The Love of Her Life

by Harriet Evans

  ‘Sorry!’ she said, irritably.’ She! OK!’

  ‘Is she – well?’ said Daniel, continuing as if nothing had happened. ‘Is she happy?’

  She didn’t really know how to answer this question. Of course her mother was well, of course she was happy. She was relentlessly positive, upbeat, a show-off showman, with the starring role in the miniseries of her own life, with the devoted Oscar at her side, living in a beautiful apartment in the most citizen-friendly city in the world.

  Tramping slowly alongside her father, here back in London, Kate didn’t know how to explain it, quite, to him. For she had come to see that, in the time she’d lived with her in New York, her mother was more of a mystery than she could have supposed. She still didn’t know lots of things about her, really, little details like what her favourite film was, to the big things, like why she’d left her husband and daughter. Why she’d run away, and Kate knew she had run away, just like her daughter sixteen years later. And now, glancing quickly at Daniel, shuffling along beside her, his breath visible in the cold morning air, she couldn’t see them together, couldn’t remember what they’d been like. He seemed so much older, so … thin in spirit, somehow, whereas Venetia was overflowing with life, and energy, and lots of other things Kate didn’t really understand. It seemed mad they’d ever got married, had a baby. Had her. They were her parents, it was strange. Kate blinked rapidly, her mind whirring.

  ‘Well, you know what Mum’s like,’ she said after a while. ‘Always the same old Mum.’ She shook her head, smiling at the memory of Venetia’s beautiful face as she solemnly recited ‘May the road rise to meet you’, standing and raising her glass to Kate the night before Kate had left for London, her still-thick glossy red hair falling around her shoulders. Oscar had looked on in wonderment, and when she’d finished he said reverentially, ‘Isn’t she the best?’ Venetia sank gracefully back into her chair, as if she’d just sung the title role in Aida, not read a poem out loud.

  For a moment Kate was back there, in the warm, quiet apartment overlooking the Hudson, the fire burbling in the corner, the books lining the walls. Safe, tranquil, easy. She shook her head at the memory, smiling. ‘She’s wonderful, just the same as ever. The life and soul of the party. You know what she’s like,’ she said again.

  Daniel looked surprised. ‘Oh.’ He furrowed his brow.

  ‘Oh?’ Kate was curious.

  ‘I don’t remember her like that at all,’ he said, and he looked old, confused, for a moment, and fear flashed through Kate. She clutched tightly onto Dani’s hand, feeling the soft, plump fingers tighten in response. She wished they weren’t talking about this, and sought to tie the conversation up again.

  ‘You know, though. Mum’s so –’ she cast around for the word ‘– well, she’s such a free spirit, isn’t she? Always has been.’ She semi-chuckled, as if to involve her father in the gentle joking, the way she did with Oscar, back in New York, for Oscar saw through his wife’s faults and loved her for them anyway.

  Daniel said strangely, ‘She wasn’t like that when we were together.’ He trailed off, and said after a while, ‘Perhaps she was – perhaps I remember that in the beginning.’ His pace slowed, and he shook his head, looking down at the pavement. ‘She wasn’t, really though, not when you were growing up, when we were still together.’ He flicked a glance at Dani. ‘But it was very difficult, by then.’

  Kate tried to remember something of her parents together but, as ever, she drew a blank. She could remember the house, her exercise books from school, the nativity play when she was small – but she couldn’t remember her parents together, what they were like, how they were with each other. It was somewhere in her brain – she just couldn’t get to it. The only memory she had was from Mr Allan of her leaving the Royal Festival Hall with her mother and father, she eight years old, holding happily onto each of her parent’s hands. Them together: it just seemed hilarious, impossible.

  The last time they’d seen each other was at her engagement party, three years ago, and they’d behaved like old friends. A little too much like old friends, in fact. Lisa had spent the whole week Oscar and Venetia were over looking like she was sucking a lemon. Kate often remembered the way they’d looked at each other that night: like they got each other. Simple as that. Like there was no one else in the room. She’d never looked at Sean like that, she knew. Knew it now, hadn’t known it then. Oh, she’d loved him, but she’d never really understood him, the way she knew her parents understood each other. But when she thought about it, how understanding someone, like the way they got each other, the way she and Mac got one another, proved nothing, really. Got you nowhere.

  So she said nothing. And Daniel said, matter of factly,

  ‘You know, Kate, all this makes me think.’

  ‘Think what?’ Kate said, looking around her, trying to see if they were nearly there.

  ‘About your mother.’ He cupped his hand into a point. ‘Bah. Never mind.’

  ‘What?’ said Kate.

  ‘I said never mind. Did she even ask how I was?’ Daniel pushed his hair out of his face.

  Kate thought back to her conversation with her mother last night. ‘I expect he’s malingering, like he always did,’ Venetia had said, and at the time Kate had thought that was a rather harsh judgement call on a man recovering from transplant surgery but now, having seen her father this morning, she could kind of appreciate her point. She thought she’d better change the subject, and looked down at Dani, who was completely silent, chewing her plait. She bent down towards her. ‘Where’s your school, Dani?’

  ‘It’s just across the road, Kate, we’re nearly there,’ Daniel said, a little faintly. Traffic whizzed past them, and Kate turned to him. ‘Why don’t you sit here, Dad?’ she said, gesturing to a bench. ‘I’ll drop her off. Just wait a second.’

  She and Dani crossed the road, and stopped outside the school gates; people looked enquiringly at Kate. She crouched down, looking into her sister’s face.

  ‘You’ve got really blue eyes,’ she said, in surprise.

  ‘Blue eyes,’ said Dani. She patted Kate’s cheek.

  ‘What colour are my eyes?’ Kate asked her.

  ‘Brown eyes!’ said Dani with pleasure.

  ‘Yes. Yours are beautiful,’ said Kate.

  Dani tugged Kate’s skirt. ‘But I’m tall. I hate being tall,’ she confided, suddenly.

  Kate felt her heart contract, at this little thing thinking she was tall. ‘You’re still small,’ she told her sister.

  ‘I’m not,’ Dani said, shaking her head firmly. ‘I’m the tallest girl in my class, the boys call me Daddy-long-legs, I hate it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Kate, thinking for a moment. ‘They just wish they were tall like you, that’s all. I was very tall when I was your age, tall and spindly, and it was very useful, do you know why?’

  ‘Why?’ said Dani.

  ‘My mum could always spot me in the playground,’ said Kate. She wasn’t sure this was going to seal the deal for Dani, who looked unconvinced, so she added, with more zeal than she’d meant, ‘And Dani, I promise you. You’ll grow up and you will be so glad you’re tall. It’s the best, honestly. You can wear boots and baggy tops and you don’t look like a dwarf. Or a woodcutter.’

  ‘Ah?’ said Dani, looking utterly confused.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Kate, hurriedly. ‘I promise you, please trust me. Aren’t supermodels tall?’

  ‘Yes!’ Dani looked more cheerful, to Kate’s chagrin, and she bent down and kissed her sister again.

  ‘Wish me luck for my interview today,’ she said.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Dani. ‘Can I have a present, please?’ She held her skirt and put her head on one side, trying to look coyly adorable. Kate stood up.

  ‘Hmphf. Don’t push your luck, love,’ she said, and she kissed her sister again. ‘See you soon, Dani, you go into school now, OK?’

  ‘There’s Olivia. Bye!’ Dani said and then, with the remarkable callousness of extrem
e youth, turned around and ran inside, shouting, ‘Hello Mrs Bateman!’ as she did, having entirely forgotten about Kate.

  Kate brushed her skirt down again and watched her sister disappear through the doors of the school, feeling strangely bereft, and she looked at her father, waiting for her on the other side of the road. He looked tired, and she ought to get him home. She checked her watch; it was just before nine. She felt strange, being so dressed up, early on this cold, windy day. Strange and nervous; what if Sue hated the piece, what would she do then? She’d done it now, she told herself. No going back, and she didn’t really want to.

  ‘I’m coming, Dad,’ she called, as she waited to cross the road.

  Besides, she had something to prove to herself. She was pissed off. Finally. In her bag she had the letter she’d got that morning. That made three now.

  Kate

  It’s been over a week now, I don’t know why you haven’t called me. Look I know you hate me. Just wanted to ask you though didn’t you ever see you had it coming to you? So smug and grown-up with your FIANCE and your FLAT and your amazing wonderful fucking job. You left me behind in the dust, darling, didn’t you? I thought we were friends and you just ditched me when you found something better.

  I know you think I must feel guilty. I DON’T. OK? The reason I keep writing is, look Kate, I just need to tell you something. So get in touch. We need to sort some things out.

  Charly

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘Shall I tell you what’s wrong with this, then?’

  The great glass office was the same; the ornaments on Sue’s desk were the same. There was even the same poster up in the kitchen, a yellowing Health and Safety notice about what to do if someone was choking. Underneath it, someone had written Leave Them Alone. They’re Probably Bulimic. Kate had never known if they were serious or not. She still didn’t. The layouts for Sue’s approval were the same, piled high in Sue’s tray; Kate could see the marks scribbled all over them. But still everything at Venus felt different, Kate most especially. It was like it was with her parents. She couldn’t remember being in those meetings, telling people what to do and she most especially couldn’t remember leaving that life, going home to Sean, in their flat. Kate sat in front of Sue, who was holding a printout of her article. Her fringe was falling into her eyes; she blew it away, nervously.

  ‘Go on then,’ she said, torn between being completely humiliated and suddenly, inexplicably, wanting to laugh.

  ‘Right,’ said Sue, grinding her jaw. ‘Here goes. “It was the advent of the canals which, coupled with the arrival of steam engine power to England, hastened the Industrial Revolution and helped enable the greatest – and most controversial – Empire since Roman times.”’ She fixed Kate with a baleful glance. ‘And that’s one of the more interesting bits. The rest of the time it’s all about the good old days during rationing! Rationing, for Christ’s sake! This is a fun, informative lifestyle magazine for young women. This is supposed to be a charming, funny column about one young woman’s experience of London. It’s not a slideshow evening with Isambard Kingdom Brunel and Dame Vera Lynn!’

  ‘I like Dame Vera Lynn!’ Kate protested.

  ‘Honey, I love Dame Vera Lynn,’ said Sue. ‘“A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” was the first dance at my parents’ wedding. I love the woman, I have nothing but love for her. That’s not the effing point, OK?’

  ‘Don’t swear about Dame Vera Lynn,’ Kate said.

  ‘Kate.’ Sue shook her head. ‘Can you not see what I’m talking about?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kate bit her lip. ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘You’re a young Londoner. Act like one.’

  Kate was shaking her head. ‘Sue! I’m thirty, I’m not that young.’

  ‘Oh for god’s sake, ridiculous girl. You see that’s the trouble.’ Sue was practically banging the table in frustration, half leaning over towards Kate. Kate couldn’t decide if she was going to slap her or hug her. ‘Kate, Kate. You’re young, you’re still really young. Half these op-ed pieces or lifestyle columns or whatever – they’re written by forty-five year olds pretending to be thirty.’ She calmed down a bit; her voice softened, and this time Kate really did brace herself.

  ‘I was wrong, after Aunt Eileen’s funeral, what I said to you.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I told you to grow up. I was wrong. You don’t need to grow up. You need to stop behaving like an old lady. You bought doilies for Eileen’s wake, you were handing round mini-quiches! And those disgusting wet crisps, oh I could cry. Look. Eileen hated doilies! So does Uncle Gray! So do you!’ Sue was practically screeching. ‘Kate, when I poached you to come to Venus with me it was because you were everything a modern girl was supposed to be! You knew the key pieces from every prêt-à-porter collection that year and your favourite book was Middlemarch! You were the modern girl par excellence!’

  Kate, fascinated at this description of herself, was nodding along, rapt to the staccato rhythm of Sue’s speech. ‘You’re not a doilies girl!’ Sue calmed down a little. ‘It’s like you’ve stopped bothering to engage with the real world around you. Do something wild for once. Sleep with someone you shouldn’t. Dance on a table! Stay up all night! You’re becoming an old lady, and you’re still a young woman.’

  Kate raised her hand, as if in a classroom, to make an Important Point. ‘Er –’

  ‘You are. Let me finish.’ Sue waggled a pencil at her. ‘Living with your mother and stepfather, for example. What’s that like?’

  On the verge of defending herself, crossly, Kate was suddenly, irresistibly reminded of her last Saturday before she’d left, when Oscar had held an impromptu piano party, and Mrs Da Costa and the Cohens from down the hall had come, and Maurice the doorman (practically, she was realizing, her best friend in New York) had popped by to say hi and sung, brilliantly, ‘Makin’ Whoopee’, and they’d all had gin fizzes, made by Venetia, and Kate and Oscar had duetted to ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’.

  ‘Oh, my god,’ she said, the scales falling from her eyes.

  ‘And what have you done since you got back? Seen anyone your own age?’

  I don’t like people my own age, Kate wanted to say. Instead she said, crossly, ‘Of course I have. Don’t be so silly. I’ve seen Zoe – and –’

  ‘Zoe? The one on her own with the kids?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that, Sue, we needed to catch up, and –’

  ‘Well, whatever. Woman in a semi-detached making jam and wearing a tabard, that doesn’t count, alright? Anything else?’

  ‘Um – I’ve seen Mr Allan,’ said Kate.

  Sue’s eyes were twinkling, now. ‘Yes, of course. But he’s almost younger than you, dear. He’s gone off to Mallorca, most likely he’ll join a band and stay there, playing to 1830 holidays. Who else?’

  ‘Well, I see Dad and Dani most days. And Lisa –’

  ‘Who’s Lisa?’

  ‘My stepmother.’

  ‘How old?’

  Kate considered this. Lisa was mysterious about her age, but Kate remembered her fortieth had been mentioned as having possibly taken place, a couple of years ago. ‘She’s about forty-two.’

  ‘Right,’ said Sue. ‘So, apart from me, and my recently widowed uncle, and the mum with the kids, the person closest to you in age you’ve been hanging out with is your stepmother. And that’s why this article doesn’t work.’

  More than just the article. Kate’s head sank to her chest, but then suddenly snapped up again.

  ‘Wait, wait!’ she said. ‘My friend Francesca. I saw her.’

  ‘OK,’ said Sue, her eyes lighting up. ‘What’s Francesca do?’

  ‘She’s a banker.’

  ‘Cool. Where did you go?’ said Sue, practically rubbing her hands together.

  ‘Er … we went to Kettners.’

  Sue looked crestfallen. ‘God. Established 1964 or something. This is depressing. And that’s it?’

  Well no, Kate wanted to say to this, I al
so saw Mac, who I think is very likely the love of my life, but he told me he actually kind of hates me, and then I ran out screaming into the streets like a mad woman and that is why the food at the party was not particularly well-prepared, must you keep going on about it?

  Oh, plus, Charly, your old assistant, remember her? Well, she’s writing me letters that keep turning up delivered by hand to my flat. And they’re scary.

  If you knew what I’d seen the day Steve died, if you’d spent the last three years knowing you were responsible for his death, if you’d been told by his widow, your best friend, that it might be best if you leave them all alone and go, if you knew all of that, perhaps, you’d understand why I like hanging out with Mr Allan and hearing about the night he played with some old legend at the 606 club, or singing Dean Martin songs with my stepfather, or walking my four-year-old sister to school.

  Instead, Kate reached across the glass table, and took the article back. She tore it up and threw it in the bin.

  ‘Point taken,’ she said. ‘I’ll rewrite it. You’ll have it by the end of the week.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Sue. She stood up, and shook Kate’s hand. ‘Now go out and get yourself drunk. Or go to a club somewhere. Pick up someone.’

  Kate laughed. ‘Jeez, Sue! If I still worked here, I could have you done for harrassment, you know.’

  Sue ushered her out of the door. ‘You don’t work here,’ she said, handing something to her assistant. ‘Book Orso for lunch, will you? Thanks.’ She pushed Kate gently in the back. ‘I’ll walk you to the lifts.’

  As they walked through the white and grey, light and airy offices of Venus, Kate noticed how much busier it was, filled with more things. Backlist issues lined the shelves; filing cabinets were scuffed; she recognized hardly any faces. The magazine was three years old now, it was practically a senior citizen in the marketplace.

  ‘Look,’ said Sue carelessly. ‘That’s Rachel.’ She pointed towards Kate’s old office.

  ‘She does my old job?’ Kate said, looking at the small, perky blonde girl gesticulating on the phone to someone. She looked up, saw Sue, and waved.