Falling Page 2

  There had been a tremendous expectation for the life Emma was supposed to have led, at least from her parents. And she had tried to fit into the life they had designed for her. Namely, to work at a pretend job for a few years to enable her to meet the right kind of husband, before quickly getting pregnant, giving up work, and going on to raise three or four beautiful children in a lovely stone manse in Somerset. Preferably near her parents. Have a couple of dogs, Gordon setters or pointers, possibly golden retrievers; have lots of local women friends who come for coffee. Get involved in the village fair and perhaps, given her love of books, institute a reading mentoring program in the less well-off town twenty minutes away.

  Emma knew the path well, as it was the path so many of her childhood friends had taken. At thirty-seven, she is the only one still unmarried, apart from Imogen Cutliffe, who is one of the leading lights of British screen and stage and about to star as the lead in a film starring Bradley Cooper. Emma is the only one who continued to work and rise up the corporate ladder, putting all her focus on making money. It wasn’t that she cared about money for the sake of money, but that it was the only path out: making enough money to retire from banking in her thirties, and the freedom to pursue her dream. If she could figure out what her dream was.

  She hadn’t known her life was going to turn out like this. For a long time she imagined she would indeed follow the path her parents expected of her. She dated Rufus Fairfax for years throughout her twenties, not because she loved him, but because her parents loved him and he seemed to check all the right boxes. He was a banker in the firm where she worked, he was handsome (although he had not an ounce of sex appeal, as far as she was concerned), and he was of the right stock. Clever, but not very funny; in fact, he was achingly dull. But they looked so good together! They seemed to fit so perfectly together that everyone assumed they would get married from the moment they started going out. And Emma had presumed everyone was right, that everyone knew something she did not, and she was the one who must have been wrong.

  She determined to make it work. She and Rufus spent their weekdays in London, both of them burning the candle at both ends, and their weekends in the country, usually staying with friends in crumbling old piles that were impossibly drafty, with terrible food and lots of drink to distract from the fact that everyone was freezing cold and permanently starving.

  Rufus had a huge group of friends from boarding school that Emma always found rather awful. They were shockingly loud, and arrogant, fueled by absurdly expensive bottles of wine that they ordered in restaurants to prove they could afford them. They shouted inside jokes from when they were all thirteen, their wives and girlfriends sitting with smiles plastered on their faces, pretending to be amused.

  Emma started leaving these evenings early, claiming headaches and making her way up to bed during those country weekends, earplugs tucked into her overnight bag to help her sleep through the inevitable banging and shouting in the early hours of the morning when the party eventually broke up.

  None of this fazed Rufus, who proposed to her four times. The first time, he did so after a romantic dinner at Hakkasan, gazing at her over the course of the evening with a hopeful kind of love that Emma found slightly discomfiting. Each time, Emma said she just wasn’t quite ready. Eventually, five years ago, Rufus issued an ultimatum: If she wouldn’t marry him, he would find someone else who would, and with a great dramatic flounce, he packed up his things and left their Kensington flat. Emma knew he thought she would beg him to come back within a week or so, but from the minute he was gone, she felt nothing other than tremendous relief.

  She had been playing the part of adoring girlfriend, probably—hopefully—soon-to-be wife, for so long that she had forgotten how liberating it was to simply be herself. She saw girlfriends from university she hadn’t seen for ages because Rufus disapproved of their drinking (“Darling, there’s nothing quite so ghastly as a woman publicly drunk”). She got into bed at seven thirty P.M. with hummus and chips for dinner, and spent hours watching terrible reality television that Rufus would never have condoned.

  She was happy, and happier still when she was called in to her superior’s office and asked if she would consider taking up a position with the bank in New York. They were starting a new private wealth management operation, specifically for English expatriates living on the East Coast of the United States, and they needed someone to head client relations.

  They would put together a package, they said. All moving expenses would be paid. She would be set up in an apartment, and there would be a healthy relocation allowance. They offered all of this as if to sweeten the deal, as if Emma weren’t using everything she had, sitting in her office in her oh-so-staid black Givenchy skirt and Manolo Blahnik d’Orsay heels (the perfect combination of elegant and sexy), not to break out in a scream of joy and twirl around the room, punching the air and whooping in a mad happy dance.

  It was the fresh start she had been longing for, and better yet, in New York! The place she had always imagined living! Well, perhaps not quite New York City. She preferred to see herself in rural Vermont, or Maine, but at least it was across the pond, and she would get a green card, and at some point surely, surely, she’d make it out of the city and into the farmhouse of her dreams.

  • • •

  This is not the farmhouse of her dreams. This isn’t even the beach cottage of her dreams. But it could be. With just a little bit of work, if her oddly welcoming landlord acquiesced, she could transform this into something, if not quite magnificent, at least beachy, and airy, and filled with charm.

  They walk back through the house, Emma trying to see through the wallpaper, the linoleum, the salmon-pink flat shag-pile carpet, as the landlord shows her out.

  “It was great to meet you, Emma,” he says, meeting her gaze with a friendly smile and shaking her hand with a grip so firm she crumples slightly before flexing her fingers.

  “Ouch!” she says, laughing.

  “I’m so sorry!” he says, clearly mortified.

  “It’s fine.” She smiles. What a friendly man he is. “I wasn’t expecting that, is all.”

  “I’m Italian,” he says, by way of explanation, which makes no sense to Emma whatsoever. “My family is known for its handshakes.”

  “Really?” She peers at him.

  “No. I’ll work on it. Do you want to think about the house and let me know when you’ve made a decision?”

  “That sounds great,” she says, wishing she could remember his name.

  “Dominic,” he says, as if reading her mind.

  “Dominic,” she says confidently, as if she had remembered all the time. “Thank you so much. I’ll be in touch.”

  • • •

  “I can’t believe you didn’t invite me!” Sophie walks back into the kitchen, having put her soon-to-be two-year-old down for a nap. “I would have loved to see it. Which house is it again?”

  “The gray one with the overgrown garden?” says Emma, scooping up a handful of Goldfish crackers from the bowl Sophie’s son, Jackson, hadn’t touched. “On Compo. About four in. Maybe six. I don’t know. Close to the end of the road.”

  “But it was awful?”

  “It wasn’t awful. It’s just that it wasn’t great. But I’ve looked at everything online, and if I want something great it’s going to cost me at least twice as much. It seems ridiculous to pay so much money on rent, especially since I don’t know what I’m going to be doing or where I’m going to land. I’d much rather be frugal, or at least moderately frugal, and rent something I can turn into my own.” She sighs. “If he doesn’t let me change the inside I’ll just do it and say I’m sorry afterwards. At least we’ve established that he’s definitely fine with me putting a garden in. And I could put a gorgeous garden in.”

  “That won’t help you much in winter.”

  “No, but it will give me something to look forward to. An
d can we not talk about winter yet? It’s June, for heaven’s sake. The last thing I want to think about is snow.”

  Sophie shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to be moving out here!” She grins suddenly. “This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Apart from marrying Rob and having Jackson, you mean?”

  “Well, yes. Apart from that. But it will be just like old times when we worked together. We can hang out every day. Imagine if we could get Hilary Trader to come and live here, too. God, we’d have fun. We’re going to have fun anyway, even if it’s just you and me. Do you need a second opinion about the house? Because I’m really happy to go see it if you need me to.”

  “Oh, you’re sweet,” says Emma, blanching in horror at the thought of her friend, in her immaculate, brand-new, pseudo-modern farmhouse, every wall horizontally planked with perfect high-gloss white wood, her kitchen a panorama of white marble and gray cabinets, every chandelier hanging from the ten-foot ceilings a perfect cluster of crystal globes dripping from polished nickel fixtures, walking into the grimy little cottage by the beach.

  “You would hate it,” Emma says. “You would think it the most disgusting house you have ever seen.”

  Sophie looks offended. “Why would you say that? Just because I live in a new house doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate older homes.”

  “Darling, this house isn’t just old, it’s dead. I have huge plans for it if I decide to take it, and I’m not even sure about that. But I honestly don’t think, even you, with your glorious taste, would be able to see through the brown flowery wallpaper and threadbare salmon carpet.”

  Sophie wrinkles her pretty little nose. “That sounds gross.”

  Emma laughs. “It is. But all that can be changed. I’m going to see a couple more rentals later this afternoon and, hopefully, by the end of the day, I will have made a decision.”

  TWO

  Her phone rings just as Emma has put the last box down in the living room of her new home. She sighs looking at the screen, ready to divert it to voice mail. But she can’t actually divert it, for her mother knows that if she gets voice mail after less than about seven rings, it is because Emma is choosing not to answer the phone. She silences the ringer instead.

  The last person Emma wants to talk to is her mother. The last person Emma ever wants to talk to is her mother. But it’s been a while, and better to get it out of the way, do her good deed for the day.

  She thinks about Sophie, whose mother, Teddy (short for Theodora), lives in Westport and is as close to Sophie as a sister. Sophie always says she doesn’t need a lot of friends, although she does in fact have tons of friends, most of whom she has known her entire life. She says this because her mother is her best friend, and Emma always smiles and says how lucky she is, not understanding how such a thing is possible.

  The thought of her mother, Georgina Montague (born Georgia but changed to Georgina shortly after realizing her newly embarked relationship with Simon Montague was serious), being her best friend is nothing short of hilarious.

  Emma has never felt particularly comfortable around her mother. In fact, she finds herself shrinking into corners to allow her mother to take center stage. She has always been aware that with her quieter personality and her occasional need for solitude, she is a source of both bewilderment and irritation to her mother. Her mother wants to be closer, too, she knows, wishing for the kind of daughter who goes shopping with her, accompanies her to fund-raisers, and provides her with the grandchildren she so desperately wants.

  In many ways, moving across the Atlantic was the best thing for Emma and her mother. They don’t have much in common, and their different personalities often result in Georgina unwittingly belittling Emma. Her barbs seem to be couched in tremendous good humor, or so it appears, unless you are paying the closest of attention.

  Their relationship was better while Emma was with Rufus. Emma’s parents adored Rufus, naturally, and still haven’t quite gotten over the fact that Emma broke up the relationship. Rufus married the next little blond thing to come along, eight months after he and Emma broke up. Emma was stunned when her parents were invited to the wedding.

  She presumed they wouldn’t go, but they did, declaring it a high old time, with excellent grub and a darling bride who couldn’t wait to start making babies with good old Rufus, who seemed over the moon.

  Emma did what she always did when her parents unknowingly offended or upset her. She said good-bye as if nothing was wrong, then took a break from them. In the past, those breaks had sometimes lasted for six months or more. But they didn’t notice. Her mother left numerous messages, not seeming to realize that anything was wrong, or perhaps hoping that if she pretended nothing was wrong it might entice her daughter back.

  The hurt would heal—it always did—and Emma would eventually get back in touch, and there would be no mention of her going AWOL for six months, or however long it took to nurse her wounded feelings. Her mother cheerfully blundered through life, never noticing the bombs she threw around her (for Emma was not the only one to find her overbearing and insensitive), cheerfully carrying on as if life was peachy.

  “Hi, Mum.”

  “Hello, darling!” booms her mother’s voice over the phone. “Just checking in with you. Isn’t the big moving day coming up? Daddy and I were wondering if you needed help. It’s a bit busy over here with all the summer festivals coming up, and you know how Daddy likes to enter his vegetables in the village fete, but we could absolutely jump on a plane if you need us. It’s very hard moving on your own, though I know you’ve done it before, darling. But you were in your twenties then, and I don’t want you to put your back out. Plus I’m terribly good at organizing, as you know, and I’m worried that you have no one to help you.”

  In the room filled with nothing but boxes, Emma shakes her head. Her mother will take any opportunity to point out her single status. It used to upset her, but she has learned to let the comments wash over her head.

  “It’s fine, Mum,” says Emma, knowing how much her mother hates being called Mum, infinitely preferring what she sees as the far more palatable Mummy.

  “I changed the date of the move, so I’m already in my new place, actually,” she says, looking around the room defeatedly at the number of boxes. It’s not as if she were downsizing. She had lived relatively anonymously in her apartment in Battery Park, a small one-bedroom that she had always thought of as pleasantly minimalist.

  She’d had no idea that her books would take up so many boxes. Nor her artwork, now stacked in three piles against the wall. Where did all this stuff come from?

  Dominic had had the dreadful salmon carpet professionally cleaned, and had regrouted the bathroom. The new bright-white grouting did little to help the avocado-green tile, but at least Emma thought she could bear to step into the shower.

  After looking at other far more lovely, but pricier options in neighboring towns, her only choice if she wanted to stay both solvent and by the beach, was this one. She had phoned Dominic the next day to confirm. He sounded delighted, that unusual sincerity in his voice again—but on the other hand, who wouldn’t be delighted with one quiet tenant with lots of books and no dogs? Two weeks later, she was preparing to head out, having given up her sparkling New York City apartment for . . . this.

  “Darling! You should have said! How is the new place? Is it gorgeous? Do you love it?”

  Emma suppresses a snort. “Not exactly. I think the best way to describe it is that it has a tremendous amount of potential.”

  “That sounds like a perfect project for you,” says Georgina. “What can we send you for a housewarming present? What about a lovely teapot? Or a set of bowls? Actually, I have those lovely green bowls from Grandmere”—when had Grandma become Grandmere? Emma thinks wryly—“which would be perfect for a young, well . . . youngish girl on her own. Why don’t I sen
d those?”

  Emma instantly pictures the bowls, a faded green milk glass, possibly pretty once, now scratched and stained after years of use.

  “It’s okay, Mum,” she says. “I don’t need a housewarming present. At least, not yet. Let me get settled, then I’ll let you know what I need.”

  THREE

  A dull thud on the front door makes Emma jump. She can’t imagine who could possibly be visiting her. She puts down a stack of books, eyeing the door nervously. “Hello?” she calls, as her hand hovers over the door handle.

  “Hey,” she hears from outside. “It’s Dominic DiFranco. I wondered if you needed some help.”

  Opening the door, Emma is simultaneously grateful and slightly nervous. Is it normal for the landlord to show up whenever he feels like it? She looks over his shoulder but there is no car in her driveway.

  “Where do you live?” she asks. “Did you walk over here?”

  “It seemed silly to drive,” says Dominic, gesturing to a large red pickup truck in the driveway next door. “Given that I live next door.”

  “You do? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “What if it had freaked you out?” he says.

  “What if it’s freaking me out now?”

  “Is it?”

  “A little.” Emma frowns. This is something he should have mentioned. Surely this is relevant. She knows nothing about him, she realizes, thinking how unbalanced that is.

  “Don’t let it. I inherited both of these houses from my grandparents when they died. They lived in this one, and rented out the one I now live in. I do the opposite. I live next door with my kid, Jesse. It helps to supplement my meager income as bartender-slash-carpenter.”

  “You have a kid? Sweet. How old is he?”