by Celia Imrie
What made it much trickier was that Nigel was a dentist and the teenage girl was his patient. Sleeping with patients, especially those under twenty-one years, was the kind of behaviour which got you struck off the dental register. At the same time it would leave you disgraced and shamed, never to work professionally again. In those days you might even have ended up as a headline in the News of the World.
Amanda moved away from the marital bedroom and looked instead inside the bedroom which had once been Mark’s lair. For the last ten years this had been her own study, the room where in the evenings she wrote the copy for her newspaper articles.
After Nigel left she had taken a job working in a twee little shop in Clapham’s newly trendy Abbeville Road, laughingly referred to by locals as ‘The Village’. The shop called itself a shabby-chic boutique and specialised in selling ‘distressed’ furniture. She often thought that the furniture could not be as shabby or distressed as she herself felt, but she needed the money both to exist and to make sure her kids would not go without. Shortly afterwards she had had a lucky break, getting a job writing a column for a local newspaper, which then got syndicated. Her secret joke was that she wrote about relationships, as a kind of up-market agony aunt, while feeling she was the least qualified person in the world to do so.
Amanda made for the stairs and stood on the landing, looking down at the windswept garden.
It was down there, one bright Indian summer’s day, that Nigel had started a bonfire in the middle of the lawn. A neighbour phoned to complain about the smoke which was blowing into his bedroom window, and Amanda went to have a word with her husband and tell him to smother the fire. As she stepped out from the kitchen on to the patio a piece of singed paperwork flew towards her face. She caught it. She was surprised to see that it was part of a patient’s dental record. She feared something highly illegal and so went towards him, waving it in the air and asking him what the hell he was playing at. Normally, when challenged, Nigel burst into a rage, but this time he simply blushed and looked down at the ground. It was only then that Amanda realised something more sinister was going on. Within a minute, Nigel was sobbing, blabbering on about how deeply in love he was with a girl who had been a patient and how he had decided that nothing or no one would stand in his way. He was determined to follow his dream, the dream of spending the rest of his life with Sharon.
So her husband had left her for Sharon! At that time the name was such a cliché it was comical.
In her misery and fury Amanda had been tempted to phone the Dental Board herself and report him, but, for the sake of their two children, she hadn’t.
Now that the echoing rooms were empty, Amanda wondered why she had stayed here so long. She felt greatly relieved that she had finally decided to move. She was now sixty years old, the children had children of their own, and this place was far too big for a woman alone, so here she was, packing it all up and getting out.
As Amanda put her head around the living-room door, the phone in her pocket buzzed again. Again, she ignored it. She only had a few minutes till the taxi came to take her to the solicitors’ office where she would sign the contract, ready to exchange on her new little flat not far from the river in Pimlico.
She stood in the living room thinking back on the good times she had spent with her kids here when Nigel was away ‘in conference’: playing board games with them; giving Mark a train set for Christmas and laying it out all over the carpet; dressing the tree with Patricia; evenings spent chewing pens, while helping both of them with their homework. Happy days. But nonetheless days passed. It was silly to keep looking back. The future was what mattered and she had much to look forward to. Amanda wanted to get the signing at the solicitors’ over and done with then go to spend the night with Patricia at her home in Wandsworth. Tomorrow at noon she would move in to her new place. And simultaneously both her children should receive a lump sum which was left over from the sale of this old house.
She glanced out of the window. It was still drizzling. Her pre-booked taxi was already waiting, the driver fiddling with his mobile phone. She looked at her watch. There were five more minutes before the official time of the booking, but why just stand here for the sake of it?
She gave the taxi driver a wave, grabbed her coat and bag and left the house for ever.
As she locked the front door the rain came down in a sudden downpour. The phone rang again. She ran out to the taxi and flung herself into the back seat. Shaking the rain out of her hair, Amanda told the driver the solicitors’ address. He said he already had it.
As the car drove off she decided not to turn back to take one last glance at the house.
Instead she took out her phone and prepared to deal with the missed calls.
Her lawyer’s number.
Five times.
She rang, asking to be put through to her conveyancing solicitor.
‘Mrs Herbert, thank goodness I caught you,’ said the solicitor. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. The seller has decided to pull out.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Amanda thought she must have misheard.
The solicitor repeated herself. ‘The vendor of your new flat has decided to pull out. You cannot buy the flat. He is not selling.’
‘But he can’t do that?’ A raindrop rolled from Amanda’s hair down the side of her cheek. ‘Can he?’
‘He can, I’m afraid. And he has. You haven’t exchanged contracts yet, though technically you made an agreement when you paid the deposit.’
‘But I … I’ve moved out of my home!’
‘It is unusual, I admit. I have never dealt with a case of withdrawal of sale as late as this, but it does happen.’
‘Can’t you force him to sign?’
‘He’s a Swiss banker. In my experience men like him do not give in. Though, legally speaking, you do have one recourse.’
Amanda sat up. A glimmer of hope!
‘You can sue him for breach of contract.’
Amanda’s heart sank. She was in no position to sue anyone. She had already had quite enough of legal battles. She had neither the time, the money nor the constitution for another, especially with a Swiss banker.
‘What about stalling the sale of my house?’
‘Too late for that, Mrs Herbert. The monies are already being processed.’
‘But where will I go?’
‘I’m afraid that’s up to you, Mrs Herbert. The proceeds from the sale of your house should reach you the day after tomorrow. So at least you’ll have money in the bank. And, as a cash buyer, you’re in the perfect position.’
Amanda told the driver that they were no longer going to the address on file and instead gave him Patricia’s postcode. Closing her eyes, she sank back in the seat. She saw both of her children often, though not regularly, and had been looking forward to a catch-up and hearing all the news of the grandchildren.
Amanda had been due to spend only one night with Patricia. Now it would have to be two. Mother and daughter sat up late into the night, discussing what Amanda should do next.
At first, Amanda herself had been so shocked by the news that the purchase had fallen through that she’d forgotten to phone the removal company telling them not to take her lorryload of things to the new flat the next day. By the time it occurred to her, the company office was closed for the night. She and Patricia spent a long time trying to find an out-of-hours number, before, finally, doing the only thing they could do – dispatching an email through the firm’s website. Amanda hoped that would work.
‘You’ll have to phone again in the morning, Mum, and arrange somewhere they can take all your stuff.’
Amanda suddenly realised that she had nowhere to put anything, and she was going to have to go down the self-storage route. It all looked so easy on the TV ads, all those bright young people walking you down shiny corridors, but Amanda felt sure it wasn’t going to be quite such plain sailing as it seemed. Nothing ever was.
After having a bowl of hot soup, she and Patricia spent anoth
er few hours on the computer browsing all the storage firms in the area. The rates and terms were all so different. While Patricia went upstairs to check on her children, Amanda decided on a firm which had its office not far from her daughter’s house and she printed out the details.
‘Looks a bit low-key,’ said Patricia, perusing the small print while Amanda settled on the sofa. ‘What decided you on that particular one?’
‘It’s just around the corner from here. If I need to get anything out it won’t be such a slog getting there.’
Patricia turned to her mother. ‘What do you mean, “here”?’
‘If I get somewhere near here to keep all my things, I can …’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I should have explained better. Of course, you can stay here tonight, as arranged. Perhaps tomorrow too, but on the sofa. From tomorrow I won’t have the spare room any more. I’ve just started this new job, with no warning, no time for preparation, which is an immense responsibility. The new au pair arrives in the morning.’
‘Why do you need an au pair?’
‘To make sure the kids get off to school and have someone here in the evenings. He’ll be in that room.’
‘If I stayed I could do that,’ said Amanda. ‘The kids know me. It would be a fair exchange …’
‘Mum, please stop!’ Patricia put her face in her hands and growled. ‘It’s all organised now. Just because things have gone wrong for you, you can’t expect everyone else to adapt to your problems. It’s simply not how life works.’
‘But …’ Amanda felt alone and desolate. ‘Where shall I go?’ She had no idea that Patricia had such a hard streak. ‘Please, Patricia, I was only …’
‘God, Mother!’ Patricia ran her fingers through her hair. ‘This is all I need. You were the one who clung on to that stupid house for so long. You should have sold it years ago.’
‘I kept it because of you two, and because of the memories …’ Amanda thought back to the lonely days in that house, after the kids had left. Keeping their rooms ready, just in case they might some time want to come and stay.
‘Neither of us wanted it. As usual you had to get all emotional about it. But whatever, you can’t go on staying here. Look. Go on the web. There must be a nice B&B somewhere which won’t cost you a bomb.’ She stood up. ‘Why don’t you plan things better? Always such a drama queen. You and Dad were really well-suited.’
Amanda was so taken aback by this last barb she could barely speak, except to say: ‘That’s very unfair … Your father …’
‘Was a selfish ingrate. Yes, I remember you saying, over and over. Now, I’m exhausted and I’ve got a lot on, so I’m off to bed. And when you go up, don’t forget to turn the lights off.’
And with that she left Amanda to it.
Holding back the tears, Amanda stared at the computer screen. Patricia really had been unfair to compare her to Nigel. Perhaps she had been too young to remember the emotional ins and outs. But Nigel’s carryings on had given Amanda years of hell, and she had fought for Mark and Patricia.
After the bonfire-side confession of his love for the young patient, Sharon, despite her own misery and burning desire for revenge, Amanda knew that, if her husband had been publicly reprimanded, both Patricia and Mark would be emotionally affected by their father’s disgrace. Although the circumstances had been dire, Amanda recognised how important it was that she at least tried to keep his image as positive as it could be while the kids adapted to his departure.
Nonetheless, once Nigel told Mark and Patricia that he was divorcing their mother and, at the age of fifty, planning to marry a seventeen-year-old called Sharon, they both refused to see or talk to him again, and stuck to their promise. They were the ones who had overreacted, not her. Considering everything, Amanda had behaved with remarkable calm throughout the entire shambles.
Nigel had put in for a quickie divorce and started planning a huge wedding for himself and his blushing young patient. Amanda’s own solicitor, not her husband, was the person who explained to her that things needed to move very fast because Sharon was already pregnant with Nigel’s baby.
Amanda was still reeling from this information when, only a few months later, while the new wife-to-be was days away from giving birth, Nigel died of a heart attack.
All this would have been relatively fine if Nigel hadn’t managed to die naked in the bed of Tracy, Sharon’s best friend, and proposed maid of honour.
On top of it all, Nigel had left no will.
Amanda realised that she was simply staring at the computer through tear-filled eyes, and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
She couldn’t accept Patricia’s remarks. She knew she had coped as well as anyone would have done under the circumstances.
A sizeable chunk of Nigel’s estate had gone towards paying for the wedding-that-never-was, as no one had thought to cancel anything and the florists, photographers, caterers, venue and dressmakers all had to be recompensed in full.
The financial mess was further exacerbated when, during solicitors’ searches, it turned out that Nigel had had yet another child, this one born while Amanda’s own children were toddlers. The boy, Jean-Pierre, had been brought up in Paris by the child’s mother, Ophélie, Nigel’s former dental nurse. Amanda recalled how, all those years ago, Ophélie had, for apparently no reason, suddenly left her job and run back home to Paris – due, Nigel had said, to ‘family commitments’.
While sorting out Nigel’s estate the solicitor discovered that Nigel had bought Ophélie a house in Paris, which was still in his name, and for the previous fifteen years had also provided the woman with a regular income, which must still be paid, as he had signed a contract.
All the ‘dental conferences’ Nigel had gone to in Europe, Amanda came to realise, had been a cover for long visits to that other family of his in his Parisian love-nest.
The wrangling between the wives, girlfriends, lovers and his multiple children and the lawyers dealing with Nigel’s estate went on for many years.
After running up a huge legal bill, Amanda and her two children had just managed to hold on to the house. That was all.
But Amanda did everything she could to keep them all on an even keel. She had gone out to work in that wretched shop, where she had been bossed about and patronised by a snooty woman half her age, simply to support them in something like the style to which they had become accustomed, and to pay for their further education.
She only ever wanted great things for Mark and Patricia.
How had it come to this?
Amanda had no intention of annoying Patricia, especially as her daughter had just started her new job, taking over as head teacher at incredibly short notice, mid-term. She faced quite a responsibility. The old head had had a near-deadly stroke and would not be returning to the position.
Amanda had meant no harm. Aching inside, with regret and awful old memories she would rather forget, she went back to the computer and continued her search for hotel rooms which were in range of the area where she wanted to buy. There was nothing she could find for under £90 a night, unless it was miles out of town. £630 a week! What happened if this went on for months? Every bit of money she spent now would decrease the amount she had for the new place. On top of that, if she stayed in a hotel she’d have nowhere to cook. She’d have to live on sandwiches and eating out which quickly added up.
She speedily closed the accommodation website and started browsing for available flats. There were places, but none looked as good as the flat that she had already decided on and lost. She got a paper and pencil and jotted down some possibilities to try and get viewings on tomorrow. When she had finished she realised it was well after 2 a.m. She climbed up the stairs leading to the spare room, lay down and, without undressing, was asleep in seconds.
Next day, by lunch, Amanda had trudged around five flats in the Victoria area. Some were so small and poky she knew she could never live in them, while others were so updated and shiny, in the neutral style,
that all the character had been smoothed out of them, and they had all the ambience of an operating theatre.
She was astonished at the difference between so many flats which were all much the same price. Who decided that a grubby low-ceilinged two-room flat, on the sixth floor with no lift, opposite a night shelter, should be worth the same as an airy high-ceilinged first-floor flat with a small roof terrace in a wide quiet street, like the one she had just been thwarted on?
Amanda sat in a sandwich bar taking lunch, while waiting for another estate agent who had just bumped their appointment forward an hour. She flicked through the other estate agent details, then looked back on the brochures for the places she had seen this morning. Whoever had a job writing these things should try for a job in politics. They certainly knew how to spin silk purses from sows’ ears.
Once that was done, Amanda took a moment to phone her son Mark on his mobile. She knew that she couldn’t stay on at Patricia’s after tonight, when she would be on the sofa, so perhaps he might be able to give her a few nights in the living room on his sofa-bed in Islington. Amanda didn’t feel one hundred per cent enthusiastic about this as, although she got on very well with her grandchildren and with her own son, she couldn’t say the same about his wife, Ingrid, who was very pretty, but had a sharp tongue on her, and made no disguise of the fact that she thought Mark could have achieved more both in life and the Mother stakes.
‘Hello, Ma!’ said Mark breezily down the line. ‘How’s tricks?’
Amanda told him about the trouble she had had with the flat she had been hoping to buy, and explained that unexpectedly she now needed somewhere to stay.
‘I wouldn’t want to impose, but I’m desperate …’ She hung on for a response but Mark was silent. She could hear him breathing down the line.
‘What was that, Ma?’
She told him again.
