mrs Thorpe …’

I hang up, shaking my head, putting the handset back. Ever since Mummy and Daddy died, we’ve had loads like this. Scammers, trying to trick us into giving away details. I think poor old Mummy had got herself onto some database – suckers lists, they call them. She was forever answering the phone to people. Daniel thinks we should just get the landline disconnected.

I wash up and put away all the dishes, clean the worktops until they are gleaming, and lay the table. I mop the floor, the water in the bucket turning black with building dust. But when it’s done, I feel better. I tip the dirty water away put some music on and open the windows to air out the house.

But the light drains from the sky, the windows darken, and Daniel is still not home. I check my messages. He is working late, again. I think about calling Katie, asking if she feels like coming over. But the food is ready now, and she lives miles away. And anyway, she is probably busy with Charlie. I take a fork from the laid table, and eat my dinner alone, picking the flakes of white fish from the bones.

29 WEEKS

SERENA

‘I can’t remember a summer like it,’ Helen is saying. ‘I can’t believe how warm it was today!’

We are sitting outside, the four of us. The air is cooler now, but it is still warm enough for outdoors, just about. Only a slight breeze blows, though it’s usually windy on this side of the park. The baby in my belly is snug and still, lulled by the rock of my hammock.

Rory is piling logs in the outside wood burner. He is kneeling as if in prayer, his hair flopping into his face. Daniel and Helen are sitting together, in the swing seat. I have put candles in glass storm lanterns, twisted strings of fairy lights through the branches of the cherry tree. The wooden decking glows silvery in the light. I must remember to take a picture for Instagram.

‘Well, I’m loving the heat. Can’t get enough of it,’ Rory tells her.

‘Yes, well, you’re not pregnant.’ Helen shifts in the swing seat. She is wearing an ankle-length dress with a flower pattern: it coats her enormous belly like a tent. She is so much bigger than me, already. Her hands rest on top of her bump, fingers spread, pale and fat as starfish. ‘I’m fed up of it,’ Helen is saying. ‘We need a bit of rain. Have you seen Greenwich Park? The grass is all dead and yellow.’

‘It will grow back, Helen,’ Rory mutters. ‘You’re being dramatic.’

I place a cool hand on his shoulder to silence him.

‘We’ve got a few more warm days at least, I heard,’ I soothe. ‘Chilly in the evenings now, though, isn’t it? Do you want a blanket or anything, Helen?’

Rory tuts and rolls his eyes. ‘Of course she doesn’t need a blanket! For God’s sake. When is it ever warm enough to sit outside in the evenings in this bloody country? Let’s enjoy it!’ He says it as if the rest of us are stopping him from doing so.

Crossly, he picks up the kindling for the log burner, turns to face me. ‘Do we really need this on?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘It’s atmospheric. Besides, your sister is cold.’

At this, Daniel looks up, blinks at me through his glasses, as if he had been asleep and I have just woken him. Next to Helen’s outsized form, Daniel looks insubstantial somehow, his trousers and shirt crumpling where he fails to fill them out. He turns to his wife.

‘Are you cold, Helen?’

Helen says she is fine but pulls her grey cardigan closer, like a life jacket. Daniel starts to take his jacket off, and I motion him to leave it on.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll fetch you a blanket,’ I tell her. I pull myself up out of the hammock and head to the kitchen. There, after a backward glance at Rory, I slide the laptop out from under the papers on the table where I put it when he came in earlier. Positioning myself so I can’t be seen, I delete the search history. It only takes a second.

I look back at the three of