bit of time,’ she said. ‘He’ll be back to normal
soon.’
That night in bed she hooked a leg over Spencer’s and rolled closer to him, hoping that some wifely love might go a little way to soothe his tortured mood. Yet for the first time ever in
the history of their relationship he shuffled away, muttering that he had a terrible headache. She lay there stunned, unable to believe her ears. Usually she only had to raise an eyebrow at her
husband for him to leap on her with lusty enthusiasm. Through illness, hangovers, broken nights’ sleep when the children were tiny, he’d never once turned her down.
‘It
will
get better, Spence,’ she whispered into the darkness, feeling desperately sorry for him. ‘I promise it will.’
But no answer came. And the words seemed to echo around her head, as if mocking her naivety.
Gemma felt conflicted about leaving Spencer the following Monday to go and have lunch with her dad, as was their custom, but her mother-in-law came over instead and she knew
he’d be waited on hand and foot in her absence. Besides, she was dying for a big old squeeze from her dad. The two of them had always been close, but even more so after Karen, Gemma’s
mum, flaked out and left the family for Carlos, the Ibizan waiter she’d fallen for on holiday, back when Gemma was eight.
Left to bring up his daughter and three sons single-handedly, Barry Pepper had valiantly done everything in his capacity to fill the space of two parents. He’d mastered the vagaries of the
washing machine and the never-ending filthy sports kits; he’d shepherded them all to school on time, in just about the right uniform; he’d learned to cook from scratch; bought a bouncy
Labrador, Sultan (‘Sultan Pepper, it’s a joke – do you get it?’); and even mastered an epic roast dinner by the time the first Christmas came round. Of course Gemma missed
her mum – who drifted back to the UK periodically with an enviable tan and new tattoos – especially when it came to embarrassing things like needing a bra and her first period, but
Barry coped admirably, roping in his sister Jan whenever womanly advice was required. As for boyfriends, when Gemma started dating and bringing boys back home, having three big brothers and an
over-protective father in the police force didn’t half sort the wheat from the chaff.
Her dad still lived in Stowmarket, where he’d been a policeman for years until a knee injury forced him into early retirement. Now he was his own boss, working as a double-glazing fitter,
and he and Gemma had got into the very nice habit of having lunch every Monday. They would go to the pub together – always the same table in The White Horse – and eat pie and chips, her
with a Coke, him with half a bitter, and catch up on the world. Gemma would do anything for her dad, and vice versa.
It wasn’t until she rang the doorbell of 93 Partington Road, the house she’d grown up in, that she was struck by the feeling that something looked different. After closer
consideration, she realized that the living-room windows had been cleaned – a rare enough occurrence for this to be instantly noticeable – and the small front garden had been smartened
up, too, so that the dustbin was now tidily in one corner rather than blocking the path. There was also an ornamental blue pot of winter pansies beside the door.
Gemma stared at those winter pansies suspiciously. Her dad’s taste in plants was for wild and rangy specimens – big bristling shrubs, sweet peas romping up a bamboo wigwam, blowsy
scented red roses with velvety petals. He was not a man who would ever have voluntarily bought a pot of prissy winter pansies, let alone display it proudly outside his own home. So where had it
come from?
‘Gems! Hello, my love, come in,’ he said, answering the door just then. Barry Pepper was tubby and balding these days, more Danny DeVito than Ryan Gosling, but had the kindest face
of anyone she knew, and gave
soon.’
That night in bed she hooked a leg over Spencer’s and rolled closer to him, hoping that some wifely love might go a little way to soothe his tortured mood. Yet for the first time ever in
the history of their relationship he shuffled away, muttering that he had a terrible headache. She lay there stunned, unable to believe her ears. Usually she only had to raise an eyebrow at her
husband for him to leap on her with lusty enthusiasm. Through illness, hangovers, broken nights’ sleep when the children were tiny, he’d never once turned her down.
‘It
will
get better, Spence,’ she whispered into the darkness, feeling desperately sorry for him. ‘I promise it will.’
But no answer came. And the words seemed to echo around her head, as if mocking her naivety.
Gemma felt conflicted about leaving Spencer the following Monday to go and have lunch with her dad, as was their custom, but her mother-in-law came over instead and she knew
he’d be waited on hand and foot in her absence. Besides, she was dying for a big old squeeze from her dad. The two of them had always been close, but even more so after Karen, Gemma’s
mum, flaked out and left the family for Carlos, the Ibizan waiter she’d fallen for on holiday, back when Gemma was eight.
Left to bring up his daughter and three sons single-handedly, Barry Pepper had valiantly done everything in his capacity to fill the space of two parents. He’d mastered the vagaries of the
washing machine and the never-ending filthy sports kits; he’d shepherded them all to school on time, in just about the right uniform; he’d learned to cook from scratch; bought a bouncy
Labrador, Sultan (‘Sultan Pepper, it’s a joke – do you get it?’); and even mastered an epic roast dinner by the time the first Christmas came round. Of course Gemma missed
her mum – who drifted back to the UK periodically with an enviable tan and new tattoos – especially when it came to embarrassing things like needing a bra and her first period, but
Barry coped admirably, roping in his sister Jan whenever womanly advice was required. As for boyfriends, when Gemma started dating and bringing boys back home, having three big brothers and an
over-protective father in the police force didn’t half sort the wheat from the chaff.
Her dad still lived in Stowmarket, where he’d been a policeman for years until a knee injury forced him into early retirement. Now he was his own boss, working as a double-glazing fitter,
and he and Gemma had got into the very nice habit of having lunch every Monday. They would go to the pub together – always the same table in The White Horse – and eat pie and chips, her
with a Coke, him with half a bitter, and catch up on the world. Gemma would do anything for her dad, and vice versa.
It wasn’t until she rang the doorbell of 93 Partington Road, the house she’d grown up in, that she was struck by the feeling that something looked different. After closer
consideration, she realized that the living-room windows had been cleaned – a rare enough occurrence for this to be instantly noticeable – and the small front garden had been smartened
up, too, so that the dustbin was now tidily in one corner rather than blocking the path. There was also an ornamental blue pot of winter pansies beside the door.
Gemma stared at those winter pansies suspiciously. Her dad’s taste in plants was for wild and rangy specimens – big bristling shrubs, sweet peas romping up a bamboo wigwam, blowsy
scented red roses with velvety petals. He was not a man who would ever have voluntarily bought a pot of prissy winter pansies, let alone display it proudly outside his own home. So where had it
come from?
‘Gems! Hello, my love, come in,’ he said, answering the door just then. Barry Pepper was tubby and balding these days, more Danny DeVito than Ryan Gosling, but had the kindest face
of anyone she knew, and gave
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