by Judy Astley
‘Aren’t you going to open the card?’ Kate asked, as they went back into the house.
‘Oh, no, it’s OK, it can wait till later. Let’s look at the material and then at your flats. I’ll make some coffee.’ She tucked the card away in the cutlery drawer. An hour later would be more than soon enough.
Monica wasn’t herself. Naomi realized this as soon as she arrived at the flat (where she was let into the main building by a conveniently outgoing resident) and saw the empty plastic milk bottles lined up on the corridor carpet outside her front door, as if they were to be collected on a regular milk round. Monica always bought her milk from the corner shop up the road because she liked the small anarchy of the owner breaking up the four-packs of baked beans and putting them for sale on the shelves, disregarding the signs on the cans saying ‘Not to be sold separately’. She probably hadn’t seen a milk roundsman in all the years she’d lived here. She might be perfectly all right, of course, just a bit scattier than usual, or she might have gone seriously loopy overnight. You heard of that happening. The trick was to work out whether it was a sign of swiftly advancing dementia or just down to some fixable infection, where the brain would sort itself out after a good dosing with antibiotics.
‘Monica? It’s me, Naomi.’ She knocked on the door and waited, feeling nervous about what she’d find.
‘Come in; mind you don’t let the cat out,’ Monica said, as she opened the door.
‘You haven’t got a cat.’ Monica’s old Siamese, Bertie, was long gone, and pets weren’t allowed in the flats.
‘Oh, haven’t I? No, I expect you’re right. I’ve been wondering where he was. So it means that if Bertie’s not here, I haven’t got him any more, yes?’
At least she remembered the cat’s name. Was that a good sign? Naomi hoped so.
‘Something like that, love. Are you feeling all right?’ Naomi could see Monica was looking gaunt, suddenly quite a lot older, although she’d seen her only a week ago. It was as if five years had somehow lurched by in that time. She hadn’t brushed her hair and the back of it stuck up like sheep’s wool in a hedge. That wasn’t like her. Monica was always very meticulous about appearance. And about appearances. She’d never have divorced Oliver, not a chance: it would have looked slovenly and careless, losing her husband to another woman. No point dwelling on it all these years on, Naomi told herself. It was down to her to be the friend to Monica that she’d promised the slowly dying Oliver she would be. As it turned out, that hadn’t been at all difficult. Monica was the talker and do-er, Naomi the listener and thinker in their set-up. It was an ideal combination for easy companionship. And it meant Monica never asked her any questions about Oliver, because she’d never been curious or imaginative enough to want to know why Naomi quietly mourned him just as much as she did. In fact, even that was something she’d probably not noticed.
‘Coffee first, or shall we get going?’ Naomi went into Monica’s kitchen and had a quick look round, hoping she wouldn’t find unwashed dishes stuffed into the oven or potatoes in the cutlery drawer. All seemed well, though she still felt uneasy.
‘Going? Where are we going?’
Naomi saw Monica catch sight of herself in the hall mirror and frown, as if this was a face she didn’t quite recognize. Perhaps she too had glimpsed the newly lost years. Monica put a hand up to her untidy hair and squinted at her reflection, puzzled.
‘We’re going to the library, Mon, do you remember? I’m after another Lesley Cookman murder story and you said you wanted to give Maigret a go.’
‘Maigret. French, smokes. Yes, I like him. Fine, I’m ready.’ Monica turned and stood looking at Naomi, as expectant as a child.
‘You might want to run a comb through your hair first, pet,’ Naomi suggested, getting Monica’s jacket down for her from the peg on the back of the door. Monica obediently went into her bedroom while Naomi waited, holding the well-worn garment close to her body. This was going to be someone else to miss, and possibly not too far ahead now, because Monica would be absent for a long time before she actually went. Naomi made a decision, a tough one she knew instinctively was right. She just hoped her family wouldn’t try to oppose it. And if they did, well, it would be time to tell them why they couldn’t.
TWENTY-SIX
OF COURSE SHE should have checked on the day they appeared. It was entirely her own fault and she shouldn’t have just taken her mother’s word that there was no card; she should have looked. If the envelope had fallen down behind the stone pig, how could Naomi have thought to look there for anything? Viola sat at the kitchen table in front of her computer and read the words on the card again. It was a website link and just ‘Greg’. The link was about gladioli, specifically the meaning of the name and including: ‘The flower of infatuation, a bouquet signifying that the spear has pierced the giver’s heart with passion’.
She almost laughed – the lines were what Greg would surely have declared ‘totally vomit-inducing’, and she could tell he’d chosen them on purpose to make her giggle. But all the same, it was a bold declaration to go with those flowers. And there had been so many of them. Not wrapped or ribboned, just loose. Viola-coloured too, the shade of the darkest pansies: not a random colour choice but thought right through, just for her. Overwhelmed with regret and guilt, Viola relived the moment she’d angrily stuffed the lot of them into a bin bag and dropped them next to the household garbage on the pavement ready for the rubbish collection. The stalks and blooms had spiked through the plastic as she’d rammed them in, protesting at their treatment, struggling to get out. Petals had scattered across the pavement.
‘Oh God, I’m such a stupid, stupid idiot,’ she told herself. And yet, there was still the scene with Mickey and the baby. If Greg was the baby’s father, he had no business sending her romantic floral messages, however completely, utterly delightful.
She picked up her phone and clicked on his number and went outside to sit on the sunny terrace while it rang and rang. She was just about to give up when a woman answered.
‘Greg Fabian’s phone.’ This was a harassed and impatient voice. Viola was thrown for a moment, realizing that the sharp tone was definitely Mickey’s. Her instinct was to hang up immediately but she’d been in the same position herself, back in the days when Rhys had been as free with his phone number as he had been with his cock. Not a lot hurt more than silence down the phone from a surprised mistress.
‘Oh – hi. Is Greg there?’ she asked, hearing herself sound overbright.
‘No, Viola,’ Mickey snapped. ‘And I’m assuming you are Viola because that’s the name that’s come up here; no, he’s not. He’s gone off to a shoot near Oxford with a truckload of cycads and left his bloody phone here in the office because at the moment he is being a totally useless pillock. If you want him, he’ll be back about four. I’ll tell him you called.’ And she was gone.
‘It was, like, so brilliant! We had to feed the horse and do all the tacking-up and stuff. They teach you all that. And then at night we’d stop by some, like, little pub or wha’ever where you can get showers and food and that, and there’s always music. I wonder if it’s like that all the year round over there or just for tourists? Ireland is just so cool. And we kept meeting up with the same people, so funny, like families on the same trail?’
Rachel had barely stopped talking to breathe since Marco brought her back. She looked slightly different, Viola thought as she watched her whizzing round the kitchen, all skinny limbs and swooshing hair; maybe taller, maybe that noticeable bit older. The child in her was slowly receding and the beautiful young woman she was becoming was breaking through. Only a few more short years and she’d be leaving home. Had Naomi felt these punches of impending loss with her own children? If so, she hadn’t shown it. Maybe that was something you did as a parent, keep the pain of separation to yourself. Or maybe when the day came it just felt natural. She certainly hoped so.
Naomi had once said that when your children want to leave home and get on with the
ir own lives it shows you’ve brought them up properly, because turning them into fully functioning grown-ups was the whole point. If only Kate and Miles thought the same about her. Miles had called that very morning to ask her if she was feeling guilty yet about leaving Naomi in the house by herself. ‘She must be missing having you and Rachel around,’ he’d said, pushing the message as hard as he could.
Given the muddle she’d got herself into so far since she’d been back at home, Viola was (almost) on the point of wondering if he was right. All she could do was take each day at a time, like a recovering drunk, and right now she was baking a cake for the book-group meeting that night. Here, for the first time, on her own premises. It wasn’t a big deal but it felt like an achievement, somehow.
‘Birthday on Thursday!’ Rachel squeaked now as she opened the fridge and started foraging. ‘What have you got me?’
‘I’m not telling you! What would you like to do on the day? Go out somewhere? We could take some of your friends for dinner somewhere or you could invite them here and I could cook?’ Even as she said it, she realized that having your mum around along with your friends wasn’t likely to be a welcome idea on a fifteenth birthday. If she cooked for them here, she’d end up feeling she should banish herself to her room for the evening. If they went out … well, surely her only role would be to provide the taxi service and a credit card and then disappear.
Rachel emerged from the fridge, clutching a yoghourt and a carton of apple juice. ‘Um … Mum? Do you mind if I just go over to Emmy’s for the evening? It’s just, I know it’s my birthday and everything, but she says she’s got something planned for me.’
‘Oh. Well, yes, I suppose so. Yes, OK, why not?’ That had actually given Viola a bit of a jolt. It was as if Rachel was ahead of her in the thoughts of independence. When she’d been little, Marco had always come over to join in her birthday celebrations. Parties with classic old-school jellies and games when she was small, then taking friends to a film and for a burger later. The year Rachel was ten, Viola, Marco and James had taken her to Disneyland Paris. But now she’d be fifteen – it was her choice.
‘So what’s she got lined up? A pampering session? Film and a sleepover?’
Rachel gave her a look. ‘We’re not, like, twelve! I don’t know – she just said it’s a surprise. So is it all right? You don’t mind?’
‘No, I don’t mind.’ Viola forced a smile. ‘It’s your day, your choice. So long as you’re careful. No alcohol.’
‘Mum. Leave it, I’ll be fine.’
‘I know – but I don’t want you to do anything silly.’ Oh Lordy, how like her own mother she sounded. She had to stop worrying so much. Rachel wasn’t her – she must stop expecting disaster to strike any second. Being accident-prone surely couldn’t actually be a gene. Could it? ‘Sorry – but you can’t blame me for worrying. It comes with the mother territory. I won’t be able to hang out with you for long during your birthday morning – I have to be at Med and Gib. Results day. I suppose some of them will get theirs online but a lot of the students will want to call in, get together with each other for a bit of support.’
‘And to get lashed in the park after.’ Rachel peeled the lid off the yoghourt and licked it.
‘Yes, probably. A tradition. Maybe we could have lunch?’
‘Yeah, maybe. Wha’evs.’ Rachel was now battling with opening the apple juice, all interest in her birthday apparently gone. Then, as she was pouring the drink into a glass, she looked up and gave her a dazzling smile. ‘Love ya, Mumsy!’
‘So … Paris.’ Charlotte sounded as if she were about to open the case for the prosecution. The evening was a wonderfully hot one and they were all outside on Viola’s terrace, facing the tangled wreck of overgrown foliage that was her garden. She’d done quite a bit of weeding, but everything seemed to be growing faster than she could control it. And as for the lawn, it was more of a hayfield. A dozen hollyhocks in shades of apricot and yellow and cream stood high and triumphant way above the weeds, leaning against each other like drunk girls in cocktail frocks, and there was a coffee and walnut cake on the table and a couple of bottles of chilled Sauvignon Blanc. For the moment, with friends around to divert her, so long as Viola kept thoughts of Greg – and the fact that he hadn’t returned her call – out of her head, she actually felt close to contentment.
‘Paris.’ Lisa grinned. ‘Honestly, Charlotte, you’d have so loved it. The men were wonderful, fabulous manners, absolute gentlemen and they knew the city so well. All the sights, up the Eiffel Tower and through the best parts of the Louvre, Notre-Dame – couldn’t have been better.’
‘Yes, and a lingering lunch at the Café de Flore, where we talked of Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre …’ Viola backed her up.
‘Oh, amazing! Just perfect!’ Charlotte was delighted, and looked as if she intended to claim the success was all down to her.
‘No, Charlotte. Not.’ Viola couldn’t keep it up and broke into giggles. ‘In fact so bad that we abandoned ship – or rather train – on the way back and hitched home.’
‘Oh, that’s so sad!’ Jessica sighed. ‘I was hoping for a happy ending.’
Lisa spluttered into her wine. ‘So were the boys!’ she said with a deeply filthy laugh. ‘Not a chance. Though I am seeing the driver of the lorry we hitched a ride in. He was a lovely souvenir of the trip.’
‘Ooh, so not entirely a wasted day then. You see, something good often comes out of a right old mess,’ Amanda declared.
‘Yes, but it’s Viola we’re supposed to be fixing up, Amanda, not Lisa,’ Charlotte said. ‘The ink’s barely dry on her divorce. Still …’ And she looked sharply at Viola. ‘There is some success in that department in your family, isn’t there?’
‘Is there?’ Viola asked.
‘Was it you who told her about him?’
‘Told who what? About who? I’m all confused here, Charlotte. Enlighten us, please.’
‘Oh, come on, she must have told you by now. Your sister! Kate! Now she’s single again …’
‘Kate? Why, what’s she done?’ Mists were slightly clearing as she spoke. Kate and her new haircut, the thing she’d said about new beginnings.
‘Your sister met that Daniel man.’ Charlotte paused for a suitably dramatic few moments. ‘At a wedding. Well, obviously a wedding, because that’s what he does. And they’re seeing each other. A lot of each other, if you get my drift. He called and told me, sounded keen.’
‘Yes. Yes, I think we all get it, Char, no need to spell it out,’ Amanda said.
‘And she hasn’t told you?’ Jessica asked. ‘I thought you and she were really close. She was always around such a lot when – you know – when, your husband …’
‘Died,’ Viola said, fleetingly half expecting to see Rhys rising up from the overgrown grass protesting that of course he wasn’t really dead, cariads, it was called acting. ‘Yes, she was. But she … well, she doesn’t say a lot about herself. Never has. Hey, though, if she’s met someone, that’s great. That Daniel was lovely.’
‘Rather too old for you of course, sweetie,’ Charlotte pronounced. ‘But an acceptable Older Man for Kate. A bit of immediate-rebound attention after a split is such a boost to the old confidence. I just hope she’ll be gentle with him, because I happen to know he’s looking for something that is more than a fling.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she will be, and good luck to her,’ Viola said. ‘And are we going to choose a book for September while we’re here? The Pursuit of Love seems a bit of an inspired choice, doesn’t it? In the circs …’
Rachel hadn’t expected to feel this bad. It was only a party, she kept telling herself. And if she’d been organized enough and thought the whole thing through and talked to her mum, she could probably have sorted staying over at her dad’s and gone to Ned’s party with total permission. Or she could maybe have got Gemma onside and been allowed to go back to hers after and sleep on her velvety patchwork sofa with the scent of patchouli wafting about and the constant
noise of the buses whizzing up Kensington Church Street. Then the next day she could have gone straight to Portobello Market with her to help on the stall, which was what she most wanted to do. Instead, she was stuck in a big old bunch of lies and she hated herself for it.
‘I’ll be grounded for ever if it all goes wrong,’ she confided to Emmy as they ate ice creams on the swings in the park, getting grumpy glares from the mummies of toddlers.
‘We’ll be fine. It’s not like you won’t actually be coming back to mine after, is it? So saying you’re staying over with me is true. And you haven’t said what you’re doing, only that it’s a surprise.’
‘But we’ll have to get the night bus back. I’m quite scared about that. Everyone says it’s all drunks and fighty people. I heard someone at school saying her boyfriend got stabbed.’
‘He was just being dramatic. He cut his hand on a glass he broke in the pub and wanted a better story. Come on, don’t be so snobby, Rache! Where did you get that from? Half the people on that bus are like olds with bus passes who’ve been to … oh, y’know, opera and stuff. Don’t get so antsy about it. And anyway, if you do get caught, what can they do? It’s, like, your birthday. You’re entitled to break out a bit. We can always say it was a last-minute thing, not planned.’
‘It’s only that Mum’s big on trust. She’s been so let down before – it’s like she needs me to …’
‘You can’t be responsible for your mum’s hang-ups,’ Emmy pointed out. ‘That way you’ll make a whole bunch of your own. So are we on for Thursday night or not? Please say we are; I really liked that Jaz. Or was it Baz? And I can’t go without you because you’re the one with the invite.’
‘All about you, is it? I mustn’t be responsible for my mum but I’ve got to put you first?’ Rachel still had doubts, but was feeling the beginnings of the thrill of adventure. And Ned was being persuasive too, texting her all the time when she was in Ireland, telling her he missed her and was wanting to see her again. ‘Yeah, OK, we’re on.’
