by Lucy Dillon
‘Come on,’ said Anna, patting Phil’s arm. ‘Don’t watch them go through, we’re not in some disaster movie. They’ll be back in a week. And we’re cutting it fine with the car park.’
He sighed. ‘I know. It’s just that . . . every time they go, I wonder if they’re going to come back.’
Of course they’re coming back, Anna wanted to scream. Sarah’s only got them for six days because she’s going to Reno for a ‘vital conference’.
She took a deep breath. There was a lot she didn’t say to Phil, in the name of peace-keeping. It was backing up inside her like uncollected recycling. If she didn’t say it to Michelle, Anna suspected she’d end up doing a lot more talking to the dog.
‘Well, if they don’t come back,’ said Anna, ‘I’m definitely FedExing Pongo over to Sarah’s, pet passport or not.’
He turned to her, his handsome face all hangdog. ‘Do you think I’m a terrible father?’ he asked, semi-rhetorically.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I think you’re a very good one. That’s one of the reasons I married you.’
He slung an arm around her shoulders and hugged her to him, and Anna felt her own Christmas holiday start.
She retuned the car radio from Radio 1 to Radio 4 and, as they drove away from the airport without the sound of squabbling reverberating from the back seat, a weight lifted from her shoulders.
A whole week of just her and Phil, and no worrying about lists or bags, or putting her foot in it. And why wait for January to start the whole baby project? she thought, tingling with excitement. Why not get a few days’ extra practice in? September babies were always furthest ahead in class.
‘Phil,’ she said seductively, at the same time as he said, ‘Um . . .’
‘You go first,’ said Anna.
‘I didn’t want to discuss it in front of the girls, but I’ve been thinking about Mum,’ he said.
Oh God, thought Anna. No.
‘What about her?’ she asked, as evenly as she could.
‘I think she should stay in the home a bit longer. I’m not sure she’s really well enough to go back to her house.’
Anna looked across the car at him, trying to read his face. He sounded matter-of-fact, but this was a big thing. It had taken the combined efforts of Phil, Evelyn’s GP, a consultant and Becca, the favourite grandchild, to persuade Evelyn to move into Butterfields Residential Home while she recovered from a knee replacement. Anna knew the staff there from her reading programme, and, after she’d had a quiet word, they’d made a special fuss of Evelyn when she’d gone to ‘view’ the place – the reason she’d finally agreed to go. Evelyn responded well to a fuss.
‘But the consultant says she’s made a good recovery,’ Anna pointed out. ‘I can’t see her wanting to stay longer than she has to with the “bunch of dribbling cabbages”, as she calls most of them. I mean, whether she can manage the house on her own’s a different thing, but we can get Magda to come in more often.’
‘It’s not that. I just . . .’ Phil hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure he should be saying what was on his mind.
‘What?’ said Anna.
‘Yesterday she called me Ron. She looked straight at me, and said, “Ron, why are you wearing those awful slip-on shoes? You know I can’t stand them.”’
Ron was Phil’s dad, a successful surveyor who’d died when Phil was a baby. Phil had no memories of him at all, but from what Anna had gathered or worked out for herself, Ron had married fairly late in life to Evelyn, his much younger secretary, a blonde bombshell with a golf handicap to match his. Golf aside, the strained photos in Evelyn’s stuffy house suggested that the marriage hadn’t been an entirely happy one. Phil had been born when Evelyn was forty, ‘a complete shock’, as she still put it, and Ron had died suddenly of a heart attack two years later.
‘So she got your name wrong,’ said Anna, trying to sound reassuring. ‘She probably spent her whole married life starting every sentence with the words, “Ron, why on earth dot dot dot”. Had she just woken up?’
‘No, she was definitely awake. It was more the way she looked at me – spoiling for a fight.’ Phil took a deep breath. ‘It made me really uncomfortable. Like she was seeing him there, not me.’
‘Well, old people get confused,’ said Anna. ‘Half of them up at Butterfields call me their daughter’s name when I go in. They can remember the plots of romances they read half a century ago, but they can’t remember what I’m called.’
‘I didn’t even know my dad wore slip-on shoes,’ he added, with a very slight crack in his voice.
Anna could barely imagine how hard it must have been growing up without a father. She loved her dad, he was her source of warmth and love and companionable silences. She hated the way Evelyn refused to talk about Phil’s dad, but occasionally threw out barbs like, ‘You don’t get your pigheadedness from me.’
‘She’s pretty hearty for nearly eighty,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it was just a temporary lapse of concentration.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t want her hale and hearty but losing her marbles. Setting the house on fire, or leaving doors open for burglars to walk in.’ He gripped the steering wheel. ‘Becca found the remote control in the fridge. We made a joke about it, but Mum must have put it there. That’s a sign, isn’t it? Of dementia? Putting things in the wrong place.’
Anna shook her head automatically. It was impossible to reconcile Evelyn, hair set in a candyfloss helmet, imperious and red-clawed, still capable of delivering a cutting remark just for the fun of it, with the dementia sufferers she read to, groping for some purchase on their surroundings like babies struggling to walk.
And, a smaller voice in her head added, was Evelyn going to be her responsibility too? As well as Phil’s children?
‘It might not be.’ She reached out and caressed the back of his neck, where his hair, cut short for work, was growing out for the holidays. ‘I’m going up there this week to do a Reading Aloud session – I’ll have a word with Joyce. She sees this sort of thing all the time.’
‘Would you?’ He glanced over. His eyes were troubled, and she wanted to comfort the concern away.
‘Course.’
‘Thanks.’ Phil managed a smile. ‘Now, it’s just you and me for the next week. Just like old times, eh? Where do you want to go for lunch?’
‘Home,’ said Anna. ‘Back to bed. I’ll make you a sandwich later if you’ve worked up an appetite.’
‘No, seriously. Simon from work says the Bridge Inn’s been done up – he had a great steak there before Christmas. Fancy that?’
Anna’s stomach tightened. ‘It’s Boxing Day, Phil. It’ll be shut. Anyway, come on. We’ve got the house to ourselves! And you owe me a massage for all that cooking yesterday.’
‘I know. But that’s what afternoons are for, right? It’s so long since we had a meal out, just you and me.’ He wriggled his shoulders. ‘I want to go somewhere that doesn’t have swings outside, or a kids’ menu. Somewhere with a dangerous pond. Don’t you fancy that? Long lunch, the papers, no rush to get back for ballet?’
‘Well . . .’
Phil looked at her sideways. ‘It’s not often I get to take my gorgeous wife out for a date. Don’t deny me that small pleasure.’
Anna felt herself leaning towards his way of thinking. She couldn’t remember the last meal they’d had, just the two of them. Lunch à deux, intelligent conversation, some wine . . . it might jump-start the afternoon anyway.
‘OK,’ she said, sinking back into her seat. ‘But I’m having pudding. And we’re out of there by three.’
‘You’re on.’ Phil turned up the radio and started singing in a dad-like manner that Chloe would not have permitted, had she been there.
3
‘What if everything you drew and wished for came to life? Marianne Dreams brilliantly taps into every child’s (and adult’s) fear of waking up in their own dream.’
Anna McQueen
‘Merry Christmas!’ said O
wen, from behind the biggest bunch of white roses Michelle had seen outside a trade convention display.
‘Are those from you?’ she panted, still winded from her run. ‘Because I’d rather . . . have had . . . a down payment on your . . . outstanding loans.’
‘Nice! And a Merry Christmas to you too, Owen,’ he said, pretending to look hurt.
Michelle responded by giving him a quick, sweaty hug, ruffling his dark curls with her free hand, then bent double to get the rest of her breath back while she tried to work out whether she should be pleased if he’d brought her roses when still he owed her three months’ rent for his last house.
Owen was Michelle’s youngest and by far her favourite brother. There was a seven-year gap between her and the two older ones, Ben and Jonathan, and it might as well have been a whole generation. Owen was twenty-four, the surprise baby and recipient of all the surplus charm, good looks and luck in the family. He got away with murder with everyone but Michelle, who’d spent her teenage years filling in the mothering that their mother had been too busy to deliver. As a result, she’d built up a certain immunity to his chat, while he’d learned a few valuable lessons about talking to girls – something he’d exploited at every opportunity since.
‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said, unlocking the door. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
‘Not really. Got a lift with a mate who was going to Birmingham. Here, take these off me?’ he added, pushing the roses into her hand. ‘I feel like a bridesmaid. And I cannot tell a lie – on this occasion they’re not from me. They were on the step when I got here.’
Michelle pointed to his shoes and the rack by the door, and reluctantly he started to prise off his trendy trainers. While he was distracted, she ripped open the gift card and her throat, still raw from her run, constricted even further.
‘Sorry not to see you on Christmas Day, babe,’ said Harvey’s smooth voice through the florist’s innocuous handwriting. ‘I miss you. Let’s make 2012 our year. All my love, Harvey.’
Michelle shoved the card back into the flowers and dropped them on the table as if she’d found a snake in the heart of the bunch. She didn’t even want to see them in her house: something about them was pure Harvey – the roses were pearly and perfect, but completely scentless, force-grown and flown in at the wrong time of year, delivered on a super-expensive day because if you paid enough, you could always get what you wanted. And yet on the surface it was a thoughtful gift that only a churlish, impossible-to-please cow would find fault with.
Poor Harvey. Always trying so hard. He didn’t want Michelle to walk out on him, you know. He thought the world of her.
He wants to remind me that he knows where I live, she thought.
‘From Harvey?’ Owen asked.
She nodded. A paranoid voice in her head wondered if Harvey himself had been the ‘mate who was going to Birmingham’. No, she told herself. Harvey would fly.
‘He was asking after you yesterday at Mum’s,’ Owen went on, looking round her hall. ‘I think he was hoping you’d be there. Oi! Why don’t you have any photos of us in here?’
Carole Nightingale’s hallway was proudly crammed with photographs of her children achieving things, or displaying their own offspring. In Owen’s case, there were as many again of him just looking handsome and devilish. They made up for the pointed lack of graduation photos of Michelle, the only one without a degree.
‘Because I don’t like to scare my guests when they arrive. How come Harvey ended up having Christmas Day with you?’ Michelle added, unlacing her own trainers so her brother wouldn’t notice her shaking hands.
‘He was all on his own, poor guy,’ said Owen. ‘Mum invited him over, the more the merrier. She likes him. We all do.’
‘You don’t know him, Owen.’ Michelle had long since given up trying to explain to the rest of them, but Owen understood her a bit more than they did.
‘Don’t I?’ Owen looked reproachfully at her. ‘You can’t blame Mum for inviting him round, Shell. He’s been her son-in-law for years. Dad’s just promoted him again. And you’re still married to him . . .’
‘Technically,’ Michelle snapped. ‘In another eighteen months, I won’t be, whether he likes it or not. Separation without consent after five years. No one’s fault.’
Owen raised his hands. He hadn’t been at home when Michelle had left Harvey; he’d been travelling round India, getting stoned and acquiring a tattoo Carole still didn’t know about. He’d missed most of their marriage too, as he’d been away at college. ‘You were the one who walked out, not Harvey. None of my business, I know, but—’
‘Right. It’s none of your business.’ Michelle’s voice was harsh, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her heart rate was higher now than it had been powering up the hill. ‘I know he’s charming to Mum, and Dad thinks the sun shines out of his arse, but it’s not the same when you’re married to someone who won’t even let you—’
‘OK!’ Owen looked a bit scared. ‘OK! I get it. I didn’t come here for an argument. Am I too late for breakfast?’
Michelle took a deep breath and tried to focus on her house. Her beautiful calm home, which was all hers. Her safe haven. No one weighed her here. Or checked her emails. Or her phone.
‘No, you’re not too late,’ she said, forcing out a smile. ‘Scrambled eggs?’
‘To be honest, I’d rather have something you haven’t cooked,’ said Owen.
Owen arranged his lanky frame at Michelle’s kitchen table while she moved around, trying to assemble her leftover deli pots into some form of breakfast acceptable to an overgrown student. He’d hoovered up half her loaf of bread before she’d even plunged the coffee maker, leaving trails of marmalade and clementine peel all over the clean cloth.
‘Is this a flying visit on your way back to Dublin?’ she asked. ‘Or did you just need an excuse to get away from Mum’s? Feet off the table, please.’
Owen swung his Converse off the table. ‘I wanted to see my big sister. It’s been ages. I miss your bossy ways. And I wanted to check you hadn’t been eaten by cats, living on your own.’
‘Shut up.’ Michelle hid the glow of affection beneath a mock-outraged glare. ‘And what else did you need?’
‘Do I need an excuse?’ Owen pretended to look affronted, then dropped the act. ‘Um, Shell, actually . . . I need to ask you a favour.’
It must be bad, Michelle thought, if he’s asking me and not Mum. ‘How much this time?’
‘No, it’s not cash. Although contributions are always welcome.’ Owen looked up at her through his unfairly long black lashes. ‘I actually need somewhere to crash for a few weeks.’
Michelle flinched involuntarily as she always did at the thought of anyone staying in her house, invading her perfectly arranged space. She knew it was irrational – and she loved Owen – but she couldn’t help it. Invisible spiders crawled around her stomach.
‘What happened to the job in Dublin?’
‘Came to the end of the contract. I finished their website, and . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I told Mum there was no more work out there, but, to tell the truth, it was kind of awkward.’
‘Money, or a girl?’
‘Both?’ Again, the appealing, long-lashed look.
‘You know that cuts no ice with me,’ said Michelle. She folded her arms. ‘You’re twenty-four, Owen. Girls stop thinking that sort of carry-on’s cute round about now. It just looks like you’ve got issues.’
‘I know.’ Owen prodded the omelette she’d cobbled together. ‘I just . . . hate letting them down gently. I can’t help being handsome. It’s a cross I have to bear, like you have to clean everything in sight. What is this, exactly?’
‘An omelette,’ said Michelle. ‘Why can’t you stay with Mum? There’s more work in London, surely?’
‘She’s redecorating again. And she said you’ve got loads of room, and you could do with the company.’
Michelle translated this in her head; Carole loved Owen, but not hi
s habit of coming home at 3 a.m. without money for the cab. And the last time Owen had stayed with Ben, their oldest brother, their au pair had gone back to Latvia without warning, and Ben’s youngest son, Hugo, had come out with a whole series of awkward questions and two new swear words.
‘I had a look at your website on the way over,’ Owen went on. ‘It’s rubbish. Might you be in need of an experienced and award-winning web designer to take a look at it and refresh your internet trade?’
‘Fine,’ said Michelle. It was typical of Owen’s luck that ‘redesign website’ had been the third thing on her to-do list for the new year. ‘But you can’t stay here. The flat above the shop’s empty at the moment – you can stay there while I work out whether to rent it out again. I’ve got my new season’s stock in the main room, but there should be enough space for you.’
‘Is that the equivalent of getting the stable with the manger and the donkeys? The flat with the storage boxes?’
‘It’s better,’ said Michelle, pouring herself a cup of coffee. ‘It has seagrass, and an en-suite bathroom.’ She pushed a mug towards him with a warning look. ‘But if there are any virgin births, Owen . . .’
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ he said, with a straight face.
Michelle had another look into Quentin’s bookshop when she drove Owen round to the flat, and as soon as she got home, she started making phone calls.
Two days later, she was sitting in an empty office at Flint and Cook solicitors, dressed in her smartest suit, waiting to speak to the solicitor handling Cyril Quentin’s affairs.
Sitting, and waiting. Michelle hated being kept waiting, especially when she had a sale to run, one which inspired a queue of impatient bargain-hunters.
She was crossly inspecting a Victorian map of Longhampton (many tanneries, a jam factory, more pubs than churches) when someone coughed behind her, and she spun round.
A tall, floppy-haired man in a tweed jacket with a green round-neck jumper underneath – three things that set Michelle’s teeth on edge to begin with – was standing a bit too close to her.
