Finding Dreams Read online

  ‘Mrs Greene, I’m very sorry for your loss.’ The lawyer’s voice was grave and sympathetic, but there was something in the way he kept twisting the cap on his fountain pen that made me ill at ease.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘These things are never easy, I know. And it’s all well and good what they say – that time heals. It does, but it takes… time, doesn’t it?’

  I looked at him, unsure whether he had just tried to make a joke.

  The PA nodded, scribbling away on her notepad in an incoherent cipher. Could she possibly be transcribing this chit-chat?

  ‘And in the meantime there are so many things to sort out. It’s the little things that are difficult, I’m told. Things that seemed so easy before.’ He set down his pen and steepled his fingers. ‘Never mind the big things.’

  ‘I guess so.’ I could feel the numbness start to creep in.

  ‘Which is why I hate to be the bearer of even more bad news.’

  ‘What was that?’ I sat forward, alert.

  ‘Mrs Greene,’ he gave a long sigh, ‘I’ll cut to the chase. There are some issues with your husband’s estate. If you’d like to retain your own counsel, which I’d advise you to do, I’m more than happy to go over the details with him… or her. But as you’re a lawyer too, I thought it best if I gave you the overview in person.’

  ‘The overview?’ I said warily. ‘Of what? Dave and I are married. We own the house together. We have a joint account. We…’ I felt a strong urge to explain our marriage to this man. The good times, the bad times. The things that were part of day-to-day life and now were no more. ‘We’re normal,’ was all I could manage.

  ‘Your husband had some other assets and liabilities that you may not have been aware of. We received a box of papers from his place of work. Unfortunately, it appears that his overall financial situation, was… shall we say… precarious. Once again, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this.’

  ‘Other… what?’ I felt like my brain was stuck in slow motion. I’d assumed my being here was a formality. Signing papers to close out the estate, or appoint the firm as executor. I may have been a lawyer once, but I did corporate work, not family law. I knew nothing about this sort of thing.

  ‘Here,’ he slid a copy of a spreadsheet across the table to me. ‘Let me talk you through it.’

  Two hours later, I was still sitting there. My wall of grief was riddled with holes, cracked through, and broken down for good. The man’s voice droned over and over in my head. Telling me that my loveable, squeezable, just-a-little-dull Dave wasn’t at all what he seemed. Telling me about the bolthole flat in London. The second mortgage he put on our house. The debts he ran up at casinos and sordid little clubs on all those nights when he was supposedly ‘working late’. Instructing the hawk-nosed PA to leave the room to get the box of things from Dave’s office. Things that detailed my husband’s second life. The receipts – for expensive dinners, gifts for lady ‘friends’ – the unpaid bills… Each sentence – each word – a knife blade in the pit of my stomach.

  I caught snippets of the detail. Dave had let his life insurance lapse; he hadn’t bothered with income or mortgage insurance. Dave had maxed out six credit cards. Dave had siphoned all the money out of our retirement account. Dave had left his family destitute.

  Eventually he stopped talking, and the PA stopped scribbling. ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked me, speaking for the first time.

  I stood up at that point, and ran out of the room. My skin was crawling, I felt dirty, violated. The place where the grief had been only hours before was flooded by a tide of searing hot rage – that Dave was dead; I’d never have the chance to confront him, accuse him, hold him accountable. Anger that he’d ruined not only my present with his death, my future with his shenanigans, but worst of all, that he’d utterly destroyed my happy memories of the past.

  In the months following the visit to the lawyer’s office, my rage vented itself like tiny blasts of steam from a geyser. Yelling at the kids in the car park, not bothering to make sure Katie did her homework, letting Jack writhe in a tantrum on the floor of the supermarket. I shut myself off from everyone. I didn’t want to talk, and if anyone touched me, even accidentally or to comfort me, I flinched. The sympathetic looks at the school gates turned wary; whispered conversations stopped completely when I came into view. Somehow I was dropped from the class email lists – no one felt they could remind me to pay £30 towards the teachers’ end of year gifts or volunteer for a slot to run a stall at the summer fete. Even Jammie, with her greying muzzle and deep, all-knowing eyes, started keeping her distance.

  When I was called in to see the headmaster because Katie had quit book club and choir, and Jack had regressed in his potty training, I told him point blank that it was his job to sort it. I knew I was acting like a recalcitrant suspect in some dark and sordid police investigation – I had a duty to confess what was going on and reassure the school that I was coping. But I was determined to keep schtum – to hoard the anger and betrayal to myself. The only way I could control it was by holding it in. To his credit, the headmaster remained upstanding and stoic, telling me that they were there to help out any way they could. I left that meeting feeling ashamed of myself. I’d realised that for all those years, I didn’t know my husband, therefore, I also didn’t know myself. But I hated this person I’d become.

  Finally, my friend Hannah, the grandma of Katie’s friend Flora from school, took me aside. She and I sometimes alternated doing school pick-up because she lives less than a mile away from us. When I dropped Flora off at her house, she put on a DVD for the kids and frogmarched me into her kitchen. She put a cup of sweet tea and a plate of lemon cake in front of me, and told me to start talking.

  The cup rattled on the saucer as everything came out in a torrent. I told her about the debts, the shag pad, the women. I told her to spread the word – tell the other mums, the school, whoever needed to know, so I didn’t have to. I watched her reaction mirror my own – shock, then anger, and finally, that thing that was so unbearable – sympathy. Before she could speak, I told her not to say ‘sorry’ – that weak, futile word. I told her not to ask me if I was doing ‘OK’. I wasn’t – so please don’t ask.

  Ever.

  And then finally, I burst into tears.

  ‘Lizzie,’ Hannah had said, ‘it’s all just awful. But you need to hang on for the kids’ sake. Take things one day at a time.’

  ‘I know,’ I’d said. ‘I just feel so betrayed. I keep asking myself whether deep down I knew what was going on.’ I told her how, when I’d got the call from Dave’s PA, my mind had leapt dangerously close to the truth. I’d dismissed the possibility, though, that Dave had been other than what he seemed. Because that’s how I needed him to be.

  ‘The thing is, Lizzie,’ she said, ‘none of that really matters now. He’s gone, and it’s the future you need to focus on.’

  ‘The future?’ I practically choked on a bite of lemon cake (third slice) right then and there. The concept sounded so alien, so distant. So utterly frightening. And yet, of course, she was right.

  ‘Things have a way of working out the way they’re meant to,’ Hannah had continued. ‘You have to give it time. You’ve got two lovely children, and I know how much you want the best for them. You wouldn’t want them to give up, so don’t you give up either.’

  I cried some more; she’d given me a hug. Talking about what happened, opening up, had helped a little. I was still sinking in a black, bottomless pool. But for the first time since that fateful night at Tesco, I felt a little twinge of muscle memory – like someday, I might remember how to swim. High above me, just out of reach, was a glimmer of light.

  *

  Today, ten months on from Dave’s death, Jack the Human Shield successfully fends off any would-be well-wishers. I take him to the nursery (relieved that his ongoing potty problems are now their problem for a few hours, at least). He screams and clings to my leg, throws his hat on the floor, and
refuses to take off his coat. I feel the familiar guilt seep into my heart and the little voice in my head crooning Bad mum, Bad mum… But his key worker manages to distract him with a new digger in the sandpit, and chivvies me out the door.

  I say a passing hello to a few of the other mums on my way out, almost wishing that someone would stop and chat; ask me if I want to grab a coffee – anything to delay what I have to do in the next hour or so. I was hoping to see Hannah, but I seem to have missed her. I want to ask her if I’m doing the right thing, beg her to talk me out of it. Tell me again that these things take time; that I should give it a little more time…

  Time. I add another day to my mental checklist. It’s been ten months since that fateful day when Dave’s heart gave out. Nine and a half months since the funeral, eight months since the meeting with the lawyer. Six months since the longest summer of my life, one month since the unmerriest Christmas ever, and two months to go until the anniversary of Dave’s death. So many seconds, minutes, hours, and yet each day when I wake up, it’s like the nightmare begins all over again. I never know which emotion will rise to the surface, just that most of them are painful and ugly. And underneath everything, the anger flows like an underground river. Maybe that’s the thing that’s driven me onwards; made me get out of bed every day. On the scale of human tragedies, ‘Widow discovers her whole life was a lie’ may be infinitesimal. But damn it, it’s my tragedy.

  At home, I’ve learned to put on a brave face. I cry behind closed doors. I curse into an empty closet. I make up dialogues about what I’d like to say to Dave, and play them out in front of the dog. I smile even though it hurts. I try to be there for the kids even though I feel like a burnt-out shell. I go through the motions of being the loving mother they deserve. I’ve lied and told them that I’m fine – that everything will be fine for us.

  All in all, I’ve hung on by my fingernails, bleeding and bruised, but I’ve managed to keep hanging on…

  Setting my mouth in a thin line, I get in the car and join the queue to leave the car park. Instead of turning towards home, I go down the hill towards the village high street. As much as I never hoped this day would come, I have to accept the fact that I’ve hung on long enough.

  Now, it’s time to start letting go.

  Chapter 2

  ‘So, it’s a semi, is that right?’

  I swallow hard. Am I speaking Martian here? Because this man – with his pinstriped suit and stick-up gelled hair – is not understanding what I’m saying. Of course, the fact that just being here is tearing me in two probably means that the problem lies with me.

  I look around. There are three other estate agents at their desks talking on the phone, and a nervous-looking couple sitting in a small waiting area flanked by potted palms. The office is so clean; so white. I suppose most of the people who come in here are looking for a blank canvas; a new start. And as much as I’d like a new start too, I just wish it could be in my own house – Tanglewild – the quirky old place I fell in love with the first time I saw it; amazed that we might ever be able to afford to buy it. The house where I’d hoped my kids would grow up. The house that became our family home eight years ago when we moved here from just outside London. The house that I am now about to lose.

  ‘No, I mean, not really…’ I try again. ‘The house was built in 1602. It was a Tudor manor house. But in 1908 the old servants’ annex was partitioned off into a separate residence. The other house has its own drive and is completely separate.’

  ‘So it shares a wall with another house?’

  ‘Well, yes, but…’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He writes down the word in capital letters on the form: SEMI.

  I sigh. ‘OK.’

  ‘And how many acres are there?’

  ‘Ten. But two acres are the lake. And two acres are in the middle of the land that belongs to the other house. So there’s no access. It’s complicated.’

  He taps the silver pen on the clipboard. ‘Lake,’ he repeats. ‘No access.’

  He makes a note on the pad: Problem Property?

  I can’t bear it – the questions, the facts and figures on paper that don’t tell the whole story – or even close. They don’t tell the story of a house that was built more than 400 years ago – the beauty of its original features; the things it’s seen; the things it’s survived. Or about the people who’ve lived there – people like me and my family. As desperate as I’ve been feeling in the last ten months, the one thing that I clung to was the fact that I hadn’t had to uproot my children, make them leave the only home they’ve ever known. In the absence of a miracle, though, I always suspected that this day might come, and I feel powerless to stop it.

  ‘So when can you come and do the valuation?’ I say. ‘I need to get it on the market soon – this week if possible.’

  ‘Overstretched yourself on the mortgage, did you?’ When he smiles, his teeth are straight, white and wolfish.

  ‘Actually, it was my husband.’ I decide right then and there that I’m going to wipe the smarmy grin off his face. ‘Dave had debts, a bolthole in London, credit card bills up to here.’ I tap my forehead. ‘All those nights “working late”,’ I wiggle exaggerated air quotes with my fingers. ‘Getting up to – well – just let your imagination run wild about what some men do, and you’ll probably hit the mark. And then he died.’

  When I say the final words, the syllables echo off the glass front, the white walls, the smooth, polished floor. I feel a tiny moment of satisfaction when my estate agent turns an unflattering shade of pink, starts to splutter that he’s ‘sorry for my loss’, then seems to think better of it and instead asks me if I’m ‘doing OK’. Even the other agents pause in their phone conversations and glance over furtively. The nervous couple look ready to stand up and bolt.

  ‘I’m not sorry, and no – I’m not OK,’ I say, addressing everyone. ‘I can’t keep up with the mortgage payments, I can’t find a job, and I have two kids to support. And as you’ve already noted…’ I point to the paper in front of my agent, ‘my home is a problem property and might take a while to sell. I need to get it on the market. There’s no other choice.’ I cross my arms defiantly. ‘So when can you come round and do the valuation?’

  ‘Um, how about on Friday?’

  ‘See you then.’

  The sense of relief around the office is palpable as I get up from the chair and walk to the door. I’m out of there so fast that I almost convince myself that the whole thing is just another part of the nightmare, and any second now, I’m going to wake up.

  Back on the high street, I collapse against the wall of the family butcher a few doors down, and try to keep from hyperventilating. I have to stop feeling sorry for myself; ‘keep calm and carry on’ – words that look good on a mug or a tote bag but are tosh in real life. I did what I had to do. I’ve put the wheels in motion.

  I catch my breath, get in my car and drive to the big supermarket at the edge of the village. Gone are the days when it was normal for me to nip into Tesco on the way home from the school run – I haven’t set foot in there since the night it happened.

  I stock up on baked beans, tuna, potatoes, soup, and the mini-chocolates that make good homework bribes. In the pet food aisle, I blanch at the cost of the Senior Dog Food tins – Jammie’s favourite brand is never on special. I put a few tins in the trolley and take out the bottle of bubble bath I’d put in as a treat to myself, planning to leave it there among the kibble, but then feel guilty and go all the way back across the store to put it back on the proper shelf. Not that the saved cost will offset the dog food, but it makes me feel frugal. In the old days, I used to fill up an entire jumbo-sized trolley every week – sometimes twice a week – without worrying about credit card balances or e-vouchers. Those days are gone, and it strikes me that maybe that’s a good thing. Life was too soft then, and might be too hard now, but somewhere there’s a happy medium. I just have to find it.

  The traffic has subsided a little by the time I drive b
ack through the village. Just past the train station there’s a gravel road with a sign nailed onto a tall pine tree. It says Tanglewild in bold black letters. The gravel road twists on for a quarter mile, past two barn conversions, one of which is occupied by an elderly couple, the other by a family with two teenage children. Occasionally I’ll run into one of the neighbours and have a conversation about tree-trimming, rubbish vs recycling weeks, filling potholes, or the best way to keep out rabbits. But for the most part, we all keep to ourselves.

  The road forks at the end. The right fork continues round to the old servants’ annex, now a separate residence, which shares a wall with my house. The couple who own it are retired and like to travel, so it’s empty most of the time. I take the left fork through a pair of large wrought-iron gates, the paint flecked and flaking off the twists of metal. Through the gates, there’s a carport with a wonky tiled roof that was once part of the old stables. I squeeze the car in between an overflowing pile of firewood and a pile of old junk and tools.

  Outside the car, I breathe in the smell of old wood, damp soil, and decaying leaves. It smells homely and familiar. As I’m unloading my shopping, Jammie ambles up to the arched gate in the high stone wall that surrounds the house and the front garden, her tail wagging slowly.

  ‘Hi girl,’ I say. ‘I’ve brought breakfast.’

  I carry the bags inside to the gate and set them down, kneeling next to the dog and burying my face in her thick silver-grey fur. When I raise my head, I look at the house, my beloved home, trying to take in every detail like I’m seeing it for the first time – or the last. I feel a deep ache of sadness and regret.

  The oldest part of the original manor house was built in the Elizabethan period. The bottom half is red-brick, and the top half is wattle and daub. There are three twisted brick chimneys on the roof, and the windows have hundreds of diamond-shaped panes. The stone wall continues along the path and dead-ends at the front corner. On the other side of the wall is the servants’ annex. From the front, you’d never know the building is technically a semi (as the estate agent so deftly pointed out), though, the fact that it’s a problem property on paper was the only reason that Dave and I could ever afford to buy it.