by Lucy Vine
I zip up my barely unpacked suitcase. It’s time to go. Time to stop being the idiot who runs away from every problem. I’ve done exactly what Sophie accused me of – the first sign of trouble and I’ve literally left the country. It’s time to go home and get my life back together. No more running.
15
5.05 p.m. Tuesday, 9 April
Location: My dad’s back garden, which I haven’t been out in for at least a year because who goes outside for no reason? The sun is shining and Dad is pointing out flowers and naming them for us – ‘sweet pea, peonies, tulips’ – like any of us are listening or care. Jen is deliberately standing on a peony and Dad is trying subtly to get her to move without coming right out and asking.
You should’ve seen Dad’s face when he opened the door. All his girls, standing there on his doorstep, smiling at him. He, completely predictably, burst into tears. And then Jen started crying, so I started crying, and then it was just Milly looking at each of us, completely bemused and trying to get in the doorway past Dad, shouting that she needed a coffee. Dad used his apron to dry his face and ushered us all in, whispering to Jen that Milly doesn’t really drink coffee – does she?
Out in the garden now, I think about how much I could really do with some coffee myself. The flight back – especially so soon after my flight there – has really taken it out of me and I can barely keep my eyes open. I had planned to catch up with Jen properly on the journey, to see how she was feeling about the whole, y’know, getting some space from her marriage thing, but we all sat separately. I thought it was because it was a last minute booking, but when we got to the check-in counter, the attendant asked if we’d prefer to sit together – since it was a quiet flight – and Jen said an emphatic no. She said that she’d specifically requested seats apart so she didn’t have to ‘make small talk with her sister and daughter for eleven hours’. I could tell the lady on the counter thought we were all really terrific.
I ended up sitting next to a really nice older lady, around sixty or so, who wanted to talk a lot. She reminded me of Mum and for a while, with the forced intimacy of plane seats, it was kind of like having her back. Like all strangers do, she asked me straight off if I have a boyfriend, and I found that really funny for some reason. We ended up going over all my recent dating experiences and she laughed a lot about it, and it made me laugh again, too. It turned out the lady – Bella – has been single for most of her life. She’d had the odd love affair here and there, she told me, but it was her choice and destiny to stay on her own. She said she loved being selfish and not having to report in with anyone, or ask permission to make her own plans. She didn’t like arguments or making concessions or having to worry about someone else’s moods. She said she couldn’t imagine having to make all that effort to make it work with one other person fulltime. I could see her point.
‘I almost got married once,’ she said, eyes twinkling. ‘Back in the noughties. Paul was rather wonderful, a musician, you know. He begged me to marry him, promised not to bother me too much, but I called the whole thing off the week before the ceremony. I realised I just wanted to wear a nice dress and have a big party. I didn’t mind the wedding but I didn’t want to be married. He was nice about it, went off and married a woman called Heather, instead. Wrote a song called “The Lovers That Never Were” about me, I’ve got it on CD somewhere. So sweet, such a sweet man.’
I sat there for hours, entranced by Bella’s stories and adventures all over the world. She’d lived and worked all over the place, meeting new people every day, having flings with men in every continent, including America, where she’s been shagging a film star she wouldn’t name, but it seemed a lot like it might be Bill Murray.
‘When you’re little,’ she told me as we landed, ‘you have all these ideas of how your life will turn out. As a girl, everyone assumes you will aspire to the only approved fairytale – marriage and babies. That you will be planning and dreaming of your wedding day from the age of five, but trust me, Ellie, there is so much more to life. And, for me, especially as a woman, there was always too much self-sacrifice associated with getting married. Self-sacrifice that I never wanted to make. I didn’t want to give my life up to someone else. I wanted to be happy, and that meant being on my own. Go be happy, Ellie, choose your own path.’
It was almost the exact opposite speech Jen had given me in the car.
In the garden, we’ve started on the sherry and Dad’s talking excitedly about extending the dining room table later on. Nothing gets him as excited as extending the table and he hasn’t had much cause to do it lately. He’s going to extend the hell out of that table and we are all going to sit round playing Boggle. It’s a plan.
I’m half listening now as he regales Jen and Milly with his latest date. He launches into a story about a woman the other day who spent their dinner date bizarrely saying she liked drinking tea. Even half-listening, I realise the woman was trying to get Dad to ‘teabag’ her. Erk. I’m probably not going to explain that one to him.
Suddenly he stops talking and looks shy.
‘Jenny, Lenny, Milly,’ he says. ‘Can I show you something?’ He starts towards the end of the garden, and we follow him down past Mum’s lady shed, where she would escape from Dad to listen to Britney albums. I gasp as we turn the corner. Back there is a totally beautiful mini garden. There’s a bench, surrounded by green shrubs, twinkling white fairy lights everywhere, and so many bright, lovely flowers. It feels special and private, and I instantly know it’s for Mum. It’s a place she would’ve loved to sit.
‘I made it for her,’ Dad says a little bashfully as he looks anxiously from Jen’s face to mine.
I swallow.
He goes on. ‘The lilies aren’t out yet, but I looked it up, and they’re Britney’s favourite flower, so I planted lots of them. I hope they grow OK.’ He crouches down, knees creaking loudly as he absentmindedly strokes a leaf.
‘It’s nice!’ Milly says loudly, approvingly. She jumps onto the bench and starts swinging her legs, oblivious to the sombre mood.
I glance at Jen, she’s nodding, blinking hard. I think she’s swallowing tears down too.
‘Mum would’ve loved it,’ I say at last, my voice cracking.
‘Do you think?’ Dad looks up at me, hopefully. ‘I talked about the idea with my therapist Jacquetta during our last session a few weeks ago. I wanted to do something for your mum. Give her this place, so she knows this is still her home, wherever she is now. It’s for me too. I come out here for a few minutes every day and I talk to her. I tell her about my day and about the people I’ve met. I don’t know if she can hear me, but I still want to talk.’
‘You haven’t, you won’t . . . forget about her then?’ I say, trembling a bit. It’s what I’ve been wanting to ask for months. The fear I’ve been holding on to since he first mentioned wanting to date again. I’ve been so scared of him letting go of my mum, replacing her, taking down the photos, not loving her any more.
He creaks back up to a standing position and takes my hands, looking at me, concerned.
‘Lenny, I promise you, I never would. I never could.’ He pauses and wipes his big red hand across his face. ‘I know people throw the idea of soulmates and true love around – I don’t know if it means anything any more – but I can sincerely tell you that every time I looked at your mum’s face, I knew it. I knew she was mine with every little bit of me. She was the love of my life. She was the light in every day we spent together. Even after all those years and even in those awful last few months, I still looked at her and knew she was my everything.’
There’s a silence and I step across the garden to sit next to Milly on the bench. Closing my eyes, I turn my face to the cold sun.
‘I really miss her,’ I say out loud. I haven’t said it before. Not to the two people who would understand it most.
‘Me too,’ says Jen, in a low voice. ‘All the time.’ She’s staring at the shed that shields this magic garden from the rest of the world.
As kids, we used to come out to the bottom of the garden, giggling, looking for Mum. We would knock on her shed and then shriek and run away to hide. Mum would come bursting out, shouting ‘FEE FI FO FUM, I SMELL SOME UNWASHED JENNIFER AND ELEANOR BUM!’ We would scream melodramatically from our hiding place – which was always behind the same tree – and then furiously shush each other as Mum boomed past us, pretending to look. After a few seconds, I would invariably ruin the game by jumping out and shouting, ‘Mum, we’re here! We’re over here,’ and she would look surprised, while Jen scowled at me. Then we would all laugh, and Mum would take each of us by the hand, leading us inside for baths and cuddles.
We’re all silent, lost in our own memories of her.
Eventually Jen clears her throat and offers casually, ‘Hey, did Mum try and get anyone else to kill her?’
I burst out laughing. ‘Yes, me,’ I say, nodding. ‘Especially in that last couple of months. She said she didn’t want to ruin Christmas by still being around, and that it would save her getting anyone presents.’ Then I add hastily, in case anyone is thinking it, ‘I said no, obviously.’
Jen looks amused. ‘I would’ve done it, but Dad wouldn’t give me his Ocado login details. No way was I paying for all that Nurofen myself.’
Dad shakes his head. ‘She asked me too, silly girl. As if I could.’
We’re all silent again, and then I start laughing.
Dad joins in, looking at us. ‘I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you both here,’ he says.
‘Fine,’ says Jen, clearing her throat and moving us away from the heavy mood. ‘But enjoy us while you can, because I’m not sure how long we’re staying. And I’m not watching fucking Neighbours.’
When we go back inside, we find Milly has pulled everything out of her suitcase to get to her season three OC box set. ‘I can’t get behind on this,’ she says by way of explanation, like it’s a major project at work that her boss is riding her about. She puts the disc into Dad’s ancient DVD player and the two of us settle onto the sofa together. Dad and Jen wander out into the kitchen to make tea, talking about how much of a relief it is for Jen that she doesn’t have to drink ‘fucking hippy green tea’ while she’s out of L.A. I look around at my family, all together after so long, and think about tomorrow.
16
11.30 a.m. Wednesday, 10 April
Location: Outside the square, purpose-built office that is The Hales. It looks greyer than ever, as do the people hurrying by, gripping their Pret coffee. There’s a man trapped in the glass revolving door – his suit jacket wedged in the gap behind him – and the front desk security are just sitting there, laughing at his awkward waving. Lesson learned: never ever use revolving doors.
OK, so there was another reason I didn’t mind coming back early from L.A. I finally got an email back from Elizabeth. She apologised profusley for the radio silence and for my completely disastrous meeting with her and that idiot, Cameron Bourne.
She’d found a space at last and had scraped together enough investment to start work. Elizabeth said she could see my enthusiasm for the project and offered me the job of gallery assistant right there in the email.
And, she added as a P.S., ‘Cameron Bourne’s off the project’.
I went down there this morning, to the South Bank, to view the space with Elizabeth, and it was perfect; one large, white room with two smaller offices at the back. Elizabeth kept touching the walls and laughing, and then we both did a happy dance. We went for coffee afterwards, and started making plans. We talked about how we want this to work, possible launch dates, the party we’ll have to celebrate its opening.
I still can’t believe it’s really happening.
There’s a big, massive, gigantic to-do list. It’s going to be a lot of hard work from here on out but it’ll be worth it.
And who cares about that because NOW I GET TO GO QUIT MY JOB.
I pull open the side door of the building, waving cheerfully at the trapped man, who is looking increasingly panicked. I give the resignation letter in my hand a squeeze, a wave of excitement washing over me. God, I’m so ready for this. It’s been a long time coming, but I can’t believe it’s finally happening. I feel so powerful. Even people who like their jobs love quitting, right? It’s such a thrill. And honestly, I was probably going to get fired anyway. I gave them a whole day’s notice before I took off for L.A. Obviously Derek didn’t say anything when I told him I was going, but he started sweating profusely and stammering about responsibilities and half-finished projects. I went anyway, and I know Ursula stormed straight into that office to make an official complaint about me (another one).
As I walk into the office, a few astonished faces look over. I’m turning up in the middle of the day, when I’m meant to be in L.A. – this is what passes for shocking around here. I beam happily around the room, giving loo twin Nick the thumbs up, and stride over to my desk. I need to retrieve Mrs Beaver. Ursula scuttles over moments later.
‘You’re not meant to be back yet,’ she says, accusatorily. ‘We arranged to have you covered, at great expense, at the last minute, after you gave us no notice for your holiday. And now you stomp back in, expecting everyone to be happy to see you? Derek’s going to have some serious words to say to you, young lady.’
She is waiting for an answer, an apology, and I smile serenely as I turn to face her.
‘FUCK OFF, JACKIE,’ I shout, as loudly as I can.
There’s a shocked silence, and then a giggle; a smattering of applause.
Ursula gapes at me in astonishment as I wave in her face and head for Derek’s office, my letter in one hand, and Mrs Beaver in the other.
Back at my dad’s house, in the living-room, I think delightedly about my day. A dream job in the bag, and some retribution at last. Derek was really nice about me leaving in the end. He said he was sad to see me go but was proud of me for striving for something bigger. He got really choked up then, talking about how he’s ‘always known how talented I am’. And then he gave me a sweaty hug and I tried not to gag.
Beside me on the sofa, Milly taps my hand impatiently. ‘Pay attention, you’re missing the show,’ she says, even though it’s just the credits. ‘Ryan and Marissa are having a really bad time at the moment,’ she explains, and then adds, ‘Did Mommy tell you? I’m going to marry Seth.’
‘Cool,’ I say. ‘Me too.’
She looks sideways at me. ‘Can we both marry him?’ she asks curiously.
‘Sure,’ I shrug. ‘Why not? You can do anything you like. Whatever makes you happy.’
She beams at me. ‘Can I have some chocolate buttons then?’
I laugh and get up. ‘You betcha. I’ll have to go to the shops to get them though.’
She nods, already forgetting I’m there, instantly absorbed by Dad’s 14-inch TV screen, where Ryan is either exasperated or jealous. I don’t need to watch any of it to know he’s always one or the other. But I do anyway, just for a minute. It’s the episode just after Johnny’s death and a flood of nostalgia hits me. Sophie and I were so furious about this storyline, we almost stopped watching the show in protest. We started a campaign at school to bring him back (somehow?) and wrote a lot of badly spelled letters to Fox TV demanding retribution. I start to replay in my head all the years of friendship this show inspired. How much we all shared.
Right. It’s time.
I have to go see Soph.
Dad insists on driving me, and as we’re about to leave, Jen and Milly come running out and climb in the back too.
‘Why is everyone coming?’ I say exasperatedly, but also relieved Jen isn’t making me get out so she can sit in the front like she always did when we were kids.
‘Because it’s boring in there,’ says Jen. ‘What are we going to do, catch up on what we’ve missed of Countdown lately?’
‘OK, well you’ll all have to wait out here in the car when we get to Sophie’s,’ I say authoritatively, hastily changing the subject. ‘I really have to talk to her on h
er own.’
Dad starts the engine and Jen opens her door.
‘Hold on, Dad, Ellie and I are swapping seats.’
Dammit.
Outside Sophie’s house, I take a deep, brave breath and fumble for the door handle.
And then I continue to sit there in the car.
‘Aren’t you going in?’ says Milly from beside me, a little judgementally.
‘I am,’ I say, gripping the handle and still not moving.
‘Do I have the child locks on?’ says Dad, unbuckling. I can’t let him get out, he’ll start examining Sophie’s front porch and talking about structural integrity even though he doesn’t know anything about it.
‘No, no, it’s fine, I’m going, I’m out,’ I say, inelegantly clambering out and looking up at Sophie’s house. It’s a house I’ve been to a thousand times, but now it looks so weirdly alien and cold.
I move slowly towards the front door. I don’t even know if she’s here, she might not be. I should’ve called or texted, but, I don’t know, I thought this might be more dramatic. More like how it works in films and books, right? And a text seemed inadequate after so much silence.
I glance back at the car. Jen and Dad are bickering over the radio and Milly’s face is pressed up against the window in the back seat. She gives me a thumbs up which should feel encouraging but I suspect is sarcastic.
I take another deep breath and ring the bell.
Nothing happens.
I ring again.
Still nothing. The house is dark. She’s not in there.
Fucking shit bollocks cock.
I’m so disappointed. The disappointment rumbles in my stomach as I turn to go. I walk slowly, sadly back to the car and as I reach for the handle I hear:
