Something to Tell You

by Lucy Diamond

  Across in York, Bunny-also-known-as-Rachel was feeling as if she too might finally be emerging from under a dark cloud, with the possibility of sunlit uplands straight ahead. Ever since she’d come out of hospital, patched up, recovered and with a socking great engagement ring sparkling on her left hand, she’d felt a different woman. Safe. Accepted. No more pretending. No more secrets. There was a whole new spring in her step.

  Now that life felt more secure, she’d spent some time thinking long and hard about what she might want to do next. Although she’d been unceremoniously ditched by SlimmerYou, she still felt proud of the talks she’d done for them and knew she’d inspired other dieters each time. And so she’d taken the plunge and booked the local village hall for an hour-long slot on Wednesday evenings for her very own weight-watching club, planning to incorporate all the tips and advice she’d picked up, as well as the encouragement and support she knew she could offer her members. Jasmine, her boss at the café, had let her put an ad in the window, and Dave had helped her design and print hundreds of fliers advertising her idea, and her membership was gradually increasing as, week after week, word of mouth began to spread. For the first time Bunny felt as if she’d found her place, her people; she knew what they were going through and could help them along the way. She wasn’t charging very much – just enough to cover the cost of the hall, really – but as far as she was concerned, if she could encourage other people to transform into fitter, happier versions of themselves, then that was worth more than money.

  ‘My name’s Rachel Halliday, and I’m the proof that you can turn your life around,’ she said at the beginning of every meeting, and she meant every word.

  That was another thing, too – she was reclaiming her name, so that it no longer felt like that of a victim. She was happy for those closest to her to carry on calling her Bunny, but there would be no more hiding away from the rest of the world in a different guise, she had decided. Why should she? She had done nothing to be ashamed of. In fact she was proud to be a survivor, proud of her own inner strength.

  As well as working at the café and running her weight-watching club, she was busying herself by looking into college courses available nearby. Floristry, perhaps – she liked the thought of that – or she’d found one where you could learn how to become a personal trainer, which would also be pretty cool. Maybe she’d do both, just for the hell of it, and be a garland-weaving fitness ninja.

  Added to those things, there was the wedding to plan with Dave, which was the most fun of all. Having shied away from commitment for so long, suddenly she couldn’t wait to marry him, now that everything was out in the open. Telling him her secrets had been like presenting him with her soft, vulnerable underbelly, but he hadn’t wavered or let her down, not for a minute. If anything, his love was like a protective wrapping around her, healing old hurts, making her feel safe, happy and adored. Rachel Mortimer sounded lovely, too, didn’t it? A whole new reinvention to come.

  In a rush of enthusiasm, they’d gone ahead and booked the Register Office for a Saturday in early spring. Theirs was to be a small do – ‘Well, as small as you can get, with all the Mortimers,’ Dave acknowledged wryly – but she was really hoping that her mum and brother would want to join them for the occasion. Coming up to Yorkshire had been a way of cutting herself free from the past, but she’d cut herself off from her own family, too, in the process, bar the odd birthday and Christmas card to say that she was okay. Now that her life here was moving to a more permanent footing, she felt she might dare bring her two worlds together at last, build a few bridges. You might not like the past, but you could come to terms with it, she had realized. You could eye it dispassionately and see how far you had travelled. Besides, they would be happy for her, she was sure. Happy enough, maybe, even to permit her niece Chloe to be a bridesmaid, she hoped.

  ‘Things are looking up for me,’ she’d written in ‘Save the Date’ cards to them both recently. ‘I feel as if I’ve been given this wonderful new start up in York, and I’m so happy. I’d absolutely love it if you could celebrate our Big Day with us. Perhaps we could get together before Christmas too, so that you can meet Dave? He’s a really great person.’

  A blank page, a second chance, a whole new chapter, Bunny thought, as she went about her day, feeling a distinct sense of optimism. Whatever this next chapter might contain, she had a feeling it could be her best one yet.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The tinsel was swaying in the breeze from the heaters, the buffet had been well picked over, and the aunts were jigging tipsily to Slade amidst the flashing lights of the dance floor. It was the Mortimers’ pre-Christmas knees-up at the village hall, and everyone had come along. There was John, glancing awkwardly across the room at Robyn and his children, while struggling through a conversation with one of his uncles. There was Alison, hooting with laughter in a corner with Jeanie and her other knitting-group pals, having made firm friends of them all. And there too was Frankie, up for the weekend for the first time – well, the second, if you included the fateful anniversary-party incident – with the rest of the immediate family under strict instructions to make her feel welcome, a part of the clan.

  Paula and Frankie had already met once by now; and it was remarkable, Paula thought, how well you could feel you knew someone after just two encounters and a lot of phone calls. Geography and travelling distances meant that theirs wouldn’t be a popping-round-for-coffee sort of relationship, before you even factored in the added complications of children and work and other commitments, but they’d managed a weekend together so far, with Paula venturing down to London in the autumn, feeling excited, if a little apprehensive, about the situation. After all, there were so many things that could wrong – and her in a strange city, far from home, too. But Frankie had been waiting for her at King’s Cross station when the train pulled in and, after the briefest of hesitations, the two women had thrown their arms around each other. Following a huge breathless squeeze, they drew apart a fraction, to marvel laughingly at the similarities between their own faces; and then basically didn’t stop talking for the next forty-eight hours, until it was time for Paula to go home again. And oh, having a sister was just lovely, Paula thought that whole weekend, and again and again afterwards, whenever they spoke on the phone or texted. You got to your forties and you thought life didn’t really hold any surprises for you, but it did, and they could be unexpectedly wonderful. What a delight this one was turning out to be!

  Harry, too, had made the same journey south to see his younger daughter on a separate occasion in September, returning with a dazed smile of happiness on his face. It turned out that he and Frankie were both keen cricket fans, and she’d pulled a few strings with a sports-journalist friend of Craig’s to get them tickets to see Yorkshire playing Surrey at the Oval. They’d had a lovely time, even though Harry almost had heart failure every time he was told the price of a drink. Jeanie had been somewhat tight-lipped about the whole excursion, choosing to stay at home, no doubt to rattle through a few thunderous concertos on the piano, but she had agreed to let him go at least, rather than brandishing a rolling pin as she blocked the front door, so that was something. One step at a time.

  Today Frankie had the slightly more onerous task of meeting the rest of the Mortimers all at once on their home turf, God help her. This meant not only being introduced to her three half-brothers and their partners and families, as well as Matt, Luke and Joe, but also, of course, the one encounter about which they were all ever-so-slightly terrified: meeting Jeanie.

  ‘It’ll be fine, Mum, she’s dead nice,’ Paula had assured her mother earlier that week, when Jeanie had called round, ostensibly to help make plans for the party, but really to have a little wobble to her daughter about the whole thing. ‘I know it’s a bit weird for you – the thought of Frankie being there – but she’s really easy-going and friendly. And there’ll be so many other people around, you can just stay out of her way if you don’t feel able to speak to her.’r />
  ‘Mmm,’ had been all that Jeanie had to say on the matter, before changing the subject.

  Still, here was Frankie now, having been under the same roof as Jeanie for at least twenty minutes, with not a single raised word or finger pointed in her direction. Okay, so neither of them had actually broken the ice and spoken to one another – Jeanie might well not even have looked at Frankie yet, come to think of it – but it was early days, Paula reminded herself, cutting slices of cake and putting them onto plates. She glanced over at Frankie, who was currently talking to Stephen and Eddie on the other side of the room. She was wearing this gorgeous silky blouse, as blue as a gas-flame, dark jeans and boots, with her hair loose around her shoulders, and was laughing at one of Stephen’s stories. Paula grabbed pieces of cake for them all and went over to join the conversation.

  ‘Have some sustenance,’ she said, distributing plates. ‘Mum’s legendary chocolate-and-hazelnut meringue extravaganza: calorific joy on a fork. How are you doing, Frankie?’ she added. ‘Hopefully not too swamped by the noisy northern contingent.’

  Frankie smiled. ‘I’m good! Everyone’s been so lovely. I think I’ve spoken to almost the whole family now – wow, and this cake looks incredible. Thank you. Oh, by the way.’ She wrestled one-handedly with a shoulder bag and pulled out a square-shaped present wrapped in red paper. ‘Happy belated birthday,’ she said. ‘Sorry it’s a bit late. I would have posted this, but it’s kind of fragile. Hope you like it.’

  ‘Thank you!’ Paula cried, in delight. Frankie had already sent her a birthday card at the start of the month; she hadn’t been expecting anything else. ‘That’s so kind. Just you coming here was present enough for me, honestly – not that I’m about to give this back now, mind,’ she joked.

  She set about unwrapping the gift at once, wondering if it might be some kind of picture from her talented half-sister. She’d seen enough of Frankie’s artwork while staying with her – humorous pen-and-ink cartoons, some bright, zingy stylized dragon prints, plus various painted canvases hanging around the flat – for the hope to flicker up inside her that this present might be one of her pieces. Then she pulled off the paper to find . . .

  ‘Oh! It’s Oscar!’ A really beautiful little painting of her dog, looking his most handsome and adorable. Somehow, without ever having met him, Frankie had captured the exact twinkle in her dachshund’s eye, his mischievous, beady gaze. ‘How did you . . . ? Oh my goodness. I love it!’

  ‘That’s so cute!’ cried Stephen, peering to have a look. ‘He’s got his just-nicked-a-sausage glint and everything.’

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ Eddie agreed.

  Luke, Paula’s eldest, was nearby and turned to see what everyone was exclaiming about. ‘Whoa!’ he laughed, seeing the picture. ‘That is so cool. Did you, like, actually paint this yourself, Frankie?’

  Frankie was smiling and blushing. ‘Yes, I did,’ she replied with a laugh. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said to Paula. ‘I must confess I did ask Matt for help, and he emailed me a load of photos. I hope you don’t think that’s horribly sneaky of me.’

  ‘Not at all! This is gorgeous, thank you so much.’ Paula hugged her and then beamed at the painting all over again. What a special, unique gift, with such thought behind it. Was it shallow of her to see ‘great presents’ as another reason why she loved having a sister? Oh, well. Call her shallow, then. ‘Matt, look!’ she called, holding up the picture as he came over from the makeshift bar, a wonky Santa hat perched on his head.

  ‘Aha! I love it when a plan comes together,’ he replied with a grin. ‘We’ve been plotting, haven’t we, Frank? Plotting and scheming.’ He inspected the painting with an approving nod. ‘Isn’t that great? It’s him to a tee. Watch out, Frankie, the boys will have you commissioned to do the hamster next.’

  ‘Hey, all commissions gratefully accepted,’ laughed Frankie. ‘Us self-employed types never say no. Bring on the hamster, I say!’

  Paula hugged her and then gave Matt a squeeze too, for his part in the whole subterfuge. ‘Good work, you two,’ she said happily, leaning against him and feeling rather sickeningly contented that today was going so well. What was more, far from thinking Frankie sneaky, she loved that they’d both gone behind her back together, for her sake. They’d definitely risen a few rungs in her Christmas-present list now; she’d have to find some extra-special gifts for them in return. Maybe even that electric guitar Matt had been hinting about, ever since they bought one for Luke. As well as some industrial-strength earplugs for herself, of course.

  Paula went to put the painting in a safe place in the kitchen (there was always at least one calamitous drink spillage at a Mortimer gathering), and set about handing around pieces of cake to the rest of the family, making sure she found an extra-large piece for her husband. Goodness, she felt happy, she realized suddenly, thinking of the painting again and feeling quite overcome with her own good fortune. Here they were, all her favourite people in the same place, celebrating and dancing and laughing together. A proper family. Sure, a slightly different-shaped family these days from where they’d been six months ago, but who was to say there was anything wrong with that? The Mortimers had survived all the various crises that had hit them this year, and had evolved into something stronger. Maybe even something better. Oh, and right on cue, here came the opening bars of her favourite Christmas song. ‘Come on, you know you want to,’ she said, grabbing Matt’s hand with a laugh and pulling him onto the dance floor.

  ‘How are the kids?’ Across the room, John had finally plucked up the courage to approach Robyn, having shuffled about awkwardly on the sidelines until now. Unfortunately – for him, anyway – his romantic dreams of shacking up in the Edinburgh love-nest with a girl half his age had abruptly collapsed when she dumped him, and he’d slunk home to York, tail between his legs, crest well and truly fallen. That was two months ago and, having slept in his parents’ spare room for a few weeks on returning, he was now sharing a flat in Heslington with some random postgrad students while he looked for a job. Regrets? He had a few, as the old song went.

  ‘Why don’t you ask them yourself?’ Robyn replied. Despite her complicated feelings of anger and betrayal, she couldn’t help feeling a tiny twinge of pity for John as well, these days. Bearded and kind of shabby around the edges, he appeared a diminished figure since his return to the city, his swagger all gone. ‘Robyn, I’ve been a fool, I’m so sorry,’ he had said the first time they saw each other, and from the expectant expression on his face it was obvious that he was hoping for the welcoming arms of forgiveness, a return to their old partnership together. We could give it another shot, yeah? his eyes had pleaded.

  But she just couldn’t afford him complete absolution, she’d decided. He’d let her down so badly that she would never be able to trust him with her heart in the same way. However sorry he might be acting now, to let him back into her life would mean ushering in a side-helping of doubt at the same time, and who wanted to live with that? The kids will be glad you’re back had been the most generous thing she could bring herself to say.

  Since then, the two of them had seen each other fairly frequently, but for practical, civil reasons rather than social ones: parents’ evenings at the children’s schools, and doorstep exchanges when he had been looking after Sam and Daisy for an afternoon or night. It was a detached, disjointed arrangement, born of necessity, but it still felt unnatural.

  ‘They’re fine,’ she added now, softening a little at his pinched face. ‘Sam did well in his exams last week, and Daisy has made a new best friend at Brownies. But I’m sure they’ll tell you all about it, if they manage to peel themselves away from Joe’s game.’ She indicated her head to where they were clustered around Paula’s younger son, who was showing them something on his phone. ‘At least I hope it’s a game,’ she added jokingly.

  There was a small pause. ‘And how are you?’ he asked next.

  He seemed so humble these days, it kept taking her by surprise. It was like
talking to a stranger, a reduced version of the man she’d been married to, and it was hard to know how to reply. How was she? She was pretty bloody well, actually, thanks for asking, John. Coming to the end of her first term back at the university, having loved every minute of it: the lectures, the research, the camaraderie. There was even talk of her jetting off to San Francisco in the spring for a conference on Genetic and Protein Engineering, which sounded amazing. All of this while juggling Sam’s first term at secondary school, managing to put dinner on the table every night and keeping on top of the laundry. It was busy, sure, but at least that left her with barely a minute in which to miss her ex-husband. More importantly, it was incredibly satisfying, as if her life had rich new seams running through it, full of interest and opportunity.

  Perhaps it would be rubbing John’s nose in it to articulate all of this to him in detail, though. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she said blandly instead. ‘You?’

  He started talking about a job he was hoping to go for, in a big car plant out of town; there was some old contact he had there, apparently, which he hoped might mean they could circumnavigate his lack of a good reference from the university and his exile of shame. She tuned out, nodding politely while trying not to laugh at the way her mum was letting rip on the dance floor with the knitting-group divas and John’s aunts. Look at that woman go, she thought admiringly. Alison was a changed person these days, joining a Pilates class as well as hanging out with her new knitting mates (‘They are just the best women!’ she had cried to Robyn in delight) and whizzing about in her snazzy new Golf. Not only that, but she’d also recently met up with Tom, her very first love, from way back when, and he was still, apparently, the greatest kisser she had ever met. Wasn’t life oddly circular sometimes? All these big loops that you found yourself on unexpectedly, repetitions and echoes of past events in new forms. Whichever direction her mum’s future might take, no one could deny that Alison had blossomed remarkably in recent months. ‘This is my third age, according to my pal Mo,’ she’d said down the phone to Robyn the other night. ‘Sixty-five is the new twenty-five, she reckons. And heavens, it’s fun!’