What She Left
Page 35
‘Good call,’ I said, and went to put on a saucepan of water to boil.
‘Did you light the barbecue yet, Dad?’ Miranda asked, looking at the clock.
‘I have, just waiting for it to cool down. We want to start cooking around the time they arrive.’
‘Will they be able to find our house?’ asked Marguerite.
‘I talked Grandpa through the directions and stayed on the phone with him while he put the postcode into his satnav. They’ll be fine.’
This was to be their first visit to our cottage, and the girls were understandably nervous. So was I, but I was sure they would love it. It’s a sprawling, single-storey building in a tiny village in Warwickshire, and although it looks like nothing from the front, the back is all glass and opens on to a rolling lawn that leads down to the banks of the Avon.
I sold the London house; the Iranian family decided they liked the city and wanted to stay where they were. We managed to do a deal without involving an estate agent, which gave me sufficient equity to put down a deposit on this place and leave myself with much smaller mortgage payments. There’s a lovely school in the village, and a dance academy for Miranda, as well as stables where Marguerite has started riding lessons, which she loves.
In a final act of generosity (aimed at the girls, not me), Chris made me redundant rather than firing me, so I got a bit of a payout when I left Superhero Inc. It was more than I deserved. I’ve since found a job as an account manager for a small local events company. It’s not glamorous. It’s not London. But it’s steady, and as much as I can manage, with the girls. My boss, Erica, is understanding and flexible about family commitments, as well as my AA meetings. She’s happy for me to work from home quite a lot of the time too.
I stirred the marinade I had made, and began to pour it over the chicken we’d be barbecuing. While I did, I looked out over the garden and watched my daughters, now both so tall, walking back towards the house carrying handfuls of herbs and tomatoes. They were laughing together about something, and I was awestruck at their beauty. It’s not that they’ve changed dramatically, but they’re both beginning to lose that pinched, anxious look, and the fury that used to radiate from Miranda has abated, most of the time. We aren’t entirely out of the woods, but she is infinitely better.
Six weeks ago, I had an email from Helen. She asked, tentatively, if she could write to the girls. I immediately rang my mum and we discussed it at length. In the end we agreed that I should ask Miranda and Marguerite. They both said they would like it. Helen has been sending them an email every week, to Miranda’s account. I haven’t asked to read them, but Marguerite tells me she is very happy in Canada, that work is going well, and that she has plans to travel to India later in the year.
I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and turned my attention to the window on the street side of the house. My dad was parking his Astra, carefully parallel to our car. I watched him unplug the satnav and pack it away in the glove compartment, and then go round the car to open Mum’s door and help her out. She’s stopped being stoic and has agreed to keep using a walking stick. It frustrates her, but it makes us all feel better. They moved towards the house, but I kept watching the car.
The back door of the car opened, and Tim stepped out. Our eyes met through the kitchen window. We looked at each other for a long moment. Then I gave him a nod and went to open the door.
EPILOGUE
The laptop sat in the middle of the table. Inactivity had darkened the screen, and the machine had gone into sleep mode. Suddenly, the screen lit up and the computer whirred into life as the Skype window opened and began its melodic ringtone. It seemed no one would be near enough to hear it, but, just in time, she rushed in from the garden and clicked on the mousepad to answer the call. It took a moment for the video window to open and the pixelated resolution to clear. She found herself looking into bright blue eyes framed by a sweep of honey-blonde hair.
‘Judy?’ said the face on the screen. ‘Is that you? It’s Helen.’
The End
Published in trade paperback in Great Britain in 2017 by Allen & Unwin
Copyright © Rosie Fiore, 2017
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