After Isabella

by Rosie Fiore

  The meal passed in a blur. She must have eaten something, although she didn’t really remember doing so. They decided to have a pause before dessert. The weather was unseasonably warm and sunny, so someone flung open the doors into the garden and a few of the party, including Michael, went outside. Esther stood, slightly unsteadily, and went through into the living room. Phil had taken up a position in the middle of the sofa, knees spread in what looked like a semblance of an alpha-male pose, and was holding forth to Tim about marathon running and nutrition. Tim, who Esther knew abhorred all kinds of exercise, had glazed over and was nodding politely.

  Esther took herself off to sit in a patch of sunshine by the window. There was a small white wicker armchair in the alcove, and she curled up in it, enjoying the rays which slanted in and warmed her face. There were cushions in the chair, and she absent-mindedly ran her fingernail over the embroidery on one of them. She glanced at it and saw that it was a silk pillow with a hazy mist of wisteria stitched onto it. She recognized it. One day, months before, she and Sally had been shopping for cushions and curtains. They had paused for lunch, and Sally had spoken with wistful nostalgia about the wisteria which had blossomed over the door of Esther’s childhood home. She herself had not thought of it in all the years since she had left that house, but she was touched by Sally’s vivid recollection. She spent some hours that evening searching décor sites online until she found cushions covered in wisteria. She emailed Sally the link and thought no more about it. And here they were. She had brought a full glass of wine through from the lunch table, and she sipped it thoughtfully.

  Sally came in with a big tray of cups of coffee and set it on the coffee table. People drifted in from the garden and served themselves. ‘The desserts are all set out on the dining room table,’ she said, smiling. ‘Go through and help yourselves when you’re ready.’ Her smile was bright and rather forced, and her face was still a little shiny with sweat. It would just be the heat of the kitchen and the effort of hosting a party for twenty, but Esther couldn’t help thinking she looked strained – and very, very thin. She had always had a peaches-and-cream complexion, but now her skin had a sallow tone, as if she’d been using a sun-bed. Maybe she had just caught some real sun or was experimenting with a different foundation. Either way, it looked a little strange.

  A cheery-looking woman, whom Esther thought she recognized from the amateur dramatic group, came into the room with a large, wrapped parcel. ‘Present time!’ she trilled. ‘Time to open all your housewarming goodies, Sally!’

  Sally smiled. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have… You really shouldn’t. It’s just so lovely to have all of you here…’

  There was a flutter of reassurance, and people began to draw near, piling their gifts on the coffee table in front of Sally. Phil didn’t move. Either he had given Sally her housewarming gift in private, or he hadn’t got her one. Michael, who had come in from the garden, stood beside Esther’s chair, resting his hand on her shoulder. ‘Where did you leave the pictures?’ he said quietly in her ear. ‘Shall I fetch them?’

  ‘They’re in a bag in the hallway. But don’t worry. I don’t want to make a big deal about it. I’ll give them to her when we go.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Michael. ‘She’s having such a ball opening things. Let’s join in the fun.’

  And indeed, Sally, who had taken her place on the sofa next to Phil, was exclaiming with delight over every pot-plant, tea towel and bottle of wine. Esther had a sudden flashback to the last ‘party’ she had attended that Sally had thrown – the lonely wake after Sally’s mother’s funeral. She would defy anyone to identify this laughing blonde, in her sumptuous living room and surrounded by friends, as the same person. But then who would recognize Esther herself as the person she had been that day?

  Michael came back into the room carrying a gift bag. He put it on the table at Sally’s elbow and she caught his hand, laughing up at him. His smile to her was warm and unguarded. When had he last smiled at Esther like that?

  ‘I can’t keep saying “you shouldn’t have”,’ said Sally. ‘But you really shouldn’t.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Michael. ‘It was all Esther.’

  Sally drew the three pictures out of the bag. Esther had folded each of them in tissue paper, and she carefully unwrapped them all, laying them down on the table in front of her. ‘Oh,’ she said, and there was something in her shocked and reverent tone that made the room go quiet.

  Esther had chosen three images and had them enlarged, and she had put them in white-painted wooden frames that she knew would fit well with Sally’s décor. They had been scanned from eighties snapshots, so they had the grainy, faded quality of moments long gone. The first featured Sally, aged four or so, celebrating a birthday. She was sitting at the Formica table in her childhood kitchen, and there was a cake with lit candles in front of her. She was squinting at the cake, her fat little cheeks puffed out as she prepared to blow. A dark shadow behind her could only have been Isabella.

  The second picture showed Sally, Isabella and Esther in swimming costumes, playing under a garden sprinkler. This was in Laura’s beautiful garden, and Esther supposed she must have taken the picture. Esther herself was off to one side, half out of the frame, chewing on a strand of her hair and glowering. Sally was standing square on to the camera, wearing a frilly bathing suit and positively bawling, her mouth a round, outraged, red ‘O’, her hair dripping wet. Behind her, Isabella was vaulting over the sprinkler. The camera had caught her movement as a blur, her long legs extended like a gazelle’s, her dark hair streaming behind her.

  ‘I remember that day,’ said Sally, her voice so soft, it was almost a whisper. ‘I hated getting my hair wet – I would scream and scream when Mum washed it. Isabella knew that, but she pushed me under the sprinkler anyway.’

  The cheery lady who had begun the gift-giving laughed. ‘Kids, eh?’

  Sally turned to the third photograph. She wasn’t in this one. Esther had had a print of this picture in her bedroom for years, although she had never shown it to Sally. It was a shot of Esther and Isabella. They were aged eleven or so. It was summer, and they were both barefoot, wearing shorts and very similar striped T-shirts. They were standing hand in hand, looking straight into the lens. Again, Esther’s chin was lowered, and she stared at the camera distrustfully, but Isabella’s head was thrown back, one hip cocked, the toes of one bare foot resting on the instep of the other.

  ‘Twins!’ said the cheery lady. ‘Look at that!’

  ‘They’re not even sisters,’ said Phil, and Esther was sure everyone must have heard the nastiness in his tone.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Sally. ‘They were sisters. They were much more sisters than Isabella and I were.’

  She looked up and caught Esther’s eye.

  If Esther could have found something to throw, she would have. An expensive knick-knack, something heavy and glass and damaging. She wanted to hurl an object with force at Sally’s smug, pretty face. Sally, sitting on her expensive sofa in her expensive home, paid for with the money she had got from her dead sister and mother. Sally, who had achieved nothing in life but had everything. Sally, who had got to be with Isabella in the end, and with her mother, when Esther was the one who was sent away. Who wasn’t good enough to look after anybody.

  ‘Oh, she wasn’t my sister at all,’ Esther said, and her voice was very loud in the suddenly quiet living room. ‘She was all yours. Right to the very end. So much all yours that you got to kill her, didn’t you, Sally? Do all your smug friends and your psychotic boyfriend know that you fed your sister morphine and murdered her? It wouldn’t surprise me at all if you knocked off your mother too, to speed up the whole process of inheritance. But it’s all worked out fine for you hasn’t it? Just look at you now!’ She gestured, indicating the room with a sweep of her hand. Her wine glass went flying, spreading a pool of crimson on the cream carpet. ‘Well, happy housewarming.’

  She could hear the carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticking
loudly in the silence. She counted five slow ticks before Michael’s hand gripped her above the elbow. ‘I’m so sorry, Sally,’ he said evenly, as he dragged Esther to her feet. ‘We’ll go.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  When they returned home from Sally’s, she went straight upstairs and lay on the bed, fully clothed, staring at the wall. Her stomach roiled with wine and misery, and her head pounded painfully. She stayed there, without moving, for an hour or so. She could hear no sounds from downstairs, and she found herself hoping that Michael had just gone away and left her to her self-pity and shame.

  Eventually, she had to get off the bed to go to the toilet. As she crossed the landing, she could see that the lights were on downstairs, and the smell of food – cottage pie, she thought, or bolognaise – floated up the stairwell to her. How was it possible that life was going on, normally, downstairs? She used the toilet and took a moment to wash her face and tidy her hair, then she went back into the bedroom and changed out of her crumpled dress and into jeans and a big, baggy jumper. She took a deep breath and walked slowly down the stairs. Michael was in the kitchen, stirring something in a saucepan. He had Radio 4 on, and she could hear a deep female voice murmuring quietly, although she could not distinguish the words. The sun was setting, and the kitchen was bathed in warm golden light. She drew out a chair and sat at the kitchen table.

  He turned and gave her a small smile. ‘Tea?’ he said. ‘Supper will be half an hour or so.’

  She couldn’t speak, so she just nodded, and he made a mug of tea which he placed in front of her. He went back to the stove, checked something in the oven and stirred another pan on the hob. Some music came on the radio and he hummed softly along with it. It seemed scarcely credible that he was still here, acting perfectly normally and seemingly not furious with her.

  He finished what he was doing and, picking up his own mug of tea, came to sit beside her at the table. He took her hand and stroked the back of it lightly with his thumb. She snatched it away from him.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Doing what?’ he asked.

  ‘Being nice. Acting like nothing happened.’

  ‘What’s the alternative?’

  Esther stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Seriously, what would you suggest I do? It’s apparent that things are very bad for you right now. So should I yell at you? Storm out? Issue ultimatums? Treat you like a child? None of those seemed very helpful. So I thought I’d make something nourishing and comforting for dinner and see if you wanted to talk about it.’

  ‘That’s very grown-up of you. And very kind.’

  ‘Well, it’s also a little bit selfish. I live here now. I have nowhere to go. I can’t just bail out. And I don’t want to. I love you, and I can see you’re in pain. You have been ever since your mother died, and I’ve watched you suffer, and have horrible things happen to you, and then do worse things to yourself. I want to help you. I want to make this stop.’

  ‘So what do you suggest I do?’

  He hesitated. ‘Are you asking for sympathy or advice? I’ve got into trouble before for offering the second when what someone really wanted was the first.’

  ‘Advice. Please. What do I do?’

  ‘I think…’ He paused. ‘I think you need to knock the booze on the head. Totally. I think you need to work, even if it’s just something voluntary. Or a proper research project with a real deadline. Leisure and introspection don’t suit you. And you need to do something pro-active and definite to fix things between you and Lucie, because I can see that’s killing you.’

  ‘And what about Sally?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I did something terrible. Unforgiveable.’

  ‘It wasn’t good,’ he said quietly. ‘But whether or not it’s unforgivable… well, that’s up to Sally, really.’

  Dear Sally,

  There is nothing I can say that makes up for my indefensible behaviour today at your lunch. I am so, so sorry. I do not wish to excuse my actions in any way. I lashed out to hurt someone who has never shown me anything but kindness, and I betrayed a confidence. I can only offer you a profound and sincere apology, and hope that, even though I do not deserve it, you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

  All my love,

  Esther

  She wrote the letter by hand. It wasn’t something that could be said in an email, or typed, and she certainly wasn’t brave enough to try and say it over the phone or in person. She put it in an envelope, addressed it and stuck on a stamp. Then before she could overthink it, she walked to the post box on the corner and sent it on its way. She didn’t expect a response. She didn’t deserve one. But it had to be done.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  It took Esther an hour and a half to walk from her house to Sally’s place in Mill Hill. The morning had dawned rain-washed and sparkling, with a clear, azure sky. She had said nothing to Michael about her intentions. She had merely got up, made him coffee and kissed him, more warmly than usual, before waving him goodbye as he set off for work. Then she showered, dressed and began to walk. Walking, she noted, was much slower than running. At her fittest, she could run a mile in under nine minutes. Walking a mile took almost twice as long. She’d get there eventually, and she’d get fit again from the walking too. Or perhaps she could invest in a backpack and start running places.

  It seemed right to be walking to Sally’s, to be doing something that took a long time and used effort. Although she had ample time on the way, she did not think about what she was going to say when she got there. She walked with her head empty, watching the clouds scudding across the sky and observing the seasonal changes in the gardens she passed. It had been four months since she had posted the letter to Sally on the evening of the housewarming party. Unsurprisingly, until now, she’d had no response.

  She had, however, taken all of Michael’s advice to heart. She had stopped drinking completely and to her own amazement had not missed it at all. She was working on a research project about a previously unknown Victorian woman writer which she thought might make a reasonable book, and an academic publisher had already shown interest. She had agonized over what to do about Lucie, and eventually she’d tentatively asked her daughter if she would consider going to a family therapist together. To her immense surprise, Lucie jumped at the opportunity. They found a woman who worked from an upstairs room in her house in Golders Green. She was solid, Jewish, plain-speaking, and immensely warm. Lucie and Esther would meet at the Tube station once a week and go to see Leonora together. Progress was slow and fitful, but they were finding ways to spend time together. Lucie was beginning to grumble about the lack of space at Stephen’s house, and how she had to keep quiet after the baby had been put to bed. Esther suspected she might ask to move home soon. With Michael’s sons happily ensconced in the new summer house they’d had built in the garden, she thought Lucie might find the house a happier place. She hoped so.

  She felt every step of the hill that took her up to Sally’s front door. She stopped outside the neighbouring house and stood panting until she had her breath back. Then, self-consciously, she smoothed her hair and walked up to the door. With her hand hovering above the bell, she hesitated.

  She didn’t get to press it. While she was still hovering and thinking, she saw Sally’s shadow through the frosted-glass panel; it moved slowly, and then the door opened.

  ‘I saw you cross the driveway,’ Sally said. She stood in the doorway looking at Esther. Her face was still and unsmiling but not angry. She kept one hand on the doorjamb, as if barring the entrance. Her appearance was markedly altered. She looked searchingly at Esther, and Esther could see that she was looking for a reaction. Esther knew that her face must register the shock she felt. It had been just a few months since she had last seen Sally. How could she have changed so much?

  ‘Come in,’ Sally said suddenly, and she turned and walked back down the passageway to the kitchen.

  Esther followed, closing
the front door softly behind her. Sally proceeded slowly, her steps small and careful, as if she was trying to move as few parts of her body as possible. They went into the kitchen, and Sally lowered herself gingerly into a chair. There was a pot of tea on the table, and a cup.

  ‘There’s still some in the pot, if you’d like some,’ Sally said, as if this was a normal social visit. ‘Cups are in the cupboard above the kettle, as you know. There might be biscuits too.’

  Without comment, Esther fetched a mug and poured herself a cup of tea, sitting down opposite Sally. ‘I’m not sure where to start,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Thank you for replying to my letter. I didn’t expect you to. And thank you for inviting me here.’

  ‘I know it took me a while,’ said Sally. ‘I was very angry with you. I needed to calm down.’

  There was a cardboard folder on the kitchen table. Sally pushed it towards Esther.

  ‘Open it,’ she said.

  Esther did. There were a number of papers in the file. The first was a letter in a spidery and unsteady hand, which she recognized immediately as Isabella’s. In a few words, it laid out her intention to take an overdose of morphine with Sally’s help but stated that Sally was in no way implicated or responsible.

  ‘I don’t need to see…’ Esther began.

  ‘There’s more.’ Sally gestured. Her tone made it clear that she would brook no argument.

  Esther turned the page. There were copies of Joan’s death certificate and a post-mortem report. Joan had died of natural causes – pneumonia.

  ‘It’s often the cause of death in dementia cases,’ said Sally. ‘I always knew someone would think I’d done Mum in – I just didn’t think it would be you. I thought if you had doubts, especially after I told you about Isabella, well, I thought you’d just ask me. I wish you had. When Isabella asked me to… Well, she thought it was a good idea to make sure there was a clear record that it was her choice and doing, so I wouldn’t get into trouble. When Mum went, I just added all the bits to the file. It seemed best.’