He chats away for a while, taking a trip down memory lane, smiling and laughing as he recounts events that sound familiar but feel as though they happened to someone else.
Finally, I hold up my hand and stop him.
‘What are you doing, Seb?’ I ask. ‘With all of this. With the stories.’
‘What doyou mean?’ he says, frowning at me. He looks vaguely hurt, and it’s a look I’m all too familiar with – it’s the one he used to make me feel guilty whenever I suggested that possibly, just possibly, our lifestyle might need a slight course correction.
‘You know what I mean. You’re trying to manipulate me. You’re trying to make me see things your way. You’re trying to make me feel like I might be a little bit crazy if I don’t remember things in exactly the same rosy light that you do.
‘In fact, I do remember – I remember the time you were so high you toppled right off one of those stools, and the time you tried to buy ten kilos of lobster in an auction, and the time you ended up getting punched in the face by the old man who ran the spice stall because you thought it’d be funny to try and snort some saffron. So please – don’t think you can somehow persuade me that it was all so wonderful. I won’t let you mess with my head any more. Those days are gone.’
Even as I say it I wonder if it’s true, because my head does feel a bit messed with. He listens to my small speech and sighs, and runs his hands through his hair. I’m prepared for an argument here, but he surprises me.
‘You’re right,’ he says, nodding solemnly. ‘I did manipulate you. I did make you feel crazy, even when I knew you were right – in fact, especially when I knew you were right. And I’m sorry – it wasn’t fair of me. It was a way of hiding from myself, a way of avoiding change that scared me. I see now how damaging that must have been for you.’
I stare at him suspiciously, examining his words and his expression for any sign of subterfuge. Almost disappointingly, I find none.
‘Okay,’ I say eventually. ‘Apology accepted. Neither of us was perfect. But … I’m different now. You can’t play those games any more.’
‘I realise that, and that’s not what this was about … honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing, Auburn. Seeing you again – well, it’s strange, isn’t it? I came here not knowing how I’d feel when I was able to talk to you. Able to see you and speak to you and touch you. Now I can, I feel … like I don’t want to stop. Like this isn’t over between us. And all of this? The food and the reminiscing and the stories? I suppose it’s my way of trying to remind you that the time we spent together wasn’t always bad. That you still might have feelings for me as well.’
‘I do have feelings for you Seb,’ I reply quickly, stabbing a chunk of potato viciously with my fork. ‘But a lot of the time they’re not the feelings you’re looking for – they’re feelings of exasperation and frustration and worry. Occasionally affection, but that might just be heartburn … look, you chose to be here – I didn’t invite you. It was your decision, and for some reason I’m going along with it – but I think we have very different motivations.’
‘Go on,’ he says, smiling sadly. ‘You might as well tell me.’
‘I don’t want to hurt you. And I really don’t want to do anything that would damage your newfound sobriety. But your motivations seem to be to start things up again – and mine are to end them.’
I’ve been as blunt as I can be without wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘It’s all over, Seb’, and I see him struggle with it. The old Seb would have launched immediately into attack mode, and by the end of it would probably have convinced me I was a misguided idiot to even consider disagreeing with him.
The new Seb, though? He sits very still, and looks upset but not angry, and reaches out to hold my hand.
‘I understand,’ he says simply, letting go of my fingers before it becomes uncomfortable. ‘And I promise that I won’t be playing any games. If nothing else, then I’d like to use this time to simply enjoy your company, find out more about your life, and if it comes to it, say goodbye properly. If this is the end of a marriage, then I’d like it to mean something – not just be one of us sneaking away in the cover of darkness.’
That, of course, is exactly what happened last time – and although I did have my reasons, I also understand what he’s saying. We both claim to have changed, to have grown up – so maybe this time we can actually behave like grown-ups as well.
‘All right,’ I agree, after a moment of thought. ‘That sounds acceptable. But I don’t want you to be under any false hope, Seb. Things are different now, and they’re going to stay different. Now, there seems to be a table full of tapas requiring my attention …’
He jumps up, and starts to serve me more food. He seems so excited as he does it, proud of himself, and I have to smile.
He always had occasional moments like this – moments where he’d be almost child-like in the way he behaved. Discovering an especially weird seashell on the beach, or coming across the Kiss of Death sculpture in Poblenou cemetery, or getting engrossed in Spanish-language telenovelas from Mexico that used to be on the TV in the afternoon. He once met a bichon frise puppy tied up outside a supermarket and sat on the floor playing with it until its owner came out.
He was always a man of enthusiasms and passions – it’s just that most of the time, those enthusiasms and passions were misdirected. Now, though, seeing him like this? It forces me to remember – to remember that he is right, and that the time we spent together wasn’t all bad. It’s been easier to pretend it was, but as ever with bloody life, nothing is that simple, is it?
Chapter 18
The rest of the evening passed easily enough. We both made a big effort to keep the atmosphere light, and it wasn’t as hard as I’d imagined it would be. The strangest thing about it all was the fact that we spent a whole night together, both stone-cold sober. That was very much a first.
I’d often wondered about that, after I left. Whether we’d even recognise each other if neither of us was under the influence. Whether we’d have anything to talk about, whether we’d like each other.
The answer to at least some of that seems to be yes. We had plenty to talk about, plenty to catch up on. As to the ‘like’ part – well, the jury’s out on that one.
I’d called it a night pretty early, which turned out to be a good thing as Lynnie woke us up at about four in the morning, looking for Joanna. Joanna is a recurring theme in my mother’s less lucid moments, and the chances are we might never find out who is she is, or was, or what she represented to her.
I know she sometimes thinks Willow is Joanna, and sometimes when she goes off on a wander she says later she was ‘going over to Joanna’s house’. Lynnie doesn’t have any family left to talk to, and she severed a lot of ties with her old life when she left the commune in Cornwall where Van and Angel and I were born.
We’ve talked to Robert – Willow’s new-found daddy dearest – but he has no recollection of there being a Joanna there at any point. If we ask her about Joanna during one of her clearer spells, she just looks confused, as though we’re being a bit weird.
Of course, there might not be any mystery here – it might be a character from a TV show, or from a book she read when she was fifteen, or her long-lost imaginary friend. One of the many challenges of the delight that is Alzheimer’s is not knowing sometimes what is significant and what is not.
Joanna, last night, certainly had enough significance to have my mum up and aggravated and furious about being locked in the house. We have to lock all the doors and windows and hide the keys, because she’s been too clever at slipping out in the past, and almost seriously hurt herself last year.
Now, when she can’t escape, she becomes understandably frustrated – in her mind, she’s a grown woman, with every right to make decisions for herself, and every right to disappear off into the night-time countryside in search of the elusive Joanna. When we won’t let her do that, she gets upset and angry, and once she reaches
that stage, she often forgets who we are or why we’re in her house or that we’re trying to help her. We become the enemy.
Last night it was so bad, we had to let her out, and silently follow her. It was like something from a bad spy movie, me and Willow tiptoeing behind in the shadows, still wearing our PJs, jumping behind trees and bushes whenever Lynnie turned around suspiciously. I think we were both kind of curious anyway, wondering if perhaps she was going to lead us to the near-mythical Joanna.
Instead, she walked into the village, and sat herself down at the bus stop, patiently waiting for a bus that was very unlikely to come at 4.30a.m.
We’d made sure she had her coat on, and proper shoes, so we weren’t too worried – but eventually Willow went home and got the van, and we drove past Lynnie, beeping the car horn and waving out of the window. There was a whole charade about how we were just passing and on our way home and would she like a lift?
It was dark, and she couldn’t see our hair, so she wasn’t quite sure who we were – but luckily Willow had thought to bring Bella Swan with her, who went straight over to Lynnie and started licking her fingers. That was enough to trigger a cascade of real-world recognition, and her eyes went wide, and she announced that she’d love a lift home – ‘public transport in this country is a disgrace, isn’t it?’ she asked, as dawn broke.
Now, after several coffees and an aborted attempt to get back to sleep, I’m arriving at the Budbury Pharmacy, ready to face a day of exciting prescription filling, wart examining and whistle pop exploitation.
It’s almost ten by the time I arrive – Willow had an early shift at the café, and Van had spent the night at Frank’s farm, to help with the arrival of twin calves. Twin calves are rare, and often complicated, and I’m sure Matt will be far better with those than he was after that video last night.
I’d let Lynnie have a lie-in – she was tired too – and then asked if she wanted to go to her day centre to see her friends. Sometimes she does, sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes she’s persuadable; sometimes she acts as though you’ve suggested removing both her eyeballs with cocktail sticks.
Today, though, she was keen – she thinks she’s leading a workshop on using dried flowers in collages. She might even be right. Either way, I’m grateful she’s keen to go, and I’m able to head into work without too much stress. Just quite a lot of yawning.
When I walk into the pharmacy, I am strangely unsurprised to see a familiar tableau in front of me: Katie at the counter, sorting through piles of cleansing wipes; Laura splayed across the couch, and Seb kneeling at her feet massaging her toes.
‘Good morning, Budbury!’ I announce, in my best radio DJ voice. They all look up and say hello, and I wander through the room, grabbing a whistle pop on the way. Breakfast of champions.
‘How are you?’ I ask Laura, who appears a little pale, and not as bubbly as usual.
‘Oh, all right,’ she says dismissively, swiping curls out of her eyes. ‘A bit tired. I was up a lot with indigestion.’
She glances at Seb as she says this, and I suspect her pregnant woman logic is blaming him for all the oil-and-spice-rich tapas she tasted.
‘Sure it was only indigestion?’ I ask, placing a hand on her forehead to check her temperature. ‘No action down below?’
‘No!’ she squeaks, sounding both relieved and disappointed about that. ‘And I do wish people would stop asking! I’ve had two babies before, you know. I’m not a novice.’
Laura is usually such a gentle soul that it’s always surprising – and a tad amusing – to hear her snap like this. I hold my hands up in a placatory gesture, and make my way towards the kitchen. I desperately need my fifteenth coffee of the morning. The first fourteen were useless – this one will be the charm, I’m sure.
Seb follows me through, and suddenly the room feels too small. He leans back against the counter while I fill the kettle and rattle the mugs. He’s looking all tall and big and dark and broody, and taking up too much space. If Lynnie was here she’d hiss at him like a protective goose.
‘You okay?’ he asks, seeing how jittery I am.
‘Fine. Tough night at casa del Longville, that’s all.’
That is true, but having him here isn’t helping. Once we’d got the big emotional talk out of the way last night, I’d actually started to enjoy his company – which this morning, in the warm light of a summery day, feels slightly more alarming than it did at the time.
I don’t want to enjoy Seb’s company. I don’t want to get used to him being around. I don’t want to feel anything for him. What I do want, very much, is to go outside into the tiny yard and have a cigarette.
That would be a relapse too far, so I give myself a telling off, and stick the whistle pop in my mouth instead. Possibly I am swapping one addiction for another, but such is my life.
‘It was nice, last night,’ he says, passing me the kitchen roll when I over-pour the hot water and slush brown coffee all over the counter.
I nod, and stay quiet. It was nice, but I’m not quite ready to acknowledge that. It’s weird. I only realise now that I’d spent the whole evening at Seb’s without even thinking about Finn, and that makes me feel bad and guilty and anxious. Not that I did anything wrong at all, but still – it’s a step away from him that I don’t want to take.
This makes me feel unfairly surly towards Seb, and I’m probably about to snap at him when a shout comes from the main room.
‘Auburn!’ yells Katie. ‘Can you come here please?’
Katie is not a woman naturally given to yelling, and although she doesn’t sound at all panicked, there is an edge to her voice that makes me immediately stop what I’m doing and dash back through, followed by Seb.
Laura is sitting on the sofa, eyes wide, her mouth formed into a perfectly shocked ‘O’ of surprise.
‘What is it?’ I ask, keeping my voice low and calm.
‘I … I think I might have had a wee on your lovely couch …’ says Laura, her cheeks flaring red in humiliation. I see a damp patch spreading around her, and formulate a plan of action within seconds.
‘God, how embarrassing … I’m so sorry …’ she mutters, trying to stand up, looking mortified.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I say briskly, walking towards her. ‘You can wee anywhere you want, sweetie. But I somehow don’t think that’s what happened here. I think your waters have broken. And I don’t think it was indigestion. And I think it’s time to go to the hospital now, don’t you?’
She shakes her head furiously, so fast her hair whips from side to side, and bleats: ‘No! I’m not ready! It’s not time! I want to stay here!’
Seb rushes over and sits by her side, oblivious to the leak danger, and holds both her hands in his.
‘It’s all right, Laura,’ he says, his voice low and deep and hypnotic. She looks into his eyes, and I see how panicked she is.
‘It’s all going to be fine,’ he says, stroking her hair and keeping her steady. ‘Like you say, you’ve had two babies before – you’re not a novice.’
‘But I don’t want to go to the hospital …’ she says, her voice trailing off and tears sprouting in her eyes. ‘Can’t I stay here? You have all the drugs!’
She looks at me pleadingly, and I smile as I reply: ‘Not the right kind, my love, I’m sorry. And I know it’s been your master plan all along to have those babies here, but it’s not going to happen, all right? Katie’s going to track down Matt, and we’re going to drive you to the hospital, and it’s all going to be good. I just need you to stay calm for me.’
She nods, and her face twists into a shocked grimace as what I suspect is a contraction ripples its way through her.
‘Oh fuck!’ she proclaims, in a very un-Laura like display of profanity. ‘I’d forgotten how much this hurts!’
‘I know,’ I reply, even though I clearly have no idea. ‘But you’ll have all kinds of wonderful help very soon … Katie?’
Katie, who is a trained nurse, isn’t at all fazed by the sit
uation – but she does look concerned as she comes off her phone. She shakes her head slightly to tell me that she hasn’t been able to speak to Matt.
Laura is blinking rapidly, and Seb is whispering to her, and Katie asks me: ‘How many weeks is she?’
‘Enough,’ I reply. ‘Almost thirty-four, I think. She should be fine, that’s a decent gestation for twins. But they might want to give her corticosteroids, and she definitely needs to be monitored.’
Katie nods, and I find her calm reaction is helping me to stay calm as well. Go Team Pharmacy.
‘Do you think she’s actually in labour, or is it just the membrane rupture?’ she asks.
We glance over at Laura, who is squeezing Seb’s fingers very tight and sucking in air like she’s on a decompressed plane, and I reply: ‘Looks like labour to me. You go and track down Matt and we’ll get her to the hospital. Stick a sign on the door that says we’re closed for childbirth or something.’
Katie grins, and replies: ‘Maybe that could be a new string to our bow? Budbury Pharmacy – blood pressure checks, prescriptions, verruca advice, and multiple births a speciality.’
Before I get the chance to make some suitably amusing comeback, Laura shouts out to us: ‘What are you two talking about? Why are you being all furtive and quiet? What’s wrong?’
I pull a face at Katie, and go back to my patient.
‘We’re not being furtive – we’re making plans. And there’s nothing wrong.’
‘That’s easy for you to say!’ she snaps back, understandably a little grouchy right now. ‘Is this going to be okay? I’m too early! I know it feels like I’ve been pregnant forever, and I’ve done nothing but moan about it, but it’s too early … and I’ve changed my mind!’
I bite the inside of my cheeks to stop myself from laughing, and squat down in front of her.
‘It’s not too early,’ I say, stroking her chubby knee. ‘You’ve done a brilliant job growing those babies, and I’m sure they’re going to be fine. And … well, it’s too late to change your mind now, so tough luck.
A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 17
