by Jane Holland
‘Your mum’s tucked up in bed,’ she whispers, pointing to the downstairs room that Mum now uses as a bedroom to save her having to negotiate the stairs every day. ‘I’ve checked on her twice and she’s asleep now.’
This is so unusual, I stare.
‘Really? But Mum always takes ages to settle.’
Ruby nods with understanding. ‘I expect she does, yes. But I put a little music on in her room, just very softly. She said she likes jazz.’
‘She used to, yes,’ I stammer, surprised by how quickly she’s managed to gain my mother’s confidence.
‘I find music can be helpful for getting dementia patients to sleep. Music or white noise, it doesn’t matter which. But they seem to prefer that to complete silence. It’s playing on a loop, but you might want to turn the music centre off before you go to bed.’
‘Thank you.’
I pay her what we agreed, and she heads out the door with a cheery wave.
Logan, a shadow in the porch, steps forward into the light as soon as she’s gone.
I’m oddly nervous now we’re alone together, without the noise of the bistro around us. The night seems very dark behind his head, a rack of sombre clouds masking the merest sliver of a moon. He dominates the space, very large and masculine. But not intimidating, I remind myself.
I suppose I’ve got used to not having any men in my life, that’s all.
‘Well,’ he says deeply, ‘that sounded promising.’
‘It certainly seems to have gone better than I feared.’ I smile up at him, suddenly awkward and uncertain. Is he expecting me to invite him in? However pleased I might have been to get a dinner date at last, I’m definitely not ready for that. ‘Look, I’m a bit tired, so—’
‘Yes, me too,’ he interrupts me. ‘I was only waiting in case you…’ He stops, and laughs. ‘It was a great evening. Thank you.’ He stoops and kisses me on the cheek, close to my mouth, and then straightens. ‘Good night.’
I close the front door and lock it, kick off my high heels with a sigh of relief, and tread softly, barefoot toward my mother’s bedroom.
The door is partly ajar.
From inside, I can hear the gentle strains of jazz music…
Peeking inside, I find my mother fast asleep under the covers, exactly as Ruby had said, her breathing even and seemingly undisturbed by the saxophone playing in the background.
I stand over her for a moment, so pleased I can barely stop myself from grinning, and then tiptoe over to click off the music centre.
The silence feels suddenly oppressive.
There’s a slight gap between the curtains, I realise, and pull them closer together across the window, feeling an odd sense of apprehension. I glance about the bedroom, wishing I had not asked Logan to leave quite so soon, though it’s ridiculous to be afraid of the dark at my age.
A memory returns of that shadowy figure I’d seen earlier in the evening, creeping about in the shrubbery…
Unless I imagined it.
My mother doesn’t stir, continuing to sleep soundly, unaware of the world around her. Her silvery hair streams over the white pillows, her skin smoothed out in sleep.
‘Night, Mum,’ I whisper, though I know she can’t possibly hear me.
CHAPTER FIVE
Monday comes with no reply from Giorgios to my repeated texts and calls. I usually go into work on a Monday, and this week I have a big presentation that I spent all weekend prepping for.
I call the agency. ‘Giorgios Baros hasn’t shown up.’
I explain that I’ve been trying to contact him for several days, though I don’t mention the Friday evening arrangement, because he doesn’t declare extra sessions earned without agency input and I don’t want to get him into trouble.
Suella, who runs the agency, is horrified. ‘I’m so sorry. He hasn’t been in touch to let us know he’s ill or had to go away.’ She asks me to hold the line for a moment, then comes back, sounding embarrassed. ‘We don’t have anyone available to cover for Giorgios today, I’m afraid. Everyone’s already placed somewhere else. In fact, we have three people down with illness and won’t have any cover available for you until Thursday at the earliest.’
‘Thursday?’ I’m speechless.
She hesitates. ‘I could try one of our ladies who’s meant to be on honeymoon, but I can’t guarantee—’
‘No, I don’t want to interrupt somebody’s honeymoon, for goodness’s sake,’ I tell her, and run a hand through my hair, despairingly. ‘Look, it’s okay, I’ll sort it out myself. I’ll ring work and tell them I can’t make it in today.’
‘I can’t apologise enough, Miss Kinley,’ Suella says, sounding genuinely contrite, though it’s not her fault at all, adding, ‘I’d better try Giorgios myself, find out what’s happened.’
‘Good luck with that. His mobile number goes straight to voicemail every time.’
‘How odd. But maybe he lost his phone.’
‘Maybe.’
After I hang up, I wander into the living room where my presentation notes are still spread out across the table, and stare down at them, unsure what to do.
I keep hoping to hear the front door open and see Giorgios’s cheery face. But it’s almost nine thirty by the time I’ve packed my papers into my briefcase and helped Mum to dress for the day, and there’s zero chance by then that I can still reach central London in time for my presentation, which was scheduled for late morning.
Grimacing, I call my boss to apologise.
Mark is, unsurprisingly, furious. ‘What do you mean you can’t make it into the office today?’
‘The nurse didn’t show today. I can’t leave my mother on her own.’
‘I thought she had dementia, not a physical illness. I have a neighbour with dementia. He lives alone and seems to manage okay. Why does your mother need someone there all day?’
‘As I’ve explained before,’ I tell him through gritted teeth, trying not to snarl, ‘it’s not that simple. Maybe your neighbour’s dementia is still at an early stage. But my mother’s case is different. This is early onset dementia, and she’s also deteriorating quite rapidly. So she shouldn’t be left alone for long periods of time. It simply wouldn’t be safe.’
‘But why not?’ he asks, clearly impatient.
‘Well,’ I say, gasping a little as my anxiety levels begin to rise, ‘she might leave the house and wander off in her slippers, or go for a walk and forget where she lives. Or she might put something on the hob to cook for her lunch, forget it’s there and burn the house down. With her in it.’ My heart is thudding now, and my palms are clammy; I hate this kind of confrontational discussion. I resist the urge to ring off; he is my boss after all. ‘Do you see where I’m going with this?’
‘Don’t get smart with me, Kate,’ he says irascibly, but to my relief doesn’t pursue the point. ‘Okay, so when can you get in?’
‘I’ll have to speak to the agency again. They said they might be able to arrange someone for Thursday.’
‘Thursday?’
The note in his voice is pretty much how I sounded too when it was suggested to me. But it is what it is.
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
‘I need to hear your presentation today, Kate. It’s that important.’ He pauses significantly. ‘Or I may have to give the project to somebody else.’
I suck in a long breath and control my temper with an effort. Bloody man!
Mark’s a nasty piece of work; he smiles in public, utterly charming to top authors or those above him in the food chain, but behind closed doors, he has a history of making people suffer even for minor acts of rebellion. It’s taken me a long time to get to commissioning editor. I mustn’t blow it now by telling him what a bastard he is, even if it’s true.
‘I could try to get in for this afternoon,’ I say with difficulty.
Mark says nothing.
I’m promising the impossible, but what else am I supposed to do? I can’t let my career slide; it would be unthinkab
le. And I’m sure Mum wouldn’t want that either. If she could understand what was happening, that is, which I doubt.
I add into the silence, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice, ‘Perhaps we could reschedule the presentation for, say, two o’clock?’
‘That’s more like it,’ he drawls, and even down the phone line, I can hear him smiling. ‘I’ll see you later, then.’
I put the phone back on its charging cradle and step outside to check on Mum, who’s pottering about in the garden now with a trowel, attempting to garden.
It hurts to see her bent over, stabbing ineffectually at the earth. Mum was such a keen gardener once, knowing the names of all the flowers and plants she tended. Now she struggles to remember any of them, or how they should be looked after, but does love to make herself busy in the garden.
‘Mum?’ I glance at my car, and then back at her, not quite sure yet what I’m thinking but aware of an idea vaguely forming. ‘How do you fancy a little drive out in the car? Just for half an hour to see the scenery.’ She straightens up, trowel in hand, staring at me in surprise. ‘We haven’t done that in a while, have we?’
‘I’d like a drive in the car,’ she says decidedly.
‘Good.’ I head back inside for our coats and the car keys. ‘I’ll need to stop somewhere for five minutes. But you can wait in the car.’
*
I’ve only been to Giorgios’s flat once before, back when he first started caring for Mum and accidentally left his phone at our place one evening.
‘You sit tight,’ I tell Mum, parking on the narrow side street where he lives, as close to his place as I can manage. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Where are we? Where are you going?’
‘This is where Giorgios lives. I’m just going to check if he’s okay.’ I hesitate, worried she may wander off while I’m gone, and remind her not to leave the vehicle.
‘Can I turn the radio on?’
‘It won’t work without the keys in.’
‘So leave the keys.’
‘I can’t, it wouldn’t be safe.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll look after the car.’
‘Honestly, I won’t be more than a few minutes. You won’t need the radio.’
‘I think I should come with you.’ She starts fiddling with her seat belt, trying to unbuckle it and escape.
I stop her. ‘No, you need to wait here. Please don’t do anything, Mum… Just stay in the car and think happy thoughts. All right?’
She pouts, looking about herself a little wildly, as though about to rebel. Luckily, a delivery van drives past slowly, as though looking for an address, and her gaze follows it along the street, suddenly caught. ‘Happy thoughts,’ she repeats, with a huffing sound on the ‘H’. ‘Happy, happy, happy.’
‘Well done, that’s the spirit.’
I’m not particularly happy myself, but I leave her and hurry down the road to Giorgios’s place.
The curtains are closed.
I go back and knock on his front window, though I can’t see a damn thing through his tightly closed curtains.
Still no movement from inside.
Finally, I hear a door opening, and turn around, hugely relieved.
‘Giorgios?’
Only it’s not Giorgios standing there; it’s a middle-aged woman in a flowery housecoat and slippers. I’ve never seen her before in my life.
‘Hello,’ the woman says, peering round the corner at me suspiciously. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m a friend of Giorgios Baros. Is he at home?’
‘He’s gone on holiday,’ she says, still looking me up and down. ‘Who are you?’
At these words, I feel all the air go out of me.
Gone on holiday? Now what the hell am I supposed to do? But I keep smiling politely, gritting my teeth against a gnawing sense of disappointment and frustration; it’s not her fault he’s gone away, after all.
I introduce myself and briefly explain why I’m there, even pointing down the street towards the car where Mum is still waiting.
‘It was a bit of a shock when he didn’t turn up this morning. If he’s on holiday though, that would explain it.’ I pause, still baffled and annoyed. ‘Sorry, do you know why he didn’t contact me before leaving? Was this holiday unexpected? Because if he’d told me in advance, I could have arranged for someone else to look after my mother today.’
‘No idea. He didn’t say.’
‘I see.’ My smile feels fixed in place now. She’s not being very helpful. ‘Did Giorgios say how long he’d be gone?’
‘No,’ she snaps. ‘He put a note under my door to say he was going away and to keep an eye on the flat for him, that’s all.’
She turns away, and I follow her back to the door, confused. That’s when I realise she came out of the flat opposite, not Giorgios’s flat.
‘You’re his neighbour,’ I say slowly.
‘That’s right.’ The woman goes back into her flat and gives me a hard look over her shoulder. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’
‘Of course,’ I say automatically, and add, ‘Sorry to have disturbed you.’
But she’s already slammed the door.
I turn and study Giorgios’s front door for the moment, wondering what on earth he was thinking, just disappearing like that. Then I take a deep breath and hurry back to the Mazda.
I don’t know what to do, and that unnerves me. I’m someone who likes to plan everything ahead of time, down to the last detail, so when plans get derailed, I tend to panic. Which is not a very comfortable feeling.
I promised Mark I would be in the office this afternoon.
Time is ticking.
‘Where’s Giorgios?’ Mum asks when I get back in.
I explain, and she looks crestfallen.
‘On holiday?’
‘Apparently. So it looks like I won’t be able to make it into work today after all,’ I say, unable to disguise the wobbly note in my voice as I imagine what Mark will say when I cry off from the presentation for the second time today.
‘Are you feeling upset, darling?’ Mum asks, looking at me astutely from under thin, frowning brows. She has these sudden flashes of lucidity every now and then, which I love; it’s so comforting to feel she’s still my mum at those moments, still her old self.
‘A little,’ I admit.
‘But I’ll be perfectly fine on my own. I can do some gardening… And some knitting.’ Mum sighs, looking down at her hands clasped in her lap. ‘I can’t remember what I was knitting. But it’ll come to me in the end, I daresay.’
I have a vision of Mum heading out into the garden in her wellies and then absentmindedly wandering off down the road, trowel in hand, never to be seen again…
‘Perhaps I could ask a neighbour to check on you,’ I wonder out loud, chewing nervously on my lip. ‘Once every hour, for instance. Just to be on the safe side.’
I’ve barely spoken to our neighbours, but I know that at least one of them, a mother with three kids of primary school age, is likely to be home this afternoon. Her husband is a high-powered lawyer and she doesn’t seem to work, except for volunteering at one of the local charity shops once or twice a week. She’s been round a few times, in fact, collecting for them. Her name’s Beatrice. But I don’t know her particularly well. I can’t even recall her husband’s name.
Oh God. This is disastrous.
The last thing I want is to go knocking on some stranger’s door and ask if she’ll check on my mother every so often while I pop into London.
Grimly, I pull down the sun visor and check my reflection. I look washed out without any makeup on, and there are dark shadows under my eyes that are crying out for some concealer.
I used to thrive on stress. But these days, what with work pressure and having to deal with Mum’s condition, things seem to be piling up, getting on top of me in ways that I don’t recognise or know how to deal with.
I remember Friday night, and can’t help smiling.
My dinner date with Logan was a break from all that intense pressure. He was such an interesting conversationalist, and a real gentleman too.
I’d like to see him again sometime.
‘There’s always Ruby, I suppose,’ I add thoughtfully.
‘Ruby?’
I sigh. ‘You remember her, Mum. Ruby sat with you on Friday night while I was out with Logan.’
‘Really?’ She looks blank. ‘Do I like her?’
‘I thought you did, yes.’
Mum stares out of the car window. ‘Ruby’s a nice old-fashioned name.’
‘That’s right. In fact, you said the very same thing when you met her.’ I study her face. ‘So you do remember?’
She makes no comment.
‘You seemed to get along with her quite well.’ I hesitate, then find Ruby’s number on my mobile phone. ‘It’s really short notice. She’s probably not free, but…’
I don’t see what else I can do, except not go into work, which feels like such a dangerous choice, I’m simply not prepared to make it if there’s any possible alternative.
Ruby answers after only three rings, sounding a little out of breath. ‘Of course I’m free,’ she says cheerily in response to my hurried explanation. ‘I don’t usually work Mondays. But I can make an exception. If it’s important.’
I look at myself in the visor mirror. ‘It is pretty important, yes.’ I pause, aware of Mum listening to this conversation, and not wanting to upset her with something she might not understand. Then I add self-consciously, ‘I’m worried I might get the sack if I don’t do this presentation.’
‘Say no more. Give me twenty minutes.’
‘Thank you.’ I’m so grateful, there’s a lump in my throat and I actually feel like crying. ‘You’re a life saver, Ruby.’
After I finish the call, I take a deep breath, starting the car engine, and allow myself to hope. Suddenly, the impossible is looking possible. I shouldn’t have let Mark get to me earlier, or become so madly stressed about this.
Things are going to work out; I feel it in my bones. ‘All sorted,’ I tell Mum with a smile.
‘I knew you could do it, darling.’ Mum pats my hand on the steering wheel, her face indulgent. ‘So there was no need to get upset, was there? Cinderella shall go to the ball.’
