by Freya North
He didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Into what? What have you changed into?’
She shrugged. ‘Into someone who knows what she wants and what she won’t settle for. Into someone proud of herself. Into someone – with a rosy future. Clichéd or not. My life is different now. I like it.’
He was staring at her and he looked anxious. ‘Have you – are you – seeing someone?’ His tone was one of burgeoning disbelief.
‘It wouldn’t make any difference if I was.’
‘OK – OK, I get it – independent woman who’s just fine in her own company bla bla. But are you? Vita? I just want to know. I don’t want to bump into you and Prince Bloody Charming without being forewarned.’
How dare he!
Because he’s Tim, that’s how.
‘Actually,’ Vita said levelly, with no tone of malicious triumph, ‘I am.’
Tim physically steadied himself. ‘Who?’ His voice rasped, he seemed utterly stunned, which offended her somewhat. How little did he think of her? How much did he think of himself!
‘He’s called Oliver.’
‘And?’
‘Bourne. Oliver Bourne.’
‘Not the name – I don’t give a toss about the name.’
‘And what, then, Tim?’
‘Are you – do you?’ He didn’t look well. ‘Do you know something Tim, I think I am. I think I do.’ So hard to say something gently when the beautiful sound of it should be sung out.
Tim sat down on the ledge of the window display. He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was suddenly softer. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Recently.’
The gentler tone went. ‘You can’t be in love with someone so quickly.’
And Vita thought, Oh yes, I can.
‘Vita – we were together years.’
‘This is not about us, Tim. This is about me now – I’ve met someone. And I love him.’
Tim was squeezing the bridge of his nose. He used to do that when Vita did something which inadvertently irked him.
‘Tim – you have Suzie to think about. You’ve been with her, on and off, in whatever capacity, for well over a year. Longer, probably, for all I know.’
‘This isn’t about Suzie. I told you all along – she’s nothing, compared to you. She’s not relevant.’
Vita looked at him thoughtfully. ‘In some ways, she’s very relevant – even if you two don’t last. She has great relevance to your past and the chances you have to shape your future.’
‘It was just me being a wanker, an idiot. I kept telling you it meant nothing. I’d never have left you, Vita, never.’ It sounded as though he was passing the buck.
‘Then for God’s sake, let her go – don’t treat her badly too. If you have any respect for me, any true remorse for what happened – will you please just do it differently this time?’
‘But you’re the One, Vita. It’s always been you. Only you.’ Did he lift that from some cheesy song? And that was Tim’s thought – not Vita’s.
‘No, Tim. No. It’s always been you.’ Then she thought about it. She thought about herself – remembering how diminished she’d felt by Tim, how worry shaped her days, how much hard work it was trying all the while to make sure he’d find no reason not to love her, to stay not stray. She thought about Suzie – how she’d recognized the haunted look about her eyes, the sorrowful tune of battered self-esteem, the details – the same details – that had tormented her when she’d been with Tim.
‘You’re the One, Vita. Please – a final second chance.’
‘I gave you a couple of those – remember?’
‘OK – OK – I had my chance—’
‘—no, Tim, you had chances, plural,’ Vita said. ‘You took them. I gave them. You abused them.’
‘OK – that’s semantics. This isn’t about chances – it’s about forgiveness. You have the power, Vita – to forgive.’
Vita thought how not so long ago, talk like that would have seduced her. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not about forgiveness. I am able to forgive. It’s about trust – that’s gone. And without trust, there is no relationship.’
Tim dropped his head. ‘But I’d never have left you – you’re the One.’
‘I’m not the One – because it’s not about me, Tim. It’s always been about you.’ She paused. And then she couldn’t help smiling. And Vita thought – Suzie, this is for you. ‘And Dermott Hogan too, of course.’
That night, Vita lay right in the centre of her bed. She’d always favoured her side – even when she’d been single, she’d slept only on that side. Now that she had Oliver, on the nights they weren’t together, she generally snuggled down into his side. But tonight she positioned herself right in the middle. It was very comfortable.
She thought, I buried Tim today.
Nailed shut the coffin.
A tear rolled an oily hot path down her face, her neck – like the swansong of final emotion which had connected her with Tim. She sensed it blot out on the pillow. What a year. Tim. Oliver. Even Suzie. Candy. Oliver. Michelle. Rick. Her mum. The memory of her dad. And Oliver.
I’ve done well. How well I’ve done for myself.
* * *
While Vita slept soundlessly, dreamlessly that night, Oliver lay awake. Something wasn’t sitting easily with him and he wasn’t sure quite what that was. He went downstairs and made a cup of tea, sipping it whilst absent-mindedly looking at the dishwasher, shiny, white, redundant.
‘Dad?’
‘Jesus Christ, Jont – you scared the life out of me.’
‘Sorry – I heard something. It was only you.’
‘Only me.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine, kid, I’m fine. I just couldn’t sleep.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are you all right? Why are you awake?’
‘I heard you.’
‘Go back to bed.’
‘I’ll have a tea too, I think.’
Jonty made himself a mug. ‘Jonty.’
‘Dad.’
‘I think – I don’t know. It really is up to you. But maybe.’
‘Dad – if I spoke like that to you, you’d rip a strip off of me.’
‘Off of? Off Of? That’s abominable.’
‘Off me. It’s tired. I’m late.’
They laughed at that one.
‘Let me try again.’ Oliver took a sip of tea. ‘I was wondering what you thought and how you felt about me inviting Vita here. For supper, perhaps. But here.’
Jonty stared at the floor, at their bare feet. He thought, My feet are like my dad’s. I have his feet. He thought, My dad wants to bring the Pear Tree Lady to our home. He thought, I knew this was coming – but I didn’t expect it now, in the middle of the night. And then he thought, Mum – is it OK that I don’t have a problem with it?
‘Jont?’
‘I don’t have a problem with it, Dad. I guess.’
‘It’s not just the meeting-you bit – it’s that it’s a woman, here.’
‘I know. It’s cool.’
‘There hasn’t been a woman here – since Mum.’
‘Apart from Mrs Blackthorne,’ said Jonty.
‘And she’s part of the furniture.’
‘It’s cool, Dad – seriously.’
‘Good – that’s good.’ Oliver paused. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘I do have a problem with something though,’ said Jonty. ‘This thing about supper. What are we going to do – give her a ready meal?’
How Oliver could have hugged his boy. ‘Could go to the chippy?’
Jonty laughed. Then he had a quiet moment. ‘Or you could do those chops?’
‘Chops would be good.’
‘She’s not a frikkin’ vegetarian, is she?’
‘No,’ said Oliver, ‘she frikking isn’t.’
‘Frikkin’ so doesn’t have a “g” on the end,’ said Jonty.
‘The chops then? What should I do with them?’
�
��Chips?’
‘Chops and chips?’
‘It’s got a ring to it.’
‘It has a ring to it.’
‘God, Dad!’
‘Chops and chips it is.’
‘Tell her to bring the dessert.’
‘I can’t do that!’
‘I bet she’ll ask – What can I bring? Don’t you remember how Mum always used to say that, when anyone invited us over?’
Oliver had forgotten.
‘If she asks what she can bring, tell her she can bring dessert.’
Oliver nodded. ‘Righty-ho.’
‘When’s she coming then?’
Oliver shrugged. ‘Are you around Saturday evening?’
‘I’m meant to be playing cricket with the guys.’
‘How about Sunday evening?’
‘That’s good.’
‘I’ll ask her for Sunday evening then, for chops and chips.’
‘Don’t tell her what we’re cooking, though. Say it goes pear-shaped and we make a mercy dash to the chippy anyway?’
‘Chippy’s closed on a Sunday.’
‘Let’s hope we don’t balls it up, then,’ said Jonty. ‘Night, Dad.’
‘Night, kiddo.’
And as Oliver rinsed out the mugs with his hand and hot water, he thought, We. Not the Royal We but the Bourne We. He thought, Jonty said, Don’t tell her what we’re cooking. And he felt tears course up from his heart. I hope I don’t balls it up, he thought. DeeDee would kill me.
Jamie Oliver Oliver
It was worth a long-distance phone call to Florida. Only Vita forgot about the time zones and Michelle’s phone went straight through to voicemail. Candy’s phone, it seemed, was out of signal in the Lake District and hers went through to voicemail too. Vita’s mum wasn’t at home and she didn’t have a mobile. Why would I want one of those, she’d asked, I’ve managed perfectly well without one all these years – she had said the same about auto-banks, answering machines and DVD players. So, once Oliver had left on Sunday morning, Vita paced around wishing there was someone to call. She was excited, nervous – she wanted to ask Michelle, What do you think, what do you think? She wanted to ask Candy, What shall I wear – dress down for the son and up for the man? She wanted to ask her mum, What shall I take for dessert, Mum? But then she thought how it probably wasn’t advice or answers she really sought – she simply wanted to share her excitement, her nerves. She was flattered to have been asked, and she was proud too. She sent texts to Candy and Michelle simply telling them that Oliver was cooking and she’d be meeting Jonty. And she knew if she asked her mum what she should take for dessert her Mum’s brilliant answer would be Keep It Simple.
Right then. Lemon drizzle cake and fresh raspberries it is!
Vita took a bus to the supermarket, ashamed to find her cupboards empty of all baking ingredients. All those shop-bought biscuits lavished on workmen over the months! She wondered, if she had made lemon drizzle cake for Oliver on his first visit, might he have chopped the tree down then and there? She laughed as she picked up a basket – thank goodness for small mercies. She’d keep the parakeets, the wasps, the rank pears because Oliver came with the package.
Self-raising flour.
She didn’t mind, really, that the corner shop shut at noon on Sundays – That Shop didn’t open at all. But she did think it daft to go all the way to the supermarket for self-raising flour.
Oh, and baking parchment.
And where was her loaf tin? Still in one of the remaining packing boxes?
She’d treat herself to a new one.
And a rubber spatula, so that she had no excuse to lick more of the mixing bowl than was absolutely necessary.
The trip to the supermarket was now worthwhile. In fact, it was very worthwhile because, just then, she caught sight of Oliver and Jonty, standing at the meat counter, scratching their heads.
She swept herself into the toy aisle, out of their sight line. They were in deep discussion, the two of them, pointing at cuts of meat in the display cabinet, reading off a piece of paper which Jonty held in front of Oliver. They bought something, finally, and wondered off; shoppers having to duck out of their way, so engrossed were they in their list.
They oughtn’t to see me. That wouldn’t be fair.
But Vita watched them. She nipped behind this aisle and that, like a character in a cartoon caper. Preparing for this meal was obviously an extremely important task for the Bournes. And she felt touched. She’d make them the best cake ever. And she bought the most expensive brand of raspberries available. She wanted to take flowers too – but do you give flowers to blokes? And then she thought that their house probably hadn’t had flowers in it for a long time. It was a woman’s thing, wasn’t it, buying a bunch just to treat the house. Selecting the vase, trimming the stems, displaying them artistically, managing to eke out a few blooms for a smaller vase for elsewhere in the house. Smiling at the display whenever they were seen. And then she thought, The last time Oliver’s house had flowers in it might well have been after DeeDee’s funeral. An awfully long time for a house not to have had a vaseful. But Vita sensed it wasn’t for her to bustle in there with a bunch. It would be like coming in to see someone’s newly laid floor and walking all over it in heels. If Oliver was preparing a new emotional pathway into the future, the least she could do was tread lightly, softly, on it. So she bought a bottle of wine. And then she thought, Jonty’s not quite fifteen. So she bought him Q magazine and, checking that Oliver and Jonty were still embroiled in lengthy discussions by the green vegetables, she nipped to the self-service checkouts and made a swift exit home.
‘Do you think we’re trying to be too fancy?’ Jonty wondered.
‘If Jamie Oliver says it’s pukka, we can do it.’
He and Jonty spent a happy hour in the kitchen, chucking in the ingredients just as the recipe instructed, adding their own mockney accents and daring dashes of tamari sauce.
Vita wore a floaty short-sleeved summer dress, soft green speckled with little white flowers; leggings and ballet pumps. She pulled up the sides of her hair and fixed them with a slide. She put on a little eyeshadow, a little mascara and a spritz of Eternity. It was a warm evening, it would take a good half-hour to walk to Oliver’s side of town. She thought of the cake and the raspberries and not wanting sweat patches or a red face, so she took a cab.
She thought Oliver would live in some kind of woodsmansy cottage, with roses and a lavender path and a tree stump with an axe ready for splitting logs. The house was handsome, period and semi-detached, on a neat road lined with similar homes. Driveways with cars pulled up close to their garages, recycling bins by front doors. Oliver’s house looked like any of the others on the street. She’d asked the cab to drop her at the start of the road, wanting a little time to steady herself. But she was shaking as she walked up to the front door. Ridiculous! You’ll bruise the raspberries! She rang the bell and quietly, under her breath, said, Think of me – as if it would carry to Florida and the Lakes, to her mum, faster than any text or call.
‘Hey.’
‘Hi!’
Oliver gave her a clumsy kiss on her cheek, a better one on her lips. ‘Come on in.’
‘Something smells nice.’
‘Domino’s pizza,’ he said.
‘I love Domino’s,’ Vita said generously, ingenuously, and Oliver laughed.
‘I’m teasing. I’m Jamie Oliver Oliver tonight.’
He took her through to the sitting room, too quickly for her to be able to take in the details of the hallway. She noted the kitchen off to the left. Glimpsed a carpeted staircase. Laminate floors downstairs. The sitting room was surprisingly tidy and incredibly still. It reminded her of her grandmother’s front room. Always a sense of stillness, just the steady tock of a mantel clock.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Oh yes, please. This is for you.’ She gave him the wine. ‘Oh, and this.’ She gave him the cake and raspberries. ‘And this is for Jonty.�
� She gave him the magazine and then stood there, twisting two plastic bags around and around each other.
‘Thank you.’ Oliver made a sensible pile of it all and carried it off into the kitchen.
‘She brought cake,’ he whispered to Jonty.
‘Cool,’ Jonty whispered back.
‘Look – and a mag for you.’
‘Cool.’
‘Take her this glass of wine, please.’
Jonty thought, If only my dad knew how much I could do with a good glug of that.
Jonty came into the sitting room, followed by Oliver. Vita felt as though she was some kind of exotic dignitary being stared at by the People.
‘Hi,’ Jonty said with an awkward wave.
‘Hullo,’ said Vita, wondering whether she should shake hands or something. She’d never had a boyfriend with a child, let alone a teenager; in fact, she didn’t actually know any teenagers currently. Jonty came over, gave her the glass of wine and stood there, as if she was a teacher and ought to be telling him what to do next. Oliver just stood behind him, sipping quickly at his own glass.
‘Thanks for the mag,’ Jonty said, with another odd wave which started at his chest and ended at his hips.
‘My pleasure,’ Vita said. ‘I expect you’d’ve preferred a can of cider.’ He blushed. ‘But I’m on my best behaviour,’ she said.
‘I am too,’ said Jonty. He looked back at his father.
‘Shall we all sit down?’ suggested Oliver.
They sat. Vita on a leather armchair, Jonty and Oliver on the sofa. On the coffee table, a little bowl of peanuts and another with olives. She saw Oliver give Jonty a just perceptible nudge.
‘Olive? Peanut?’
She loved the way Jonty proffered them in the singular and, accordingly, she took one of each. Then she looked around the room, heartened by alcove shelving groaning with books and framed photographs. Sliding doors to an unkempt garden beyond. Over to one side, internal glass doors opening into the dining room. She’d finished her peanut and her olive and wondered whether she could help herself to more.
