by Imogen Clark
The sitting room is large and brightly lit. There are three sofas, each small and neat with highly polished wooden arms and feet like little conkers. They don’t look tempting. They are upholstered in a rich claret striped with gold and fringed with gold tassels. It reminds me of an old-fashioned country hotel, the sort that doesn’t allow children.
Beth nudges me towards a sofa. I sit down, finding myself perching on the edge rather than sitting back. Beth immediately squeezes herself in next to me, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet up underneath her.
‘I want all the details,’ I say and I mean it.
Every inch of Beth seems to be smiling. She hugs herself tightly as she speaks.
‘Oh, Cara,’ she begins. ‘It was so romantic. The hotel was just perfect. We had a suite overlooking the golf course. The bathroom alone was almost the size of my cottage. So, when we arrived we . . . well. You can guess that bit.’
I smirk at her.
‘And then . . .?’
‘Then we went down for dinner. We had a drink in the bar first and I should have known that something was going on then. The waiter just served us champagne without us having to order it. Greg had already told them what was going to happen.’
I’m struggling to see the romance in something so staged but I want to be delighted for Beth and so I nod enthusiastically.
At this point Greg walks into the room. It is almost as if he has been waiting in the wings for his moment of glory and has timed his entrance for maximum impact.
‘I was just telling Cara how you gave the nod to the waiters, darling,’ Beth says, turning her whole body round in the sofa to face him.
Greg grins and looks at me like he is waiting for praise. I ignore him and pointedly focus all my attention on Beth.
‘Anyway,’ she continues. ‘Then we went through for dinner but halfway through the starter . . . I had the scallops with pea foam. They were fabulous, so succulent and . . .’
Behind her, Greg makes a low tutting sound.
‘Cara doesn’t want to know exactly what we ate, darling,’ he says.
‘Actually, I do,’ I reply but Beth is already apologising.
‘Sorry. Anyway, halfway through, a man appeared with a violin and he came straight to our table and started to play some classical thing. What was it again, Greg?’
Greg shakes his head, smiling indulgently at her. ‘It was Albinoni’s Adagio,’ he purrs.
‘That’s it,’ she says. Her smile is now so wide that I’m surprised she can still talk. ‘So he started playing his Adagi-wotsit and everyone was looking over at us. The dining room was full, wasn’t it, Greg?’
Greg nods. His smile has shifted from indulgent to something approaching smug.
‘So, then Greg leaned over and took the rose from the vase. Oh. Did I mention the rose?’ I shake my head. ‘Well, there was a single red rose on the table when we got there. Anyway, he took the rose from the vase. Then he got down on one knee and, in front of the whole restaurant, he asked me if I would do him the very great honour of becoming his wife.’
I think we’ve got to the climax and so I’m about to hug her but she’s still talking.
‘And then he gave me the rose.’
Greg jumps in.
‘That’s where the plan went somewhat awry,’ he says, looking pointedly at me with eyebrows raised.
He talks like a character from a bad historical drama. A blush starts to bloom from the hollow of Beth’s throat.
‘I’m such an idiot, Cara. I didn’t even notice the ring. It was just sitting there in the rose. I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, just look at the size of it!’ She holds her left hand out for my inspection. The ring is spectacular. There is a ruby in the centre that is almost the size of a five-pence piece, set high in a rose-gold setting surrounded by brilliant cut diamonds. It would not have been my first choice. I’m not sure it would have been Beth’s either.
‘Wow!’ I say, as both of them are clearly waiting for a reaction. ‘Not sure how you missed that, Beth.’
‘Absolutely, Cara,’ Greg agrees.
‘Maybe it was the colour of the rose that confused things,’ I add. ‘A white one might have been better.’
Greg sniffs.
‘Well, if Beth had just opened her eyes . . .’ he mutters.
‘So,’ I say. ‘Greg proposed. Beth found the ring . . .’
‘Eventually,’ says Greg.
‘And then . . . ?’
Beth looks at me like I’ve got a screw loose. ‘I said yes, of course, and then the whole restaurant started clapping and the violin man played “Congratulations”.’
‘I’d forgotten about him,’ I say under my breath.
Greg clearly hears me because his smile slips.
‘And then Greg bought champagne for everyone. Well, it was waiting ready, wasn’t it, Greg? So the waiters brought it out as soon as I said yes.’
‘Wow,’ I say again. ‘It’s a good job you did say yes.’
‘Of course she was going to say yes,’ said Greg and his eyes flick round the well-appointed room. ‘Why wouldn’t she?’
Why indeed, I think. ‘Show me the ring again, Beth,’ I say.
Beth holds out her hand and I hold it steady in mine.
‘It was my mother’s and my grandmother’s before her. And it fits just perfectly, doesn’t it, Beth?’
‘Well, I still think it might be a little bit tight,’ Beth says quietly.
‘And have you set a date?’
‘Oh, just as soon as we can get everything sorted. Greg doesn’t believe in long engagements, do you, Greg? And you’ll make my dress, won’t you, Cara?’
Greg’s smile freezes. ‘Don’t you want to go down to London for your dress, darling? I mean, I’m sure Cara’s dresses are perfectly adequate but money really is no object here.’
‘No,’ says Beth with a determination that I recognise and am relieved to see. ‘It’s my dress and I want nothing more than to have my best friend design and make it for me. We’ll pay you, of course,’ she added. ‘As you just heard, money’s no object.’
I cannot help smiling at Greg, who has been hoist by his own petard, just so that he knows his wife-to-be is not a complete walkover. Then I turn back to Beth.
‘I would be delighted and honoured to make the dress,’ I say and I hug Beth tightly.
I look at Greg over the top of Beth’s head. He gives me a tight little smile.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Annie, 1978
It’s funny how your mind rewrites history with the benefit of hindsight. It will become obvious to Annie eventually that it was a mistake to marry Joe. She was searching for a way out, for a new life for herself, and she thought Joe was it. When she first tells Ursula that Joe has proposed, however, she isn’t prepared for the response. It’s not like she was expecting her sister to crack open champagne, even if they had any to crack. Ursula is the elder sibling and, in the ordinary course of things, would probably have been expecting to leave home first. When they were children they’d even talked about leaving together, speaking in whispers under the bedclothes while their father raved downstairs. Those weren’t real plans, though; at least Annie had never thought so. They were childish daydreams like getting a pony for Christmas or becoming a ballerina. They would each break away on their own, chasing their chances for escape. She’d expected her sister to be delighted for her and so Ursula’s reaction comes as a shock.
‘You can’t marry him!’ Ursula screams.
‘I’m an adult. I can do what I like!’ Annie screams back.
They aren’t actually screaming. Even though they spit their words out at each other like venom, the volume is only a little above a whisper. Their father is slumped at the table between them, his forehead resting on a wrist, the other arm hanging loosely at his side. His breathing, slow and nasal, might have suggested that he was dead to the world but they know from bitter experience that this can never be taken for granted. At any moment, he
might wake and find them arguing over his head. This possibility is to be avoided at all costs.
‘Why shouldn’t I marry him?’ Annie says, in a hoarse hiss. ‘He’s handsome and charming. He’s got a good job and a place of his own. And he loves me.’
She finishes on her trump card, hearing and enjoying the note of triumph in her voice.
Ursula rolls her eyes.
‘Loves you?’ she mocks. ‘Loves you! You wouldn’t know what love was if it strolled in here, fell to its knees and started licking your shoes. You don’t love him, Annie, and he certainly doesn’t love you. Open your eyes. Can’t you see what’s happening here?’
Annie cannot, for the life of her, see what’s happening. As far as she is concerned, she has met her soul mate and is going to gallop off into the sunset with him.
‘You’re just jealous,’ she hisses back, jabbing a finger at her sister across their father’s slouched body. ‘You’re jealous because I have found someone who wants to take me away from here and you’re going to be left behind.’
‘Oh, is that what he is? Your knight in bloody shining armour? You’re as bad as Mum. Can’t you see how this is going to work out?’
Annie, her arms folded tight across her chest, sees something slacken in her sister, as if she has lost the will to attack. Her face, which had been pulled taut in anger, slips into something closer to compassion.
‘Look, Annie,’ she says more gently. ‘I know that you want your life to start. God knows, I understand that. But are you sure this is the answer? Really sure? You’re so young to tie yourself down. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Go out and live a little first. If he loves you as much as you say he does then he’ll wait for you.’
Annie hugs herself tighter still. She won’t let Ursula talk her out of this. She’s completely sure about Joe, been sure for months. She’d just been waiting for him to pop the question. She’d even practised looking surprised and delighted in the mirror so that when he picked her up from work one night with a twinkle in his eye, she was ready. He walked her past their usual tube stop and on to a side street where they picked up a cab. He handed the driver a small piece of paper, rather than announcing their destination out loud, and then took a silk handkerchief from his top pocket and bound her eyes so that she had no way of knowing which way they were heading. When the cab stopped, he helped her out on to the pavement and ignored her laughing protestations. He guided her gently to their destination. She could feel the ground switching from concrete to grass and the gradient increasing beneath her feet but still he kept her eyes behind their silken mask. Finally they stopped climbing and he instructed her to take off the blindfold. They were, as she had guessed, at the top of Primrose Hill, the lights of the city twinkling beneath them like a giant treasure trove. He was on one knee in front of her and she felt her heart flip. He took her hand in his and she realised that she was trembling just slightly.
‘Annie, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’ he asked, and before she could reply he thrust a dark-blue box towards her. The ring, a ruby cluster, was delicate and feminine. Annie pushed the tiniest sliver of disappointment out of her mind. In her imaginary version of this moment, he had not yet chosen the ring and they would go to the jeweller’s and select a diamond together. It was beautiful, though, and she had to admit that there was a possibility she might have picked it out herself, if it had been pointed out to her.
She said yes – of course she did – and he picked her up and spun round with her in his arms as if she were a child. Annie wanted the whole of Primrose Hill to stop and look at them. In fact, proposals up there were two a penny. The only person to notice that her life had just changed beyond recognition was an old man with a poodle on a red lead.
She floated back down the hill, Joe holding her hand tight; she felt the new, strange ring digging into the side of her finger as he squeezed. She smiled randomly at everyone they passed, dog walkers, joggers and recalcitrant teenagers alike, until her cheeks ached. She was going to be Mrs Joe Ferensby and she wanted the world to know and share in her joy.
And now here is Ursula telling her that the whole thing is a mistake. She is nineteen years old, for goodness’ sake. Totally old enough to know her own mind, make her own decisions. And this one is a good one. She knows it in her heart.
‘I know you think I’m young, Ursula,’ she says. ‘But I’m not like you. I haven’t been to college. I’m ready for the next stage.’ She’s expecting some sort of protest from Ursula at this statement and pauses, waiting for the interruption, but Ursula doesn’t speak and Annie feels slightly wrong-footed. ‘I’m ready to make a home for myself,’ she continues, ‘have some children of my own. And I know Joe’s a charmer and he flirts like mad with everyone. He wraps Mum and Dad around his little finger. But it’s all a front really. He’s kind and caring and fun to be with and I know he loves me. He really does.’
Annie reaches across the table to touch her sister’s arm. It’s an awkward gesture and she needs to stand on her tiptoes to achieve it. She feels Ursula withdraw slightly and then accept her touch.
‘Can’t you just be happy for me, Urs? Please.’
Ursula takes a breath to speak but is interrupted by a deep, guttural snore. Their father shudders in his sleep and Annie pulls her hand back quickly, preparing for flight. Ursula’s face hardens again, her thin lips narrowing into tight, white creases.
‘You do what you like,’ she says. ‘As soon as I’ve finished my course I’m out of here too. I’m going as far away as I can get. You won’t see me for dust. Marry him; don’t marry him. It makes no odds to me. But don’t come crying when you’re tied down with children you can’t look after and your life is over by the time you’re twenty-five. This is your choice, Annie. Your mistake.’
Ursula storms out of the kitchen, quietly. Annie is left alone. Her father is drooling now, a thin ribbon of saliva snaking its way down his cheek and pooling on the table. He looks so vulnerable. Annie could just take a cushion and . . . But none of that matters now. Joe will protect her. Her father will never be able to hurt her again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cara, 2017
Somehow, I know that my mother is still alive. I can’t explain why but I feel it deep inside me. Somewhere out there in the big, wide world, I have a mother who is not dead. I have no proof though, no reason, beyond a box of old postcards, to reach such a startling conclusion. Even as I think this, the butterflies inside me grow into dragons that flap their wings so violently that I’m having difficulty breathing and I have to suck in large gasps of air through my mouth. The best word I can think of to describe how I feel at this possibility is joy: deep, unadulterated joy.
Of course, that feeling does not last. Breakfast is the usual muddle of spillages and misinterpretation. I think Dad wants cornflakes. I discover that he does not when he upends his bowl on the table. I set to with a cloth. It doesn’t take long to clear up the resulting mess. I’ve learned not to overfill his bowl. I start again with Weetabix. That’s not right either but he seems to lose interest in his objection halfway through it and finally gets on with eating. He’s at the point where he still wants to feed himself but isn’t quite able to. When the Weetabix mush finally makes it on to his spoon, it at least stays put – but more of it then ends up down his chin than in his mouth. Eventually, frustrated and hungry, he allows me to help him with what is left in his bowl.
I need to talk to Michael. Even as the thought materialises in my mind, I know that I must do it now, this minute. I have to tell him what I have discovered. This woman whom I might just have resurrected from the dead with the click of a mouse is his mother too. More than that, though, it’s too big to carry all by myself and my brother is the only person who can know what it feels like. Beth would be empathetic and make all the right noises to support me but her mother has not been dead for thirty years only to be rediscovered. No. The only person with whom I can possibly discuss how this feels is Michael.
But how? Michael’s in London. It’s not like I can pop over for coffee, and I can’t do this by telephone. I need to see his face as I tell him so I can judge his reaction. I have to talk to him properly without him clamming up or, worse still, putting the phone down on me. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’s dealt with unpalatable information by sticking his head in the sand. All of a sudden, my need to get to London becomes all-consuming. I stand up as if I’m about to set off there and then. I do it so quickly that Mrs P turns round from the sink to see what’s happened, turning back wordlessly when all seems well.
‘I have to go to London,’ I announce. ‘Today.’
As soon as I’ve said this, the practicalities start to dawn on me. Trips like this require days, maybe weeks of careful planning. I can hardly leave Dad to fend for himself – and, while Mrs P and I discussed her staying over when Dad needs that level of care, it’s not something that I’ve mentioned since.
‘I need some silk,’ I continue. ‘And I’m running low on other things too. I usually order online but . . .’
My voice trails off. Even to me it sounds like a feeble excuse. I work on wedding dresses that have a lead time of months, almost years. I am well organised – well, in my work at any rate. I’d never get to a situation when I needed things now, at once. I should’ve been more honest. I should’ve said that I wanted to see Michael from the outset. There is no need to say why. I’m about to do a U-turn when Mrs P turns from the sink, wiping her hands on a towel.
‘Would you want me to stay with your father?’ she asks. ‘I had nothing planned for this evening. If I nip home when he’s at The Limes, then I can pick up a few bits and pieces. I’ll stay the night and then you don’t need to worry about racing back.’
I evaluate her offer as she speaks. It seems genuine. There’s no sense of her being put-upon or pushed into something that she’s reluctant to do – and anyway, it’s not like I’ll be asking her to do it for free. I am sure the agency’s night rates more than cover the inconvenience.
