The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  HE’S NOT THERE

  If the devil is in the details, if the pleasure is in the planning, then the fun is in the fantasy. Though Fen knew well enough how reality can let a daydream down, that Monday she made sure she forgot. Though she was aware that the planning might well be pointless, she happily indulged herself. Though she knew that her own guardian devil was guiding her, she turned deaf ears to her conscience. All her conscience wanted to say was Think about it – what is the point? But for Fen, just then, the point was that her imagination had been ignited and running with it was fun. And wasn’t it refreshing to have the energy and the desire to spend a little time choosing what to wear? And didn’t it seem entertainingly decadent to put mascara on in the daytime? And wasn’t it fun to think about something other than baby food for a little while? And when it all seemed suddenly fanciful, questionable even, Fen simply justified that Cosima needed some nice fresh air. And wasn’t a stroll up Bishops Avenue as good a route as any? And if further corroboration was needed, then a date with Cat at the café in Kenwood House provided it.

  ‘He’s not there,’ Fen said to Cosima as they walked up the Bishops Avenue, ‘but there again, why would he be?’ She walked on, mulling theories on coincidence, unrealistic expectations and downright improbability. She stopped to pick up Cosima’s teething rings. She looked back over her shoulder to the tree and the flowers. ‘Shall we leave a little note?’ she asked. ‘there’s no harm in that. It would be friendly, wouldn’t it – might make his sad task a little less so.’ She turned the buggy and retraced her steps.

  Hi Al!

  Cosima and I were passing.

  I noticed a couple of Kay’s daffodils were looking peaky so I’ve removed them.

  Hope That’s OK.

  Fen.

  ‘Shall we leave Mummy’s mobile number too? I mean, It’s no big deal, is it, It’s just a friendly gesture – communication being a global thing.’ Fen added her number after her name.

  She set off for Kenwood in earnest and thought to herself how She’d just done the right thing.

  It’s not like I’m hoping he’ll call. It’s not like I’m swept up in daft daydreams. She spent the rest of the route distinguishing between the Daydream and the Distraction.

  There’s a major distinction between the two. A daydream can be pointless, a distraction useful.

  It was with a spring in her step that she crunched along the sweep of gravel driveway heralding Kenwood House.

  Cat was already there, sitting in the converted coach house, caressing a cup of tea. Fen zoomed the buggy over to her, mimicking a screech of brakes with her voice. An elderly couple looked slightly alarmed, as if that was no way to handle a buggy, as if babies should be in nice coach-built prams, not bizarre three-wheeled monstrosities.

  Though they’d spent all weekend together, Fen gave Cat a kiss and a hug. She took Cosima from her buggy.

  ‘Here, you cuddle your Auntie Cat,’ she told the baby. ‘Mummy’s going to get herself an enormous slice of cake.’

  ‘You’re chirpy,’ Cat told Fen on her return, declining the gateaux that Fen had bought.

  ‘And you look miserable,’ Fen commented, giving Cosima an organic sugar-free rusk. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘I feel glum,’ Cat admitted, ‘and I want to be allowed to feel glum. So thank God You’re not Pip.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Fen asked, spooning butter-cream from the cake’s surface directly into her mouth.

  ‘I’m not pregnant. I don’t have a job. I don’t like Clapham. Ben’s never home and I wish I’d stayed in Colorado,’ Cat declared.

  ‘Cat,’ Fen said, ‘you’ve only been home two minutes.’

  ‘It’s been three months,’ Cat corrected. ‘I’ve had sex forty-two times and have sent out nineteen pre-emptive letters for jobs. Nothing.’

  ‘Cat, you make the former sound like a chore and You’re being unrealistic about the latter,’ Fen admonished her lightly.

  ‘And you sound like Pip,’ said Cat, ‘so stop it because I need you to be the one who there-theres me.’

  Fen paused to consider this. It was true. Go to Pip for practical advice and accept her authority. Go to Fen for a hug and be assured of some plain sympathy. ‘It takes time,’ Fen soothed, ‘both take time.’

  ‘You got pregnant overnight!’ Cat objected.

  ‘It wasn’t planned,’ Fen said.

  ‘Then It’s not fair,’ said Cat.

  Fen looked at her younger sister apologetically and put her hand over Cat’s. ‘Come back to mine this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Let’s look at my books and magazines. There’s sure to be Ten Top Tips For Tip Top Fertility or something.’ Though Fen made it sound as though she was doing Cat the favour, privately she liked the idea of a way out of the mumsand-babies group.

  ‘What’s wrong with Clapham anyway?’ Fen asked. ‘I thought it was meant to be quite a happening place?’

  ‘I stick out like a sore thumb,’ Cat said. ‘All the women bustle about with perfect children, or sit smug behind the wheels of their SUVs.’

  ‘But That’s your goal too,’ Fen said, ‘That’s what You’re hoping for. And actually, it doesn’t sound dissimilar to this part of North London.’

  ‘But while It’s not happening for me, it makes me feel so isolated,’ said Cat, ‘and It’s made me realize that I really want to be nearer to you. And Pip. I felt less far away when I was living in Colorado – how mad is that? I feel lonely stuck over the river. Ben’s really upbeat about his job but He’s working really long hours. I haven’t made any friends. I miss Stacey and the gang in Boulder. And I miss my mountain.’

  ‘Your what?’ Fen asked.

  ‘Flagstaff. Remember that hike we went on? That’s my mountain. You saw where Ben and I lived, Fen. You saw the awesome wilderness right on our doorstep. You filled your lungs with that crystal-pure air. You stayed in our gorgeous apartment. You hung out with our mates. You saw how people drive SUVs out there because of the terrain, not fashion. You had a taste of our quality of life.’

  ‘But you wanted to come back,’ Fen pointed out. ‘It was part of your game plan and you were adamant.’

  ‘I know,’ said Cat, ‘It’s true. We had a purpose. A goal. Hopes and dreams. Absolutely. But you see, It’s March, It’s been three long months and none of it has happened. And in that context It’s really difficult to like Clapham. And It’s bloody easy to wonder whether we’ve done the right thing. You know me – I love planning in my head but in reality I can’t set the pace. I was so eager to return, I suppose I’ve been a bit deluded too – thinking nothing will have changed, like everything has been on hold for four years, awaiting my return.’

  Fen nodded. She rubbed her sister’s knee. She wondered what constructive advice she could give. But then she thought, That’s Pip’s job. What Cat wanted her to be was typical Fen just then. ‘I understand,’ she said, with a ruffle to Cat’s hair. It was still short, but longer than that stunning elfin crop She’d arrived back in the UK with. ‘It will happen, Cat. I promise you. Everything will be fine. Don’t worry – That’s the main thing. You’ll make a wonderful mummy. We’ll pick up brochures from estate agents on the way back to mine. Make some appointments for next week. There’s a new kitchen design shop in Muswell Hill – we could go there after Cosima’s nap.’

  ‘Thanks, Fen,’ Cat said, squeezing her sister’s hand, ‘That’s just what I needed to hear.’

  Walking back down Bishops Avenue, Fen considered crossing the road as they neared Al’s flowers. It was as if they suddenly personified Al; that Cat might see something she shouldn’t, make something out of nothing. While Fen didn’t want Cat even to comment on the flowers, she knew she needed to bite her tongue herself. Must not make a bouquet out of a hasty posy. Must not read into this. Must not say anything out loud.

  Her note had gone.

  A piece of folded paper was tucked between the stems of a few daffodils and the trunk of the tree. As they passed by, Fen could see her name writ
ten on the paper. Neat and bold handwriting. There was no way she could take it just then and though she didn’t resent Cat, she reprimanded herself for having invited her forlorn little sister back home with her.

  I wonder what it says?

  I suppose I’ll have to wait until Matt’s home before I can retrieve it.

  But say That’s too late? It’s windy. It looks like it might rain.

  It’s exciting!

  Of course Fen couldn’t wait for Matt. Could you? She nipped out while Cosima slept, supposedly to the shops, leaving Cat snuggled up on the sofa with back issues of Prima Baby and the property section of the Ham & High.

  The note just said ‘Thanks, Fen. Alistair.’ There wasn’t much to read. Certainly, nothing could be read into it. But she quickly reconfigured a crashing disappointment into no big deal. It was nice, anyway, wasn’t it? Nice of him to reply, and nice to have a tiny, harmless secret.

  However, it was difficult not to feel a little glum when, a week later, Fen saw that the flowers had been taken down. That there’d been no phone call to her mobile phone. It made it difficult to know what to do with his note. She’d kept it folded and tucked into a book of stamps in her purse. She’d have to throw it away, and her silly fantasy with it. The note was only three words long, after all, and you could hardly read into those. It wasn’t as if it was even long enough for there to be any lines to read between.

  APRIL FOOL

  Penny had specified no flowers at Bob’s funeral. She didn’t much like flowers – not cut ones. You cut flowers and then the natural process decrees that you witness them die. Why be reminded of death by things that are themselves dying? Much better to say ‘No flowers. Donations to the Lance Armstrong Cancer Foundation’. Lucky Lance – cancer hadn’t killed him, like it had Bob. Perhaps if other mourners over recent years had boosted the funds of cancer charities, rather than the coffers of the funerary florists, then things might have been different for Bob. Wishful thinking, perhaps – but what else could she think about or wish for?

  She didn’t feel like going out. But she knew it wasn’t sensible to mope around the house. Not at this time of day. It would make the wait until bedtime interminable. Marcia was back from Florida and Penny thought to phone her, but they already had an arrangement for the next day and she didn’t want to come across as needy. Marcia would worry. And when Marcia worried, she would fuss. And Penny had never liked being fussed over. So she summoned up some sense and energy and went out for a drive. Just a drive, she told herself, no rush to be anywhere specific. It was a fine day, though there was a chill to the air – the sharp brilliance of April sunshine issued a defiant dismissal of winter. Just beyond Hubbardton’s Spring, Penny stepped from the car to admire the herd of unusual red-and-white Holstein cattle peacefully chomping away at the lush spring grass. She gazed at the cows for a while and found she was often gazed back at. ‘I’ll see you in a moment, ladies,’ she said, marvelling how beasts so lumbering and lugubrious could also be unequivocally female. She walked to the famous covered bridge a few yards ahead. She read from the plaque aloud because she didn’t want to hear Bob’s voice in her head. He’d loved this spot: postcard perfect yet untainted by commercialism. ‘1872. Horsemen keep at a walk,’ Penny read. She glanced around her. ‘If they went at a trot, the bridge would bounce,’ she explained conversationally, though there was no one around. ‘It was used as a boxing ring too, you know.’ Suddenly, she found the sound of her voice a little embarrassing – talking to no one sounded worse than talking to cattle – so she walked briskly back to the car, nodding quickly to the cows on her way. Making much of the correlation between the rich Holstein milk and the ingredients for Vermont ice cream, Penny headed off for Ridge as if the idea to drive there for an ice cream had only then occurred to her.

  ‘Hi Penny,’ Juliette said casually, whilst taking the order of another customer. Penny nodded without checking if Juliette had seen. She didn’t go to the counter where Gloria was already preparing her a taster of that week’s special flavour but when Penny realized that someone sat at her table – a mother and toddler – she felt so discombobulated as to be tempted to walk straight out of the shop.

  ‘Penny,’ said Juliette kindly, guiding her to a table with no fuss. She came back a few minutes later with a pink plastic taster spoon, mounded high. ‘It’s a new flavour,’ she told Penny. ‘It’s called Sing for Spring. It’s pistachio and meringue – boss says it symbolizes the spring pasture peeping through the snow fields.’

  Penny sucked the glob off the spoon. ‘I’ll have a banana split, thanks,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Banana split for Penny,’ Juliette called and Penny detected excessive jollity and loud kindness in the girl’s usually soft voice. Simultaneously, Penny felt her eyes smart and her toes curl.

  ‘It’s April Fool’s Day,’ Penny told her with a shrug. ‘In Britain everyone plays pranks – practical or intellectual.’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Penny, triumphant. ‘I says to Gloria, that Penny’s not from around here. You’re English? How cool is that?’

  ‘A long time ago,’ Penny confirmed.

  ‘I’m sorry – I interrupted. You were saying about playing tricks?’

  ‘I made an April Fool of Bob one year,’ Penny shrugged. ‘He took it well – but I know he was a little upset. I never said sorry for it.’

  Juliette wasn’t quite sure what to say. ‘Bob won’t have taken anything by that,’ she mumbled.

  ‘That stupid movie Love Story got it wrong,’ Penny frowned. ‘Love means you must say You’re sorry. I never said, Sorry Bob – that wasn’t funny and I apologize. I’ve been saying it over and over today. But It’s too late.’

  Juliette hovered. Penny had barely established eye contact with her this visit. Juliette glanced over at Gloria who used her eyebrows and vigorous tilting of her head to signify for her to sit down. She slid into the chair next to Penny. ‘My dad used to tell me I was a fool the whole time – he didn’t need April 1st,’ she told Penny. ‘He used to tell my mom she was a fool as well. Actually, he didn’t use that word. He called us dumb. Dumb-ass bitches.’

  Penny jerked and locked eyes with Juliette.

  ‘When he said sorry, he never meant it so I stopped believing him quick,’ Juliette said with a shrug. ‘He’d even try tears, get down on his knees and holler that he was sorry. He was a better actor than Ryan O’Neal, I’ll say that. It’s a crap film anyway.’

  ‘I left my husband on April Fool’s Day,’ Penny suddenly interrupted in a hoarse whisper. Juliette’s eyes darted in confusion. ‘Not Bob,’ Penny hastened to add. ‘I left this other man for Bob. I left this other man for Bob thirty-three years ago today.’ She tucked into her banana split that was on the verge of being renamed banana spilt. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Juliette, ‘I interrupted you. It’s just I never told a soul about this until right now.’

  Two weeks later, when Penny caught sight of Juliette at the Pack’n’Save, a world away from Fountains Ices, she wasn’t sure what to do but she didn’t think she wanted to be recognized. Fountains had become a sacred space for her, her visits there sacrosanct. She liked the anonymity, the sense of sharing but of confidentiality. She’d come to feel that it was as close to a support group as she would ever come by. And it was a comforting thought that wherever she was, whatever the time, the candy-coloured parlour where everything was sweet and pretty, existed. So, it didn’t seem right to see Juliette in Pack’n’Save. But Juliette was apparently pleased to see Penny there as She’d made her way over, an older woman with her.

  ‘Hi Penny.’

  ‘Hi Juliette.’

  ‘This is my mom, Cyn.’

  ‘Hi Cyn.’

  ‘Hi Penny.’

  ‘You shopping?’

  ‘I am. You too?’

  ‘We are. My aunt’s coming to stay.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Honey, I’m going to pick up some soda.’

  ‘OK Mom, I’ll be right there.’


  Penny and Cyn nodded at each other, smiled cordially. Penny thought about the woman’s deceased husband calling her a dumb-assed bitch. It chilled her. ‘Well, you have a nice weekend,’ Penny told Juliette.

  ‘Thank you,’ Juliette said, ‘and you. You doing something?’

  ‘Not especially,’ Penny said.

  ‘Oh. Oh. Well, see you next week, I guess.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Penny, ‘goodbye.’

  But Juliette loitered. ‘Bob sure was special,’ she said to Penny. ‘I mean – for you to up sticks and leave like that. Your home, your country. When you were so young.’

  Penny was taken aback. She couldn’t possibly comment.

  Juliette tipped her head to one side and regarded Penny. ‘I know you can come across a little frosty and all,’ she said with kindness, ‘but I say It’s a shame you never had kids of your own. You’d’ve been a good mom.’

  Penny was so stunned she hadn’t the self-possession not to let it show, scrambling around for her composure whilst scrabbling for something to say. However, her feelings of disarray obviously didn’t offend Juliette who smiled sweetly and made to go.

  ‘Don’t you go thinking you and your mom aren’t special just because your daddy didn’t say so,’ Penny suddenly said.

  Juliette was visibly touched. ‘See you next week, Penny,’ she said.

  ‘Actually, I won’t be here next week,’ Penny heard herself telling Juliette though she knew the thought was unformulated.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No. No. I’m going to be in England,’ Penny told her, ‘I haven’t seen my family in many many years.’

  Juliette smiled and placed her hand warmly on Penny’s arm. ‘You do that,’ she enthused, ‘you do just that.’

  MY ROUND

  Predictably, it had been Pip’s idea to encourage the menfolk to meet.

  ‘You always say what a good bloke you think Ben is,’ she said casually to Zac as they dressed for work: Pip braiding her hair tightly into pigtails and securing them both ends with polka-dot ribbons, Zac donning a sober navy blue suit enlivened by a Paul Smith tie emblazoned on the underside with a 1950s pin-up girl. ‘You should get together more often with him and Matt. You’re brothers-in-law.’