by Dawn Goodwin
I set the tray down on the coffee table.
‘Are these your children?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘Yes.’ I walked over to her as she picked up another frame. This photo was of Lily, Jack and me, and had been taken last year. I remembered the captured moment well. I had convinced Paul to take us to the beach on a rare summery bank holiday afternoon and, after complaining about the inevitable traffic, he had finally agreed, but only because his plans to go cycling had been cancelled at the last minute. The day had been warm and cloudless and the kids had loved running free across the pebble beach in Brighton. Paul had rolled up the sleeves on his shirt and I was pleasantly pink in the face. We ate fish and chips out of the paper, but the fish had been soggy and the chips cold, so Paul had complained and ended up in a finger-pointing argument with the chip-shop owner. By way of distraction, I had taken the kids to buy an ice cream and the three of us had posed for the selfie, dripping cones in our hands, looking relaxed and carefree in the moment.
‘This is Jack – he’s eight – and this is Lily, ten but going on thirty.’ I smiled as I gazed at their faces.
‘And your husband?’
I pointed to a small framed photograph, which showed Paul and I smiling sweetly in our wedding photo. ‘That’s Paul there.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realise he was so much older than you.’
I shrugged. ‘Fifteen years – it’s not that much really and I look quite different in that photo, younger for a start.’
‘Hmmm. Different hair, yes. How did you two meet?’
‘He walked into the restaurant where I was working as a waitress and I served him lunch. The rest is history, as they say. What about you and Sam?’ I said, attempting to steer the focus onto her.
‘University – we were in a creative writing class together.’ She continued to study the photographs as I hovered behind her awkwardly.
‘Um, please, sit – unless you’d rather sit at the table in the other room so that we can spread out?’
‘No, here is fine for now.’ Her tone was brisk, but she didn’t move to sit down. Instead, she ran her finger along the spines of the books on the bookshelves. ‘Did you always want to write?’
I perched on the edge of the couch and poured the tea with nervous hands. ‘I wrote loads as a teenager and had lofty ambitions of being a writer then, but it just wasn’t to be. Reality got in the way, I guess. I took a break from writing for a few years and then decided that I missed it. That and I had a good idea for a novel that wouldn’t go away. Cookie?’
‘No, thank you. Is your husband supportive of your writing?’
‘He wants me to be happy, whatever that entails. Why do you ask?’ The number of questions was starting to annoy me, especially her repetitive curiosity about Paul. I felt like I was in an interview and she wasn’t making any effort to put me at ease.
‘It’s just that you need support when you’re a writer. It is a solitary pursuit but a difficult one and it’s important to have someone in your corner. Sam certainly wouldn’t be where he is today without me supporting him.’ She said it without arrogance, merely stating the facts as they were.
‘Speaking of which, should we get to work?’ I said pointedly.
‘In a moment. I want to get to know you first.’ This time she did turn to face me, giving me a curious look that I couldn’t read. She took a step towards me, but still didn’t make to sit down. ‘You know, Sam speaks very highly of you. You’ve certainly made an impression.’
‘Well, he’s been very generous with his time and is incredibly patient.’
‘Hmmmm.’ She towered over me. I took hold of my teacup, hoping it wouldn’t rattle against the saucer and betray my discomfort. ‘He likes to have someone to save sometimes.’
‘Is that what I am?’ I was further irked by that. I didn’t want to be anyone’s pet project. I could hear my mobile phone ringing insistently in the kitchen where I had left it when I was making the tea. I got to my feet, ready to bid a hasty retreat to answer it, but she carried on talking.
‘Well, let’s just say he has reached a stage in his life where he wants to make a difference and if he can help you to get published, then in a way, he will see it as his duty. His legacy, if you will. I let him do it. It keeps him happy.’ The phone stopped ringing. Viola finally moved to sit down in the armchair facing me. ‘May I?’ She reached out an arm clad in lemon cashmere and took a cookie from the tray. ‘Did your children help you to make these?’
The change in subject matter was dizzying and I was starting to wish she hadn’t come. She was alternately sweet and salty, and it was unnerving. ‘No, not this time. Although Lily does love to bake. She will often take it upon herself to bake something on the weekend. Scones are her speciality and she loves to make breakfast pancakes, although the clearing up is usually my job.’
‘Well, these are very good.’ She had taken one small nibble and placed the rest on the edge of her saucer.
‘Thank you.’
‘Tell me why you write, why you want to be published.’
This was safer ground for me. ‘For Lily and Jack, I suppose. It’s the only thing I’ve really been any good at, so it’s to show them that their mother can be someone, can achieve something with hard work. I haven’t really had an opportunity to do that until now. And I guess it’s about creating a legacy, as you say, something to leave behind, a body of work that will outlive me. For years I think the idea of failing at the one thing that I was told I was good at scared me into not trying. Now I’m less worried about that than I am about my children growing up disappointed in my lack of achievements. Although the idea that everyone will hate my book does keep me up at night sometimes.’ I chuckled lightly.
‘So you struggle to sleep?’
I frowned. ‘No, I, er… I was joking.’ I nibbled on the skin around my thumb.
Viola stared at the shelf of photographs again. ‘Sam often talks about his legacy. We don’t have children – did he tell you that?’
‘He may have mentioned it.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No, I didn’t ask. None of my business really.’
There was that pinprick glare again. Her fingers gripped white on the handle of the china cup. I fully expected it to snap off in her hand. ‘Quite.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Since we have no children, Sam’s legacy has become his books and I suppose mine is intrinsically tied up in that in more ways than one.’ She set down the teacup again. ‘What did you do before you had children? You mentioned teaching?’
I shifted in my seat, feeling heat in my cheeks as the interrogation continued. ‘I worked in a local school with nursery age children.’ I could hear my phone ringing again.
Viola was oblivious. ‘And why did you stop doing that?’
‘I’m sorry, I think I can hear my phone ringing in the kitchen. Oh, and your cup is empty. More tea? I’ll make a fresh pot before we get started.’ I got to my feet and gathered up the cups and saucers, practically snatching hers from her fingers, no longer caring whether I was being rude.
She remained outwardly oblivious to my discomfort. ‘May I use your bathroom?’
‘It’s at the top of the stairs to your right. I do hope you’ll excuse any mess up there,’ I said over my shoulder as I bent over the tray.
Viola got to her feet and glided from the room and I collapsed against the couch cushions, feeling completely enervated suddenly. My foot accidentally kicked against her handbag, which she’d left at the foot of the couch, and it fell onto its side, the contents spilling onto the floor from the open zip like secrets. As I heard the bathroom door close upstairs, I bent over to pick up the bag. It looked expensive, the logo stitched into the lining claiming it as a Balenciaga. The detritus that had fallen onto the floor was the usual tangle of keys, lipstick, purse and tissues, as well as a small leather notebook. I gathered up the bits and pieces and, as I lifted the notebook, a letter fell from between the pages. I picked it up ready to stuff it ba
ck into the notebook, but my eyes fell on the words accidentally. It was a letter from Sam’s publisher, the tone clearly threatening as it outlined plans to take legal action if he didn’t produce the first draft of his novel by the end of the month as agreed contractually. I stopped reading, feeling like an intruder. Sam had said he was struggling, but I hadn’t realised how much. I calmly replaced the letter in the notebook where I thought it had been.
Shoving the notebook back in the bag, my fingers rubbed against something unexpectedly soft and smooth. I pulled it out. It was a swatch of bright yellow, velvety material, the colour of daffodils in the sun. It looked like it had been torn from something, the edges fraying a little, and it was threadbare in places. Something about the material made the breath catch in my throat, as though it was familiar to me, but I couldn’t grasp onto the thought before it was gone. I shoved it back to the bottom of the bag, feeling unsettled.
Viola’s purse still lay on its side on the floor. My fingers stroked the cool burgundy leather and, without thinking, I opened the clasp soundlessly. It flipped open to show a photograph tucked into the inside pocket, not dissimilar to that on my own shelf that Viola had been admiring. But before I could look at the faces smiling back at the camera, I heard the creak of the bathroom door. I hurriedly closed the purse and returned it to its original position in her bag before snatching my hand away and setting the bag back where it had been. I gathered up the cups and carried the tray through to the kitchen, my heart galloping. I listened for her footsteps on the stairs, willing my heart rate to slow.
Moments passed but still Viola didn’t return. I walked to the foot of the stairs and peered up, feeling uneasy. It wasn’t a big enough house that you could get lost. I could see a shadow moving across the landing in the direction of Lily’s bedroom.
I ascended the stairs cautiously, feeling the apprehension tickling along my spine. Viola was standing in Lily’s bedroom, her back to me. I walked closer. She was holding one of Lily’s soft toys in her hands, a white rabbit wearing a red jumper with Lily’s name knitted into it. It was an old favourite and had survived Lily’s recent cull of cuddly toys, which she insisted on periodically when her benevolence got the better of her and she decided a charity shop would be more deserving of her precious bears.
‘Is everything okay?’ I said pointedly.
Her back stiffened. She replaced the rabbit on the bedspread and turned, the colour in her cheeks heightened and her eyes sparkling like ice. ‘Yes, just took a wrong turn and then saw this beautiful bedroom and decided to take a peek. Right, shall we get to work?’ She walked past me and headed back down the stairs without a second glance.
I took one more look in Lily’s room, with the clothes abandoned on the floor and the bright strawberry sorbet paint missing in patches where hastily removed Blu-Tack had pulled the plaster out in chunks. I frowned, but followed Viola back downstairs. A tinny voice in my head snorted at the hypocrisy of my annoyance, considering that I had inadvertently just rifled through her handbag. But I didn’t like the idea that someone was curious about me or my family.
Viola grabbed her handbag from the lounge and I led her through to the kitchen where my laptop was set up at the far end of the table. She took out the notebook from her bag, one hand casually fussing Bo’s ears. I saw the letter peeking out from where I had stashed it back between the pages, but busied myself with logging in, keeping my eyes averted.
‘How are you getting on with your new laptop?’ she asked brightly.
‘Very well, thank you. So much better than my old one.’
‘Well, writers need the right tools – and the right encouragement. I must say that the bits I’ve read of your manuscript are incredibly promising. I can sometimes come across as rather… reserved and uptight, I’ve heard it said, but I do think you are talented and I’m excited about this journey we are all on. I look forward to seeing where it takes us. I want you to know that.’ She was looking at me earnestly, beseeching me with her iceberg eyes. Salty and sweet.
‘Um, thanks, that means a lot. I hope I don’t let you and Sam down.’
‘Oh, I doubt that. I think I’m going to be a very happy woman when this is all over.’ She tilted her head to the side and smiled crookedly.
Goosebumps pricked down my arms, but before I could respond, I heard the front door open and Paul’s voice call, ‘Katherine?’
I leapt to my feet. Viola looked towards the door curiously as I scrabbled to close my laptop and shove it under a pile of magazines on the sideboard. I turned around just as Paul rushed into the kitchen, his face a picture of concern.
‘There you are!’ Then he stopped abruptly as he noticed Viola, whose face portrayed her amusement at the scene building in front of her eyes. She rose to her feet and held out her hand.
‘Hello, you must be Paul. I’m Viola.’ Her voice was as smooth as liquid gold.
‘Er, hello.’ He shook her hand, clearly confused at finding this classy woman in his house. ‘Er, I… Katherine, can I have a word please?’
I followed him as he darted into the lounge and pulled the partition doors closed behind us. ‘What’s going on here? And why didn’t you answer your phone when I called?’
I’d totally forgotten about my phone ringing earlier. ‘Oh, sorry, we were working on something and I didn’t hear it. It’s in the kitchen charging, I think. Everything is fine though.’
‘Who is that woman?’
‘She’s…’ I wasn’t sure what to say, but I was given a moment’s reprieve by Viola pulling open the doors.
‘So sorry, Katherine, but I hadn’t realised the time. I must be off, but thank you for the tea. A shame we didn’t get through as much as we could’ve today, but it was lovely to meet you, Paul.’ She oozed elegance and manners, and I could see Paul melting under her calm gaze.
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he replied.
‘Katherine, as I said earlier, Sam sends his love and wishes he could’ve met you himself today as usual, but hopefully back to normal for your next meeting, I think. Thursday, isn’t it?’ I wanted to cringe. She turned back to Paul. ‘Your wife is exceptionally talented. You must be very proud of her.’
Paul looked from me to Viola, his confusion evident.
‘Anyway, no need to show me out. Until next time.’ And she was gone, leaving behind the faintest scent of her expensive perfume.
Paul turned to face me. ‘So are you going to tell me what that was all about?’
‘She’s the agent who’s married to the man who took my writing course,’ I replied in a low voice.
‘So why was she here? I told you I wasn’t happy about you doing more writing because it would wear you out and put too much pressure on you and I thought you’d seen sense and left well alone.’
‘Yes, but you heard her. She thinks I’m talented and there is a strong possibility that she will represent me once the book is finished.’
‘But then what? Another book after that? You spending less time with me, Lily and Jack while you chase fame? Fame you can ill afford with your history, may I add? Do you remember how the press tore you apart back then? All those threatening letters and graffiti on the wall?’
‘Yes, of course I remember, but it was a long time ago. And who’s to say my book will be successful anyway?’
‘Exactly my point, Katherine, exactly my point.’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘I was worried about you when I couldn’t get hold of you – and for valid reason. Luckily, I was close by at an appointment and could get here quickly as I had no idea what had happened. Now I’m going to ask you again to give up this silly charade and focus on what’s important: the people in this house.’ He stabbed his finger into the air. ‘I’m going to change and go for a run. I need it. You look a little peaky yourself. Have you taken your medication today?’
‘Yes, I have,’ I lied.
‘Well, that’s something at least.’ He stalked from the room, leaving me smouldering and unanchored.
*
Once Paul had left for his run, I retrieved the laptop from under the magazines and returned it to its hiding place under the bed, then lay curled up on top of the duvet considering my options. Viola and Sam believed in me, even if Paul didn’t – or Helen, for that matter. And my mother… well. Why couldn’t they be supportive and let me do this? Do something for me? Their negativity surely couldn’t all stem from concern.
A wave of self-pity flooded over me – maybe they were right and I was the one who was wrong. Maybe this was just a bit of folly on my part that would only end in tears or opening up old wounds that were still scarring over.
I was suddenly bone-weary, my legs heavy against the mattress. I could feel my eyes wanting to close and I was ready to let the tiredness take me under. My mind cut between scenes from this afternoon like a badly edited film: Viola arriving; her staring at the photo frames; my hand shaking on the teacup; Viola in Lily’s bedroom. Why had she been in there? Had I asked her? Or was I making it up? Maybe she had genuinely taken a wrong turn. Then why did I feel so uneasy? Something was niggling at me, like a mosquito buzzing around my head and I couldn’t quite catch it. My mind flashed to the yellow fabric again, then flashed away, like lightning that wouldn’t ground.
I buried my face in the pillow. Maybe Paul was right. I had come off my medication too quickly. Paranoia was setting in and I was looking at everyone with suspicion. I should just take a pill and have a lie-down until Paul came back. I still had time to nap before I had to collect Lily and Jack.
I rose to a sitting position too quickly, my head spinning, then slowly got to my feet and wandered into the bathroom to find the white packet of pills I had moved up here after Paul had found my last box. At least if they were here in my cabinet, he wouldn’t look to check if I was taking them. He avoided my side of the cabinet like the plague for fear of seeing any of my ‘women’s stuff’ in there. Heaven forbid he should be subjected to the sight of a tampon. He really could be terribly old-fashioned sometimes.
