The Perfect Family Page 8

  The Dom I’ve remembered from the past feels different from the man I’m living with today. Now, for the most part, he’s subdued, contained, distant—cold but not angry, aloof but not disdainful. Tragedy has changed him, as it’s changed us all, I acknowledge. Only violence casts a long shadow. Rows are normal in any marriage; I know that. But fear isn’t. Or it shouldn’t be. There’s still so much I’ve forgotten, but this I do remember: things weren’t right between us. Dom hit me once—did he hit me again?

  Did he hurt my children?

  I can’t be sure, but I can’t take the risk. I see Dom’s arm drop as he turns away, his handsome face as white as his son’s. His eyes are narrowed over his pinched cheeks, and his shoulders hunch as he slopes out of the room, a jagged shard of glass in one hand and a bent miniature bronze golf club in the other.

  Hide!

  Aidan drags himself towards the piano in the corner of the living room and curls up beneath it, knees pulled up to his chest. As he sobs into his folded arms, I know with a conviction I cannot place that this reprieve is only temporary. I have to pack up and go. Anywhere. To Lucy’s? It doesn’t matter. I just need to get out of this house.

  And I have to take my son with me.

  FOURTEEN

  I can’t find my keys. Or my phone. Where can they be? I’ve been religiously avoiding contact with the outside world and have no sense even of when I last looked at a screen. I try not to panic; I make myself concentrate on practicalities first.

  I woke up knowing exactly what I have to do, and I waited with jittery impatience until the house was quiet—until Dom had put Aidan on the bus to school and headed off to his office. Then I set about searching, going round and round the house, repeatedly looking in the same places until I felt like I was going mad. I was desperate to get out, to escape, to run away with my son to a place where no one could hurt us ever again . . . A place of safety.

  The second Aidan comes home from school, I’ll be ready. Only I can’t find anything and now I can’t even remember where I’ve looked or how I got to be sitting on the floor of my bedroom with an open suitcase in front of me. It’s the big one we take on our holidays to Cornwall, and it’s full to bursting with my clothes—leggings, tunic tops and cardigans—and the children’s. Usually, we manage to squeeze in Dom’s stuff as well, but there isn’t so much as a Ralph Lauren polo shirt in sight. I root around in the corners—nothing. The case is packed just for the three of us, which in itself is odd: Annabel’s clothes are in the suitcase as well, so I must have packed this before she died. Had I been planning a trip? Why would we have been going on holiday without Dom? Where on earth would I have been taking the children during term time?

  I look around the bedroom as if a clue might spring up and provide the answers. Everything looks the same as ever: the big double bed that almost fills the small bedroom; the heavy mahogany furniture pressed along each wall; the Tiffany bedside lamp that was an anniversary present from Lucy, the telephone . . .

  The red light is flashing. There’s a message. Scrabbling towards it, I press play: Hi, sugar, it’s me. Miss you, can’t wait to see you all soon. I’m waiting for you . . .

  Max. I recognize his quick, deep voice immediately. He sounds almost exactly the same as his younger brother except that his speech is much faster, without the London edges smoothed off. How odd that he would call me “sugar,” though—and I’m sure we’re not close enough for him to say he’s missing me. And what does he mean he’s waiting for me? What is he talking about? I’m not going anywhere; I haven’t been anywhere since we buried my daughter.

  Was Max at the funeral? I don’t remember. Come to think of it, I can’t recall seeing him for weeks, months—I don’t know how long. That’s odd. He always used to be round here, whether I’d invited him or not, stopping by after his shift at the gym, claiming he was just passing, even though the Ivybridge estate where he lives is a good couple of miles in the opposite direction. He’d just dump his backpack, stretch out on the living-room floor and start playing on the Xbox with the twins, often spending the whole evening with us.

  I know Dom resented it, but I’ve never seen any harm in his brother. Max has never married and I know he gets lonely; he’s a bit of a loner, I suppose people would say. He’s good-looking but intense, which might explain why he’s never had a girlfriend: his fierce intelligence goes hand in hand with a rather direct manner. As Dom once said: his brother lacks self-awareness. While Dom has charm to soften his arrogance, Max can be blunt and overbearing. But the twins always found him funny. There’s something childlike about his sense of humor, his silly jokes; he’s always been perfectly at ease hanging out with two young kids for hours on end.

  I allow other memories of Max to wash through me, a flash-flood of images: snapshots of lazy afternoons playing cards at home, fun trips to the park with the kite, Max loping ahead with his arms hooked around the twins’ shoulders. Yes, he adored them, especially Annabel. While Dom always treated his daughter like a princess, I suspect he preferred hanging out with Aidan, teaching him ball skills in the garden or building Lego with him at the kitchen table. He indulged his daughter, but he treated her more like a doll than a feisty almost-pre-teen with a mind of her own. She, in turn, became more animated, more effervescent, the second her dad walked into the room, as if trying to gain his approval by living up to the frivolous image he had of her.

  I was sure Dom had it wrong when he said that I always came down heaviest on her, but she certainly reserved the heftiest share of backchat for me. Lucy used to say it was nature’s law for girls to seek the approval of their fathers and boys to want to protect their mums. I stop hunting through the suitcase and try to remember our last conversation on the subject; something about it is pricking at the back of my mind . . .

  * * *

  “Well, I’ll agree with you about the boys, at least. Jasper and Aidan are both proper gentlemen,” I’d told Lucy as we sat watching the twins and Jasper fly a kite in Bushy Park, after collecting them from a community play rehearsal.

  Max had joined us. Lucy had bumped into him at the gym, where she took a yoga class every Sunday morning, and mentioned that she was heading to our house afterwards. Never one to wait for an invitation, Max had tagged along, saying he needed to go for a run, anyway, and he knew an ideal route through Bushy Park.

  “Curious character, isn’t he? Not a bit like Dom. Apart from physically, of course. Can’t deny both of them were blessed in that department. My new Saturday girl definitely has a crush on them.”

  “Well, I guess appearances can be deceptive, and siblings can be as different as they are similar. Look at the twins—almost identical to the naked eye, yet complete opposites in personality,” I said, smiling as I watched Aidan and Jasper getting tangled in the kite string and spinning round like lost puppies.

  “True.” Lucy grinned too. “You certainly picked the right brother, that’s for sure.”

  “You think?”

  “Don’t you know?” Lucy’s smile turned to a gentle frown. “I know you’ve had your problems. Things are OK now, though, aren’t they?”

  “We’re getting by. All marriages go through rough patches. You know that.”

  “I do. But I got out of mine. Dom is nothing like Matt was, though. Or . . . He’s never hit you, has he? Sorry, don’t take that the wrong way, and tell me to mind my own business if you like. But you would say, wouldn’t you, if you were—”

  “I’m fine. But thanks.” Suddenly I didn’t feel fine, but it wasn’t the sort of thing I could blurt out in the middle of the park, surrounded by kids and dog walkers.

  “Look, why don’t we treat ourselves to a night out? Or come round to the flat one evening and I’ll cook. We can chat. Better still, let me know when Dom’s working late and I’ll come to you. Jasper could always sleep over with Aidan. That way we won’t have to worry about babysitters. Bottle of wine and a good old moan-fest is what you need,” she teased, but I could see the worry in her cle
ar green eyes.

  “That sounds great. Thanks, Luce. And Dom is out most nights, so take your pick. It’s only me who’s the lady of leisure.” I rolled my eyes.

  “God, you mustn’t let him put you down like that! I have no idea how you even manage the twins, what with all their clubs, and the afternoons you spent helping out at the school every week. You’ve turned your back garden into something out of the Chelsea Flower Show, and all the time keeping an eye on that batty neighbor of yours. Poor old guy would never have left his house since his wife died, if it wasn’t for you.”

  “Mr. Cooper is a sweetheart,” I said, laughing.

  “Have you thought about training as a TA?” she said suddenly. “I know it’s probably too much to go back to full-time teacher training right now, but you’re brilliant with kids. They loved it when you used to help out in the classroom. Mr. Grant always said that. Maybe you could qualify as a teaching assistant. You’d be fantastic and any head teacher would bite their hand off to get you. Honestly. Even the one at your posh new school,” she added, grinning.

  “I did look into it last year, actually. But, well, Dom’s right: my brains have probably rusted by now, and there’s not much time for studying with those two monkeys at home to take care of,” I said, nodding at the twins.

  “You mean who would pick up his Armani from the dry cleaner’s and make sure his dinner is on the table on time. What is it with some men? Soon as they get a ring on your finger they want to shackle you to the Aga.”

  “Barefoot and pregnant,” I said, with a sad smile, wondering how I’d mistaken Dom’s possessiveness for teasing irony all those years ago.

  “But I thought you couldn’t . . . ?”

  “No. I can’t,” I said, reading her thoughts. “I was just remembering Dom’s marriage proposal.”

  “Don’t tell me, the marriage vows included ‘till death or a broken washing machine do us part,’ hey?” She threw her head back and laughed, drawing smiles from other parents loitering around their children in the park, their eyes flicking longingly to the still enormous line at the coffee hut.

  “Ha. Funny. I’d still have said yes, though,” I said truthfully.

  “I do, you mean. I do take thee to be my lawfully arrogant lord and master. Huh. I don’t really blame you. Dom’s not an easy man to say no to.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever tried,” I said, frowning at the slight edge to Lucy’s voice. “Have you?” I found myself holding my breath.

  “Won’t catch me walking up any aisle again. Except the champagne one at Waitrose,” Lucy said, bumping my shoulder with hers and laughing.

  I laughed too before becoming distracted as Annabel came twirling and sashaying across the grass, skinny arms aloft as she dragged the rainbow kite through the sky. Face upturned to the sun, she executed a perfect grand jeté, conker hair trailing behind her on the breeze, mirroring the glistening tail of the kite.

  “Beautiful, love,” I called out, feeling goosebumps prickle on my skin at how ethereal she looked. “You’re like a will-o’-the-wisp! Watch out or the wind might pick you up and carry you off!”

  “Just like this,” Max said, finishing his run and sauntering over to us, catching Annabel up in his arms and spinning her round and round until she cried out that she felt dizzy. Instantly, he placed her back on the ground as gently as he would a fragile glass figurine.

  “Come on, Aid. Race you up the slide!” Annabel said, frowning and shoving forcefully against Max’s sweaty vest. “Can’t catch me, Jasper March!” And with a feisty glance over her shoulder, she was off.

  * * *

  I remember how Max watched her flit like a moonbeam across the park. I’m sure it was her daintiness—in such contrast to his heftiness—that entranced him. I often marveled at Annabel’s fairy-like qualities myself, loving the way she fluttered through life. Max seemed almost mesmerized by her. His eyes shone when he watched her perform on stage; he was always buying her books on ballet, along with bendy dancing dolls from all the latest musicals. I don’t think she had the heart to tell him that she’d grown out of playing with dolls years ago, but I found several of them jammed into the back of the shed, their vacuous faces viciously scribbled on and their hair jaggedly cut off.

  Max would have been gutted if he’d known. He must have fallen apart when Annabel died . . .

  Realization crashes over me like a wave.

  I haven’t set eyes on Max once since we lost her—where is he?

  FIFTEEN

  Hesitantly, I wander out of my bedroom and trail round the empty house looking for clues—a forgotten tracksuit top or pair of sneakers; a stack of video games waiting for Aidan to make his selection. But there is no sign of Max, which seems weird.

  Perhaps he has stayed away because—like our neighbors and friends—he has absolutely no idea how to be in this dark space where Annabel once burned so brightly. He must have been devastated by her death. Buried beneath my own grief and so preoccupied with how Aidan is coping, I realize I haven’t yet spared a thought for Max or how he might be suffering. I feel a rush of shame for not thinking of him until now.

  He could have come to see me, though, if he’d wanted to. Or has he visited and I’ve just blotted it out? One more memory my traumatized brain has obliterated, along with the identity of my daughter’s killer, the wailing police sirens shattering the peace of our quiet, tree-lined road on a beautiful summer’s day . . . the horror of Annabel’s funeral . . . I can’t remember any of those things; I’m not ready even to try. But I am curious about Max. I can’t think of a single reason why he would have stopped coming to our home. Annabel is no longer here, but he loved Aidan too—why wouldn’t he want to see his nephew, comfort him?

  I make my way slowly back to the bedroom, options whirring through my mind: he’s been hounded by gossip since our family tragedy, and he’s had enough and left the area; he doesn’t know what to say to his grieving brother and has kept his distance; he’s shocked by my actions and cannot bear to look me in the eye . . .

  He killed my daughter and he’s behind bars.

  I’m becoming hysterical. Suspecting first Dom and then his brother. The idea is ludicrous. What possible reason could Max have to hurt either of my children? Why would he ever have wanted to force me to choose between them? He’d never have thought to persecute me like that. Dom might have niggled me about Aidan being my favorite, but it wasn’t true, and I’m sure Max didn’t think so. He was around us even more than Dom, and he loved all our family. I saw that with my own eyes, almost every day. There was hardly an evening when Max wasn’t at our table.

  I think back to the last such occasion I can remember, turning over the details, sweeping for any clues that might explain why Max seems to have abandoned us all . . .

  * * *

  “Cool suit.” Max pushed away his plate and pointed with his steak knife as Dom stalked into the kitchen, rubbing his hands tiredly over his face.

  “You here again?”

  “Not much call for fancy suits in the gym, of course. Tracksuits don’t need to be hand-stitched on Savile Row. But I know my—”

  “Max walked the kids home from school for me today.” I jumped in anxiously, sensing Max was about to launch into one of his quirky monologues; I could already see irritation tightening Dom’s jaw. “I—uh—I had a bad tummy ache.”

  I rubbed my stomach, keeping up the pretense. It was actually my ribs that were hurting from where Dom had all but crushed them the night before, returning home late from the golf club and insisting it was about time I performed my wifely duty, for once. I still felt numb with shock remembering it. His mocking laugh when I mentioned the migraine I’d had since cleaning the house from top to bottom that afternoon, prompted by Dom’s raised eyebrows as he trailed one finger deliberately along the dusty dado rail in the hallway before leaving for work. His angry grunt and the tight anger on his face when he finally realized I was serious about having a headache and rolled off me. I’d lain awake mo
st of the night, worried he would make another move towards me; I’d had butterflies all day waiting for the sound of his key in the front door.

  “Oh, did he, indeed? Stick the kettle on, Maddie. I’m parched.”

  “There’s some dinner left in—”

  “I ate out.”

  The twins were watching TV in the living room. Max had suggested a game of cards, at which point they’d exchanged glances and disappeared before he managed to find the pack they’d deliberately hidden at the back of the dresser drawer. He picked them up now and started shuffling them, over and over, looking between me and Dom. I stopped spooning coffee into the French press and watched him, sensing tension.

  “What, Max? Spit it out,” Dom said, noticing his brother staring at him. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table.

  Max leaned back, crossing his arms. “Heard you’re going to Westfield in the morning. Just wondering if you’re taking Maddie too. I picked up a new game for the kids, didn’t I? Thought I could hang out here with them while you two shop. Play some football, watch a movie, show them—”

  “Nope,” Dom cut in tersely. “I’m meeting a client afterwards. Potential partner, actually, so we’ll probably talk business at the champagne bar. Maddie would be bored.”

  Maddie would be in the way, I translated mentally.

  “Oh. Is that right? You know they serve more than eighty different champagnes at Searcys. They’ve got a Krug that’s over a grand a bottle. You’ve always had a taste for the finer things in life, Dom. Bring some back for us, why don’t you? Seeing as we’re not invited.”

  “We?”

  “Maddie. Bring a bottle back for your wife.” Max’s big fingers started drumming on the table.