She was rinsing the suds from her curls when the buzzer sounded. She swore under her breath as she wrapped a towel round her soaking tresses and went to the intercom trailing drips of water behind her.
“Delivery for a Miss Carey,” said a voice.
Carey frowned. She wasn’t expecting anything. “Hold on,” she said. “I’ll be down in a moment.”
She rubbed her hair briskly, left the towel on the floor of the hallway, and went downstairs. The man outside the entrance door was holding the biggest bouquet of red roses that she’d ever seen. She opened the door.
“Miss Carey?” he said again.
“I’m Carey Browne,” she told him. “I guess it’s for me.”
“Someone likes you.” He grinned at her.
“Apparently.” She took the bouquet from him and walked back upstairs. Ben, she thought. He’d obviously ordered them to thank her for the sofa since she’d been so adamant about not taking any money from him. Which was really terribly sweet because she knew that he didn’t like fresh flowers himself. They made him sneeze.
She plopped them in the sink and tore open the envelope. “Hi, honey, sorry about tonight. Hope these make up for it. Love, Peter.”
She stared at the note and then her phone rang. “Hi, Peter.” She picked up the handset.
“Hi, darling,” he said. “Did you get my message?”
“The flowers?” she said. “They’ve just arrived. But what about tonight? I didn’t get a message about tonight.”
“I sent you a text earlier,” he told her. “I’m really sorry, but Aaron’s running a bit of a temperature today, and Sandra and the tekkie are going out tonight. She called me and asked if I’d look after him instead of the babysitter. He’s not very unwell, but he doesn’t want her to go out without him. If I’m there she can go. I sent you the text ages ago.”
“I didn’t notice,” she told him. “I was busy today. I didn’t have my phone with me all the time.”
“Are you OK with this?” he asked. “He’s my son, Carey. Soon he’ll be living in Scotland. I want to see as much of him as I can first.”
“Of course I’m OK with it,” she said, annoyed with herself for feeling peeved at him. “And the flowers are beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like them. And I love you,” said Peter. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Sure,” she said. “Talk to you then.”
She ended the call and rubbed her hair vigorously with her new yellow towel before plugging in her hair dryer and waving it over her curls. What kind of bloody idiot am I, she wondered, to have thought Ben might have sent those flowers? And to feel somehow disappointed that he didn’t. Why would I even want him to send me flowers? Blokes don’t send flowers to girls they’ve split up from. Very acrimoniously.
And yet tonight she hadn’t felt acrimonious with Ben. She’d felt relaxed with him. And she’d enjoyed being in his company. He’d been friendly. Friendly and normal and the kind of guy that she could still find attractive. Deep down and being really honest with herself, she knew she did still find him attractive. “But not,” she said out loud, “husband material.” He was one-night-stand material and that was what she needed to remember. And it was important to be able to differentiate between someone who was good for some breathtaking but ultimately meaningless sex and the person with whom you wanted to spend the rest of your life. It was a distinction that had been blurred for her, but not anymore. And surely the person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with would be the kind of bloke who didn’t mind sending a girl flowers to tell her he loved her.
There was a cluster of people at the football pitch in St. Anne’s Park. Carey parked her car in the car park and strolled towards the pitch. She didn’t recognize any of the players, but it would be difficult given that they were all coated in mud. She frowned as she caught sight of one of the spectators.
“Jeanne!” she cried as her niece approached her. “What are you doing here?”
“More like what are you doing?” demanded Jeanne. “I’m supporting the team.”
“Which one?”
“Canal Wanderers. It’s Ben’s team — and Gary’s.”
“Oh yes, Gary.” Carey had forgotten about Jeanne’s relationship with Ben’s team-mate. “I didn’t realize you and Gary were so close that you were attending his football matches.”
“I didn’t realize you and Ben were so close that you were doing the same thing,” retorted Jeanne.
“There is a reason,” said Carey, and she explained about the sofa.
“So why are you here?” asked her niece.
“I was supposed to be going out,” said Carey, “but it was called off and it was such a nice evening — so much brighter than it’s been lately — that I thought I’d go for a walk instead. So I came here.”
“Because of Ben?”
“No.” Carey shook her head. “I came to the park and then heard the cries, so I thought it might be interesting to take a look at them.”
“He doesn’t know you’re here?”
“Of course not.”
“But if he sees you he’ll think…”
“He’ll think I came here out of curiosity. And he’d be right.”
“You gave him a free sofa and now you’re watching him play football?” Jeanne looked at her aunt incredulously. “And you’re still saying that you don’t love him anymore?”
“I had one sofa too many,” said Carey. “He had none. And I told you, I’m just passing by. When you’re older you’ll realize that making a brief appearance at a football match isn’t a declaration of undying love.”
“Don’t patronize me, Carey,” said Jeanne. “I’m not a child.”
“No, you’re not. I’m sorry.”
“However, I do actually enjoy coming to the matches myself,” she confided. “I can scream and shout and behave in a way that Mum hates.”
“Screaming and shouting?”
“You know Mum,” said Jeanne. “So prissy.”
Carey grinned. “That’s our Syl.”
“She freaked out a while back when I was out with Gary and didn’t get home until really late.”
“I don’t blame her for that,” said Carey. “She worries.”
“Tsch.” Jeanne made a face. “What’s to worry about? She should trust me.”
“I think she probably finds it hard to trust you when she keeps thinking of how I turned out,” said Carey. “Oh, bloody hell, they’ve conceded a penalty!”
“Come on, Canal!” roared Jeanne as the Canal Wanderers’ goalie picked the ball despondently from the back of the net. “Get a move on!” She turned to Carey. “This is the third match I’ve been at. They lost one and drew one so it’d be nice if they won.”
“Which of them is Gary?” asked Carey as the players raced along the pitch.
“The good-looking one.” Jeanne laughed. “Number seven.”
“Come on, Gary!” yelled Carey. “Give it some wellie!”
Ben heard the call and looked towards the touchline. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw Carey there. Then he recognized Jeanne standing beside her and remembered that Jeanne and Gary had a bit of a thing going. He didn’t realize that it was serious enough for Jeanne to come to their matches — he’d missed the previous two she’d attended.
Tony Powell passed the ball to him but Ben, totally distracted by the sight of Carey, missed it completely. Fuck, he thought, as he chased after the opposing player. Now he looked like a useless fool. He tackled the midfielder and, surprising himself, won back the ball, dribbling it towards the goal. It would be nice, he thought, to score spectacularly to prove to Carey that he was good at this. Instead he pitched forward as the midfielder tackled him in return.
“Foul, ref!” shouted Carey. “Send him off!”
The ref agreed that Ben had been fouled and awarded a free kick. Tony curled the ball towards the goal and Ben, jumping higher than he ever had before, got on the end of it and — as spectacularly as he
could have wished for — headed it past the goalie for the equalizer.
“What a score!” Jeanne jumped up and down in delight. “What a player!”
“Show-off,” muttered Carey. She looked at her watch and turned to Jeanne. “I’m heading home now,” she said.
“Huh?” Jeanne stared at her. “It’s a good game. Why don’t you wait till it’s over?”
“I don’t want to hang around,” she told her. “I’ve things to do anyway.”
“But Ben’s playing a blinder,” protested Jeanne.
“I don’t care,” said Carey. “I’ve had my exercise.”
“OK, if you’re sure.” Jeanne looked at her doubtfully.
“Sure I’m sure,” said Carey.
“I still like him,” said Jeanne.
“Surprisingly enough, so do I,” Carey said. “But I don’t love him. And that’s what counts.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CAMOMILE ROMAN
A gentle oil with a sweet fragrance
Freya was sitting in her apartment staring at the spring-green leaves on the tree outside her window when she started to cry. She didn’t know where the tears had come from, how it was that one minute she was perfectly all right and the next she was sobbing almost uncontrollably. Her entire body heaved with the ferocity of her pain and she hugged her arms round her shoulders as though by doing so she would prevent herself from breaking apart. She wasn’t thinking as she cried. Her mind was in a grey fog, unable to formulate thoughts or ideas or even images. All she knew was that she was alone in her apartment and alone with a grief she had never expected to feel. She wiped at her cheeks with her fingertips, the tears sliding down the palms of her hands and dripping onto the multi-colors of her cushions. She wished that there was someone with her to put an arm round her and tell her that everything would be OK, just as her mother had done when she’d been a little girl, upset by something that her father had said or done. Gail had always told her that Charles didn’t mean to shout or snap, it was his short temper that did it, that he loved Freya dearly. And while she was telling her those things Gail would hug Freya close to her and stroke her long blonde hair and make her feel totally secure.
But there was no one now to make Freya feel totally secure. And there was nothing in her life that made her believe people ever could be totally secure. She’d felt secure with Brian, but it hadn’t been enough, and she understood that. But she ached for him now and ached for the fact that he hadn’t waited in the restaurant to make her feel, even for another hour or so, that he did love her and that everything could be all right. He’d called her once since then but had deliberately phoned the apartment during working hours so that all he had to do was to leave a message. He’d sounded upset and unhappy, telling her that he’d needed a little time, that there were other issues — he’d stopped then and hung up mid-sentence, which was totally unlike him. She appreciated his honesty but a little part of her would have preferred him to pretend. At least for a while.
A few months ago she might have called Leah and shared her unhappiness with her, but these days she felt uncomfortable in the younger woman’s company. She didn’t know why, because seeing Ben and Leah together again should have made her feel as though everything was working out the way it was supposed to, but it didn’t. She was sure that Leah felt equally uncomfortable with her just now too, and so neither of them had exchanged more than a few halfhearted pleasantries over the last few weeks. Freya doubted that even if Ben and Leah eventually married, they’d ever get back to their easy friendship.
She rested her head on her knees and cried some more. She’d never been much of a talker, never been one for sharing her emotions with people. But she desperately wanted to talk now. She needed someone to listen to her, to understand how she felt. Anyone. It didn’t really matter who.
Maude saw the taxi drive past the house, then turn a little further up the road before coming back to stop outside the gate. She didn’t wait until the car door opened but threw her own front door open wide and began to march down the path. This way the girl wouldn’t be able to lose her nerve and ignore her. She’d reached the gate when Freya got out of the taxi and looked uncertainly at her.
“Hello, Freya.” Maude smiled at her. “Come on in.”
Freya said nothing, but followed the older woman into the house. Maude led her to the sun-drenched living room at the back and motioned for her to sit down. Freya did so, her blue eyes taking in the serenity of the room; the huge bowl of blaze-red tulips on the deep windowsill gave life and color to it and the pot of coffee on the table filled it with a warm comforting aroma.
“Like some?” asked Maude. “There’s tea if you prefer.”
“Coffee’s fine.” Freya watched as she poured it into two large wide cups.
“Milk?”
“Yes, please.”
Maude handed the cup to Freya, who realized suddenly that her hands were trembling. But Maude didn’t seem to notice the fact that Freya had to grasp the cup firmly between both hands to stop the coffee splashing over the sides.
“I’m sorry,” said Freya after taking a sip of the Java blend. “I don’t know why I rang.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Maude. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“You said to call you that night at the restaurant,” Freya continued as though Maude hadn’t spoken. “And of course I didn’t intend to. There was nothing for us to say.”
Maude was silent.
“Only I needed someone.” Freya looked up from her mug and met Maude’s eyes. “I’ve never really needed someone, not like this. I can look after myself, you see. But today — today I couldn’t deal with it myself because…” Her voice drifted away and she squeezed her eyes shut. Maude waited until Freya opened them again.
“You see, I found out something,” said Freya. “Not about Ben or Carey. That’s the thing, Maude, that’s why I shouldn’t really have come. It’s nothing to do with them. It’s about me. I’m selfish — I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think you’re selfish,” said Maude gently. “I do think you’re upset. And it doesn’t matter to me whether you’re here about Ben and Carey or something else altogether. Arthur thinks I have a terrible habit of getting involved in other people’s lives but, sure, why not? Especially when they’re sort of family.”
Freya’s smile was a shadow. “I didn’t think of you as sort of family. I didn’t really think at all when I picked up the phone.”
“I’m glad you did,” said Maude. “And even when Carey and Ben aren’t connected anymore we’ll always be sort of family.” She fixed her grey eyes on Freya. “So what’s the matter, Freya?”
Now that she was here, with someone, Freya’s natural reticence wanted to take over. But there was something about Maude’s presence that invited confidences. It wasn’t as though she was Freya’s childhood image of a confidante — the rosy-cheeked, grey-haired grandmother of the books she’d read on her own in bed late at night — but there was an aura of calmness about Maude which made her feel the way she wanted to feel. Secure.
Slowly, she told the older woman about her visit to Dr, O’Donnell and his diagnosis of early menopause and of Brian’s reaction. And when she’d finished she began to cry again. Only this time the arms around her shoulders were real and the warmth of Maude’s embrace was immensely comforting.
“You poor, poor thing,” whispered Maude. “No wonder you’re crying. You’re crying for what you might have had and what you’ll never have. You’re entitled to cry for those things, Freya. And you’re entitled to cry about Brian too.”
“It’s selfish though,” sobbed Freya. “I’ve had a good life, Maude. I’ve done the things I wanted to do. I thought I had all the time in the world for anything else. And maybe this is a kind of punishment for not deciding that I should settle down with someone before now.”
“You may have done all the things you wanted to do but not always on your own terms,” said Maude firmly. “And you weren’t
one bit selfish when you went out to work to provide for Ben. You’re a good person, Freya. To talk of punishment — that’s plain silly, and we both know you’re not silly.” She held Freya close to her again. “I’m so sorry for you.”
Freya sniffed. “Actually, the child thing — well, I always felt that I kind of did it already because of Ben. You see, I knew all about the sleepless nights and the nappies and the mess it makes of your life. And even lately, knowing that I was getting older — it didn’t really bother me. So I shouldn’t care, should I? But now that I can’t — now I care.”
“Oh, Freya.” Maude looked at her sympathetically. “You did what everyone does, you made choices. If you haven’t had children you’ve had your reasons and they’re perfectly good ones. But the problem is that sometimes we think we can have it all, whenever we want it — and we can’t. We have to make those choices. Unfortunately, some of them get made for us.”
“I wanted Brian to choose me,” said Freya. “I wanted to think that he loved me for myself, but he didn’t.” She bit her lip. “All the times we were together I congratulated myself on having a man like him, and then suddenly he was gone. And I’ve no one, Maude. I’ve liked being on my own because I’m not a good person with other people, but now I realize that I’ll always be on my own.”
“No, you won’t,” said Maude. “You’re a good-looking woman and there’s no need for you to be on your own at all. Unless that’s what you choose.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” said Freya. “It’s not as though someone special, something exactly right is just waiting for me.”
“No,” agreed Maude. “There’s compromise all down the way. Particularly as we get older and pickier.”
Too Good to Be True Page 37
