Keith stared at the cracked kitchen tiles, his jaw clenched as Ivy stepped out of the hallway, anger blazing. How could you, Keith? We were laughing at that filthy country girl together! she snapped, the tremor in her voice echoing off the plastered walls.
Forgive me, Ivy, Keith muttered, his brows knitting together. I was drunk, the devil led me. I still cant work out how I ended up in the same bed as Biscuit. He cursed under his breath, his hand shaking as he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling like a bad omen.
The building had just taken in a new family: Nigel, a lanky longhaul driver, his wife Lucy a plump, cheerful girl from a farming village and their fiveyearold daughter Violet. Ivy and Keith, both thirty, had a sixyearold son, Charlie, and the newcomers were only twentyfive. Sharing a floor made the two couples inseparable.
Lucy, with her sunkissed hair tied in a tiny bun, wore a threadbare housecoat and lived for the kitchen. Her shelves overflowed with jam jars, tins of biscuits, and the scent of fresh scones lingered like a promise. Ivy, vain about her own looks, often mocked Lucys bubbly figure, dubbing her Biscuit in jest. The kitchen was Lucys kingdom; Ivy could never claim a corner of it.
Keiths complaints about Lucys appearance never ceased. How can you not love yourself? A woman ought to, he would begin, the words hanging in the stale air.
When Keiths mother fell ill, the couple took turns nursing her until they finally hired Lucy as a livein carer. Ill take a little on the side, for a friend, Lucy said, eyes bright. I need to buy Nigel a rubber fishing boat as a surprisedont tell him. Ivy warned, Dont overfeed Mum; she has no appetite.
A work assignment whisked Ivy away to Manchester for weeks. She left instructions for Keith, Charlie, and Lucy, then boarded a train, the platform lights flickering like distant stars.
A month later Ivy returned to a house that felt colder. Keith avoided her gaze; Lucy slipped past her like a ghost. Their son burst from the hallway, cheeks flushed. Mum, make the potatoes like Aunt Lucys. And I loved her meatloaf, he declared, eyes wide.
Did Aunt Lucy feed you? Ivy asked, the edge in her voice sharp.
Yes, Charlie answered, She brought Violet over and took Dad away. Ivys mind raced Nigel was on a delivery route, she was on a business trip something didnt add up.
That evening, after a heavy dinner, Ivy pulled Keith aside, voice low but fierce. I know everything, Keith. The boy told me all. She held out her hand, trembling, hoping hed crumble.
Keith shrugged, his face blank. Nothing happened. Biscuit asked me to fix the tap, he said, not blushing, not flinching.
Ivy exhaled, trying to steady herself. Relax, love. Youre not going after Lucy, are you? she whispered, relief flickering like a dying candle.
But Keith began spending more time at his mothers flat, lingering longer each visit. Ivy went to check on the old woman, finding her alone, wellkept, yet isolated. She knocked on Lucys door, heart pounding.
Lucy opened, eyes rimmed with fatigue, the bedroom visible behind her where Keith lay, pale and motionless. Ivy turned and walked back to her own flat, a cold dread seizing her throat. The thought that the man whod called Lucy a slob and ragtag was now tangled with her in intimate whispers assaulted her senses.
She couldnt muster jealousy for a kitchen maid. When Keith burst back, she snapped, pointing at the bathroom. Take a shower. Wash yourself. Ill tell Nigel everything. Hell have a right to ask you why! She laughed, a harsh bark, picturing the skinny Nigel flailing his fists in indignation.
Lucy later confessed to Nigel, admitting the affair. Whether Nigels temper flared or he simply shrugged, the next week the whole family moved out. As they left, Nigel, prideful, said, No wonder it happened. Who could resist my Lucy?
Months slipped by. One rainy afternoon Ivy spotted Biscuit outside the local pub, a mug of tea in hand.
Hey, love! Still miffed? Lucy called, a grin tugging at her lips. Dont waste your breath. In this village the gossip never ends. I havent lost a thing, and your husband seems happy. Youre always off on trips you cant leave a hungry husband starving for long, she chattered, the old countryside wisdom spilling out.
Lucy held the hand of a little girl who bore an uncanny resemblance to Keith, her smile unsettlingly familiar. The scene faded, leaving Ivy standing on the damp pavement, the weight of betrayal and the echo of distant laughter hanging heavy in the cold English air.
