by Imogen Clark
Fine thanks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Annie, 1986
‘Have you collected the Child Benefit yet this week?’ Joe asks her, and Annie feels her heart sink.
She had meant to do it yesterday on her way back from the supermarket but it had been raining cats and dogs and she couldn’t get the rain cover for the pushchair to sit right. Soaked to the skin in minutes, she’d run home with Cara, intending to go and get the money when the weather cleared up.
‘No, sorry,’ she says. ‘I forgot. I’ll get it on Monday.’
Joe looks up from his paper.
‘Well, that’s no good,’ he says, smiling at her.
It is the smile that he saves for when she’s been particularly hopeless, the one that makes her feel like a stupid child.
‘I need that money today,’ he adds. ‘Can’t you nip and get it?’
Annie looks at her watch. It’s eleven forty-five. The post office closes at twelve. By the time she has got coats and shoes on the children, cajoled Cara into the pushchair and got there it’ll be shut.
‘Well,’ she says, chewing on her thumb as she speaks. ‘If you could mind the children for a few minutes, I could run down. I should just get there before they close.’
The children are happy. Michael is watching cartoons on the telly and Cara is in her playpen posting shapes into a wooden post box.
‘Fine,’ says Joe. ‘You go and get it and then you can get on with the lunch when you get back.’
Annie finds her bag, slips her coat on, plants a kiss on the crown of each child’s head and leaves the house.
It’s a glorious day outside, the sun high in the sky, the light golden and full of promise. Kids play on bikes or kick balls up and down the street. A group of teenagers is hanging about on the corner listening to Grace Jones playing on a huge tape player. Annie drops her head as she squeezes past and hurries along to the post office. Her watch says eleven fifty-five when she gets there and, feeling relieved, she goes inside and joins the small queue.
Moments behind her, someone else comes in. Annie smells them before she sees them, the heady, floral notes of Giorgio Beverly Hills. Annie recognises it because Babs had some for Christmas and wore it every day until it ran out. The queue moves forward one place.
‘Annie, isn’t it?’ says the person wearing the perfume.
Annie turns round.
‘I thought so. Annie Kemp. How the devil are you? You look well. What have you been up to for all this time?’
The woman snatches up Annie’s left hand, admires the ring and then drops it back down.
‘Got yourself hitched, I see. Shame. All the best ones get snaffled up too soon.’
Annie would know this woman anywhere, although she was little more than a girl last time they met. She was a friend of Katrina’s, Annie’s erstwhile workmate from her days at Selfridges, and they went on many a night out back in the day, before Annie married Joe. Even then she was intriguing, set aside from the crowd. Annie remembers platform boots higher, bell bottoms wider, make-up bolder than anyone else’s around her.
‘Tilly!’ says Annie, smiling widely at the woman, who returns her smile.
‘Sure is!’
‘Hi. It’s been so long. You look just the same.’
And she does. Long, dark hair contrasting sharply with her pale skin, dark make-up, lots of jewellery.
‘What are you doing round here?’ asks Annie.
‘I was flying through in a taxi on my way back from delivering a contract. I saw the post office and remembered that I hadn’t posted my mum’s birthday card. Bad girl!’ She slaps herself playfully on the wrist. She has a tattoo, Annie sees, and feels at first shocked and then delighted by the riskiness of it. It’s a unicorn inked skilfully on to her forearm. In Annie’s very narrow experience only sailors and prostitutes have tattoos. And Tilly. ‘It probably won’t get there in time now anyway but at least she’ll see the postmark and know that I tried. Come for a drink with me,’ she adds. ‘Let’s have a proper catch-up.’
Annie’s heart sinks. ‘Oh, I can’t,’ she says. ‘I only popped out for a minute. Joe’s got the kids and I’ve got to make the lunch.’
‘Who says? Surely Joe can make his own lunch and they’re his kids too. They are his, aren’t they?’ she adds, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘He can look after them while you have a quick drink with an old friend. Come on.’
‘Next.’
The man at the counter calls Annie forward and she digs in her bag for her Child Benefit book.
‘Well . . . I’m not sure . . .’ she says to Tilly.
‘Next!’ says the man again.
Annie waits outside the post office, the Child Benefit money tucked carefully in her purse out of sight. Seconds later, Tilly skips out into the street, grabs hold of Annie’s arm and starts to pull her along the pavement.
‘Come on. Just a quick one. I won’t take no for an answer.’
And she won’t. Annie can see that and what harm will it do? She could have a quick drink and then rush back. She could tell Joe that she called to buy some bits for lunch. He might not even notice how long she’s gone. Her heart is in her mouth as she tries to decide what to do but she can feel a tiny spark of rebellion firing in her veins.
‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ asks Tilly. She is laughing and Annie remembers why she liked her so much when Katrina first introduced them. She decides to go for the drink and feels immediately liberated by her decision.
‘Are you still working at Selfridges?’ she asks, allowing herself to be propelled along the street in the opposite direction from home.
‘God no! That was just while I was a student, to keep the parents happy. I’m working for the BBC now. Researcher on Wogan.’
Annie gasps.
‘Really? Do you meet all the stars then? Do you know Terry Wogan?’
Tilly waves her hand dismissively. ‘Yes, but most of them aren’t worth knowing. Except Terry. He’s a real gentleman.’
They reach a pub, The Coach and Horses, and Tilly pushes the door open. Annie hesitates for a moment and then follows her.
Inside it feels very dark after the bright sunshine and Annie’s eyes struggle to adjust.
‘What’ll you have?’ asks Tilly. ‘My treat.’
Annie dithers. She can’t have a proper drink. Joe will smell it on her. She’s already wondering how she’s going to explain the cigarette smoke on her clothes.
‘I’ll just have a lemonade,’ she says.
Tilly pulls a face, scoffing. ‘You are joking!’
‘No, really. I have stuff to do and I can’t stay long.’
‘Okay,’ says Tilly over her shoulder. She returns a moment later with a pint of lemonade and something tall in a highball glass. ‘So,’ she says, putting the drinks down and dropping on to the stool. ‘Tell me everything.’
Tilly generates an energy about her, just as she had done back when Katrina first introduced them. It’s like static electricity and Annie imagines that her skin will spark if they touch.
‘There’s not much to tell. I married Joe. Remember him?’
Tilly nods appreciatively. ‘Nice.’
‘And we have two children. Michael is six and Cara is two.’
Tilly yawns theatrically. ‘You done too much, much too young,’ she sings. ‘Children. Really? I’m sorry but I’m just not ready for settling down any time soon. Too much living to do first. I have to travel some more and I get invited to some amazing parties you know, through work.’
Annie nods but really she can’t imagine how Tilly’s life must be. As Tilly chatters on, mentioning film stars and musicians as if they are people she knows from school, Annie listens and tries to stop her jaw from crashing on to the table. Tilly isn’t namedropping or showing off, though. It seems rather that the rich and famous have become such a part of her lifestyle that she’s forgotten that it’s not the same for everyone else. Annie tries to absorb it all, as if there is noth
ing unusual about hearing Tina Turner dropped into conversation, but inside she’s fizzing with vicarious excitement.
‘And what about you?’ asks Tilly after a while. ‘Do you still see Katrina and the old crowd?’
Annie shakes her head. How can she explain that she doesn’t see anyone anymore without making her life sound horribly dull next to the glamour that Tilly carries with her? ‘No. We kind of drifted apart after I got married. I don’t really have much time to see people anymore, not with the children and everything.’
She is so proud of her beautiful children but now, talking to Tilly, she can already see that her old friend won’t understand the choices she’s made, will think she has thrown her opportunities away, grown up too fast. Thinking of the children now makes Annie realise, with a start, that she has been gone far longer than she said and she looks at her watch. It’s almost one o’clock. She has to leave. Now.
She stands up so quickly that her stool clatters to the floor behind her and everyone turns to stare. As she bends to pick it up, embarrassed, Tilly salutes in the air to acknowledge the attention.
‘I must go,’ says Annie, gathering her bag close to her. ‘Joe will be wondering where I’ve got to. Thanks for the drink.’
‘No problem,’ says Tilly and Annie notices that she doesn’t try to persuade her to stay. But then she adds, ‘Let’s do this again sometime.’
Annie assumes she is being polite but Tilly scrabbles round in her bag and pulls out a business card. She hands it to Annie. ‘Ring me,’ she says, drawing dialling in the air with her finger. ‘I mean it,’ she adds, holding Annie with her dark eyes. ‘Ring me.’
Annie nods her goodbyes and rushes out into the street, where her eyes have to readjust again as she quietly slips from one world to another. Anxiety races through her system and she almost runs back to the house, thinking through excuses for her lateness as she goes.
At the front door, she straightens her hair and tries to slow her breathing. Then she puts her key in the lock and goes inside.
‘I’m back,’ she calls out, her voice artificially bright.
No one calls back. Joe must be angry with her. He is just waiting until she appears and then she will catch it for being gone too long. She braces herself for what is to come and then pushes open the door to the lounge.
Michael is sitting exactly where she left him in front of the television.
‘Hello, Mummy,’ he says without looking away from the screen.
Annie looks into Cara’s playpen but it’s empty. Panicked, she scans the room and finds her little girl on the couch, lying propped on Joe’s chest. They are both sound asleep.
CHAPTER FORTY
Cara, 2018
My body clock must be righting itself or I’m just exhausted, because by the time I turn my head to find the neon numbers of the radio alarm it’s already well past nine. Even before I look in the mirror I can tell that my eyes are a mess. The skin around them feels wrong, pulled too tight by the puffiness that my tears have left behind. It’ll be dark glasses for me this morning, I think. Not that it matters, as no one I know will see me in this state. No one here knows me or cares why I went to sleep with swollen eyes.
No one except Skyler. She flits across my mind with a shiver of guilt. I picture her sitting cross-legged at her tidy desk in the dark gallery waiting for news of the grand reunion with the introverted Ursula Kemp. Some reunion. I tussle briefly with my conscience. I should really report back, let her know that the meeting was not a resounding success. It’s the least I can do, given the part that she played in setting it up in the first place. Right now, though, I can’t face the idea of recounting it to her, explaining my own part in the shoddy little tale. I push Skyler out of my mind.
Thoughts of her are replaced by pangs of hunger as I remember that, for reasons that I’d rather not dwell on, I didn’t have any dinner last night. Ideas of breakfast are enough to drag me from the bed and into the shower, where I stand for longer than I would have had Dad been paying for the water in an attempt to steam my eyes back open. I almost miss the ringing phone and even when the unfamiliar tone wafts through the billowing steam to me, it still takes me a while to recognise it for what it is. I grab a towel as I drip on the carpet to answer it.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Miss Ferensby?’
‘Yes.’
‘We have a lady waiting for you in reception. She says she’s your aunt. Should I ask her to take a seat?’
I don’t speak as I try to process what I’ve just been told. I wonder how Ursula has found me until I remember that I put the hotel details in my letter. Then I wonder what she wants. I don’t speak for so long that the receptionist on the other end asks whether I am still there.
‘Sorry. Yes. Could you ask her to wait there and I’ll be down as quickly as I can,’ I manage.
I put the phone down and stare at the handset. My feet are making damp prints on the carpet. What is this? Has she come back for round two? Initially, my still-raw anger makes me think that she can whistle. It would probably serve her right if I crept out through a back entrance, leaving her there to stew, but I know that I need to speak to her if I ever want to discover what happened to my mother. With heart pounding, I pad back to the bathroom and start to get ready.
Ten minutes later I’m heading down to reception in the lift. My hair is wet again, just as it was last night, but this time I don’t care about how I look. Ursula is no longer worth making the effort for.
When I reach the lobby I hold back a little, casting my eyes around for her. At first there’s no sign but then I spot her sitting half-hidden by a potted palm. She is worrying the skin around her thumbnail with her teeth and biting away the hangnails. I watch her for a moment, enjoying the knowledge that she is unaware of my presence. As I watch, I wonder if I can see something of myself in her; in the fall of her shoulders, the shape of the chin, maybe. We aren’t obviously alike, though. I’m probably imagining a similarity because I’m half hoping to see something familiar when I look at her. Perhaps she looks like her sister? Could I see my mother’s face staring out at me from my aunt’s cragged features, if only I knew what to look for?
She must sense me staring because she raises her eyes in my direction and then sees me. For a moment neither of us moves. We just stare at each other. I am very conscious of my swollen eyes, but as I look into hers I see that she too looks like she might have passed at least part of the previous evening crying. Is this atonement then, this unannounced appearance?
Then she raises her hand: not high – a little movement that suggests a degree of contrition. I don’t respond straightaway. Her half-smile slips slightly and she raises her eyebrows questioningly, imploringly. Still I don’t move. I feel like I’m standing on a train station. I have two choices. I can stay where I am and let the doors of the train close in front of me or I can climb aboard and see where the journey takes me. Ursula’s hand drops into her lap. She looks down. I take a step towards her.
She is no longer the woman of the night before. The languid self-confidence is gone and she seems to be occupying much less space. Even her sharp, pixie haircut looks as if she is just coming through a health scare rather than making a fashion statement. Despite the anguished night that I have just spent, the hurt that she caused me, my bruised sense of self, I find that I’m still drawn to her.
I forgive her in a heartbeat. I know that this is dangerous. Who’s to say that she won’t do exactly the same to me again? Yet as she sits partly obscured by the potted palm, I see in her a vulnerability that something buried deep inside me recognises. She is protecting herself from harm and I know all about that.
As I approach her, she stands up. I stop a couple of feet from her, too far away for any awkward physical contact. We are definitely not at the kiss-and-make-up stage. There’s not even a whiff of an air kiss. It’s apparent that Ursula is as uncomfortable with that kind of casual contact as I am.
Neither of us speaks. We look into
each other’s eyes. Hers are perhaps puffier than mine but that might be how she always looks this early in the morning. Then, at the corner of her mouth, the glimpse of a crooked smile. I don’t respond. Not yet.
‘I think we might have got off on the wrong foot,’ she says. I hold her gaze. ‘Shall we start again?’
I note, with slight irritation, that there’s not even a hint of an apology, but that’s okay. We’ve given each other a second chance; I can overlook the social niceties. She must feel sorry, otherwise why would she be here? Maybe saying it out loud is more than she can manage?
So I smile. I give her a real Bobby Dazzler just to show her that I can forgive her, even without an apology. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Let’s start again.’
She nods her head but there’s clearly going to be no excuses, no post mortem, no blaming of the red wine. Nothing. ‘There’s a bakery down in Fisherman’s Wharf,’ she says. ‘They do great sourdough and the coffee’s not bad. Shall we go for breakfast?’
I agree.
We leave the hotel. Outside the air is cold but crisp, with a deep-blue sky and no sign today of San Francisco’s habitual morning clouds. A beautiful day for new beginnings. We walk side by side but the pavements are already filled with sightseers and any conversation is too stilted to be worth having so we don’t even try. The bakery stands right on the waterfront. Its huge glass windows are filled with piles of loaves in different shapes and colours. A woman in white overalls and a hairnet stands in the window making tiny dough hedgehogs. They stand in rows like a little army.
Ursula guides me in and points at a mezzanine.
‘You find us a table and I’ll get breakfast. What do you want?’
She speaks as if she is issuing orders but I’m beginning to think that this is just her manner so I try not to let it rile me.
‘Cappuccino to drink but I’ll leave the food up to you. Just get whatever looks nice.’
