I opened my mouth then closed it again, nervous to speak in case I got the answer wrong. ‘A career is more intense. It requires more skill than a job.’ I sighed. ‘I suppose I’ve never considered myself intelligent enough to have a career. Up until I met Ethan, I was just a PA. Elodie is the bright one. I didn’t go to university.’
Harriet scribbled another note. ‘You can be bright without having gone to university.’ She paused, letting that sink in. Then, out of the blue she asked, ‘Do you think you’d make a good mother?’
‘No.’ It was honest. I think I am too critical, too detached, too much of a perfectionist to be a good mother. Maybe you agree, Elodie. Maybe you don’t. How will I ever know if we don’t find you? ‘My sister would make a good parent. She’s always been more nurturing than me. Warmer. Grandad told me once if we’re different parts of the same flower, Elodie would be the petals and I’d be the thorns.’
Harriett was silent and thoughtful. ‘Are you afraid of failure?’
‘Isn’t everyone?’
‘If you don’t try, you’ll never succeed.’
‘But if you’re a bad mother, it’s not like you can return the child. It’s not a dress from Whistles.’
I could’ve sworn Harriett was suppressing a smile. ‘No, a child is not like a dress from Whistles.’
‘I’ll have to get over it, I suppose, because I don’t want to live the rest of my life feeling like I’ve let my parents down.’ I picked at imaginary threads on the hem of my silk shirt. ‘I did everything right. I got the husband, the house, the car, the fucking marble countertops in the kitchen. I got everything my parents told me I needed to be happy.’ Emotion throbbed in my chest and I felt on the brink of tears again. ‘What’s wrong with me? I should be happy. Ethan is a good man; why aren’t I happy?’
‘We can’t live our lives for other people,’ she said rationally. ‘Do you think your parents would want you to have a child just to make them happy or do you think they would take greater satisfaction in seeing you do things that make you happy?’
‘They’d want to see me do things that make me happy, I suppose.’
I wasn’t sure if this was true. After you graduated and moved to London, our parents raved about you to anyone who’d listen. Then you gave it all up. And they became obsessed with you finding a husband, a house, a career they could tell their friends about. They knew writing your book made you happy, but they wanted you to play it safe. I must admit, I was a little smug when you quit your job and moved home because the focus was finally on me. Spiteful and petty, I know. It’s as though our parents have put us in a race, they’re the people at the start-line, firing the gun. ‘But I could turn my whole life upside down doing things that I think would make me happy only to discover I was better off before.’
Harriett shrugged. ‘That’s the risk we all take when we make changes.’
‘I’m scared,’ I admitted. ‘I’m scared to change anything in my life in case I end up worse off. Perhaps I’ve been using my parents’ expectations as an excuse to make safe decisions. Perhaps now, especially now, they wouldn’t care if I was childless and single as long as I was happy. Perhaps it doesn’t even matter what they think as long as I’m happy with my life.’
Harriett gave me a look that told me I’d finally made it to the gingerbread house of revelations. ‘You’re a lot brighter than you think, Ada.’
Chapter Thirty
34 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
The storm is here.
Jack and I are in the attic room at the very top of the house. It’s gabled and angular. There’s a big cast-iron bed and antique drawers, and a reading nook complete with a dark green velvet armchair and large gold lamp, switched off. The only light is from the candles on the sideboard, flickering golden in the dark. Above our heads are solid wooden beams. I reach up and run my finger along one, remembering a time when I stood in this exact spot, too small to do so. Jack stands in front of the big French doors that lead out onto a tiny balcony. I go to him and stare out at the ink-black sky above and the raging sea below; it thrashes against the rocks with wild fists.
Jack is excited. Breathless. And when he glances at me, I’m sure my eyes are glimmering too. As a little girl, I always embraced wet days. Ada would stare sulkily out the window, but I would have my wellies and raincoat on and out I’d go; puddle-jumping and twirling, mouth open wide and head thrown back to catch droplets on my tongue. I thought I’d always dance in the rain alone. Until Jack.