Unlike her husband, Miranda hadn’t wanted to move out of London. The very thought of being farther than a whiff of perfume from Harvey Nichols made her break into a cold sweat. Eating at the local pub rather than at the Ivy or Le Caprice was almost enough to confine her permanently to her own kitchen table. How she missed her Pilates classes in Notting Hill, lunches at the Wolseley with her girlfriends, stopping in at Ralph Lauren for a little self-indulgence before returning home. But they had had no choice. Gus had been kicked out of school for being aggressive, and moving him to a quiet country school seemed the sensible option. He had a whole year to go before they could pack him off to boarding school where the problem of Gus would be taken out of their hands. For Miranda and David Claybourne, one year of Gus’s bad behavior was an incredibly long time.
Oh God, what am I going to do? I really don’t have time for this, she muttered to herself, throwing her cigarette into the wastepaper bin and covering it with a few scrunched-up pieces of newspaper so she wouldn’t be reminded of her lack of willpower. She wished she had hired another nanny instead of insisting she do it all single-handedly. That was the trouble with being a working mother: the guilt. It went in tandem with exhaustion, trying to be everything to everyone while retaining a little for oneself. David had suggested she hire a cook and a gardener, that way she’d have more time to write. Living in the country wasn’t like London where one could order a home delivery of sushi or a Chinese take-away from Mr. Wing; here she had to get in her car and go into town, which required planning. She didn’t have time to plan meals. The only good thing was Mr. Tit the milkman who arrived every morning with the papers and milk in his white van marked with the license plate: cow 1. He made her laugh during the bleakest hour of the day, when it was still dark and damp outside and she was struggling to get the children ready for school. As for the garden, it was a proper garden, not a patio with a few potted plants, but acres and acres of land. It wasn’t so easy to find help in the country. London was full of foreigners begging for work; in Dorset there didn’t seem to be any foreigners at all. It was all so alien and unnerving. She didn’t belong. David had fallen in love with the house on sight because it appealed to his aspirations of grandeur. She had accepted it halfheartedly, longing for Notting Hill and asphalt, slightly guilty for not appreciating such a big house in so idyllic a setting. But what on earth was one to do in the countryside?
As a freelance journalist she was always under pressure. They didn’t need the money: David worked in the City and earned more than most people could spend in a lifetime, but writing was in her blood and she couldn’t have stopped even if she had wanted to. She dreamed of one day writing a novel, a great big love story like Anna Karenina or Gone with the Wind. However, she had yet to come up with a good plot. Until she did, she was stuck with writing articles for magazines and newspapers, which at least fulfilled her need to express herself and gave her a vital foothold in London. Miranda busied herself at her computer so she didn’t have to listen to the small voice of despair whispering inside her head. She put off her chores, hoping they’d go away, that David would admit it had all been a terrible mistake and take them back to where they belonged. After all, the countryside hadn’t changed Gus. But David’s enjoyment of the country rested on the fact that he could return to the city on Sunday and swank about having spent the weekend at his country estate. She was stuck down here indefinitely.
She considered her husband: handsome, debonair David Claybourne. Always in control, always strong and capable, cruising effortlessly through life as if he’d done it all before, loads of times. Now that they had moved she rarely saw him. At first he had returned home on Thursdays, staying until Sunday night. Now he arrived late on Friday and left after lunch on Sunday. He was tired, wanting to spend the weekend sitting in front of the television watching golf. If she didn’t know him so well she would suspect he was having an affair—but David was much too concerned about what other people thought to stray.
She returned to her desk and dialed her husband’s number at Goldman Sachs. Apart from wanting to share her anxiety about Gus, she just wanted to hear his voice. “Darling, it’s me,” she said when he picked up the telephone.
“Now, what’s going on down there, sweetheart? Everything all right?” He sounded buoyant. She was immediately reassured.
“It’s Gus, he’s run off.”
David heaved an impatient sigh. “Not again!” She suddenly felt bad for having ruined his day.