‘Sophia loved this place.’ Dad is looking around wistfully, an expression almost resembling happiness in his eyes, making it harder for me say what it is I want to say. ‘I asked her to marry me in here.’

I know this story. I’ve been told it a thousand times or more. Years before Mum died when he would tell this tale, I used to roll my eyes at him and tell him to shut up and that it was a boring story and that his banter was boring as shit. My face burns at the memory. I like to think I’ve grown up since then, developed a more sensitive side to my nature.

When she was alive, they always would come here, him and Mum, for their wedding anniversary meal. Actually, I’m surprised he managed to make it here at all without getting maudlin and upset. His rose-tinted memories are making it harder for me to speak openly about Mum, about what I knew of her life.

There were things I discovered about her shortly before she died. Things that Dad should really know. Maybe he already does. She wasn’t the saint everybody thought she was. They didn’t know her that well. Not really. I did and I’m sure that deep down, Dad did too, it’s just that death has blinded him to who she really was. He’s obviously blinkered to it all but I’m not. Perhaps I’m a little less forgiving, or perhaps me being younger allows me the privilege of being able to see things without the hindrance of those rose-coloured glasses that have given her saint-like qualities. Whatever the reason, there is one thing I do know and it is this: Sophia Saunders had secrets. She may have brought me up and cared for me but sometimes, I lie in bed at night wondering if I ever really knew her at all.

‘I don’t want to talk about this right now, Lauren.’ Dad’s hands grip the steering wheel. I bite at my lip. I should have expected this really, this reaction. She was his wife. People do take on saint-like qualities after they die. I get that. I mean nobody wants to speak ill of the dead, do they? Not unless it’s some mad dictator like Hitler. I’m not really sure why I said anything. I should have stayed silent, kept my words to myself. My timing is all wrong. Stupid. Sometimes, I’m such an idiot.

I lean back against the headrest, a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach despite being a pig and having eaten a full plate of chicken, roast potatoes and gravy. I try not to think about it any more. I should just let it be. Mum is gone and we’re now on the path to having a life again but those words are out there now. There’s no taking them back. I’ve got to speak my mind, to clear the air and untangle the knotted thoughts that clutter up my head.

‘Dad, she wasn’t who you thought she was, that’s all I’m saying.’ There, I’ve said it again. I can’t seem to help myself.

He drives on in silence, his face set like stone. I don’t even know why I’m saying this, why I’ve cornered him into having this conversation. It’s just that sometimes, I become furious at him for being so committed to her memory and refusing to allow anybody else into his life. But maybe now that’s all going to end with this new friendship he has forged. Maybe now we can allow somebody else into our life and move on from Mum’s murder. We’ve been on repeat for too long and I think it’s time to change that pattern.

I decide to leave things alone, to let him get on with his life while I get on with mine and hope that at some point, our paths will cross and we can become a proper family again. A family without Sophia’s memory infiltrating every corner of our lives.

7ALICE

‘No, you can’t have any more snacks. Your parents will be home soon and they’re taking you out for dinner.’

I suppress an eye roll as Fionn slinks off into the playroom. If it was my decision, they would both be allowed the occasional piece of fruit or a yoghurt or even a bag of crisps but their parents strictly forbid it and as much as it pains me to do it, I have to stick to their rules. They’re children for God’s sake, not robots. I sometimes think that Jack and Elizabeth think less of their children than they do of me, and that takes some doing.

I’m pretty low on their agenda. Their children aren’t much farther down the ladder than me. We are all practically scraping our bellies on the ground.

I continue folding the laundry, heat billowing off the linen. Perspiration stands out on my face. I rub my hand across my forehead and let out a long, frustrated sigh. It’s too warm for such chores. Were it not for the fact that Jack and Elizabeth are due back, I would take the children out to the park, let them run and play; let them have some fun and just allow them to be free of the constraints placed upon them by their overbearing parents. They are bored here in the house and forbidden from playing in the garden. No ball games. No trampolines. No paddling pools. Nothing that suggests children actually live here. Too many precious plants and flowers out there that could be ruined. Gardens are meant to be played in, but not in this household apparently. Poor Fionn and Yasmin. And poor, poor me.

It’s another hour before Jack and Elizabeth arrive home, sailing through the door looking cool and composed. Sweat blooms under my armpits as I finish cleaning the windows in the children’s bedrooms. I empty the soapy water down the sink and rinse out the bucket, watching as the soap suds swirl and glug before disappearing down the drain.

‘Where are the children?’ Elizabeth rarely greets me, instead barking out commands and questions about Fionn and Yasmin and asking if my jobs have been completed in her absence.

‘In the playroom. I think they’re bored.’ I can’t help myself. I shouldn’t speak to my employer in such a brash, undiluted tone but something about this woman doesn’t sit well with me and today, I am all out of patience.

I expect a dressing down for my arrogance and lack of respect but receive just a dark look as she brushes past me to see her offspring. Jack hangs up his coat and heads upstairs, his eyes averted away from me. I often wonder if he even notices that I’m here.

On impulse, I walk over to where he has hung up his coat and slip my hand into the inside pocket. I have no idea why I am doing such a thing. I guess I am tired and pissed off and want to see if he is as perfect as he appears. Getting hold of any of Elizabeth’s personal effects is too difficult but this man is a little less anal with his belongings. Their bedroom door is always locked, as is the study. This only makes me more curious. It makes me wonder what it is they’re hiding.

Inside his pocket is a receipt. I lift it out and glance at it, my stomach coiling and churning when I see the figures listed there. Over £300 for a meal. I shouldn’t be shocked, knowing how these people live their lives, but it still roots me to the spot. It’s for a restaurant in town – Maison. I know of it but have never been inside. It’s not for the likes of me. Far too expensive. Far too exclusive. Perhaps this is where they’ve been all this time, wining and dining in the most opulent restaurant in town while I carried out their menial chores – washing and ironing their clothes, scrubbing the kitchen floor and cleaning their windows. How the other half live. A furnace strikes up inside of me, a spark of envy at how easy, how luxurious and comfortable their lives are compared to my miserable existence.

When Phillip was around, we could have afforded such luxuries. Not that he was ever interested in visiting those types of places, but still, the disparity in our circumstances since losing him sticks in my craw. And when I say he wasn’t interested in visiting those places, what I mean is, he wasn’t interested in visiting them with me. But that’s a different matter. A story for another time.

‘Alice, why don’t you take the rest of the day off?’

Jack’s voice causes me to jump. I crumple up the receipt and stuff it in my pocket. He won’t miss it. It’s not as if they need a piece of paper to keep check of where their money goes. What’s £300 to these people? It’s small change to them. Chicken feed. To me, it’s a week’s wages. I can put the receipt back tomorrow.

‘Are you sure?’ I spin around, my face flushed, my chest, my torso, hot and clammy.

Jack is still upstairs, his head peeking over the banister. ‘Yes, absolutely. We can manage here just fine. We’re going to spend some quality time with the children.’

I cringe at his use of that phrase. Quality time. What does that even mean? It’s a trite expression trotted out to assuage people’s guilt for ignoring their progenies. I find myself wondering what their idea of quality time is, doubting that it involves anything remotely interesting or child-orientated. They neither know nor understand their own children.

‘Okay, well I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ I am out of the house before he has time to change his mind, the receipt a deadweight in my pocket. I have no idea why I took it. Jealousy, perhaps. Or maybe it was just because I can. These people are so frivolous with their spending, their lives, their children. They will hardly notice a missing receipt for a horribly expensive meal. They hardly notice me wandering around their house every single day so a little bit of missing paperwork isn’t likely to trouble them.

I walk by Jack’s car which is parked out the front of the house and am tempted to gouge it as I pass, to dig at its sleek, black paintwork with a sharp implement. Their spending and ostentatiousness are a slap in the face to people like me. People who will always have to be thankful for the meagre scraps that life throws their way.

And then I think of Peter and my heart skips a little. Attending those sessions was worth it. They may not have helped me with my emotions in any conventional sense, but they have put me one step closer to Peter and that’s got to be a good thing, hasn’t it?

The sun burns my neck as I leave the leafy suburbs and head home to my humble abode closer to the centre of town. I put all thoughts of my absent other half to the back of my mind. He’s gone now and although life is a damn sight harder without him around, if I’m being honest, it’s also a relief. No more arguments, no more worrying. No more name calling and accusatory remarks. And yet I hate this life he has left me with. I resent him leaving me to cope on my own. I hate the bitter memories that swill around my brain. I hate all of it and yet I don’t hate him. I miss him so much, it’s like a physical ache that cuts me in two. Would I have him back? Absolutely not. I miss the idea of him and also without wanting to sound too mercenary, I miss the money. He had a good job. We never had to worry about our finances. All I ever worried about was his movements, keeping track of where he was and more importantly, who he was with. That was nearly the undoing of me.

Bitterness at the hand life has dealt me swells in the pit of my stomach. Some would say I deserve everything I’ve got. I would tell those people to shut their mouths and leave me alone.

I think of Peter and wonder how much longer it will take him to get over the death of his wife? Months? Years? I’m hoping it’s the former. I’m hoping he sees beyond his grief and allows me into his life. I’ve worked hard to get to know him. I pray he doesn’t turn me away and leave me out in the cold. I don’t think I could handle another blow. I need this opportunity. I need to get even.

8PETER

Lauren is right. Of course she is. He’s in denial. It’s a form of self-preservation. He’s protecting himself. Covering his tracks with his behaviour, his acts of total dedication towards his wife as a type of deceit. He knew what was going on before Sophia died. Who she was with. Both he and Lauren know it. It sits between them, a huge, opaque obstacle, stopping them from getting on with their lives. At some point, they will have to climb over it. He just didn’t expect it to be now.

He turns the corner, the car violently leaning to one side. Placing his foot on the brake, he glances at Lauren before turning his attention back to the road. ‘Why don’t you have some friends over sometime?’

‘Friends?’

He can feel her eyes boring into him as he leaves go of the steering wheel and changes gear, slowing down as they approach the traffic lights just outside of town. ‘Yes. Friends,’ he replies lightly. ‘You know, those people that you spend time with who aren’t related to you.’

She laughs and he is relieved she has understood his stab at humour. Humour that has been absent from their lives for so long now, it feels alien to him.

‘Okay. When?’

‘Anytime you like. I just think it’s time for us to start living again. You especially. You’re young. You need to get out and meet people. I’ve got my church sessions but it occurred to me that you’re stuck at home on your own.’ He smiles, hoping he hasn’t overstepped the mark and inadvertently insulted her. That isn’t his intention at all. They are both treading water here. It’s time to build up their strength and confidence and get back in the deep end.

‘Are you going to continue going to church, Dad?’

Peter can see her concerned expression in his peripheral vision. She thinks he’s had some sort of epiphany and has had a complete about-turn in his thinking. He hasn’t. It’s just that he doesn’t want to reveal to her the real reason why he attends. Initially a recommendation, it’s now something he is compelled to do for reasons he cannot or will not explain. Even to himself. That’s the hardest part – coming to terms with it, having to listen to that small, still voice in his head that tells him daily how he needs to attend to assuage his guilt. Maybe he should start believing. If only he could. It might just silence that voice.

‘Maybe. Maybe not. This isn’t about me. It’s you I’m worried about. I’d like to see you getting out and about, meeting people. Having fun.’

Having fun. What a phrase. Easy, light. Relaxed. It feels like an age since they have had any fun in their tiny little family. There is a great big hole where their smiles and laughter used to be. Lauren deserves to have fun and so much more. She deserves the happiness and closure that he himself is searching for.

‘There’s a party at Lacey’s next weekend. I wasn’t going to go but maybe…’

‘Please go, sweetheart.’ He sounds desperate. He doesn’t mean to. It’s just that he doesn’t want his girl to become lonely and isolated. No more sitting in her room texting. No more brooding and solitude. He thinks Sophia would agree that it’s time they both started living again. She certainly did plenty of it before she died. Now it’s their turn. Maybe there is a form of life after death after all.

By the time the weekend arrives, he is worn out. Work is hectic, the travelling up and down the A1 to meetings in Birmingham, an exhausting trudge. One of these days, he will look for another position, one that doesn’t involve so many needless journeys. One that is more fulfilling, less gruelling. Travelling from home on the outskirts of York, to Birmingham two, sometimes three times a week is enough for any man. More than enough.

‘So, what do you think?’ Lauren is standing in front of him, hands on hips, expectancy on her face. She has curled her long, dark hair into thick ringlets and is wearing a pair of jeans and a green, floaty top that matches her eyes. She looks so much like her mother, it pains him. So many memories. So much hurt.