The Winter Children Read online

  She hugs him again. ‘I love you, Dan, and I know you’re going to be a great father.’

  ‘I love you too, sweetheart.’ He holds her tight. ‘And you’re going to be an amazing mother, just like you’re an amazing person all round.’

  ‘I can’t wait to meet our baby,’ she says. ‘I wonder what it will be like.’

  He kisses her softly and says, ‘Time will tell.’

  Chapter Two

  Francesca sits in front of her dressing room table, smoothing cream into her face. The small white pot contains an ordinary-looking white substance that costs hundreds of dollars and promises miraculous results. This one she bought in duty-free on her way back from skiing in Colorado, so she feels she deserves it. Whether it works is another matter. But then, as Dr Schruber also tends her skin at vast cost – lasering, peeling, refining and filling, blasting it with oxygen – it’s hard to know exactly which of her many treatments has what effect.

  Who cares? she thinks, examining herself in the bright light that illuminates her face so that she can apply make-up perfectly. I deserve it all.

  This is her consolation. After all, she sits here in this huge house alone. Years ago, just as her life was on the point of collapsing, she escaped London and came here to be with Walt, and become a wife and mother. Her legal career, forecast to be so stellar, was abandoned, and she became one of those charity wives, endlessly involved in fundraising, arranging glittering galas and expensive balls or auctions where rich people donated things that other rich people didn’t mind paying over the odds for in the name of giving: cases of wine; use of a yacht; shooting on an estate somewhere; exclusive access to a chalet; a flight on a private plane. There was always a worthy cause to be concerned about, and always the pressure to be doing something to help. What with the charity work and the organising of family life – running the home, coordinating the children’s schedules, arranging holidays – she’s felt endlessly busy for years, absorbed in the bubble of life in Geneva. But now she wonders if it’s been an illusion, designed to stop her realising that she made a mistake giving up her chance of a real career. Walt has always told her that she ought to go back but she’s sure she’s missed her chance, and besides, she is someone else now.

  Francesca picks up a brush and starts pulling it through her damp hair. The house is so eerily quiet. Not that she could hear anything from downstairs, even if she wanted. Perhaps Marie-Chantelle, the housekeeper, is bitching to the maid, or maybe the gardener has come in to grumble while he drinks her expensive coffee and eats the Fortnum & Mason biscuits she has flown over. She has no idea what his gripes might be, but it’s possible. She imagines herself padding down the carpeted stairs, going through the vast, smooth-hinged doors on her way to the kitchen, and then entering its sparkling whiteness touched by the gleam of chrome appliances. They would turn to her, instantly deferential, quickly returning to their work. They would melt away, the silence would descend and she’d be as alone down there as she is up here.

  Alone is her regular state now. Walt has always worked all hours. The children have always been rigorously scheduled. But ever since they went away to their very expensive Swiss boarding school, she’s had the most curious sense of disassociation from them. They came home from their last holidays, chattering in French and German, languages she can understand but without natural fluency, and they seemed different somehow. She looked at them and thought, Are these people really my children? They dressed in the way of rich Europeans: in low-key but expensive good taste. Fred had a red jumper slung over the shoulders of his white shirt and wore perfectly pressed chinos and Gucci loafers, with not a hair out of place. He greeted her almost formally, his ‘Hello, Mama’ subtly accented with an American twang.

  He’s not even fourteen years old, she thought in astonishment.

  At fourteen, Francesca didn’t have a tenth of his self-possession. She veered between exuberant extrovert and withdrawn wallflower, painfully conscious of her developing body, her adolescent skin, her long lank hair. And her clothes came from the high street, her attempts at fashion furnished by cheap miniskirts, baggy jumpers, black biker boots and lots of eye make-up when she could get away with it.

  And then there’s Olympia.

  Almost twelve, but polished and sophisticated, Olympia was glued to her expensive phone. She wore make-up, discreet and perfectly applied, nothing garish or too old for her: eye liner, mascara, a hint of blush and rosy lip gloss. Her fair hair hung in shiny sheets, pinned back with velvet-covered clips. Pearls glowed in her earlobes and she wore neat silk blouses, tight skirts, cashmere cardigans, and ballet slippers. Across her chest she’d slung a mini purse from Fendi. It held that phone, a credit card and lip gloss, and every few minutes, she held up her phone, took a picture of herself and sent it to her social media accounts with a buzzy comment underneath. ‘Home for the hols, people! Looking forward to some r and r. Enjoy yours.’

  Little glossy strangers.

  She’s amazed that she had a hand in creating them. She was so busy making herself into the new, shiny, polished Francesca – a world away from nervous, plain Cheska with her fringe and her hunched shoulders – that it never occurred to her she’d breed people like her creation and not like herself.

  She leans forward to examine her skin even more closely. It’s become her obsession. She judges every day by the words that are now engraved in her mind. Dewy. Glowing. Clear. Fresh. Youthful. She follows her routines religiously, cleaning, massaging, toning, applying serums, moisturisers, creams, brighteners, concealers . . . Then, only last week, she read an article in a magazine that said skin was better off without any treatments at all. That all those creams and oils clogged the pores and sped up the ageing process. ‘Think of children,’ the article said. ‘They do nothing to their skin. And look at it!’

  For a chilling moment, she felt as though all her work had been in vain, perhaps had even been having the reverse effect. Then she thought, What rubbish. Children have perfect skin because they’re young. It all changes when they become teenagers, doesn’t it? Besides . . . She called to mind all the rich celebrities successfully holding back the ravages of time, as opposed to the ordinary women she saw on the streets. It was obvious that money and a good dermatologist got results. She would go on, she would persevere. What was the alternative? Accept the decay, the growing decrepitude? Begin to look old, tired, dull? Never. It has taken half her life to get here, to get to this place and become this person. She isn’t going to relinquish all she has achieved. Not now. But sometimes she has the slightly panicky feeling that she’s been heading in the wrong direction all this time, and that she hasn’t properly lived yet; the sense that she still hasn’t worked out if the choices she made were wrong or right. She feels she needs more time. She has to keep her options open.

  But now this amazing thing has happened. She still cannot quite believe it; it’s all still sinking in. But a door has opened up into a world of new possibilities.

  She picks up a tube of tinted cream and prepares to anoint herself with it.

  Maybe it’s not going to be so lonely after all.

  Walt sits across the table from her. It’s a white table, and she rather hates it, but the interior designer insisted. It was that or glass, which would have been worse. Still, whenever she eats here, part of her mind is thinking how much she detests this round white table. But the alternative of sitting in the dining room at the great polished mahogany table, an eighteenth-century antique set beneath a vast crystal chandelier, would have been stupid with just the two of them.

  Walt is hunched over his plate, shovelling food into his mouth as though he hasn’t eaten all day. She picks at the steamed fish and salad on her plate, aware of a small jet of anger in her chest, like the blast of hot air from a vent. Walt has a paunch that’s growing by the year, and his skin is tough and etched with lines and creases like a rhinoceros hide. Wiry grey hairs have started to sprout out of his nose and ears and eyebrows, although his barber deals w
ith them when they get too visible. His hair is metal-coloured and thin over his scalp. No one cares. No one judges him. If he looks all of sixty-three, good for him. He never has to obsess the way she does. No wonder he’s got time to continue building his fortune when it’s all he really has to think about.

  ‘So, honey,’ Walt says, looking up from his plate. ‘What’s the news, huh? What’s happening with you?’

  ‘Well . . .’ She considers. She could tell him details from her day but they would bore him. They bore her to remember them. ‘I’m working hard on the Red Cross ball.’

  She knows this will be enough to satisfy him. He doesn’t want to hear about tables, caterers, decorators or DJs.

  He nods. ‘Uh huh. That’s great.’

  He sounds as American as the day they met, even though he hasn’t lived in the States for forty years. He was set in stone from the day he turned eighteen. If she met the young Walt, she knows he would be almost exactly the same. A little less pampered maybe – less familiar with the taste of caviar and fine champagne, less accustomed to Savile Row suits and handmade shoes – but still the same. Francesca finds it hard to understand. She hasn’t stopped changing, all her life. She’s always been alert to people around her, absorbing their ways, copying them, subtly changing her dress and voice to make sure she blends in as expertly as possible. Eighteen-year-old Francesca went to university equipped with the clothes she thought glamorous: tarty dresses, high heels, Topshop jeans and acrylic jumpers, suede ankle boots. She replaced them all within a term, even though it meant having to take a secret waitressing job in a rubbishy restaurant on the ring road, where she knew no students would ever come, in order to buy the lambswool cardigans, printed skirts and shiny penny loafers that would mark her out as belonging to the right set.

  By the time she met Walt, she’d graduated to tailored suits, high heels, bags that were subtle designer knock-offs, hopeful that her legal career would enable her to afford the real thing. She has never stopped learning, working to fit in. She never escaped the feeling that nothing came naturally to her.

  ‘How was London?’ he asks through a mouthful of lobster lasagne.

  She remembers that she hasn’t seen him since her last trip. They all blur into one now, it’s so normal to board the short flight and then be driven from Heathrow to their London flat. She can spend one or two days there and return before Walt has even noticed she’s gone. Now that the children are away for weeks at a time, she has no one to answer to.

  ‘It was great, thanks.’

  ‘Who did you see?’

  She considers, and then says brightly, ‘I saw Olivia.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Walt looks up. He likes Olivia. Francesca suspects he’s attracted to her blonde wholesomeness, her frankness, the way she seems so unselfconscious. Olivia always moves with careless determination. Francesca has watched as she floats about the kitchen, chatting, precise yet casual, conjuring up a glorious meal while appearing to do nothing much. ‘How is she?’

  Francesca remembers her meeting with Olivia. She had hoped to see Dan but he wasn’t around – working probably. She has been desperate to see him ever since their Spanish expedition but he’s proved elusive. ‘She’s fine.’ There’s a long pause. She considers while she eats a mouthful of salad. When it’s gone, she says, ‘Actually, she’s pregnant.’

  The words sound natural enough but she feels a fizzy, almost sickening thrill as she says them. No one could possibly guess the implications and she is sure it would never occur to Walt to suspect her involvement, but she wonders if there is any hint on her face that betrays her, or a light in her eyes that tells the truth.

  Walt looks up at her, surprise on his leathery face. He doesn’t appear to notice anything at all. ‘Really? I thought that was a no-go.’

  Francesca gazes at her plate, unable to meet his eye. ‘Oh . . . no. I mean . . . it’s taken time. They decided to have one more roll of the dice on the IVF, and it’s worked. So far.’

  Her secret glee is tempered by a nasty jealousy that cuts through her. No matter where the eggs came from, Olivia is growing Dan’s babies inside her, feeling that fecundity as the body expands with life. And her skin and hair. The wrinkles fill, the hair grows thick and lustrous. Youth, for a short while, returns.

  Walt sits back in his chair. ‘Well, that’s great news! When is the baby due?’

  ‘Babies. Twins. They implanted quite a few eggs. Two have taken. And they’re due in January.’

  Walt smiles, apparently pleased by this news. ‘I’ll have some flowers sent. Well done, them. Although . . .’ He makes a face. ‘I don’t envy them having babies at their age. How old is she? Same age as you?’

  ‘Older,’ Francesca says a little stiffly. She doesn’t think about her age now, now she’s on the cusp of forty. ‘She’s forty-three, or forty-four.’ That could be right. She errs on the side of overestimating.

  ‘Gee. They’re going to be knocked out. Remember what it was like, honey?’ He grins over at her, shaking his head, evidently enjoying the shared memory.

  She says nothing for a moment, thinking how very little Walt’s life was disturbed by the arrivals of Frederick and Olympia. ‘Well, yes . . . I feel rather sorry for them. I don’t think they’ll be able to afford a nanny and it is so incredibly exhausting,’ she remarks, wondering if he’ll pick up on her meaning and congratulate her on her achievement in raising their children.

  ‘Olivia won’t want a nanny,’ he says dismissively. ‘She’ll want to do it all herself, if I know her.’

  Fury races through Francesca. He’s rebuking me. Of course she’s always perfect. The fact I brought our children up without ever bothering him counts for nothing. I needed the bloody nannies, considering he never lifted a finger. She damps down her anger. She’s used to these surges burning through her, and then dousing them by force of will. But it is exhausting.

  ‘We’ll see them next time we’re over,’ Walt says with decision. ‘I wanna congratulate them.’

  ‘When are we going over?’ She’s alert. There’s nothing in her mental calendar. Has she forgotten something?

  ‘We’re going to see Renniston, remember?’

  The anger is back, sizzling through her, cutting and burning. She breathes out slowly. ‘Why are you seeing that place? You’re not serious about it, are you?’

  ‘Sure I am. It’s a dream, honey, you know that.’

  ‘It’s a white elephant!’

  ‘I guess you know what that means, but to me, this is a very special opportunity.’

  She sighs. On a plane to one of his many business meetings, Walt saw a documentary film about Renniston Hall, a vast Elizabethan house that had been a private home, then a school, and then left to decay. A society dedicated to historic preservation bought it, did some emergency remedial work and is now offering the place for sale to a private owner, on condition that the restoration of the once magnificent house is completed. Walt has been hankering after some kind of English country house for years. Fired up by the film, with its lingering shots on honey-coloured walls, battlements, mullioned windows and ornate crested fireplaces, he has decided this is it.

  ‘You don’t need a place like that,’ she says, trying to sound calm. ‘It’s a money pit. And it’s going to take years to make it habitable. Why not buy something that’s finished? We can redecorate in a matter of months. There are dozens of beautiful houses, closer to London as well.’

  Walt eyes her stubbornly. ‘But they don’t have history like this one. Queen Elizabeth the First stayed there, for chrissakes! It’s the real deal, Frankie. It’s the closest thing to a palace that’ll ever be for sale in your country, unless they decide to sell Hampton Court! Don’t you want a palace?’

  She purses her lips. Of course she does. The thought of returning to Britain to a grand house, showing everyone exactly how far she’s come, is tempting. But the work involved . . . it will be a lot more than choosing fabric and light fittings, and she knows who will be doing it. It wo
n’t be Walt. And the heritage people will be all over it. Every detail will be fought and discussed, there’ll be endless applications to file, contractors to employ, permissions to seek. Walt won’t understand why he can’t do as he desires in his own property. He won’t fathom why people in bad suits with clipboards dictate whether he can have an en-suite bathroom or not, or tell him that he’s required to employ specialist craftsmen for every aspect of the refurbishment. She says, ‘A palace sounds very nice, but didn’t you say that part of the sale condition is that you have to let the public in?’

  ‘Only for fifty days a year.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s nothing.’

  She stares at him. Walt does not usually have time for the public. He’s not been on a bus since he was a teenager. His life is carefully segregated from ordinary people: he travels in chauffeur-driven cars, sits in VIP lounges, is ushered into first class. Does he really understand what it means to allow the public access to his house?

  ‘I think it’s a mistake, when you could have something much more manageable, with bags of history too if that’s what you want.’

  Walt smiles. ‘We’re just going to see it, honey. Keep an open mind. That’s all I ask.’

  Francesca taps the tines of her fork on her china plate, the little twangs reflecting the strain in her mind. She knows that the great, decaying mansion is about to collide with her life. She tells herself to stay calm.

  Well, I might not be able to stop him buying that ridiculous place, but I’m going to get rid of this bloody table if it’s the last thing I do.

  Chapter Three

  Olivia feels like a well-fed python, her body bulging out around its heavy contents. Every move is slow, sluggish and difficult. Her feet are swollen and her knees ache. Her face is huge, too.

  No one ever said that. They never said my face would get fat.

  The change in her body is more disconcerting than she’d imagined. She hasn’t altered physically since she reached adulthood, bar putting on the odd pound or two after holidays and Christmas, usually taken off without much trouble. She’s watched her friends metamorphose over the years, as they started their families. Pregnancy and parenthood transformed them, making them . . . well . . . fat. And old. Some lost weight, but never quite shed the look of a deflated balloon. None ever regained their fresh, shiny, well-rested youthfulness.