by Jojo Moyes
It was as if, Suzanna thought, her burst of warmth evaporating, Vivi could never gauge the correct level of emotion: her over-enthusiasm left the recipient unable to accept it gracefully. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ She motioned to the blackboard listing, in an attempt to disguise her feelings.
‘I’d love one. Do you make them all yourself?’
Suzanna fought the urge to raise her eyebrows. ‘Well. Yes.’
Vivi sat carefully on one of the blue chairs and gazed over at the cushions on the pew. ‘You’ve used that fabric I gave you from the attic’
‘Oh, that. Yes.’
‘It looks much better here. It could be almost contemporary, couldn’t it, that print? You’d never think it was over thirty years old. An old boyfriend gave it to me. Am I all right here? Not in anyone’s way?’ She was holding her handbag in front of her with both hands, in the manner of a nervous elderly lady.
‘It’s a shop, Mum. You’re allowed to sit anywhere. Oh, Jessie, this is my mum, Vivi. Mum, Jessie.’
‘Nice to meet you. I’ll do your coffee,’ said Jessie, who was behind the machine. ‘What would you like?’
‘What would you recommend?’
Oh, for God’s sake, thought Suzanna.
‘The latte is nice, if you don’t like it too strong. Or we do a mocha, with chocolate in it.’
‘A mocha, I think. I’ll treat myself.’
‘We’ll need to top up on the chocolate flakes, Suzanna. Would you like me to get some more?’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, acutely conscious of Jessie’s new formality. ‘I’ll get some.’
‘No problem. I can go now.’
‘No, really. I’ll get them.’ Her own voice sounded wrong, too insistent – like someone’s boss.
‘It really is stunning. You’ve completely changed the look of it. And you’ve got such an individual eye!’ Vivi was gazing around her. ‘I love the smells, the coffee and the – what is it? Oh, soap. And perfume. Aren’t they beautiful? I shall tell all my friends to get their soaps here.’
Normally, Suzanna noted, Jessie would already have seated herself with Vivi, would be bombarding her with questions. She was instead focused on the coffee machine, her bruised hand now hidden under an overlong sleeve.
Vivi’s hand reached to take Suzanna’s. ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful I think it is. All your own vision. Well done, darling. I think it’s just marvellous that you made it happen all by yourself.’
‘It’s early days yet. We’re not in profit or anything.’
‘Oh, you will be. I’m sure you will. It’s all so . . . original.’
Jessie handed over the coffee with a muted smile, then begged to be excused so that she could unpack some jewellery that had just come in. ‘If that’s okay with you, Suzanna?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘This is delicious. Thank you, Jessie. Definitely the best coffee in Dere.’
‘That wouldn’t be hard.’ Suzanna attempted a joke, hoping Jessie would smile. She didn’t think she could bear any more of this. But, then, perhaps it was what she deserved, given her blundering judgementalism. What had Jessie done, after all, she asked herself, apart from be honest?
Suzanna turned to Vivi, her face animated. ‘Guess what, Mum. We’re going to play Cupid. Jessie’s idea. We’re going to get two local lonely hearts together without them knowing it.’
Vivi sipped carefully at her coffee. ‘Sounds exciting, darling.’
‘I meant to tell you, Jess. I bought these. I thought you could use them – you know, like you said.’ She reached behind the counter and pulled out a small gold-wrapped box of chocolates. Jess looked at it. ‘It was a really clever idea. I think you should do it. Pop them over there, you know, just before she leaves this evening. Or maybe first thing tomorrow.’
Jessie’s eyes held just a hint of a question, and some mute understanding passed between them.
‘What do you think?’
‘These are perfect,’ Jessie said, with her old, unguarded smile. ‘Liliane will love them.’
Suzanna felt something in her relax; the shop itself seemed to breathe out, and brighten a little. ‘Let’s all have a coffee,’ she said. ‘I’ll make them, Jess. Some of Arturro’s biscuits. Cappuccino for you?’
‘No, I’m fine.’ She placed the chocolates back under the counter. ‘Better hide these in case he comes back in. There, you’re in on a secret here, Mrs Peacock. You’re not to say a word.’
‘Oh, I’m not Mrs Peacock,’ Vivi said benignly. ‘That’s Suzanna’s married name.’
‘Oh? So what’s your last name?’
‘Fairley-Hulme.’
Jess turned to Suzanna. ‘You’re a Fairley-Hulme?’
Vivi nodded. ‘Yes, she is. One of three.’
‘Off the Dereward estate? You never said.’
Suzanna felt oddly caught out. ‘Why would I?’ she said, a little sharply. ‘I don’t live on the estate. Strictly speaking, I’m a Peacock.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘It’s only a name.’ Suzanna’s relief – that the atmosphere between her and Jessie had cleared – dissipated. She felt as if her family had physically intruded.
Jess’s gaze flickered between the two women, and settled back on the counter in front of her. ‘Still. It’s all making sense now. I love the picture,’ she said to Vivi.
‘Picture?’
‘The portrait. Suzanna was going to put it up in here but she thinks it doesn’t look right. I’ve heard about your family’s portraits. Do you still let people in to see them in the summer?’
Jessie turned towards the painting, still sitting behind the legs of the counter. Vivi saw it, and flushed. ‘Oh, no, dear. That’s not me. It – that’s Athene—’
‘Vivi’s not my real mum,’ interjected Suzanna. ‘My real mum died when I was born.’
Jessie did not speak, as if she was waiting for something to be added. But Vivi was now staring at the portrait, and Suzanna appeared to be thinking about something else. ‘No, now I see. Different hair. And everything . . .’ Jessie tailed off, conscious that no one was listening.
Eventually Vivi broke the silence, tearing her gaze from the painting and rising to her feet. She placed her empty coffee-cup carefully on the counter in front of Jessie. ‘Yes. Well. I’d better be off. I promised I’d drive Rosemary to see one of her old friends in Clare. She’ll be wondering where I am.’ She pulled her silk scarf more tightly round her neck. ‘I just wanted to stop by and say hello.’
‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Fairley-Hulme. Pop by again soon. You can try one of our flavoured coffees.’
Vivi made as if to pay at the till, but Jessie waved her away. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘You’re family.’
‘You – you’re very kind.’ Vivi picked up her handbag and moved towards the door. Then she turned back to Suzanna. ‘Listen, darling. I was wondering. Why don’t you and Neil come to supper one night this week? Not a huge affair, like last time. Just a simple supper. It would be so lovely to see you.’
Suzanna was tidying the magazines in the rack. ‘Neil doesn’t get back till late.’
‘Come by yourself, then. We’d so love to have you. Rosemary’s had . . . a difficult time, lately. And I know you’d cheer her up.’
‘Sorry, Mum. I’m too busy.’
‘Just you and me, then?’
Suzanna hadn’t meant to be snappy, but something about the business with the surnames, or perhaps it was the portrait, had made her irritable. ‘Look, Mum, I told you. I have to do book-keeping and all sorts of things after work now. I don’t really get evenings to myself. Some other time, yes?’
Vivi buried her discomfiture under a wavering smile. She placed a hand on the doorhandle and knocked a swinging mobile as she stepped backwards, so that she had to brush it away from her head. ‘Right. Of course. Lovely to meet you, Jessie. Good luck with the shop.’
Suzanna buried herself back in her magazines, refusing to meet Jessie’s eye. As Vivi
exited, they could hear her muttering, as if to herself, even when she was out of the door. ‘Yes, it’s really looking marvellous . . .’
‘Jess,’ said Suzanna, several minutes later. ‘Do me a favour.’ She glanced up. Jessie was still looking at her steadily from over the counter. ‘Don’t talk about it. To customers, I mean. Me being a Fairley-Hulme.’ She rubbed at her nose. ‘I just don’t want it . . . becoming an issue.’
Jessie’s expression was blank. ‘You’re the boss,’ she said.
‘You’ll never guess where I’m going.’
Neil had burst in on her, and Suzanna, although largely concealed by bubbles, felt curiously exposed. One of the worst things about leaving their London flat had been having to share a bathroom. She fought the urge to ask him if he’d mind stepping outside. ‘Where?’
‘Shooting. With your brother.’ He lifted his arms, cocking an imaginary rifle.
‘It’s the wrong time of year.’
‘Not now. On the first one of the next season. He rang me up this morning, said they’ve got a spare place. He’s going to lend me a gun and all the gear.’
‘But you don’t shoot.’
‘He’s well aware that I’m a beginner, Suze.’
Suzanna frowned at her feet, which were just visible at the other end of the bath. ‘Just doesn’t seem like your thing.’
Neil loosened his tie, made a face at himself in the mirror as he examined some ancient shaving cut. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m looking forward to it. I’ve missed getting out and about since we lost the gym memberships. It’ll be good to do something a bit active.’
‘Shooting’s hardly running the four-minute mile.’
‘It’s still outdoors. There’ll be a fair bit of walking.’
‘And a huge lunch. Full of fat bankers stuffing their faces. You’re hardly going to get in shape that way.’
Neil folded his tie round his hand and sat down on the lavatory seat next to the bath. ‘What’s the problem? It’s not as if you’re ever around at weekends. You’re always in the shop.’
‘I told you it was going to be hard work.’
‘I’m not complaining, just saying I might as well do something with my weekends if you’re going to be working.’
‘Fine.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
Suzanna shrugged. ‘There’s no problem. Like I said, I just didn’t think it was your kind of thing.’
‘And it wasn’t. But we live in the country now.’
‘It doesn’t mean you have to start wearing tweeds and wittering on about guns and braces of pheasant. Honestly, Neil, there’s nothing worse than a townie trying to pretend they’re to the manor born.’
‘But if someone’s offering me the chance to try something new, for free, I’d be a fool to turn it down. Come on, Suze, it’s not as if we’ve had much fun recently.’ His head dropped to one side. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you get someone to mind the shop and come too? You’ve got loads of time to organise it. You could be a beater or whatever they’re called.’ He stood, and made a swishing motion with his hand. ‘You never know, the sight of you with a long stick,’ he grinned, suggestively, ‘might do wonders for us . . .’
‘Ugh. My idea of hell. Thanks, but I think I can think of other ways to spend my weekends than killing small feathered creatures.’
‘Pardon me, Linda McCartney. I’ll turn the roast chicken loose, shall I?’
Suzanna motioned for a towel and got out of the bath, revealing barely an inch of flesh before she had covered herself.
‘Look, you’re the one who keeps accusing me of being boring and predictable. Why are you attacking me for trying something new?’
I just hate people trying to be what they’re not. It’s phoney.’
Neil stood before her, stooping to avoid bumping his head on the beams. ‘Suze, I’m getting tired of having to apologise for myself. For being me. For every bloody decision I make. Because at some point you’re just going to have to accept that we live here now. This is our home. And if your brother invites me shooting or walking or bloody sheep-shearing, it doesn’t mean that I’m phoney. It just means I’m trying to accept opportunities as they come. That I, at least, am trying to enjoy myself occasionally. Even if you’re still determined to see the worst in bloody everything.’
‘Well, hooray for you, Farmer Giles.’ She couldn’t think of a more intelligent way to respond.
There was a long silence.
‘You know what?’ said Neil, eventually. ‘If I’m really, really honest, I’ve been thinking that you having this shop is not doing us any good at all. I’m glad it’s making you happy, and I didn’t want to say anything because I know it means a lot to you, but for quite a while I’ve been thinking that it’s not helping us.’
He rubbed his hand through his hair, then looked her straight in the eye. ‘And the funny thing is, I’m wondering all of a sudden whether it has anything to do with the shop at all.’
Suzanna held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity. Then she brushed past him, and hurried down the narrow corridor into their bedroom, where, ostentatiously noisily, she began drying her hair, her eyes shut tightly against the tears.
Douglas found Vivi in the kitchen. She had forgotten that she had promised a couple of cakes for the Women’s Institute sale on Saturday, and had roused herself reluctantly from the soporific comfort of television and sofa. Rosemary’s involved plans for the following morning would not leave her any other time to make them. ‘You’re all floury,’ he said, glancing at her sweater.
He had been for a drink with one of the local grain wholesalers: she smelt beer and pipe-smoke on him as he bent to kiss her on the cheek.
‘Yes. I think it knows I hate baking.’ Vivi used the flat side of a knife to even out the mixture in the tin.
‘Don’t know why you don’t buy the things from the supermarket. Much less fuss.’
‘The older ladies expect home-made. There would be all sorts of talk if I gave them shop-bought . . .’ She gesticulated towards the range. ‘Your supper’s in the bottom oven. I wasn’t sure what time you’d be back.’
‘Sorry. Meant to phone. Not that hungry, to be honest. Filled up on crisps and peanuts and rubbish.’ He opened the top cupboard, looking for a glass, then sat down heavily and poured himself some whisky. ‘I daresay Ben will take a second helping.’
‘He’s out in town.’
‘Ipswich?’
‘Bury, I think. He’s taken my car. He really should sort himself out with another one soon.’
‘I think he’s hoping if he waits long enough I’ll hand down the Range Rover.’
Along the corridor, there was the sound of hissing as Rosemary’s elderly cat was apparently ambushed by the terrier. They could hear his claws scrabbling along the flagstones, and skidding into another room. The kitchen was silent again, interrupted only by the steady tick of the Viennese wall clock her parents had given them at their wedding, one of their few presents: it hadn’t been that kind of a wedding. ‘I saw Suzanna today,’ Vivi said, still smoothing the cake mixture. ‘She’s rather frosty. But the shop was beautiful.’
‘I know.’
‘What?’ Vivi’s head shot up.
Douglas took a long draught of his whisky. ‘I meant to tell you. I went to see her last week.’
Vivi had been about to place the cake tin in the oven. She stopped. ‘She never said.’
‘Yes, Tuesday, I think it was . . . I thought this silly row had gone on too long.’ Douglas was holding his glass in both hands. They were windchapped, red-knuckled, even though high summer was fast approaching.
Vivi turned back to the oven, placed the tin inside and closed the door carefully. ‘And did you sort things out?’ She struggled to keep the dismay from her voice, to smother the ferocity of her feelings of exclusion. She knew she was being childish, but she didn’t know what was hurting her most: that after all her concerns about their relationship, after all her attempts at brid
ge-building, neither father nor daughter had thought to mention it to her; or, if she dared admit it to herself, the fact that it hadn’t been just Douglas who had been in that shop before her. ‘Douglas?’
He paused, and she wondered, with a brief madness, how long he had gazed upon that image. ‘No,’ he said, eventually. ‘Not really.’
He sighed, an unusually mournful sound, and glanced up at her, his expression fatigued and vulnerable. She knew he was half expecting her to put her arms round him, to say something soothing, assure him that his daughter would come round. That he had done the right thing. That they would all be all right. But, just this once, Vivi didn’t feel like it.
Thirteen
The Day I Realised I Did Not Have To Be My Father
My whole life I do not think I saw my father without oiled hair. I never knew what its real colour was: it was a kind of perpetual slick dark shell, separated into tiny furrows by the tortoiseshell comb that protruded from his back pocket. He was from Florence, my grandmother would say, as if that should explain his vanity. Then again, my mother did not look like an Italian mama, not the way you English think of one. She was very slim, very beautiful, even into her later years. You can see them in this photograph: they looked like something from a movie, too glamorous for a little village like ours. I do not think she ever cooked a meal in her life.
I was six when they first left me with my grandmother. They used to work in the city: a place not fit for a child, I was told repeatedly. They took a variety of jobs, often linked to the lower end of the entertainment business, but never seemed to make much money – or, at least, any more than they needed to maintain their own beauty. They sent back envelopes of lire for my upkeep – not enough to keep the hens in corn, my grandfather said dismissively. He grew or raised almost all our food – the only way, he would say, slapping my back, that he was going to grow himself a fine young man.
They would come back every six months or so to see me. At first I would hide behind my grandmother’s skirts, hardly knowing them, and my father would tut and then pull faces at me behind her back. My mother would croon to me, smoothing my hair and scolding my grandmother for dressing me like a peasant, while I lay against her chest, breathing in her perfume, and wondering how two such exotic creatures could have created a lumpen animal like myself. That was how my father used to describe me, pinching at my stomach, exclaiming at my chins, and my mother would scold him, smiling, but not at me. Some years I didn’t know whether I loved or hated them. I knew only that I could never live up to what they had wanted of a son, that possibly even I was the reason they kept going away.
