by Jill Mansell
Chapter 35
'BUT I SAID I was sorry.' In the kitchen, Jack frowned. 'I know I let you down last night, but it was for a reason. You can understand how I was feeling, surely? Everything came flooding back and I thought I was betraying Rose. But that was just the guilt. I've had time to sleep on it now, and it doesn't have to be like that. This morning I've really thought things through.' He shook his head reassuringly at Tilly. 'This doesn't have to be the end for us.'
Tilly stood her ground. 'You can't end something that hasn't had a beginning.' Inwardly, she was amazed she could sound so strong. Then again, it was a question of having to. Last night she'd been semi-drunk and furious. Today she was sober and resigned, because this was one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do. But she also knew it was for the best. Self-preservation. The relationship might not have properly begun, but she'd already become way too emotion ally involved. And when an unhappy ending was inevitable, who but a complete masochist would want to carry it on?
'You can't do this.' Jack was clearly finding her attitude hard to believe. 'Bryn and Dilys turned up out of the blue. That wasn't my fault. What was I supposed to do? Chuck them out of the house?'
'They're not the ones who changed my mind. They just gave me time to think. And I think we should forget… you know, that side of things.' Tilly gestured vaguely to indicate the romantic aspect. 'Let's just be friends, OK? That's what I want.'
Jack continued to stare at her. 'Really?'
Why did there have to be that look in his eyes? She nodded. 'Yes.'
'Why?'
Why? Now that was the killer question. Because last night she had watched the easy interaction between Erin and Fergus, had seen how blissfully happy they were together, and had recognized that they truly unconditionally loved and trusted each other.
And she'd known then that achieving a relationship like that might just conceivably be within the realms of possibility, but that it would never—could never—happen with Jack.
How ironic that Fergus had Stella doing her best to stir up trouble in his new relationship, and now Jack had Rose's parents piling in on her behalf. Even if they didn't realize what they'd done, they'd undoubtedly be delighted when they learned of their success.
Tilly felt her heart beating faster and harder; they had done her a favor. Because a night or a week or a month with Jack would never be enough and what she really wanted would never happen. Sooner or later he would back off as he always did, leaving her bitter and eaten up with jealousy like Stella. Heartbroken and the laughing stock of the town.
He was still waiting for her to say something.
Tilly gave a tiny shrug. 'Just because.'
'Are you open to persuasion?' said Jack.
'No, no.' She shook her head, simultaneously relieved and utterly desolate. 'I've made up my mind. That's it.'
'Oooh, baby Betsy Boo, how are you?' Kaye scooped Betty up into her arms and twirled around. 'Have you been a good girl this weekend?'
'We've both been good girls.' Tilly, who had spent the day virtu ously cleaning the house, said, 'How was the wedding?'
'Noisy, boozy, lots of dancing with hairy-legged men in kilts. Those Scots know how to party.'
'And one of them showed me what he was wearing under his kilt,' said Lou.
'God, really? Gross.'
'Yeah, it was pretty gross. Giant pink boxer shorts with blue hearts on.' Lou peered interestedly at the parcel on the kitchen table. 'What's this? Has someone sent me a present?'
'No, it's for your mum.'
'Me? Ooh, I love presents.' Putting Betty down, Kaye came over to have a look. Her face fell when she saw the American stamps. 'Unless it's a pile of legal papers from Denzil and Charlene, suing me till my eyeballs squeak.'
Lou said, 'I'll open it,' and tore into the outer wrapping. She unwound a ream of bubble wrap, finally pulling out a painting in a simple black frame.
'Oh my God, it's a Dinny Jay!' Kaye let out a squeak of disbelief and grabbed the painting from Lou. 'Who sent me this? I love Dinny Jay.'
Tilly looked at the painting, A3-sized and packed with quirky detail, depicting ice skaters in Central Park. She'd never heard the name before.
Lou said, 'There's an envelope taped to the back.'
Detaching the envelope, Kaye opened it and began to read the letter aloud.
Dear Miss McKenna,
I remember reading a magazine interview a while back, in which you mentioned your fondness for the work of Dinny Jay. I saw this in a gallery last week and thought you might enjoy it, so I do hope you will accept this small gift from me. I also hope it reaches you safely. Having read in the paper about your move back to the UK, I am sending this via your ex-husband, whose address I found on his website. Don't worry, I'm not a stalker, just someone who wishes you well and wants you to know you aren't universally hated in the States.
Stay well and happy.
Best wishes,
P. Price.
P.S. Hope you liked the chocolates and the flowers.
'So he's a stalker.' Tilly grimaced. 'Anyone who has to tell you they aren't a stalker, definitely is one.'
Kaye was gazing adoringly at the painting. 'He might just be a really nice man.'
'How much would that have cost him?'
'I don't know, I'll have to check on the Internet. Three or four thousand dollars, something like that.'
'Shouldn't you send it back?'
'Oh God, I don't know. Should I? I love it so much! And I'd hurt his feelings if I did. If you bought someone the perfect present, how would you feel if they chucked it back in your face? I think the best thing to do is graciously accept and write him a really nice letter. At least I've got an address this time. And he lives in New York, so that's OK, that's safe enough.'
Max came in with their cases. 'Until he turns up on your door step with an axe.'
'That's all right. I won't be giving him my address, will I?' Kaye hugged the painting to her chest and beamed at him. 'I'll keep using yours.'
Two days to go. Less than forty-eight hours, in fact! In forty-six and a half hours they would be boarding their flight and setting off from Bristol airport, bound for Venice, tra-la. And the most needed, most longed-for, most romantic holiday of her life.
Willing today to be over, Erin checked her watch. Two thirty. Three more hours before she could close the shop, head upstairs, and get on with her packing. The cases were lying open on the living room floor and she'd spent ages between customers working on her list. She loved making lists, had compiled them since child hood, often writing Get up, and Brush teeth, and Eat breakfast for the sheer joy of being able to tick them off and experience that lovely feeling of accomplishment, a good job well done. Lists meant you were on top of the situation, in control. People who didn't make lists had no idea what they were missing. And holiday lists were extra-special, an integral part of the whole heady, thrilling, going-away experience.
Plus, it meant you were less likely to arrive at your fabulous fourteenth-century palazzo without your straightener.
Ooh, heat protection spray, that was something else she needed to add to the list. And she'd better buy a new bottle too; imagine getting there and discovering they didn't sell it in Venice.
The door to the shop flew open and Erin dropped her pen in fright. There, standing in the doorway with a grim, almost robotic look on her face, was Stella. Oh God, this was like those terrible stories you saw in the papers, where the spurned lover went com pletely ballistic and started murdering people.
'I need to speak to Fergus.' Even Stella's voice sounded odd, like a new one she was in the process of breaking in.
'He's not here.'
'I know he's not here. And his phone's switched off. Where is he?'
Erin didn't dare bend down and pick up the dropped pen. What if Stella took the opportunity to attack her? 'I don't know. Probably with a client.' OK, say it, say it. 'Could you leave my shop, please? I don't want you in here.'
'Right,
I'll just have to tell you instead.' Stella didn't move. 'I need Fergus to look after Bing. I'm going away, so he needs to pick him up from my house after work today. I'll leave all the food out, and Bing's basket, and—'
'Hang on, Fergus can't do it.' Erin blurted the words out, in dignation overcoming fear. 'You'll have to get someone else to look after your cat.'
'He has to do it. There isn't anyone else.'
'Book it into a cattery. That's what they're there for.'
Stella's jaw tightened. 'Bing isn't going into a cattery. He wouldn't like it.' Her eyes flashing, she added icily, 'And he's not an it.'
'Well, Fergus still can't look after him. Because he won't be here.' Erin felt her stomach clench. 'We're going away too.'
Ha. So there.
Stella stood there looking as if she'd been punched. 'Away?'
'Yes.'
'For how long?'
'A week.' If it's any business of yours.
'But I need someone to look after Bing.'
This was crazy. 'So get one of your friends to do it. Amy,' said Erin.
'Amy's too busy with her new man.' Stella's jaw tensed. 'She couldn't get me off the phone fast enough.'
'Well, how about—'
'Look, there isn't anyone, OK? No one else I can ask. And I won't put Bing into a cattery—he couldn't handle it. Where are you going, anyway?'
Oh brilliant, was she planning on asking them to take Bing along with them? Erin said, 'Venice.'
'Venice. How nice.' Stella's voice was as brittle as glass.
'Look, I'm sorry. If we weren't going away, we would have looked after Bing for you.' Crikey, who'd have thought five minutes ago that she'd be saying this and meaning it? But Stella was clearly desperate and in a complete state. Beneath the heavily applied makeup and stylish cream trouser suit, she was as tense and nervy as a greyhound.
'Right. OK. Well, tell Fergus I've… no, don't bother.' For a second, tears brimmed in Stella's eyes before she turned abruptly away and left the shop.
Erin watched her jump into the car she'd left recklessly parked on double yellows across the road. Next moment it had kangarooed forward, narrowly missing an old lady with a tartan shopping basket on wheels. Then it shot back at an angle, mounted the pavement and went smack bang into a lamp post behind it.
By the time Erin reached her, Stella was hyperventilating and rocking to and fro in the driver's seat, moaning, 'I don't know what to doooo.'
'Stella, what's going on? Tell me.'
Stella shook her head wildly. 'Noooo.'
'You can't drive in this state. You just hit a lamp post.'
'Who's going to look after Bing?'
Erin raised her voice. 'Where are you supposed to be going?'
'Nowhere nice like you.' Covering her face, Stella mumbled something that might have been hotel.
Oh, for God's sake. 'What? What hotel?'
Stella peeled her hands away and said dully, 'Not hotel. Hospital. I have to go into hospital this afternoon.'
'Why?' Erin stared at her.
'Mind your own business. What difference does it make to you? Off you go to Venice with my husband. Have a wonderful time.'
Erin said, 'Tell me why you're going into hospital.'
'Oh, nothing much. I have cancer, that's all. Could you close the door now please?'
'What?'
'Close the door.' Tears were sliding down Stella's face, leaving white trails in her foundation.
'You've got cancer? Really?'
'Really. Cross my heart and hope to—' Stella stopped abruptly, shook her head. 'Anyway, I have to go now.'
'You can't drive like this. You've already dented your bumper.'
'If I dent the car, believe me, it's not the end of the world.'
'But if you knock someone down and kill them, it'll be the end of theirs. Wait here.' To be on the safe side, Erin leaned inside the car, reached across and grabbed the keys. 'I'll take you. Just give me two minutes to lock up the shop.'
Chapter 36
THE CAR WAS AN automatic, thankfully, otherwise Erin would have made as much of a pig's ear of driving it as Stella. As they made their way through Roxborough, it crossed her mind that maybe Stella had been lying. What if this was a trap, and she was being lured to Stella's house…
Except it wasn't, she knew that. Stella had been telling the truth.
God, cancer.
'I feel like I'm falling off a cliff in slow motion,' said Stella. 'I think I'm in shock. All the pain and cramps I've been having, I just ignored them for ages. Took more painkillers, drank more wine. I thought the reason I was feeling so awful was because my marriage was over. I mean, it stands to reason, doesn't it? Love hurts. You find out your husband's seeing someone else, so you feel like crap. I only went along to the surgery to see if Dr Harrison would prescribe me some happy pills. But because I'd lost weight he started poking and prodding me. Turn left down here, it's the house by the second lamp post, with the green front door.'
Now that Stella had started, she was like a tap that couldn't be turned off. Erin pulled up at the curb and they climbed out of the car.
'Then he said how about a scan to be on the safe side, so I had one done on Monday just to shut him up, then this afternoon I went back to Dr Harrison so he could finally give me my Prozac, and that's when he told me. I've got cancer. I mean, it doesn't make any sense, does it? This kind of thing doesn't happen to me.' Her hands shaking so badly she couldn't fit her front door key in the lock, Stella said, 'I keep wanting to wake up and have everything back to normal. It's bad enough with the cancer thing, but now you're here too, coming into my house, and that's even more surreal.'
'Here, let me do it.' Taking over, Erin opened the door then stepped aside to allow Stella in first. Stella uttered a loud gulping sob as Bing sauntered over to her, his blue-grey furry body as sinuous as a snake. Scooping him up into her arms, she broke down completely while Bing, his lime-green eyes unconcerned, blinked impassively at Erin, as if to say, 'Oh God, what now?'
That was cats for you. No doubt he was tolerating the attention and wondering what was for tea.
An hour later, with Stella's overnight case packed, they set off for the hospital. So much for making lists to keep you in control of a situation. As Erin drove, Stella said, 'I'm scared. So scared. Is it all right to be scared?'
'Anyone would be scared. It's normal.'
'I want my mum.'
'Where is she? Do you want to phone her?'
'She's dead.' Stella wiped her face. 'But I still want her.'
Oh God. A lump formed in Erin's own throat.
'This really isn't supposed to happen, you know? I don't want to have cancer. I want a baby.'
Feeling helpless, Erin said, 'But thousands of people have cancer and they beat it. You can still have a baby afterwards. Look at the treatments they have these days, they can cure practically anything!'
'Who's going to look after Bing? He'll wonder where I am.'
'I'll sort something out, I promise.' They'd reached the hospital. Erin followed the signs until they reached the entrance to the block where the wards were situated. She stopped the car and said awk wardly, 'Well, here it is.'
Stella checked her face in the rearview mirror, wiping away smears of mascara with a tissue. Then, turning to look at Erin, she blurted out even more awkwardly, 'Will you come with me? I don't want to go in on my own.'
The hospital brought back a million memories, very few of them happy. Erin had spent weeks practically living in the chair beside her mother's bed following her initial stroke. Then after that, life had been punctuated by endless return visits to the stroke rehabilita tion unit, the physio department, outpatients. Hours of waiting and sitting and desperately trying to stay outwardly cheerful when there was nothing to be cheerful about. Endlessly attempting to conjure up yet more one-sided conversations when you'd completely run out of things to say. Tired magazines, the smell of wee, other pa tients incapable of speech wailing in frustration
, getting trapped in a narrow corridor behind someone struggling along with a Zimmer frame at two meters an hour, the all-pervasive smell of disinfectant and overcooked vegetables…
When Erin's mother had finally died, at least it had meant the interminable hospital visits were over. She'd have been happy never to clap eyes on the place again.
