by Meg Mason
* * *
Brigitta went straight down to the kitchen, while Polly paused by the door to shed the coat and shake rain out of her hair. ‘Right,’ she said, catching her reflection in the hall and trying to rally the exhausted-looking figure staring back at her. ‘Right, then.’
Brigitta, still in her coat, was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, holding Polly’s preferred teacup and letting Mark spoon in quantities of sugar.
‘Okay, let’s think.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘We’re past that now, darling.’ With Brigitta safely inside, Polly felt no further need of kindness, only pragmatism. ‘Mark, who have you spoken to so far?’
‘I’ve left a message for Mike Ross.’
‘Bloody hard to get onto everyone today, of course.’ He glanced at Brigitta. ‘Libel chap. Damien is going to handle the PR side of things.’ Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking for a second. ‘Hells bells, Briggy. Did you know he had a wife?’
‘Mark. It doesn’t matter now. Let’s stay on point.’
Brigitta sipped her tea pathetically and avoided her sister’s eye. Mark and Polly stood on opposite sides of the island, toggling through their phones, examining the papers, and speaking in legal jargon until the kitchen assumed the atmosphere of a war room.
‘I think the best thing would be for you to go upstairs and change,’ Polly said, when she noticed her sister’s rising panic. ‘I’m sure there’s something of mine that will fit you. Then lie down in the spare room and I’ll come and get you when we’ve decided on a plan. Go on.’ Polly’s tone was firm. ‘Off you go.’
Brigitta slipped off the stool and left without a word.
* * *
By the time she reached the end of one of Mark’s crime thrillers, which Polly wouldn’t have on the downstairs bookcases because of the garish lettering on the spines, there was a soft knock, low down on the other side of the door. The handle turned and Toby, the younger of Polly’s sons, struggled in carrying a large tray. He stood by the bed with an air of extreme importance. ‘Natalia made you something to eat. It’s toast with marmite on it.’
Toby was six and Brigitta’s private favourite. He had a head of russet brown hair like his Uncle Freddie, and spoke with a lisp he’d once referred to as his thistle, as they all now did.
‘Hello Toby,’ Brigitta said, overwhelmed by the sight of him. He was a kind child and he was looking at her with concern.
‘Are you sick, Aunty Briggy?’
‘No. I’m just sad.’
‘Do you want to play Top Trumps?’ Toby asked, visibly buoyed by his own idea. ‘I’ve got Deadly Predators or Arsenal. Mum says I’m not allowed to stay up here but we could just be quiet.’ The effort to speak in a whisper had made him talk louder, and he stopped to look around the room for a moment. ‘Me and Max aren’t allowed to eat in rooms that have carpet in them.’ One of his skinny legs starting twitching from the effort of holding the tray, and Brigitta sat up.
‘Oh gosh. Put it down there, Toby. Sorry. What is Mummy doing, do you know?
‘She’s on the phone. Doing her cross voice.’
‘Do you know who she’s talking to?’
Toby shook his head.
‘I’ll give you 50p to go down and find out.’
He dashed out of the room and reappeared moments later, out of breath. ‘She’s talking to Granny. I wasn’t allowed to have a turn because they are talking about grown up things.’
Brigitta didn’t respond. She could only imagine the conversation taking place below.
‘I think you actually are a small bit sick, Aunty Briggy. Your face looks all funny.’
‘Come and give me a hug, Toby, and then you can go.’
Toby came to the edge of the bed and let Brigitta bury her face into his neck. ‘Thank you Toby. You’re such a lovely boy.’
‘Can I have my 50p now?’ he asked, before running off to find his brother.
The rest of the afternoon passed in slow motion. When the sky outside the bedroom window turned a pale violet and the feeling of incarceration became unbearable, Brigitta walked tentatively downstairs carrying her untouched tray. As sorry as she was about all of it, it was hard not to wish the scandal might induce a measure of incidental weight loss.
The kitchen was immaculate. All traces of the day’s turmoil, including the papers, had been removed. Natalia stood at the sink rinsing plates in a way that broadcast her desire not to be spoken to. For something to do, Brigitta took a bottle of wine from the fridge, regretting it the moment Polly appeared from the family room and saw the huge glass she had poured herself. ‘Sorry, Polly, I wasn’t –’
‘My first instinct was to send you straight back to Sydney,’ Polly cut in. ‘But all advice is to stay here with us and wait it out. Mark’s people feel that doing a runner is only going to give the thing legs. They’ll be waiting for you at the airport already, now they’ve dug up your bio. He’s gone over to yours to pack you up. They’ve also worked out where you live apparently, so I’ve been in touch with your landlord. There will be a fee to break the lease but that’s the least of our worries. My real concern now is Mum. Thank God she won’t get the scale of it without seeing our papers but of course she is shaken.’ Polly folded her arms and leaned against the benchtop. She looked exhausted.
‘Do you want to know the worst part?’ Brigitta offered feebly.
‘What?’
‘The worst part is, Guy and I hadn’t seen each other since I got back. It was basically off. That was just a chance meeting which went completely wrong.’
Polly threw her head back and laughed sharply. ‘My God, Brigitta. That is so not the worst part.’ She stalked out of the kitchen, leaving her sister alone with her wine and a sullen Slavic au pair.
50.
Brigitta’s got herself in the papers
At first, Phil had assumed she was sickening for something the morning she awoke after her visit to Abi’s, until a fierce appetite for bacon brought the realisation that she was merely hungover for the first time in forty years. The evening had got somewhat out of hand, she had remembered as she snipped four rashers into a small skillet with paring scissors, and ate them out of it with a fork when suitably crisped. Perhaps, at some point, she would mention to Abigail that it was a momentary lapse in judgment that would not be spoken of again.
Two fairly dull days involving quantities of soluble aspirin and back-to-back Poirot from an ancient VHS omnibus passed before Phil began to feel on the up. The conversation with Brigitta still rankled and whenever she stood waiting for the kettle, peeling an orange at the sink or idling in the bath, Phil found herself returning to the many accusations that had been hurled at her to see if they still hurt. They did.
Sleep seemed like the only respite from the subject and Phil turned in early again on Monday evening, sitting up with the hardback le Carré that had been gathering dusk on Frederick’s bedside table since November. She still couldn’t bear to reshelve it, removing yet another trace of him, and instead found herself a third of the way through. But still with a slight head, she couldn’t at that moment remember who anybody was, so she put it aside and folded her hands above the sheets. As the weight of loneliness began to settle, the phone rang and she lunged for the bedside telephone.
‘Mum,’ said Polly’s voice. ‘It’s me. Now, stay calm but –’
Phil sat up. She loathed conversations that began this way, the order to be calm exciting precisely the opposite feeling. It was like a friend telling you about a new acquaintance they were certain you’d love, the surest way in Phil’s mind to kill off the prospect altogether. ‘What, darling? What is it?’
‘Brigitta’s got herself in the papers. They caught her having a meltdown on that disgusting man’s doorstep and the pictures are everywhere. His wife’s in them too. And their little boy. Also, it’s pretty obvious she’s pregnant.’
Phil shrieked.
‘No, Mum! The wife, not Brigitta. Calm down. Every
thing’s fine. She’s here with us now. It’s just got to get worse before it can get better. Mark’s calling in favours and it seems like the best thing is for her to go to ground.’
‘Oh Polly, oh no.’ Phil caught sight of herself in the mirror on her dressing table, a beleaguered widow receiving more bad news. ‘Oh darling. Can you put her on?’
‘She’s in her room and I’d prefer she stays there at the moment. She’s got nothing sensible to say, but I promise she’s fine.’
‘We warned her, Poll. We both tried to put her off him. Why, why on earth did she pursue it? I feel I simply don’t know her at the moment. She’s usually so easily talked around.’
Polly agreed, and they spoke for ten minutes more until Phil heard one of the boys in the background, asking for a turn on the phone. Polly said she would call again when she knew more and begged her not to fret in the meantime. ‘Try and keep busy, would you please?’
Sleep now impossible, Phil got up and made tea, carrying it through to Frederick’s study, where she tried to bring up the British papers on his computer. Unsuccessful, she couldn’t bear to linger in the room where so many of his things still sat where he’d last touched them. His spare glasses in a tortoiseshell dish, a tin of his mints, a club tie coiled in his top drawer. ‘Lucky you, darling. Missing all this. Bloody lucky you.’
Much later, she fell asleep with the light on. Her final thought as she drifted off was that surely this sort of horrible mischief was more Freddie’s bag and why was Brigitta suddenly so intent on cutting his grass? Or had the gods simply taken aim at the Woolnoughs again for their sport?
51.
The Cremorne Point Benevolent Society
Abi did not see Phil again until Tuesday morning, when she was summoned to the kiosk via text message. When she arrived, Phil was explaining to the group how she’d spent two days in bed with a wog. She did not look her best, in comfortable trousers and a large sort of cardigan with pockets that sagged. Abi parked the pram and sat down.
‘You’ve had your flu shot, have you Phil?’ Noel asked. ‘They’ve already had one death in Canberra.’
‘Actually, I am certain it was not the flu. I suspect it was only dehydration.’ Phil closed the matter. ‘Now, Abigail. I find myself rather in need of a neat little project, and as it would happen, the crew here and I have just realised that between us, we’ve a vast surplus of household accoutrement.’
‘That’s right Abigail. I have all the chairs in the world.’ Valentina threw her arms out to encompass an entire universe of seating options. ‘How many you need?’
‘We’ve got two lots of everything in our kitchen,’ Barb said. ‘Don’t we Sandy? Now that we’ve decided two can live as cheaply as one.’
Phil coughed into a serviette.
‘Write me a list and Sandy will pack it up,’ Barb said. ‘Sandy’s a whiz at packing, aren’t you?’
Silently, Sandy conceded that she was.
‘I don’t suppose you need garden tools,’ Noel said, already defeated when his turn came. ‘But I’d be glad to help you get all this lot up your stairs. Any day except Thursdays when I golf.’
‘Anyone with a small desk? Abigail’s got work to do.’ Phil asked and Noel’s hand shot up.
‘Very good. The Cremorne Point Benevolent Society has come up trumps.’ She turned towards Abi, to see if she’d enjoyed the little joke, but found her wide-eyed, speechless. Barb reached across to give Abi a reassuring pat on the knee, and the conversation moved on.
* * *
From then on, Abi’s afternoons at home were punctuated by Noel staggering up four flights with assorted accoutrement, despite a persistent twinge in his left hip. One of everything from Barb and Sandy’s kitchen arrived wrapped as tight as Christmas presents, in stiff butchers’ paper. Valentina sent up a single sofa chair, which in the end was the only one she felt able to part with, and in a last herculean effort, Noel made it up the stairs with a small pine desk. Abi put it beneath the living room window, arranged the desk with a mug of pens, her course applications and a jar of hellebores from Phil’s garden. The flowers had come with a hamper of towels, sheets, a ratted rug for the kitchen and one or two cushions from the big house. Phil had been mostly absent during the week of deliveries, but late on Friday afternoon, she popped up to appraise the new arrangements.
‘The only thing we’re really lacking is a window treatment and a base for that bed, although I feel that’s beyond my remit. But I do hope you’ll do something about the mattress, Abigail. It’s so lowering. In all senses.’
* * *
Early the following morning, Stu texted to say he was actually probably going to hang around at Gordon because Elaine needed help with some stuff. In accordance with Phil’s guidelines, Abi tapped out a reply, ‘Sorry. That isn’t the arrangement. Also I’ve made spinach and feta triangles, so will see you soon,’ pressed send and cleaned the flat until she heard Stu let himself in at 1 p.m. Jude was sitting in a high chair that Barb no longer needed for visiting grandchildren, chasing two cold broccoli florets around the tray, as suggested by the baby-led weaning section of First Year with Baby.
‘Whoa. Where did all this come from?’
‘The Cremorne Point Benevolent Society,’ Abi handed him a pile of folded singlets that needed putting away. ‘Want to go for a walk?’
Abi wrapped up four spinach triangles and Stu put them in his hoodie pocket with a full-size bottle of ketchup. They wandered the track, Stu wearing Jude in the carrier and squeezing individual dots of sauce onto each bite. Abi wanted to tell him about her course, but hadn’t thought up a way of doing it that would sidestep the question of funding. She wasn’t sure that Stu would believe that scholarships were available for holiday programmes.
Stu brushed flakes of pastry off his chest. ‘This is nice. Me and you and the boy. I don’t think I can really stay over though,’ he added. ‘I’ve got tonnes to do for Monday, so it’s probably better that I shoot up to Mum and Dad’s. It’s been good, hasn’t it, little guy?’ He let Jude take the last corner of pastry out of his hand and soothed him when he immediately dropped it.
‘That’s fine,’ Abi said. ‘I’ve got loads to do as well. Probably as much as you. Or a bit more.’
52.
Advanced Night Repair for tired skin
The week had been an absolute bugger. But for the merciful distraction of the furnishing project, Phil had been existing in a state of permanent agitation, stoked by constant visits to Frederick’s study to look up the British papers. Against her better instincts, she felt the need to follow every new and dreadful hashing-out of the event. No matter how foolish Brigitta had been, plighting her troth to a married man, how stubborn in keeping the thing going against all advice, it was torture to think of her being mauled by the gutter press. Phil felt so desperately far away, unable to protect her own darling daughter from the muck and beastliness.
Late into her teenage years, whenever Brigitta had a wobble of some kind, she would drape herself across her mother’s lap without invitation and demand comfort – never mind those long legs or the certainty of an elbow to the bosom. Phil would always shoo her off or swat her with a book, it was part of the game, but she would have done anything at this moment to have Brigitta all but crush her to death on an occasional chair.
She’d seen Brigitta referred to as ‘Guy Kidd’s favourite extra’, the ‘North London nymph’ and ‘Barbican Barbie’, which seemed both unimaginative and a plain reach since Brigitta was not even remotely blonde. They commented on her physique, hypothesised cruelly as to her virtue. One particularly rodent-like columnist, whose name Phil had noted down to mention to Mark, had speculated as to why money was even changing hands. Sitting uselessly in front of Frederick’s computer, Phil swung between fits of weeping for Brigitta and moments of murderous rage towards the world.
Public sympathy was unsurprisingly falling to the wife. Guy himself, who’d issued a contrite public statement and promised a period of concentrated per
sonal reflection, had been punished with record-breaking advance sales for his summer production.
Polly and Phil spoke daily, sometimes many times although Phil dissolved into tears within five minutes of picking up and it fell to Polly to steer the conversation back to practical matters.
Finally, towards the end of May, failing the acquisition of any new photographs and the unrelated sighting of a junior MP arriving at a private house party in black face, the coverage died down. Under sororal orders, Brigitta did not leave the Ladbroke Grove house, and although Phil had begged, cajoled, insisted and finally demanded that she be shipped home, Polly remained adamant it was the wrong move and gradually it became accepted that Brigitta was staying on. But against all inducement, she would still not pick up the phone to her mother.
Natalia, as it turned out, did not care to work in a house where her employer’s sister moped around in her pyjamas all day, picking at the children’s leftovers and keeping the television on so they were continually distracted from their homework. She gave in her notice on Friday afternoon of that first ghastly week. With no time to vet another Slavic arrivée, Polly turned the job of minding the boys before and after school over to Brigitta in exchange for her room and board.
Choosing to forget the position she had recently taken on fiscal support, Phil offered Brigitta a small allowance until she was back on her feet. Because she was still refusing to come to the phone, it was accepted through a perfectly infuriating set of Chinese whispers.
When she couldn’t distract herself with bits of reading or television, Phil refined what would need to be a very cut and dry response to any inquiries that came her way regarding Brigitta. That the Woolnough name had been publicly besmirched mattered not. Well, mattered little, Phil thought. But it was vital to present the right front, since it would not do to weep in front of the kiosk lot. Mercifully, the scandal did not make it as far as the Mosman Daily and was never brought up on the crates.
