Love, Iris

by Elizabeth Noble

  ‘I’d bring snacks.’

  ‘Snacks are good.’

  ‘Just saying. I’m excellent in hospitals.’

  Week 25. Very nearly Week 26, even. I’m sorry, baby mine. I’ve let you down. It was bad enough that I saddled you with an elderly primigravida for a mother. Got you a bum of a father. Okay – he’s not a bum. But he’s not what you deserved. Nowhere near. I haven’t got us a place to live. Now I’ve got a crappy womb. Cervix. Whatever. I’m buggering everything up. Nothing is like I would have wanted it to be. God knows I’ve judged people like me … I’m so scared. You have to be all right. You just have to. I realize there’s nothing more important, nothing I wouldn’t do, to get you here, with me, safely. But you’ve got to bear with me, little one. I’m going to be better, I promise. I’m going to get it right, from now on.

  Gigi

  Oliver was right about Megan, in the end. With gargantuan effort, Gigi gave her the weeks of space that Olly thought she needed, preoccupying herself with work and settling into the flat and trying not to torture herself with all the insignificant and enormous episodes of Meg’s life she was missing. She wished it was Megan every single time her phone rang – grabbing her mobile and pulling her glasses off her head on to her nose to read the caller ID frantically – but Megan didn’t call.

  So she took the train one Wednesday when she wasn’t working, not wanting to drive home wobbly and tearful, if things didn’t go well. She resisted the urge to collect up treats – Megan’s favourite biscuits, posh shower gel – stuff she would normally have done before a visit. She wasn’t trying to buy back Megan’s goodwill. And she didn’t want to reward her unkindness. She wanted to fix things between them, but she badly didn’t want to be pathetic either. She gazed out of the window and wondered what she would say, face to face, as the train sped through the countryside.

  Gigi had arrived before she realized she didn’t have a concrete plan. Of course she knew where Megan’s house was, but it seemed invasive to just knock on the door. She and Richard had once dropped in unexpectedly on Oliver, years ago, and found him hungover and sound asleep, in a room that looked like it had been ransacked, at three in the afternoon. She almost smiled at the memory of her son, crazy-haired and pale-green, answering the door wrapped in a grubby duvet. God knows what Megan might be doing. She had no idea of her schedule. The idea of coming here unannounced and uninvited, let alone unwelcome, suddenly seemed stupid and desperate to her. Kids milled around, a hoodie army, but she didn’t recognize anyone, and they all ignored her. She bought a coffee in a polystyrene cup from the café in the middle of the large atrium space that seemed to be at the centre of everything, and sat down on one of the uncomfortable, trendy sofas to ponder her next move, which might very well be to go straight home.

  She’d finished the coffee, and was watching a young couple smooch over a laptop, oblivious to everything but each other, when she heard Megan’s voice, laughing and chattering. A quick flood of relief – both that she’d found her and that she sounded so … so normal – was almost instantaneously replaced by a rush of adrenalin, and her heart raced. When she turned away from the young lovers, Megan had already seen her. She’d peeled away from a small group of boys and girls she’d been walking with, and was coming towards her, files clutched against her chest, omnipresent headphones around her neck, wide-eyed with panic.

  ‘Mum?’

  Gigi stood up. ‘I had to come …’

  ‘What’s wrong? Is Dad all right? Is everything okay?’ She should have realized her appearance might frighten Meg. Gigi put up both hands, as if they could stop the anxiety.

  ‘Everyone is fine.’

  Megan visibly exhaled. And Gigi inhaled deeply. ‘But we’re not okay, Meg.’

  They stood about three feet apart, staring each other down. Gigi knew Megan so well that she could almost hear the debate going on in her lovely daughter’s head – stubborn, posturing, angry adult versus girl, a girl probably very much in need of a cuddle, and a truce.

  She watched the girl win. Megan’s eyes filled with tears, and she just stepped forward into Gigi’s arms, not caring who was watching.

  They went to a pub and sat outside. It wasn’t quite warm enough, but it was quiet. Megan pulled her sleeves down over her hands, and Gigi didn’t tell her not to, like she normally would have done.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve been so upset, my darling.’

  ‘What about Dad?’ She was persisting with the anger, though it was hardly convincing either of them now.

  ‘Of course I’m sorry he’s upset too. I don’t expect you to understand, Meg.’

  ‘Well, I don’t –’

  ‘But I did expect, I think, that you’d at least try.’

  Megan looked shocked. Even Gigi hadn’t known this was the tack she would take.

  ‘We’ve babied you all your life, Meg. Not your fault. Ours, I know. But you are not a child.’

  ‘I know that.’ Gigi wished the tone wasn’t so petulant.

  ‘You are old enough to understand that your dad and I are just people. I am just a person.’

  ‘That’s what Oliver says.’

  ‘He’s right.’

  Megan’s lip trembled. ‘I know he is. I just … I hate this. I hate Dad being so unhappy. I hate not knowing you’re both at home. I know it’s selfish. But I can’t help it. It’s not how it’s supposed to be.’ Gigi’s heart twisted. ‘I know so many people, from school, here … so many people who have divorced or separated parents. I just never thought it would happen to me, you know? I mean, I know it’s happened to you too, but you sort of made it happen. It’s so … weird … you not being together. It’s weird and I hate it.’

  Gigi latched on to something she’d said. ‘Those people you know … do they have relationships with both parents?’

  Megan shrugged. ‘I suppose. Mostly.’

  ‘Do they still go home at the end of term? Still go on holiday?’

  She shrugged again.

  Gigi put her hand on Megan’s, gripped it tightly through the material of her sweatshirt. ‘It’s like I said, love: we’re your mum and dad. We love you to bits. We’ll both be here, while we’ve breath in our bodies.’

  ‘Fighting … being miserable …’

  ‘Fighting – no – not when it comes to our kids. Never. Being miserable … That’s an entirely more complicated question. But I hope not. Together or apart … I wouldn’t be doing any of this – I wouldn’t have dreamt of making any of this mess, Meg, if I wasn’t trying to make things … better.’

  ‘But you mean for you, Mum, not Dad.’

  ‘I mean for both of us.’

  ‘That’s not true. That’s not what Dad wanted.’

  ‘I’m not sure your dad has been any happier than me, Megan. Honestly I’m not.’

  ‘Are you sure you aren’t just telling yourself that?’

  Gigi couldn’t answer that.

  ‘Are you sure this is permanent?’

  ‘I’m not sure of anything, except that something needed to change.’

  ‘So you might get back together?’

  ‘I don’t want you to fixate on that.’

  ‘But you might –’

  ‘Megan … listen to me. This is what is important right now. I want you to stop being in a sulk with me. I want you to let me back into your life. You need me. I need you. We both know it. So you need to stop shutting me out. See me, speak to me. See your dad, speak to your dad. Let us both do what we’ve always done. Get on with your life, secure in the knowledge that your family is still your family, even if it’s been shaken up. Even if your dad and I are not together. Grow up a bit, lovely girl. Forgive me.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. You’ve made your point.’

  But there was a small sob in Megan’s voice, and her face was softer now – her angry jaw unclenched.

  Gigi held her awkwardly across the table, her head on her shoulder. Megan was nestled in, so her voice was muffled when she said, ‘But you might get back
together again …’

  When they pulled apart, they laughed for the first time, and for the first time since the night she’d lined them up on the sofa and shattered at least Megan, Gigi felt okay about her daughter, and the relief was extraordinary.

  ‘So … are we going shopping or what?’

  Tess

  Gigi had told her, a week or so ago, that Oliver had split up with his girlfriend. No real details, just the facts. Tess had expressed what she hoped was an appropriate concern that he was okay, wondering why her heart had leapt in a distinctly teen-magazine sort of leap, and blaming hormones. She told herself it was beyond pathetic to develop a crush on a man simply on the grounds of his being kind, and reminding herself harshly that she was hardly the sort of prospect that would excite attention from most men, let alone one so appealing as Gigi’s son. She slapped herself down for wondering why Gigi was so keen to tell her, and why she’d looked at her the way she had when she’d said the words, her eyes narrowed and appraising.

  Still, when she’d bumped into him a few days later, all the stern talking to in the world didn’t stop the Sixth-Form feelings.

  He was so bloody easy to talk to. Not small-talk talk. Not conversational elevator music. You sort of got down to it right away with him – said proper, real things. It was incredibly refreshing. If it was his schtick, he was very, very good at it. But she didn’t believe that. You could just tell he was interested in things.

  So she told him things, despite herself. She told him about Sean. She told him about Donna. And she told him about Iris’s letters. Just like that. Confessions about the relationships dearest, and most confusing, to her, secrets her grandmother had kept for decades disseminated like blowing seeds off a dandelion. She’d let him read them too, when he’d expressed an interest. Maybe she’d done that so she could watch his face while he read. He never spoke about the girlfriend, but he told her things too. About Gigi and Richard, about his brother and sister, about what he hoped might happen at work. Small bright building blocks of something. Colouring in each other’s outlines. Inching in from the edge of each other’s lives, slowly and surely … whatever they might say to themselves, and never to each other, about why it was impossible …

  Gigi

  It was one of those spring days that awakens both the memory and the possibility of summer. The chill had gone off the breeze, the sun had enough strength, at last, to warm your skin where it hit it and the winter only lingered in the shadows.

  Gigi had the whole day off. She could do whatever she wanted. The freedom was intoxicating. There was no laundry to do because, for the first time in forever, she washed only for her, and the bin filled up much more slowly. There was no food either, but the only person she needed to feed was her and she didn’t care. The almost empty fridge rather delighted her after years of catering for a family, and, latterly, the memory of a family – a compulsion to have supplies to feed a small rugby team at a moment’s notice, when there were only two of them. She was free to lie in bed until noon, flicking through the interiors magazines for which she had developed a new fondness, or watching rubbish on the television. To bathe and dress at her leisure, or to stay dirty if she preferred. But none of that was what she had in mind.

  What Gigi had in mind was nesting. This empty nest didn’t hold the same sadness as the one she had left behind. The kids had never been here – their laughter and their shouting didn’t lurk in the corners. This nest was being feathered just for her, and for now that was enough.

  She’d taken down the ugly venetian blinds in the two bedrooms and hidden them away in the back of the wardrobe. She’d ordered ready-made curtains – diaphanous white things, too long, so they pooled on the floor in a nice, trendy way that would have driven Richard mad, all flowy and girly – and Olly had helped her hang curtain poles. He’d been her first visitor bar Kate, who’d helped her move in. He’d driven down, taken her out for brunch and then spent a few hours doing DIY for her, the pair of them listening to the radio and not talking too much about what was happening in either of their lives, which evidently suited them both just now. She loved him for not making her talk about Richard, and repaid the kindness by staying off the subject of Caitlin. He’d made it seem perfectly normal, this setting up his parent in a flat, and she was grateful for it.

  Megan was no longer ignoring her, and she felt like things were almost, if not quite, back to normal between them. In the early days, Gigi sent her a WhatsApp most days, keeping her tone light and breezy, using more emoticons than was judicious for a woman of her age. Most went unanswered; some received cursory replies. Megan wouldn’t be drawn. When she’d sent something longer and more emotional, her daughter had snapped back that she needed time, and wanted Gigi to leave her alone while she concentrated on her exams. After that, Gigi forced herself to send a message only every few days, always telling her she loved her. She knew Emily was checking in with her, knew Oliver messaged her too. She knew she was safe and well – at least as much as you ever knew your child was when they weren’t with you – but that was all she knew. It hurt, and it still felt odd, those negative emotions sitting uncomfortably with her contentment at being here. Distracting her from the self-belief that had made this happen. But she knew she had to give her time. Accepted that things might never be exactly the same between them. She knew she’d pulled a rug out from under her daughter. She might understand it one day, better than she did now. But she would still always have done it to her, and she had no choice but to own that.

  So not talking about any of it was best just now. And not thinking about it too much either …

  The curtains had made both rooms much nicer, and she didn’t mind that they didn’t keep much light out. It was nice to be woken up by the early sun, even if you put a pillow over your head and went back to sleep again. They might lose their appeal in the winter, but it was spring, and winter was a long way off. Gigi had given up thinking in the long term. For now, they were just what she wanted.

  And now, today, she was going to transform her sitting room. She’d seen it in a magazine and confirmed with the agent that she was allowed to do it. She’d hired a floor sander online the night before and collected it early this morning. A nice young man had carried it from the counter to her boot and shown her how to use it.

  Sadly, he wasn’t here now. And the sander was surprisingly heavy and unwieldy, and already messing with her mojo. She’d wrestled it out of the boot, which she’d left open, and managed to lurch to her front door with it, but now she had to hump it up the stairs, which suddenly looked Himalayan. Kate was coming to help (or more probably to laugh at her attempts), but she wasn’t due for another couple of hours, and Gigi was eager to get started.

  As she stood contemplating the task, she heard the door to the main part of the house open and close, and felt an immediate flush of embarrassment. She hadn’t met her landlord yet. Being caught in the act of DIY seemed a rude beginning. It implied criticism.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’

  He didn’t seem cross, if this was indeed him. Maybe a bit perplexed. Gigi pushed her unruly curls back from her face and offered her free hand, aware that her cheeks were pink and that she was far from presentable.

  ‘Hi. I’m Gigi.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Gigi. I’m Adam. Welcome.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Settling in okay?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. It’s a lovely flat.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘I’m just trying to get this bloomin’ thing inside …’

  ‘Shall I close your boot for you, firstly? Then help you get that contraption upstairs.’

  ‘That’s kind. I’m okay, really.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m happy to help.’

  ‘You’re on your way out –’

  ‘To nowhere important, not in a hurry.’ His voice was slow and kind.

  ‘Thank you.’ There didn’t seem to be anything else for it. He seemed to have made up his
mind to help her. She might avoid a prolapse if she let him.

  She watched him walk over to the car. He was tall enough to have that slight natural stoop, and thin, with an enviably thick head of silvery-grey hair. Scruffy, but in a vaguely intentional and trendy way, rather like his house, she thought. Good bones. As he walked back towards her, she saw thick, wild eyebrows, and kind eyes to match the voice.

  ‘Right. Let’s get this upstairs … blimey. It’s heavy. It’s got to be a hundred pounds.’

  But he lifted it easily enough.

  ‘You go first …’

  She skirted around him and went up the stairs, wondering why she felt self-conscious.

  Inside the flat, he put the sander down gently. ‘That’s very kind of you. Thanks.’

  He didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. He looked around. Then leant against the doorframe.

  ‘So you’re settling in okay?’

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘I love the flat.’

  He nodded. ‘Good. Good.’ He was looking at her now, for a second longer than convention demanded. His gaze was hard to interpret and just a tiny bit unsettling.

  Then he gestured at the sander. ‘Have you done this before, then?’

  She wondered whether to lie, decided against it.

  ‘Nope. I watched a tutorial online, though, last night, on YouTube. It looks easy enough.’

  ‘Well, then …’ His eyes were laughing at her, but not in an unkind way. His mouth twitched. She didn’t feel demeaned, though. Not the way he did it.

  ‘Looks like hoovering. Just way, way more fun. And it comes with all the instructions …’

  He’d missed several cues to leave now.

  ‘I have some time, if you’d like a bit of help. I have done this before. Not that I’m suggesting you’re not perfectly capable.’ Again, the slightly mocking tone. Gigi wondered what it was about the way he said it that meant it wasn’t offensive, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. She hoped it wasn’t because he was handsome: that would be just too pathetic of her. But she definitely felt – well, a tiny bit girlish were the only words for it. And Gigi couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made her feel that way. The thought that Kate would be rolling her eyes furiously now ran through her mind.