by Rosie Fiore
‘Maybe she made a note of it when we were looking at things on my laptop together.’
‘Still, it’s a bit of an odd thing to do,’ said Esther.
‘I don’t mind,’ said Lucie. ‘I like Sally and I’m glad she’s happy. Are we going to meet her for lunch?’
‘Don’t you have things to do this weekend?’
‘Not on Sunday. How about you?’
‘I’m also free.’ Esther wasn’t sure why she felt a little reluctant to agree to this. Still, it meant a day out with Lucie. Maybe they could go earlier and have a walk in the local park before lunch, or visit a gallery afterwards.
They met Sally in the restaurant she had chosen, a pizza place with a view of the park. She was sitting at a window table and beamed widely when they came in. She looked as though she had had her hair done; it was still mousy, but the grey was largely gone. It had been set in a rather stiff style – great bobbly curls, frozen with hairspray – as if she had gone to the sort of hairdresser her mother would have used, one of those narrow salons that populate suburban high streets with their rows of hood dryers and the eternal stench of perm lotion and who do the same hairstyle for every one of their customers no matter what their age. Sally looked happier though, bright-eyed and animated, and she jumped up to greet them and kiss them both on the cheek.
She started chattering as soon as they sat down, a non-stop stream of questions for which she had no time to wait for an answer, what with all the anecdotes about her computer class, her journey to the restaurant, the weather, how pretty Lucie looked. It was as if she had been storing up a flood of conversation ready for this moment and hadn’t been able to wait beyond their sitting down to open the gates in the dam wall.
Esther managed to stem the flow for long enough to order a bottle of sparkling water and get menus for them all. Eventually Sally slowed down and put on her glasses to look at the menu. ‘This is my treat, by the way,’ she said quickly, ‘so please order anything you’d like. Shall we get some champagne? Or whatsisname… Is it Cinzano? Whatever the Italian version of champagne is?’
‘Prosecco,’ said Esther. ‘Oh no, Sally, please don’t feel you have to.’
‘I want to. You made me such a lovely dinner in your lovely home.’
‘It was just a lasagne,’ said Esther. She felt slightly panicked. She couldn’t accept a meal from Sally. The woman hadn’t worked in a decade. She was probably eking out her carer’s allowance, or living on savings.
‘Please,’ said Sally, and she looked hard at Esther. ‘I don’t want to feel I’m always taking advantage of your charity.’
‘Oh, I—’ Esther was stung by Sally’s use of the word charity. But before she could find the words to say anything more, Lucie had flung her arms around Sally’s neck.
‘How can it be charity when you’re our friend?’
Tears brimmed in Sally’s eyes and Esther thanked the heavens, not for the first or last time, for Lucie’s sweet, unaffected nature.
She ordered carefully, choosing an inexpensive salad. Lucie took the hint and chose a plain pasta dish. But Sally was undeterred, calling the waiter over and ordering the best Prosecco they had and asking for a platter of antipasto for the table. She beamed at them both. ‘This is such a treat!’ she said. ‘Now, tell me, Lucie, what have you been up to?’
Lucie sipped her Appletiser and chatted about her schoolwork and her involvement with the debating society. The waiter brought the Prosecco and opened it. Sally raised her glass and interrupted Lucie.
‘A toast!’ she said excitedly. ‘To new beginnings and to good friends.’
‘A lovely toast,’ said Esther.
Sally took a big gulp from her glass and turned back to Lucie. ‘So sorry, dear, what were you saying?’
There seemed to be a slightly manic edge to her. She seemed very animated, but not entirely engaged. She was drinking fast, and her hands never seemed to stop moving – going up to touch her hair, fiddling with her glass, folding and unfolding her napkin.
When Lucie had finished telling the story of a recent debating competition, Esther turned to Sally and said gently, ‘And how have you been, Sally?’
‘Oh fine, fine.’
‘From your email, it seems you’ve been busy.’
‘Busier than you know!’ said Sally. ‘The computer has opened up a whole world to me. There’s so much to discover.’
She told them about the computer forum she had joined, where beginner users could ask questions and share tips. She had made a few connections – people she was chatting to regularly – and she talked about them as if they were real, close friends. Esther could see it made Lucie a little sad; it somehow made Sally look even more isolated that these distant connections should mean so much to her.
‘You need to get on Facebook,’ said Lucie sagely. ‘That’s the best way to connect with all the people you know.’
‘Not that Lucie would know,’ said Esther. ‘She’s still too young to have a Facebook account.’
Lucie made a face. ‘Mum’s very strict about it. She says there’s plenty of time for me to get into social media.’
‘Well, maybe I should give it a go,’ said Sally uncertainly. ‘I’m not sure who I could ask to be my “friends”. That is the right term, isn’t it? Friends?’
‘Mum will be your friend,’ said Lucie.
‘Of course I will,’ said Esther. ‘And there’s a Facebook group from our old school, so you could connect with people from your year, I’m sure.’
‘Golly,’ said Sally. ‘Well, it would be interesting to see what everyone is up to.’
The antipasto arrived and Sally, who wasn’t familiar with some items on the platter, had a lot of questions. She had never eaten an artichoke heart and wasn’t sure what she thought about olives. She really did seem to be having the time of her life. Eventually, she made herself a little plateful of things she thought she might like to try and energetically encouraged Lucie and Esther to eat everything else.
‘It’s taken me a little bit of time,’ Sally said, draining her glass and reaching for the bottle for a refill, ‘to realize that I have got my life back. And I intend to have some fun!’
‘You should!’ said Lucie. ‘You looked after your mum, and before that you looked after Isabella. It’s time you looked after yourself.’
‘I felt so guilty after Mum went.’ Sally’s cheeks were decidedly pinker from the Prosecco. ‘But it wasn’t easy, especially not the last few months.’
‘I’m sure,’ Esther said soothingly.
‘She was like a small baby – she used to wake up nine or ten times a night. She kept trying to get up and go outside, but she could barely walk, so she’d keep falling over. I had to sleep on a mattress in her room to try and stop her. I was exhausted of course, but if I tried to go and have a little nap in the daytime, she’d sit in her chair and scream over and over, “Isabella! Isabella? Where are you?”’ She gave an uncanny imitation of Joan’s querulous tone. ‘In the morning, she’d start asking what time it was and worrying about her meals. Then she’d forget she’d eaten and she’d ask me over and over to make her breakfast. Sometimes I’d give her seven or eight meals a day, just to shut her up. She started weeing everywhere too, like an old dog. I was always finding her in corners. No amount of bleach will get that smell out. I’ve had to have all the carpets ripped out. I used to try to take her for a walk every day, but she’d just cry the whole time and beg to go home, and one time she tried to take her clothes off in Sainsbury’s. I stopped after that. And when the carers came to help, especially towards the end of the day, her behaviour just got worse. She’d spit at them, or swear, or call them terrible names – “Darkie” or “Chinkie”. She was never like that – racist – before the dementia. Makes you wonder what ugly thoughts people are hiding.’
The whole monologue was delivered in flat and unemotional tone, except for this last observation, which Sally made with a cheerful smile.
Esther glanced at Lucie, who
looked horrified. She was sure her own expression was much the same. It wasn’t so much the litany of sadness and misery that Sally had spilled out, but the coolness of her delivery. She hadn’t expressed any sorrow or self-pity. She had just calmly told the story. It was impossible to know what response she hoped for.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Esther said carefully. ‘That must have been very hard.’
Sally shrugged and picked up an artichoke heart with her fingers. ‘It was all right, until she started hitting me. Every time I took her to the toilet or helped her into a chair, she’d hit me on the head and face. And pull my hair. I had bald spots. I’m still waiting for it to grow back properly.’ She popped the artichoke heart into her mouth and touched her temple. For the first time Esther noticed there was fuzzy new growth there. ‘Anyway, I haven’t really been out in the world or been able to do anything, so lunch – just a lunch like this, which must be something you two do every week – is the most exciting thing I’ve done in years! Lots more excitement to come though.’
The main courses arrived and the mood seemed to lighten a little as they occupied themselves with tasting each other’s food. They shared three desserts between them and Sally insisted she and Esther should have a little liqueur too.
When the bill came, she opened her handbag. She took out a great wedge of twenties and counted out some notes. Esther noted she hadn’t left a tip. Perhaps she had forgotten the niceties of eating out. Sally excused herself to go to the toilet, and Esther took out a ten-pound note and slipped it under the edge of her plate for the waiter.
On the Monday, when Regina asked her what she had been up to at the weekend, Esther found herself telling her all about Sally – her years of isolation and her slow emergence.
‘It’s very odd,’ she said. ‘She appears to be both very much younger than me, in terms of her innocence and lack of worldly experience, but also very much older. She dresses like an old lady, she has old lady hair, she even has an old lady turn of phrase. She says “golly”.’
‘I’d love to meet her,’ said Regina. ‘She sounds fascinating.’
‘She really isn’t,’ said Esther. ‘She’s sadly a little bit dull, but I feel… responsible somehow, because she’s Isabella’s younger sister and Isabella was my best friend.’
‘I presume Isabella wasn’t dull.’
‘Isabella was beautiful and brilliant and mercurial. She was a very talented architect, she drew wonderful pictures, she was charismatic and popular…’
‘And she died?’
‘Eight… nearly nine years ago. Cervical cancer.’
‘Was she married? Kids?’
‘No… she hadn’t got round to settling down – I think she always imagined she’d have time at some point in the future. She was too busy having a brilliant career and travelling all over the world.’
‘The opposite of her sister.’
‘Polar opposite.’
‘Although it sounds like Sally is trying to give it a go now she doesn’t have her mum to look after. She’s getting online, wanting to learn to drive… It’s a start.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘We could all take a leaf out of her book,’ Regina said. ‘Get out there a bit more.’ Esther looked quizzically at her. ‘When I say “we”, I mean “you”, you know,’ said Regina. ‘You can make big innocent eyes at me, but you know I’m right. At least Sally’s trying, in her own modest way. When are you going to take the plunge?’
‘Into what?’
‘A more adventurous life.’
‘I’ve invited some friends round for dinner…’ Esther said defensively.
‘By “friends” you mean me and Pedro and, let me guess, other friends who are all couples. All old, safe friends you’ve known for years.’
‘Maybe, but… Anyway. I’ve been to the parkrun thing you suggested a couple of times too.’
‘Did you actually talk to anyone?’
‘I will, soon. Next time. And I keep meaning to go to one of the Meetup groups you suggested. I just really haven’t had a chance.’
‘But, let me get this right… the Easter holidays start next week, don’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Lucie will be going to Manchester to stay with her dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘So no excuses. You need to get out there. If you don’t do it, I’ll take charge of your diary – I have access, you know – and I’ll just start booking things in. Salsa classes, taxidermy, life drawing…’
‘Okay, okay.’ Esther laughed. ‘I’ll do some things while Lucie’s away.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Esther had never been brave. She’d been a cautious, shy child and a quiet, bookish teenager. She’d had a very modest view of her own skills and accomplishments, so it was Isabella, with her firm, no-nonsense attitude, who shoved her out of her comfort zone and got her to aim a little higher. Without her, Esther would probably have ended up as a primary-school teacher. She certainly would never have had the courage to seek and pursue a career in academia. It was always Isabella who encouraged her, Isabella who persuaded her to break the rules, pushed her into the limelight or dragged her on adventures. She could have done with a little of Isabella’s cajoling now. As she clicked through a list of social clubs on the Time Out website, she remembered a poetry competition, when they were in the third year.
It was a stupid poem. Esther didn’t know why she’d spent so long on it. And even though she’d been working on it – changing a word here, altering a rhyme there – for almost three weeks, it was still stupid. She had no idea why she still cared. Anyway, there was no point. She was only in the third year, and no one from the third year ever got anywhere in the poetry competition; the prizes always went to girls doing their O levels, or girls in the lower sixth. It was a stupid competition anyway.
She didn’t show the poem to anyone. Well, no one except Isabella. They were doing their homework at Esther’s kitchen table one afternoon, or at least Esther was doing homework and Isabella was sketching an elaborate art nouveau pattern of swirls and elegant female forms around the margins of her maths worksheet.
‘I hate algebra,’ Isabella said absently. ‘I can’t imagine a world where I will ever, ever care what the value of x is.’
‘You can copy mine,’ Esther said, and pushed her completed sheet across the table. ‘If you do something for me.’
‘What?’ said Isabella suspiciously as she began copying the answers into the empty spaces on her sheet.
‘I want you to read something, and then not say a word.’
‘Not say a word about what?’
‘I wrote something. And I want you to read it, but then don’t say, “That’s nice”, or “Well done” or “That’s rubbish”. Just don’t say anything, okay?’
She’d thought about this for a long time. She knew the poem was terrible and would never be entered into the competition, and she knew she couldn’t bear to give it to just anyone to read – not her mum or dad, or Miss Holford, the English teacher. But Isabella was different. She’d be okay about it. She wouldn’t say something patronizing or insincere. And now she’d been warned, she wouldn’t say anything at all. Esther knew she shouldn’t care. After all, she hated the poem. But it had occupied so much time in her head, and there were bits of it she thought were, well, if not good, at least not totally horrific. It deserved to be read by at least one person before she tore it up and chucked it away.
She pulled a sheet of paper from her homework diary; it was the latest iteration of the poem, which she had neatly copied out that morning. She flipped it round and pushed it across the table to Isabella.
Isabella finished writing the answers onto the algebra worksheet, handed Esther back her page, then picked up the poem and headed for the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m not going to read it with you staring at my face like a hungry puppy. I’m going to take it to the bathroom where you can’t see me.’
She was gone forever. For hours, it seemed. Esther sat staring at her algebra homework. She spotted a mistake and painstakingly crossed it out and corrected it. She didn’t correct it in Isabella’s work – that would be too obvious. At least this way they wouldn’t get the exact same mark. Esther thought the maths teacher was already a little suspicious. Isabella still wasn’t back. What was she doing? Tearing the poem into tiny shreds and flushing it? Was it that bad?
Isabella came back from the bathroom. She was holding the piece of paper in her hand. Instead of sitting back down across from Esther, she stayed standing in the doorway, gripping the page tightly. ‘I’m not going to say anything,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m also not giving it back.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why you gave this to me.’
‘To read. And not say anything.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Isabella crisply. It was her new favourite word. ‘You gave it to me because you know how good it is and because you want me to bully you to give it in for the competition.’
‘No I didn’t!’ said Esther, her face flaring hotly.
‘Whatever. Anyway, I’m not going to argue with you, or say nice things or beg. I’m just going to keep this very nicely written copy and hand it in to Miss Holford tomorrow, all right?’ Isabella edged her way around the room, keeping the page behind her back, as if Esther might lunge and grab it. She swept her book and notes together with one hand, then slipped the page between the leaves of a notebook and tipped everything into her open school bag. ‘See you tomorrow.’ She turned to go.
‘Stop!’ Esther yelled, suddenly furious. ‘Give it back!’
‘No,’ said Isabella firmly. ‘I’m not going to let you torture yourself and me about how maybe you should give it in for the competition or maybe you shouldn’t, until it’s too late, and then you’ll go on for weeks about how maybe you should have after all. It’s boring. The poem is good. You should enter it. If I didn’t push you into things, you’d spend your life dithering. This is my job in your life. Your job is to save me from my maths homework and stop me doing something stupid and dying by accident.’
