An Unsuitable Match

by Joanna Trollope

  ‘What did you ask Dad?’

  ‘I asked him, as he paid the deposit on the flat, if he’d beef up on the mortgage a bit so that I didn’t have to let the second bedroom.’

  ‘And?’ Laura demanded.

  ‘He said no.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ Laura cried. ‘What else did you expect? You and Em are so lucky, d’you know that? Fancy having flats, in this day and age, in central London.’

  ‘You’ve got a whole bloody house!’

  ‘Down payment,’ Laura said calmly. ‘From Angus’s parents and Dad. We pay the mortgage, just like you do. Like you have to do, hot girlfriend or not.’

  Nat flung the dolphin on the floor. He said, ‘I thought you were the one telling Mum she could live as she liked, that it was her life, that she was free to choose.’

  ‘I was,’ Laura said, ‘I did. And in an ideal world, I do think that. I can’t bear the way everyone sits in judgement on everyone else all the time. But I realized that Mum’s situation scares me. It really does. She can’t throw caution to the wind, whatever she feels about Tyler. She just can’t. She has got to think of her future.’

  Nat took a pull at his beer. ‘So?’

  ‘We can’t let her. We can’t let her just do what she wants.’

  ‘Even if what she wants helps us to have what we want?’

  ‘Even then.’ Laura said. She picked up her wine glass. ‘Have you spoken to Em recently?’

  Nat stared at his beer bottle. ‘Nope.’

  ‘When then?’

  ‘Not for a couple of weeks. Have you?’

  Laura put her glass down. ‘Not to talk to, properly. ‘She wanted to go to America.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They looked at each other.

  Nat said, ‘Well, if I can’t, she can’t.’

  ‘She knows that.’

  Nat grunted. Then he said, ‘So that leaves telling Mum, doesn’t it.’ He looked directly at Laura. ‘God, Laura. Think what it’ll be like, telling Mum.’

  *

  Rose stood in her kitchen. She was alone because Tyler had gone out to buy a half-bottle of champagne. To celebrate, he said. He had been laughing. He said he knew drinking at lunchtime on a weekday was usually out of the question, but today, after all, was not an ordinary day, was it? I mean, he said, it was hardly commonplace to have the first person who came to view your house offer you twenty-five thousand above the asking price if you would agree to it being immediately taken off the market, now was it? He had gone whistling up the mews, running like a teenager. And left Rose standing in her kitchen. Stunned.

  She wasn’t, she realized, looking at anything. She knew the familiar view out into the garden was there, just as she knew that the unit against which she leaned was solid. But nothing, in a disconnecting way, felt known. She swallowed. Perhaps it was shock, simply. Tyler, wanting to waltz her round her sitting room, had been sure her dazed reaction had been shock. To have the very first viewers of the house – a pleasant Canadian couple in their fifties who said that they had spent the last three years looking for an ideal base in London to be near their daughter, who had married an Englishman – visibly fall in love and make an offer within half an hour of arriving was enough to take anyone’s breath away. The Canadian husband had made his money out of a chain of auto-repair shops across Ontario, they were keen gardeners, and had begun to despair of ever finding anything in London that would be a home to their grandchildren as well as more than a pied à terre for themselves. They adored the mews house. The wife said several times that she also adored what Rose had done with it, that Rose’s taste was completely in tune with her own. The young man from the estate agency who was escorting them looked as if he could scarcely contain his satisfaction at matching both buyer and seller so precisely.

  Rose gripped the edge of the unit and bent forward, hunching her shoulders. Only a few nights ago, lying in the bath, she had been entirely certain that the Hampshire cottage would compensate, in every way, for having to sell the mews. But now, with their offer on the cottage still not finally accepted, and this whirlwind of a prospect on the mews, she felt dazed and slightly sick, as if some kind of happy, but safely distant, fantasy had resolved itself into a faintly menacing and immediate actuality.

  She focused on the work surface between her hands. She must think. Think. Her future lay with Tyler, with being married to Tyler, living with Tyler as Mrs Masson. Yes. Yes, she was quite sure of that. And that future would be in that irresistible cottage with hens under the apple trees and Jack and Adam going out into the garden with Tyler to pull carrots and collect eggs. In addition, Laura and Angus could pay off their mortgage probably, and Nat could have his flat to himself and Emmy could fly wherever she wanted. It would all work. It would all be – wonderful.

  In addition, Rose thought doggedly, staring at the worktop, facts had to be faced, uncomfortable facts that were a consequence of her relationship with Tyler. She hadn’t had a lodger in months. She hadn’t even looked for one. She hadn’t, she had to admit, allowed herself to do anything but revel in having the whole house to herself. Tyler had somehow – inevitably, she supposed – colonized the spare bedroom as a kind of dressing room, with his clothes and shoes stored in the wardrobe, and the bed piled with his things – papers and document folders and a tangle of charger cables.

  Furthermore, she had completed no translations now for almost six months. The income from the last work she’d done had just about lasted, but, now she came to face it, there had been almost no recent requests. There had been requests when she first met Tyler again, which she had blithely refused, and gradually, if she made herself think about it, those requests had all but ceased. No lodger, Rose thought to herself, no translations: no income. The bottom line is that if I don’t sell this house, I will have nothing to live on, and that is entirely my own fault. I will not be able to sustain myself because I have let things slide. Or not so much slide as career madly to the bottom. Rose Woodrowe, Rose said to herself, feeling panic surge in waves in the pit of her stomach, you are a complete and utter fool.

  She heard the front door open, and slam shut behind Tyler. He was hallooing from the hall. He came into the kitchen on a gust of outside air and buoyancy, holding the champagne in a plastic bag.

  ‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘They even had a half-bottle ready chilled. Darling, you haven’t moved!’

  ‘I couldn’t, Rose said.

  Tyler put the bottle on the counter and began to open cupboards in search of glasses.

  ‘I’m not surprised. I’m really not. What an amazing stroke of perfect good fortune! It’s enough to stun anyone.’

  Rose said, ‘But we haven’t heard about the cottage.’

  Tyler put the two champagne glasses on the counter. Then he came to put his arms round Rose from behind.

  ‘We will. Sweetheart, we will. Is that what’s troubling you?’ He turned her round to look at him, peering into her face. ‘My poor Rosie. It’ll be fine. I promise you. It’ll be absolutely fine. If we don’t get that cottage, we’ll get another, there’ll be one that’s even better, I know it.’ He pulled Rose closely to him and held her. He said against her hair, ‘This is such a good omen, such a wonderful start. This, my sweetheart, is where we can actually begin.’

  *

  Laura had asked Emmy if they could meet somewhere, soon. Emmy was amazed. Laura never made time to meet anyone, never seemed to consider that anyone else had a life that couldn’t be accommodated round the uniquely demanding requirements of her own. The trouble was, Emmy thought, that Laura wasn’t just OK, even as an elder sister, but she was also justified. Her life, with her job and her family, was of course more intractable than Emmy’s single existence was, even if you factored in Emmy’s newfound – and satisfying – commitment to work. Holding her telephone to her ear and trying not to sound exaggeratedly amazed, Emmy said, ‘Wow. Gosh. Yes, that’d be lovely,’ and Laura suggested a bar near Piccadilly which was, she said, both reasonably quiet and
easy for them both to get to. All the same, Emmy was wary.

  ‘What’s this about?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing scary.’

  ‘It’s just that you never suggest any plan that isn’t me coming to you.’

  ‘Em,’ Laura said, as if she had no idea what Emmy was talking about, ‘don’t be an idiot, and see you there on Thursday.’

  The bar was an American bar, and deep underground, down a wide staircase carpeted in a deliberately retro pattern. Laura was already there when Emmy arrived, drinking, she said, a whisky sour because the barman had suggested it and it had suddenly seemed a delicious and exactly right idea. Her phone was, as usual, on the table in front of her, but she was in jeans rather than work clothes, and her hair was loose on her shoulders.

  Emmy dumped her bag on the floor and leaned in to give her sister a kiss.

  ‘Cocktails in a cocktail bar, huh?’

  ‘It’s yummy,’ Laura said. ‘I don’t really like whisky but the bar guy said focus on the sour, and he’s right. D’you want one?’

  Emmy picked up the menu.

  ‘I want something long, I think. Maybe a vodka and tonic?’

  ‘He’ll ask you which, out of umpteen vodkas.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Emmy said, sitting down opposite her sister. ‘If I’m going to drown it in tonic anyway?’

  Laura smiled at her. ‘You look great.’

  ‘You too, actually.’

  ‘Day off,’ Laura said, tossing her hair back. ‘Haircut, lunch with a friend who is nothing to do with work, drinks with you. Fantastic!’

  A waiter appeared and stood, smiling, beside Emmy.

  ‘I’ll have a vodka and tonic.’

  ‘Have something interesting,’ Laura said, ‘go on. Have a proper drink.’

  ‘I want something long?’

  ‘What about a Moscow Mule?’ suggested the waiter.

  Emmy looked at him. ‘I’ve never had one.’

  ‘Vodka, lime, lengthened with ginger beer,’ the waiter said.

  Laura leaned forward.

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘All right,’ Emmy said, ‘OK.’ She smiled her order at the waiter and then glanced at her sister. ‘What are you celebrating, then?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Laura said. ‘In fact, it may be because there really is nothing to celebrate that I feel a bit reckless.’

  ‘Reckless? You?’

  ‘More I suppose – what’s to lose.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ Emmy said. ‘Please not you too.’

  ‘What d’you mean, me too?’

  ‘I mean,’ Emmy said, ‘Mum. I had the weirdest conversation with Mum. I was going to ring you and tell you about it, but I haven’t, not because I didn’t mean to, but just life—’

  ‘Forget that. Forget intentions. Tell me. Just tell me what Mum said.’

  Emmy sighed.

  ‘I was on the bus going home and I thought I’d ring Mum and tell her about my getting stuck into work and the immediate results of that, and she was fine, she was her usual lovely self but kind of distracted, you know? As if she wasn’t really listening to me, wasn’t taking in what I was telling her. And then it all went a bit mad, it all poured out.’

  Emmy’s drink, pale tawny and clinking with ice, arrived and was set down in front of her.

  ‘Your Moscow Mule.’

  ‘What poured out?’ Laura demanded.

  ‘Thank you,’ Emmy said to the waiter, and then, to her sister, ‘All this stuff, about having found the perfect cottage, in Hampshire or somewhere, and how she was going to buy it and sell the mews and give us all a wad of cash so I could fly to New York and see Mallory, and I said but Mum, I don’t want to go to New York any more, that was just a whim, before I really began to get somewhere with work, so please don’t even think about giving me any money, you need the money and then, then, she went kind of crazy and accused me of never liking Tyler from the get-go, and setting my face against her ever having any relationship anyway because I couldn’t bear her to love anyone but us three. I mean, it was insane.’

  Laura had picked up her drink. She put it down again with a small bang.

  ‘Oh my God, Em.’

  ‘I should have told you. I should have rung you at once. Now I’ve told you, I can’t think why I didn’t tell you the minute it happened.’

  Laura shook her head. ‘No. No, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t.’

  ‘She didn’t sound like Mum, Laura, she didn’t.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She sounded like someone a bit mental, to be honest, like someone who cannot stand to be disagreed with without going off on one.’ She picked up her drink and took a pull through its straw. ‘Ooh. Yum. Now I’ve got that off my chest, I suppose you’d better tell me what you wanted to say to me?’

  Laura looked at her, a long, direct look. Then she shook her head slightly.

  ‘I wanted to see you. Just wanted to. And to tell you that I’ve talked to Nat.’

  ‘Ah,’ Emmy said quietly.

  ‘I saw him at the weekend. He brought Jess to supper. Try not to be put off by her being so amazing to look at.’

  Emmy sighed again. She looked at her drink. She said, ‘What did you say to Nat?’

  ‘That he couldn’t accept money from Mum to have the flat to himself.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He agreed,’ Laura said. ‘He’s mad about Jess, but he agreed. Mum needs her money. She needs to keep her own money. For her future. For herself.’

  Emmy stared at her.

  ‘Oh my God, Laura. So we’re all agreed. Except Mum.’

  *

  It was an impulse, to take the train to Lewes. Rose wasn’t given to impulses, especially any that didn’t involve Tyler, and that meant, in fact, telling Tyler the half-truth that she needed to see her sister on her own, in order to tell Prue the good news about the cottage. Also, she added, her voice warming with enthusiasm, while she went to Sussex, why didn’t Tyler use her absence to plan the party, phone his wine-merchant friend, make lists?

  Tyler had, as he always did, completely understood. Taking his cue from Rose, he had been measured and dignified in his reaction to the news that their offer on the cottage had been accepted. They had gone out to dinner, in a restaurant on Marylebone Lane, and Tyler had paid – in cash, Rose noticed, while hating herself for noticing – and they had toasted the future and each other, but without any giddy rapture, and Rose had felt a surge of reassuring relief. Tyler had talked gently, not urgently or excitedly, about the wedding and she had told herself repeatedly that any pressure she might feel under was entirely of her own making.

  The impulse to see Prue was as unexpected as it was pressing. Prue had always given the distinct impression that she didn’t care for William, and that she most emphatically did not care to be patronized by William, so for all the years that she was married to William, Rose had fallen into his reciprocal habit of mildly despising her sister, of gently mocking her for her appearance and tastes and manner, of regarding her as an overbearing caricature of herself. But gradually, without William to condition her opinion, other emotions about Prue were emerging, as if they were coming to life and vigour again after decades of being flattened and trampled on. It had been gratifying to have Prue approve of Tyler; it was remarkable, if sometimes irritating, to acknowledge Prue’s palpable concern for her and her children’s welfare; it was odd, but significant, to find that Prue’s good opinion was desirable, and her support extremely important. And all of these new or revived feelings were inevitably confusing.

  So when she found herself drinking coffee in Prue’s orderly but charmless sunroom, Rose found herself saying, ‘Do you know, I don’t really know why I’m here.’

  Prue grunted. She had put a plate of biscuits on a wicker stool by Rose’s chair. They were the kind of biscuits, Rose thought, that one looked at, in the supermarket, and thought, ‘I wonder who on earth would ever buy those?’ Well, someone like Prue, plainly. Someone who lived in order and cleanl
iness but without style or panache. Someone who could be relied upon to speak their minds and be on your side, whatever. Someone who, like Prue, would always have ex-pupils stopping her in the street to tell her that she had changed their lives, to whom she would invariably reply, ‘Thank you, but stuff and nonsense. You did it yourself.’

  ‘Where’s the cottage, then?’ Prue said, putting her cup down. ‘Have you got a picture?’

  Rose produced her iPad and scrolled to find the shot of it from the lane, symmetrical and comely with a cloud-dotted blue sky behind. She handed the iPad to her sister.

  ‘There you are.’

  Prue looked at the screen without comment. Then she said, ‘You came to show me this, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘It’s delightful.’

  ‘It so is,’ Rose said warmly. ‘It’s seriously lovely in every way. I walked in and I just thought – I could live here!’

  ‘So you’re going to.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Rose said. ‘The offer’s been accepted, exchange in a month, completion before the summer.’

  Prue swiped the screen to find another picture.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘an Aga.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And a claw-foot bath. And what looks like some original shutters?’

  ‘And fireplaces! It’s got an acre of garden and fruit trees. Tyler said we might have hens.’

  Prue went on looking at the screen.

  ‘It looks very pretty, Rosie. Very you.’

  ‘It is. I can’t tell you how much it is me. It’s . . .’ She stopped.

  Prue looked at her over the top of her reading glasses. ‘It’s what, Rosie?’

  Rose looked down at her lap. ‘It’s very – auspicious.’

  Prue took her glasses off. ‘Auspicious? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ Rose said, gathering courage, ‘that I feel really, truly happy about it. That I felt I could live there and be me, in every way. Or even a better kind of me, if you know what I mean?’

  Prue put the iPad down and laid her glasses on top of it. ‘Would reassured be an apposite word for how you feel?’

  Rose said reluctantly, ‘Yes. Yes it would.’