by Lucy Diamond
Each piece had been written out of affection, no question, but every now and then Frankie had found herself nagged by the worry that the Fergus of the future might not appreciate having his life mined for copy in this way. A prickly teenage Fergus, for instance, might resent his potty-training antics being recorded for posterity online, leaving him vulnerable to being teased by his peers. Similarly, a job-seeking Fergus might not be thrilled that a prospective employer’s Internet search of his name could reveal the story about his floor-punching tantrum in the Asda baked-goods aisle, or his brief obsession with random women’s breasts, which compelled him to comment on them with the authoritative air of a connoisseur (‘That lady got BIG boobies. BIG!’).
Periodically Frankie had voiced her concerns to Craig, who’d admitted wishing he’d given Fergus a pseudonym from the start, rather than using his real (and fairly unusual) name. ‘But it’s no worse than all those parents who document everything on Facebook, is it?’ he’d reasoned. ‘Everyone does it, it’s just life.’
And yet now here was Julia, sanctimoniously holding up her moral mirror in order to shine a light on Craig’s writing and question it in the interests of Fergus, far more loudly and publicly than Frankie had ever done. Did that make her a better woman than Frankie? Shouldn’t Frankie have tried harder to make this same point?
‘Hello, everyone, and welcome to our very special leavers’ celebration,’ said Chimoa, Marie’s second-in-command, just then. ‘Okay, then, children, are we all ready?’ she asked, clapping her hands. She was perched on a small wooden chair and pretended to be blown backwards by the raucous cheer that went up. ‘Excellent! Parents and carers, are we all ready?’
‘Yes!’ replied Frankie along with all the other adults, apart from Craig, who made a tutting noise as he read something on his phone – whatever Lloyd had just emailed him, presumably. She elbowed him, not wanting Fergus to be overshadowed. ‘Craig!’ she hissed.
The children started singing their goodbye song, their sweet, high voices wavering in and out of tune adorably and Frankie fumbled for a tissue, as tears misted her eyes. Look at Fergus forgetting the words as he grinned over at them both, that orange paper hat perched at such a jaunty angle on his curls. After this song the children would be collecting their ‘graduation’ certificates and memory books from the staff, before sitting down for a final picnic lunch together, of cheese sandwiches and crisps and apple slices. Then they would be saying goodbye and leaving this place for the very last time.
Frankie had never been good when it came to dealing with change. Aged six, she’d apparently lain on the floor, weeping and trying to clutch at the carpet, the day she and her mum moved house, practically needing to be dragged over the threshold. Aged eleven, she had refused to speak to Gareth for three whole weeks when her mum started seeing him, so resistant was she to any upsetting of the status quo. As an adult, she hung on to old knackered items of clothing if they reminded her of happy days, even if she had no intention of ever wearing them again. The same went for ancient sketchpads, favourite (broken) pens, her mother’s tarnished jewellery . . .
She tried to concentrate on the song, to really be present in the moment, but her thoughts were being pulled in all directions. For someone who disliked change, she was coming up against it again and again this summer, she thought, ambushed by one surprise after another. Change kept sending her down new paths she didn’t want to take, forcing her into situations she’d rather avoid, jostling her out of her comfortable, cosy existence and leaving her in this wilderness of doubt and uncertainty. What with the disastrous encounter with the Mortimers and the no-holds-barred battle with Julia, she was beginning to wonder where she’d end up by the time the first autumn leaves were on the trees. When would life start to feel more normal again?
Up in the North, Robyn was lying on her sofa staring up at the ceiling. Life did not exactly feel normal for her, either. It was her day off and usually she’d have a list of at least ten things to be getting on with. Today, however, she simply did not have the energy for cleaning or supermarket shopping or changing bed-sheets. All she wanted to do was lie down and let the world carry on around her.
She hadn’t had a single word from John since he’d left two days ago, presumably for Edinburgh with his nubile young girlfriend in search of his thrill-seeking new life. ‘Dad’s gone on holiday,’ she’d managed to say brightly to the children over breakfast the following morning, to which Sam had frowned and asked, ‘Without us?’, shortly followed by Daisy’s ‘But that’s not fair!’ They’d both sounded so offended and cross that Robyn might well have laughed at their indignation. If she hadn’t felt like bursting into tears, that was.
Of course all four of them were supposed to be going on holiday together, to Portugal for a week in August, the flights and villa booked long ago. Would John have got over his mid-life meltdown and come home by then, apologetic and humble? she wondered in anguish. Would she even want to splash about in the kidney-shaped, azure-blue pool with him, after his devastating, life-tipped-upside-down betrayal? Or would there just be three of them getting on the plane together, one ghostly seat remaining empty on the flight out? She imagined the Herculean tasks of trying to be jolly and holiday-ish all on her own, of having to find the villa (and drive the hire car!) by herself and then be responsible for everything else: the security, the food, the day-trips, the fun. She imagined the subdued evenings once the children were in bed and she was alone: drinking her way through bottles of local rosé and slapping mosquitoes from her legs, while listening to the families in neighbouring villas laughing and enjoying themselves. Holiday? Right now it felt as if it would be more like a punishment than a week to savour.
She rolled over on the sofa into a more comfortable position and tried to motivate herself to venture into the kitchen to make lunch. The spirit was willing – not to mention hungry – but the flesh was weak. Too weak to move off the sofa and cut slices of bread, even though her stomach had been rumbling plaintively for the last twenty minutes. Starving seemed like the easier option. Starving, or waiting for her mum to come back from work and make her something, anyway. Which was admittedly kind of tragic, but that was what her life had apparently become now – heartbreak causing her to regress to being a helpless child again, the girl who just wanted her mummy to make everything better.
Alison had answered her distress call on Wednesday night, driving over all dressed up for some reason (which, in hindsight, was odd, although Robyn had been so upset, she hadn’t got round to asking why), and she’d been tending to her ever since. She had listened to Robyn sob out the whole humiliating story, then had poured her a glass of wine and run her a hot bath, giving her a series of mini pep-talks throughout the remains of the evening.
‘You’ll get through this,’ she said, finding Robyn a pair of clean pyjamas. ‘You’re stronger than you think,’ she said, warming milk in a pan for hot chocolate. ‘We’re survivors, you and me,’ she said, as they sat together on the sofa, Robyn rosy-skinned from the bath, sipping her chocolate like an obedient little girl.
Robyn did not feel like a survivor, though. She felt as if she’d been dropped from a great height and was still lying stunned on the ground below: battered and broken and concussed. Reeling with the pain of John’s betrayal. She would never have cheated on him, never, but he had gone, just like that. Left her for this other woman half his age. This is really happening, she kept thinking in a daze. It’s not a dream or a film I’m watching, this is my life. So what do I do now?
Alison had stayed on Thursday night too, making her famous shepherd’s pie for dinner, reading Daisy’s bedtime story and teaching Sam card tricks before his bath, and this morning she’d gone off to work, promising to be back again tonight with provisions for the weekend. ‘You don’t have to, Mum,’ Robyn had said weakly, feeling she had to put up some kind of resistance, if only for the sake of her pride. (Not too much resistance, though, obviously, in case her mum withdrew the offer.)
‘I
know I don’t,’ Alison had replied. ‘But I want to. Text me if you’d like anything in particular picking up. And don’t you even think about doing any housework. I can get stuck into that over the weekend.’
Thank goodness for mums who came to the rescue when the chips were down. Especially as Alison could well end up being Robyn’s last relative standing, now that John had left. Without her husband, the Mortimers might already have squeezed Robyn out of their inner circle, she thought miserably, rescinded her membership from the clan. She hadn’t just married John, after all, she had married the whole family, but now she tormented herself with visions of being shunned by her in-laws, dropped off the invitation list for Jeanie’s birthday tea parties, scissored out of the photos. It made her heart ache. Losing John would mean losing so much more besides.
Paula read the text – Love is in the air! – and smiled at the accompanying photo: a selfie of her parents, shoulders together as they beamed into the camera, holding cocktails with paper umbrellas. Her mum’s face was a deep mahogany, while her dad’s nose had turned a bit pink; skin shades that told the story of their stand-off separation. But they were smiling at least, she thought, and comfortable in each other’s presence again. Enjoying our second honeymoon – better late than never! Harry had written in a second text, along with several thumbs-up emojis. We’ll be back on Sunday.
She forwarded the texts to her brothers, just in case they didn’t know this good news for themselves, then gazed out at the river, the sun sparkling on it in gold flashes as one of the tourist cruisers went chugging beneath Lendal Bridge. It was her lunch-hour and she’d managed to nab a bench down by the water, wanting somewhere more private than the office to make a personal call. It was silly, but her heart was thumping as she pulled out the scrap of paper where she’d jotted down the number. Constance Albright, Artists’ Agent, the website had said, detailing a list of the various illustrators, painters and fine artists represented. And there was Frankie, along with a mini-portfolio and biography: bold, humorous artwork, and details of her successes. A range of greetings cards. Prints of zoo animals against bright backgrounds. A couple of children’s picture books, as well as the column with her partner, Craig, which had been running for almost four years. There was also a beautiful black-and-white photograph of her where she’d been positioned side-on, looking over her shoulder slightly with an arch, I-see-you sort of half-smile. She looked friendly, good fun, Paula had thought, gazing at the warmth of her half-sister’s eyes, the gorgeous wide mouth that looked as if it might open at any moment in a laugh. She appeared to be the sort of sister, in other words, that Paula had always hankered after.
‘Constance Albright speaking, how may I help you?’ came the voice down the phone when Paula finally plucked up the courage to dial.
‘Hi. Um. Bit of a strange request,’ she confessed, ‘but I’m ringing about one of your artists – Frankie Carlyle.’
‘Oh yes? After a commission, are you?’ was the reply.
‘Not exactly,’ Paula replied. ‘It’s a personal matter. I wondered if there was a way of getting in touch with her directly, an email address or . . .’
‘Ah. No, I’m afraid not.’ Constance Albright sounded curtly disapproving at the question – and fair enough, Paula supposed; she had to protect the privacy of her clients. ‘I can’t give out that sort of information. If you want to leave your contact details with me, I can pass them on to her, but—’
‘Okay, yes, sorry,’ Paula said, accidentally interrupting, in her haste not to be seen as a stalker or random weirdo. ‘It’s a bit of an odd situation. I’m . . . I’m Frankie’s sister. But she doesn’t even know I exist, so . . .’ She tailed off, feeling as if she was getting this all wrong.
‘Frankie doesn’t have a sister,’ the woman replied tartly. She was sounding more suspicious by the minute. ‘I’m afraid I’m very busy right now. If you want to send an email, kindly do so via the main agency address, it’s on the website.’
‘Wait,’ Paula blurted out, sensing that Constance was about to hang up. ‘I know it sounds weird and you might not believe me. But please could you give her a message, at least, from me? Say it’s Paula from York, Harry Mortimer’s daughter, and that I would love to make contact with her. If you’ve got a pen, I’ll give you my number.’
Even the mm-hmm noises Constance Albright made, as she took down Paula’s details, sounded as if she didn’t trust this unorthodox caller for a minute, but Paula persevered. Whether Constance passed on the message or not, she had tried at least. She’d stretched out a hand across the miles between them. ‘Thank you,’ she said, before hanging up and wondering if her message and number were already being balled up and thrown into the nearest bin.
Her phone bleeped with two new texts moments later and she almost dropped it, fumbling to see if by some miracle this was Frankie contacting her already – Oh my goodness! Paula! Are you really who I think you are? – but the beeps were only the slightly more earthly replies from Dave and then Stephen, one after another, having seen the photo of their parents. Great. Nice one.
Nothing from John, but then he was always a bit crap about texting and communicating in general. She would send the picture to Robyn instead, who was much better at such things, she decided, but just then her phone rang, causing her to have palpitations all over again. But it was only a work call – a new customer wanting a valuation. ‘No problem at all,’ said Paula, switching back into professional mode and perking up when she heard the rather prestigious address of the property. ‘That would be my pleasure. Now let me just check my diary . . .’
Chapter Twenty-Two
If the last few days had been a struggle for Robyn, the weekend seemed to move things up a gear, in terms of doom and despair. Usually weekends meant socializing, either with the rest of the Mortimers or, for the children, sporting fixtures or parties with school friends and other such fun stuff. Unfortunately, fun felt pretty low on the agenda for Robyn now – added to which, the calendar was unusually empty. It was almost the end of term – one week to go – and all the sports clubs had finished for the summer, so she didn’t even have the distraction of a cricket match for Sam, or a dance class for Daisy, to chip away the hours.
‘So, what are you going to do then?’ asked Alison after breakfast, sorting through her hairdressing kit on the kitchen table. She was going to have to leave in twenty minutes, she’d said, in order to work some magic on a bride’s hair over in Harrogate, and was paranoid about leaving any of her equipment behind. ‘Heated rollers,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Tongs. Grips. Vines . . . Daisy, have you been playing with my hair vines?’
It was childish of her, she knew, but Robyn couldn’t help feeling a bit peevish that her mum was leaving when she still felt so low, when the day stretched ahead with such empty desolation. ‘Dunno,’ she replied. Still in her pyjamas, she was fuggy and ripe, compared to her blow-dried, fully made-up mother, which made her feel even worse. ‘I haven’t got anything to do, either, seeing as the Mortimers are all cold-shouldering me,’ she said, noting, as she did so, how whiny she sounded, but unable to prevent herself from sliding into self-pity. ‘Can you believe, none of them have bothered getting in touch to see if I’m all right? I mean . . . They’ve totally closed ranks against me. It’s like they’ve rejected me overnight.’
‘Oh, Robyn, come on, now,’ Alison scolded, still rummaging through her kit. ‘Of course they haven’t. Give them a chance. Do they even know about—Ah, thank you!’ she said as Daisy appeared just then, rhinestones sparkling amidst her hair, thanks to all the beaded accessories she’d swiped from her grandma’s collection. ‘Little monkey,’ she said, wagging her finger, before unwinding them all again.
Robyn waited until her daughter had skipped away once more, before continuing with her moan. ‘And it’s Luke’s birthday next week – Paula’s eldest – and nobody’s mentioned any kind of celebratory party tea to me. I think I’ve just been uninvited. I’m totally off the guest list. Dropped like a
hot brick!’
‘Robyn.’ Alison zipped up her bag and stood there, palms flat on the kitchen table, looking stern. ‘Listen to me. You can cope with this two ways: you can feel sorry for yourself, and blame other people and become all bitter and resentful—’
‘Charming!’ God, this was really not helping.
‘Or you can roll your sleeves up and get on with life. You can say: Okay, this bad thing has happened to me, but I’m not going to lie down in defeat. I’m not going to submit. I know it’s hard – believe me, I remember – but being on your own is not the end of the world. See it as an opportunity; a beginning, rather than an ending. Don’t forget, once the children know what has happened, they’ll be counting on you to get all three of you through this. So—’
‘All right! All right!’ Robyn cried, rolling her eyes. Don’t forget, indeed. Like she could just forget! When she was absolutely dreading having to tell Sam and Daisy about John! ‘No need to lecture me.’ Was her mother trying to make her feel worse than she already did?
‘Because when your dad died, I didn’t have a choice,’ Alison said, warming to her theme. ‘It was out of my control. Much as I wanted to give up and stay in bed crying for the rest of my life, I had to keep going for the sake of both of us. Whereas—’
‘Yes, but Dad couldn’t help dying,’ Robyn pointed out. ‘It wasn’t like he deliberately left you in the lurch, unlike John.’
