by Erica James
They had then briefly considered the possibility of travelling backwards and forwards on a daily basis, delivering and collecting Freddie to Mum and Dad, but living where they did, on the outskirts of Cambridge, it just wasn’t feasible. It also hadn’t seemed fair to expect his parents to do the toing and froing. But so far, the current arrangement was working well: Freddie loved being with his grandparents and being thoroughly spoilt into the bargain. They were here today, Sunday afternoon, to leave him for another week.
‘You wouldn’t last forty-eight hours, Lizzie,’ Luke said lightly to his sister in answer to her question. ‘Freddie would wear you down to a husk and leave you no time to job-hunt.’
She gave him a bittersweet look, a look that told him she knew he wasn’t being entirely straight with her.
In the silence that settled on them, punctuated by the sound of birdsong and Freddie humming to himself, Luke thought about the man responsible for his sister’s predicament. He hadn’t met this supposed love of Lizzie’s life, but he’d heard a lot about him. Rather too much, if he was honest. His immediate response to Lizzie’s confession that she was having an affair with a married man was one of shock. Even by his sister’s usual maddeningly impetuous and headstrong standards, this was going some. He had wanted to tell her to drop the man like a stone, and fast; that no good would come of continuing the relationship. But seeing the change in her, how obviously in love she was, he’d known that she was beyond listening to anything that might pour cold water on the heat of her happiness, so instead he’d merely cautioned her to take care.
From a personal perspective he’d found her break-up with Simon particularly difficult because he and Simon had got on so well. They still did. Luke didn’t like deceiving Lizzie, but he hadn’t let on to her that he’d met up with Simon a couple of times for a drink when he was in London. The evenings they’d spent together had not been easy. The sad thing was, when Simon had become a permanent fixture in Lizzie’s life, Luke had agreed with their parents that here at last was a boyfriend who would anchor her. Here was a boyfriend who with his gentle, even-tempered manner was the perfect foil for Lizzie’s highly impulsive temperament. They were proved wrong. Maybe Lizzie wasn’t ever meant to be anchored; perhaps she was destined always to be slightly adrift from the rest of them.
Of all the exasperatingly reckless things Lizzie had done, this business with Curt topped the lot, though. It even surpassed the memorable occasion when she’d tried to dye Luke’s hair for him and had used neat bleach, with disastrous results. Or the time she had surprised him by saying she’d got tickets for them to go to Glastonbury to celebrate their combined twenty-first birthday. It had been a fantastic surprise present and he’d so looked forward to seeing The Killers perform, as well as The White Stripes and Interpol. The day came when they set off for Somerset with backpacks bulging with a tent and waterproofs – only to find that Lizzie had forgotten the tickets. She’d sworn that he’d said he would bring them, and even when he showed her the text she’d sent him saying she had the tickets, she refused to climb down. She apologised eventually, admitting that she’d found the tickets Sellotaped for safe-keeping to her dressing-table mirror. And because her heart was genuinely in the right place, and he could never stay cross with her for long, he had forgiven her.
Lizzie had also confided in him the actual circumstances of her losing her job and if it had been anyone else, he might have laughed. But the thought of his sister being caught in flagrante at work left him feeling decidedly uncomfortable. For some reason he’d made the mistake of telling Ingrid – usually he was more circumspect in what he shared with his wife about Lizzie – and her horrified reaction, far from reassuring him that he was right to be shocked, had the opposite effect and made him play down his sister’s crime as if it was the kind of thing that could happen to anyone. But deep down, some primordial instinct made him want to defend his sister’s honour and beat the hell out of Curt Flynn for compromising her the way he had.
Being twins, the closeness that existed between them was about as powerful as it got. Ingrid claimed that the distance that existed between herself and Lizzie was because Lizzie was jealous of her for daring to steal her sacred brother. Luke had no idea if this was true, but it was a sad disappointment to him that Ingrid and his sister didn’t get on better; all he could do was hope that with time that would change.
He was older than Lizzie by five minutes, and they were recognisably brother and sister, two very distinct peas from the same pod – both dark-haired with dark brown eyes, well-defined eyebrows and wide foreheads. But whereas he was six feet tall and, to his frustration, already beginning to show signs of filling out like their father, she was five feet five inches and as slim as she’d always been.
Observing her now, and seeing how unhappy she looked as she hugged Freddie close, Luke wished wholeheartedly that Curt Flynn had never made the journey down from Manchester to London. From day one Lizzie had loved her job at Starlight Radio and when the music station, based in Shoreditch, had branched out to cover the hot issues of the day, as well as a variety of amusingly quirky material, Lizzie had come into her own and relished doing the necessary research. But then along came Curt bloody Flynn, brought in as the exciting new programme producer, and bang went her job. And wasn’t it just typical that the bugger had got off free, and it was Lizzie who had paid the cost and lost everything?
He was about to ask if she had heard anything from Curt when Ingrid appeared at the open kitchen French doors. Regarding his wife in the bright sunshine as she moved with the languid grace which had caught his eye when they’d first met, Luke thought, as he so often did, how effortlessly beautiful she was. She was wearing faded blue jeans that emphasised her long, slim legs and a simple white cotton blouse. Her Scandinavian blonde hair – that she complained was darkening as she grew older – was scooped up from her shoulders by a large clip exposing her long neck.
Their paths had crossed at a corporate gathering of lawyers at Newmarket races. He’d just been to collect his winnings – a lucky guess on a horse that had come in first – and was returning to his table of fellow litigation lawyers when he spotted her backed into a corner of the room. He’d noticed her earlier during lunch and had thought how stunning she was; he thought the same then as he watched her, forced to listen to the large, florid-faced man in a pinstripe suit with a flamboyantly pink silk handkerchief stuffed into his breast pocket. Luke had recognised the deadly boredom in her blue eyes and knew the feeling all too well – there was nothing like a day of stifling VIP haw-hawing to make you wish you were somewhere else. She caught him looking at her and for a split second their gaze locked, the connection made. Then suddenly her expression changed and with the brightest of smiles, she put a hand lightly on the man’s forearm and said something Luke was too far away to catch. Next thing she was coming towards him, weaving a graceful path through the crowded room. ‘For the love of God, play along,’ she said, her hand outstretched. ‘Pretend we know each other and save me from having to speak a moment longer with that arrogant pig of a man. I told him there was something I needed to discuss with you.’
He played along, shaking her hand warmly and asking her how she was and why he hadn’t heard from her in absolutely ages. She’d smiled and entered into the charade, then when the coast was clear and the florid-faced man had safely moved on to claim another victim, Luke had asked her what her name was and which law firm she worked for. From there it was but a very short step from wanting to know all about her.
Her name was Ingrid Vaughan, the only daughter of a British man who’d married a Swedish woman from Stockholm. She had spent part of her childhood in Sweden before moving to London. Her parents’ marriage had not been a happy one: they had argued furiously and frequently, and when, in her mother’s eyes, Ingrid’s father conveniently died, he was quickly replaced by a series of men, culminating in a wealthy diamond trader from Antwerp who had no desire to have a tires
ome young child getting in the way. So Ingrid was despatched to a boarding school on the south coast of England while her mother married her diamond trader and took up travelling the world in a level of comfort and style she had always known was her due.
All this meant that Ingrid grew up to be strong, independent and clever. Like Luke, once she had qualified, she’d discounted the lure of working for a big London law firm, preferring instead the opportunity to do well in a less pressurised environment. Had they not both applied to take up positions in Cambridge to pursue their careers, they would never have met.
Spotting his mother, Freddie clambered off Lizzie and ran to her. She lifted him up and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. Then glancing over to Luke, and giving him a quick smile, she said, ‘It’s time we were going.’
Chapter Five
She couldn’t remember who it was who had shared this theory with her, but at the age of ninety-five, Clarissa Dallimore had seen enough of life – and death – to know there was a good deal of truth in it. The theory was this: people often choose when to die, wanting to hang on for the right person to be with them at the exact moment of death, or to take their leave once the final goodbyes had all been made and there was nothing else left to say.
Clarissa knew without a shadow of doubt that her time to depart was drawing very near and, as Ellis kept reminding her, why was she hanging about when there was nobody left to say goodbye to? What was keeping her?
The first time Ellis had appeared she’d been sitting in the communal garden, a few days after moving here to Woodside. He had waved to her from the other side of the lawn, over by the archway that led to the pond. Without a second thought she had waved back at him, her joy at seeing him again outweighing her surprise. The next time he’d appeared was at the end of her bed one night. Another occasion he showed up in the dining room during lunch. He hadn’t been alone that day; Artie had been with him, along with Effie. Oh what fun it had been to see all three of them together! And how they had relieved the boredom of listening to that dreadfully tiresome man complaining that the meal they’d just been served wasn’t seasoned enough. Effie had given Clarissa a complicit wink, sharing with her that she knew how unendurably tedious Clarissa found this particular dining companion. That wink from Effie had made her yearn for a time when she had been a slip of a girl, with a head and heart full of love, hope and adventure, when anything seemed possible.
But now the biggest adventure of the day for her was tackling the business of washing and dressing herself unaided – something she was determined to do for as long as she possibly could. Some days it frustrated her enormously how little she was capable of doing, but mostly she was resigned to it and was happy to reside inside her head and live life to the full that way.
Some days she felt compelled to explain to somebody – anybody – that this wasn’t the real her; that she was so much more than this frail old lady living out the remaining days of her life in a care home. But who would believe her? More to the point, who would be genuinely interested?
As for sharing anything with her fellow residents, without being ungenerous, they mostly only wanted to speak about themselves and their own lives. Maybe that was because, in some cases, it was all that was left when you reached a certain age. In the days and weeks that had passed since her arrival, she had listened politely to those around her. Now and again she was guilty of nodding off, but from what she could see it didn’t matter, for within no time she would be listening to the same story all over again.
With lunch now over, Clarissa waited for somebody to come and help her leave the dining room in the wheelchair that was supposed to make her life easier. How she wished she had the strength to wheel herself away!
Up until last year she had been able to look after herself perfectly well, but then shortly before Christmas she had slipped in the snow and ice. She had gone outside to the garden to feed the birds and to melt the frozen water in the birdbath with water she had boiled in the kettle. She had lain for nearly an hour in excruciating pain in the snow, hugging that kettle for warmth.
It had been the dustbin men who had found her. Luckily they collected her wheelie bin from the back garden, instead of expecting her to struggle to put it out by the front gate – had they not kindly carried out that task, who knew what might have happened to her as her neighbours were out at work all day, and her cleaner was not due until the end of the week. Even in the state she was in, she had managed to joke with the dustmen that if it was no bother they could just throw her into the dustcart and spare people the bother of a funeral.
To her great regret that fall had been the end of her independence, for when she was eventually allowed home from hospital to recuperate from a broken pelvis, she was faced with the reality of having to employ the services of somebody to help her. Her doctor had been suggesting this for some time, but she had balked at the idea, hating the thought of strangers invading and taking over her life. All previous help she’d had by way of gardeners, cooks and handymen, and women to clean for her, had been on her terms, but a person to wash and undress her in her own home was another matter; it was so undignified. Nevertheless, she subjected herself to it, until one day, after a series of unsatisfactory carers, she accepted that she was wedged firmly between a rock and a very hard place and decided it was time to be sensible and make the move to a care home.
Woodside came highly recommended, small and friendly with the emphasis on personal and first-class quality care in a country house hotel environment. The brochure had promised her a carefree existence with all day-to-day worries lifted from her shoulders – and from those of her family. Since she had no family, all the weight was on her own shoulders, and had been so for a long time. Woodside, as the brochure further informed her, was located on the outskirts of Great Magnus in the heart of Suffolk, a true home from home for elderly gentlefolk. All of which added up to an expensive price tag, and while her financial situation was not what it had once been, she fortunately had the means to pay the exorbitant fees, and that was before selling her house.
She looked around her, realising she was entirely alone. Was anyone ever going to come and help her? It was then she saw a young girl hovering in the doorway of the dining room. Clarissa had noticed her earlier during lunch and thought how distinctly awkward she looked in her befriender’s cerise-pink tabard. She didn’t fit the profile of the usual women who worked here, or helped out on a voluntary basis; mostly they were older with a polished, cheerful manner about them. Mr and Mrs Parks, the owners of Woodside, were very strict on the type of person they took on – anyone who didn’t make the grade was given their marching orders sooner rather than later.
With her unsmiling face, this girl in the doorway didn’t look like she would last long. She bore all the hallmarks of somebody who wished they were anywhere but here. Yet hidden behind the awkward expression, Clarissa detected a pretty enough girl, a girl who was older than at first she thought, in her late twenties, perhaps. Her skin was clear and refreshingly devoid of make-up and her hair, thick and dark, was pulled back from her face in a ponytail. She was an unhappy girl, Clarissa found herself thinking, but then she herself might have been unhappy at that age if she had been forced to wear such an unflattering garment as that pink tabard.
The girl approached her. ‘Mrs Danemore?’ she asked.
Clarissa couldn’t help herself. She looked around the empty dining room and shook her head. ‘I’m not acquainted with anyone of that name here,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ the girl said, her brows drawn in a delightfully studied expression of confusion.
‘I am, however, on very good terms with a Mrs Dallimore. Perhaps,’ Clarissa added mischievously, ‘that’s who you’re looking for?’
The girl hesitated. ‘Dallimore …’ she repeated, her brows still drawn. ‘Yes, that’s right. Do you know where I can find her?’
Clarissa took pity on her. ‘I’m afraid I was b
eing a little disingenuous with you; I’m Mrs Dallimore. You must be new.’
‘I am. This is my first day. Sorry I got your name wrong. I’m usually fairly good with names.’
‘That’s quite all right. First days are always difficult. How’s it going?’
‘So-so. Do you want me to take you back to your room for a nap?’
‘No thank you. I’d like to go outside to the garden, if it’s not too much trouble.’ She was hoping Ellis might put in an appearance out there.
‘No trouble at all,’ the girl said breezily.
Her words were spoken rashly as it quickly became apparent the girl didn’t have a clue how to manoeuvre a wheelchair. They eventually reached the garden having bumped into countless chairs and doorways before culminating in nearly tipping Clarissa out of the wretched thing when the girl tried to negotiate a route around a large terracotta pot on the terrace. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so useless at this,’ she said with a heartfelt sigh when they’d reached their destination. ‘I’ve only ever pushed a pram before; it’s those little wheels at the front, they have a mind of their own.’
‘You have a child?’ Clarissa asked, surprised. Based on what she’d seen so far, she’d no more trust the girl with a child than she’d ask her to perform brain surgery.
‘No, a nephew; he’s my brother’s little boy. Do you want me to fetch you anything? A cup of tea, or maybe something to read?’
‘Actually, I think I’d like you to take me back inside and find a carer to help me to the bathroom, please.’
The look of horror on the girl’s face was a picture and once again Clarissa took pity on her. ‘You must forgive an old lady a somewhat wicked sense of humour,’ she said. ‘I shall be perfectly content to sit here on my own and admire the view. Apart from that, it would be selfish of me to keep you from entertaining the others with your ability to wreak havoc at every turn.’
