by Maeve Haran
‘Can you save roots?’ Suze enquired, deciding that there had been more than enough emotion. ‘I have this mental picture of Cameron with an armful of swedes and turnips.’
Stella looked at her quellingly. ‘Didn’t you live just off the Brighton Road?’
Cameron nodded. ‘Acacia Avenue. Talk about classic suburbia. I didn’t even know it was called after some yellow flower till I was twenty-one.’
‘We should go back there one day. Take a look.’
‘Maybe. I always swore I’d avoid it like the plague.’
‘Cameron,’ Duncan gestured towards the Airstream, ‘some things we need to iron out.’
After they’d left, Debora sat down in Cameron’s place. ‘That was rather a rosy picture, I’m afraid. The truth is his dad was a drunk, but Cameron’s sort of canonized him anyway. He died when Cameron was twelve, so I think he needs to believe this stuff. And his dad did seem to love him.’
‘That’s really sad. I didn’t know any of that. He still had a mum, though?’
‘Yes, she died a couple of years ago but his dad was the one. So,’ she deliberately lightened the mood, ‘I hope you’re all coming to the Roundhouse? Duncan invited Jesse and Dora, and guess what, Cameron’s just asked Bernie, his new father figure. It’s going to be quite a party!’
Stella thought guiltily about Emma and how she must include her daughter and son-in-law as well. She’d forgotten Emma and her problems in all the excitement of the campaign. She realized with a sinking heart that she probably ought to call her and ask her how things were going. ‘If it’s not too outrageous to ask, could Izzy come too, or is she too young?’
‘I’m sure venues like that are used to it,’ Debora reassured. ‘Rock legends tend to go in for flocks of offspring. I heard one boasting that he had children between the ages of forty-four and six months!’
‘Any news of Roxy and the famous Fabia? Still no word?’
‘Don’t worry. Fabia specializes in making entrances. Usually at the most inconvenient moment.’
Six
————
Stella sat in her nice warm kitchen, the cosiest room in the house and the one, apart from her studio, she truly considered to be hers, admiring the bunch of roses from her garden on the kitchen table and savouring her first cup of coffee in her favourite dark green cup. She tried not to think about how much she had to do today.
The owner of the three pugs was quite rightly fretting about when her painting would be delivered, Stella hadn’t even finished the louche lurcher, and the first vintage market was happening frighteningly soon. They had put the outdoor cinema on hold for the moment, and there was still the bric-a-brac and food stalls to get underway. Far more important, dwarfing all these other concerns, was the question of what she was going to wear to the concert.
She and Suze had already had several sessions going through their respective wardrobes.
‘How about that slinky black dress from Zara with your black leather jacket with the studs on?’ Suze had suggested.
‘I haven’t worn that jacket in thirty years.’
‘Why do you hang on to it, then?’
‘Sentimental value. Because of the good times I had in it. Besides, Emma might want it.’
‘Emma!’ Suze had snorted. ‘Emma is the acme of subtle understatement. Only the Farrow and Ball palette for Emma, all the way from cream to daring taupe. If she wore a colour she’d probably faint. And as for studded black leather . . .’
‘That’s because she wouldn’t want to look like an ageing rock chick and neither do I!’
They sat happily flicking through magazines for inspiration.
‘Oh look, Stella! She’s wearing your hat!’
And indeed there was a lovely young girl in a huge floppy felt hat the spit of the Biba one Stella had loved so much at eighteen.
‘Can it really be forty-seven years ago?’ Suze demanded. ‘Do you remember when we couldn’t even imagine being forty?’
‘But that was when forty was old. Now even sixty isn’t old – or so we tell ourselves!’
In the end they’d hit on a simple electric-blue silk which Suze had insisted she wear with a green taffeta jacket.
‘Green with blue?’ Stella had protested. ‘Do they really go?’
‘Stella Ainsworth, you are sounding like your mother! “Blue and green should never be seen . . .”’
‘“. . . without a colour in between!”’
‘No wonder everyone looked so dull in the Fifties with rules like that!’
She stood behind Stella as they peered together into the long mirror. Actually, Stella had to agree, somehow the clashing colours worked with the shade of her hair. ‘Anyway, you’re a muse! If you’re not breaking the rules, God help the rest of us! I suppose you could always go in a tasteful two-piece.’
‘Heaven forbid I actually look my age!’ Stella shook her head.
For herself Suze chose a Ghost dress in black chiffon with giant flowers appliqued on it, teamed with rather ambitious high heels.
Muse or not, Stella decided, she would leave the ridiculously high heels to her friend. She might want to cut a dash but she insisted on doing it in comfort.
Matthew mostly kept his overt disapproval of their Save the High Street schemes to himself, apart from announcing that flogging tat and showing romcoms, even French ones like Amélie, would hardly be a drop in the ocean against dilapidation and crass development. What the council really wanted in the area, he insisted, as if he were the only person who’d been privileged with this information, was cheap office space.
Stella decided that between bludgeoning him to death with the briefcase he had started carrying everywhere and ignoring him, the latter was probably the better option.
But only just.
‘I will not let his negative energy bring me down,’ Stella repeated her new mantra to herself. This and sitting on the floor doing her mindfulness exercises was keeping her chakra, or maybe her karma, or even her dharma, God alone knew which, open to calm and peace.
Only today it wasn’t working. She was halfway through taking deep breaths, hand on abdomen, and letting her mind empty of all distracting thoughts, when the doorbell rang. She thought of ignoring it but her inner being wasn’t sufficiently evolved to let her.
It turned out to be Cameron, which was a surprise as, for the last few days, he had kept himself to himself, only allowing Matthew into the inner sanctum of the Airstream to reminisce about sax solos and chord sequences. And now Bernie, the replacement father figure, had been granted admittance as well. Stella wondered if Bernie knew how honoured he was.
Perhaps he’d come for a cup of sugar (did anyone really ever ask for a cup of sugar?) or a pint of milk? The thought of Cameron actually going to a shop and purchasing such things did rather stretch the imagination. Usually he called up Duncan or even his PR to run his errands, no matter how high-powered a meeting they were in.
‘Morning, Stella.’ In the time since his sudden arrival she’d begun to get to know his moods and had to admit that he looked more than usually rough today. He had several days’ stubble blurring his chin and the front of his hair stood up in tufts like a parrot that had been plucking out its feathers.
‘Are you OK, Cameron?’
‘Never better. Do you happen to have any tonic water? Not that crap diet stuff. Proper Indian tonic water. In a glass bottle preferably.’
‘I’ll go and have a look.’ Given that it was only nine in the morning, Stella hoped it was for indigestion or a minor stomach upset. They did say flat Coke was good for calming the digestion. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’
She disappeared off to the larder, wondering whether to call Debora or pretend they were out of tonic water.
In the end she found half a bottle which was probably flat anyway. She’d ring Debora as soon as he’d left.
‘I must admit, Stella, you’ve made this room very pleasant.’
‘Thank you.’ She handed the bottle over t
o him.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any lemons?’
This was definitely a bad sign. ‘Afraid not,’ she lied, hoping he didn’t spot the lemons on the worktop.
Cameron’s glance alighted on a bowl of tangerines. ‘Would you mind if I pinched a few of these?’ He helped himself to a handful. He was just about to leave when the kitchen door opened and Emma appeared. Despite her usual soigné appearance, her eyes were red and she was holding Ruby.
‘Oh,’ she blurted, as if she might disappear as quickly as she’d come. ‘I didn’t know you had company.’
‘Emma, this is Cameron Keene.’ Emma almost dropped the baby. ‘I expect you’ve heard of him. My daughter Emma, and my delicious granddaughter Ruby.’
Ruby waved her hands gleefully and Cameron suddenly bent down and kissed her bare feet. ‘I love them when they’re this age. Before they can answer back.’
‘Do you have children of your own?’ asked Emma, taken aback.
‘Only four.’ He shook his head as if, in the annals of rock musicians, this was akin to the Chinese one-baby rule.
‘Five,’ Stella corrected automatically. She was beginning to sound like his wife.
‘Gosh.’
He clambered back to his feet. ‘I hope you’re coming to the launch of my tour at the Roundhouse.’
‘When is it?’
‘Next Thursday. Your mother’s coming. Bring the family. You can all come in the Artists’ Bar. You get a really good view. And free drink.’ He looked at Ruby. ‘Maybe not the baby.’
‘And you’re doing a concert for Camley too? In our garden!’
‘Bit of a fundraiser. For your mother’s scheme. Bring the old ’hood back to life – though, God knows, it was dull enough in my day.’
‘Mine too,’ agreed Emma. ‘Do you remember Sundays? How everything was closed.’
‘You don’t know what boredom even means!’ Stella was about to insist, and stopped herself. What was the feminine equivalent of an old codger?
‘Good. See you there.’ Cameron headed off with his tonic water and his tangerines.
‘God, Mum,’ Emma complained as soon as Cameron had left, ‘your life’s more exciting than mine!’
‘If you mean having a rock star in residence, I can assure you it’s a mixed blessing.’
‘Not just that – this campaign, a concert in your garden, your pet painting! You can see why I had to get out of the house or I’d go mad.’
‘Yes,’ Stella could see that Emma was upset and didn’t need her mother to disapprove of her choices, ‘though I’m at a very different stage of life to you. You could get involved in the campaign too, you know,’ she offered eagerly. ‘We’d love to have you. You’d be brilliant at it.’
‘Then I’d still be dependent on Stuart. I need some independence and some money of my own.’
‘And how’s it going?’
‘It’s brilliant!’ Emma’s face lit up. ‘I’m really enjoying it. Hal’s being terrific, letting me be really flexible.’
Stella wondered how to ask the next question without starting another argument. ‘And how are the children getting on?’
‘Absolutely fine,’ Emma insisted in a tone that didn’t brook further discussion. ‘Ruby loves her childminder. Jesse’s infatuated with this Isadora. And Izzy’ – she hesitated for a fraction of a second – ‘Izzy’s fine too.’
‘And Stuart?’
Her daughter’s happy face darkened. ‘Oh well, Stuart’s always working anyway.’
‘And how’s the thera—’ She had been going to ask about the couples counselling but realized that, quite possibly, she wasn’t supposed to know about it.
‘The therapy?’ Emma demanded angrily. ‘How the hell did you know about that?’
‘I just deduced from what one of the children said.’
‘We’re giving it up, as a matter of fact.’
‘Oh dear, is that a good idea?’ It sounded to Stella as though this was the moment they really needed it.
‘Just keep out, Mum!’ Emma flashed back furiously. ‘We’ll sort this out ourselves.’
Stella picked up her coffee cup and began washing it up. It was so hard being a parent, let alone a grandparent! You so desperately wanted your children and grandchildren to be happy and not perpetuate the mistakes you’d made. And yet your advice was never welcome. But were there times when it was your duty to speak out?
Not sure if she was being cowardly, Stella decided that this wasn’t one of them. ‘It’d be lovely if you all came to the concert. Maybe we can even tempt Stuart away from his asylum seekers for once.’
‘I’ll see if I can get a babysitter for Ruby,’ Emma replied in a flat voice. She found her bag and had begun to lift Ruby onto her shoulder, when she suddenly remembered why she’d come.
‘By the way,’ she asked, almost awkwardly, given their argument. ‘Could you possibly have Ruby for the day on Tuesday? The childminder’s got to take her own kids to the dentist.’
‘I’d be delighted. She can come with me to the new studio. You’d like to see all Grandma’s paintings of doggies, wouldn’t you, Ruby?’
Ruby wriggled her toes enthusiastically. Tentatively, Stella and her daughter smiled.
When Emma had gone, Stella sighed, changed her mantra to ‘I will not let anyone’s negative energy bring me down’, and then decided that was a bit unfair. Emma was normally a good mother. But what were you supposed to do when your children brought you their problems but wouldn’t let you suggest even the smallest solution? It struck her that actually Emma hadn’t brought the problem, Stella had picked it up from Jesse and Izzy. And anyway, people never listened to advice, no matter how good it was. Had she even done so herself? And what about all that stuff about being allowed to make your own mistakes? The trouble was when it was your own flesh and blood making the mistake, and maybe wrecking her marriage, and hurting her own children into the bargain, it took the patience of Job to just stand by and do nothing. Besides, she’d always thought Job’s patience highly overrated.
Debora was fortunately still at the hotel, helping Duncan and the tour manager with all the last-minute arrangements, double checking the extra musicians, the buses and hotels, lighting, staging and security at every venue on the tour from Glasgow to Brighton. Stella could imagine Debora’s supremely unflappable nature was very welcome indeed.
‘Debora, it’s Stella. Sorry to interrupt, but I’m a bit worried about Cameron. He’s just come round and borrowed tonic water and tangerines.’
‘Did you say tangerines?’ Debora enquired. ‘Shit, that is bad.’ ‘Why are tangerines bad?’ Stella felt she had fallen into a topsy-turvy world where normally good things were suddenly harmful. ‘He’s not allergic, is he?’ She had memories of ghastly children’s parties where some wretched child would announce after scoffing a peanut butter sandwich that they were nut intolerant and they would go into anaphylactic shock any moment and have to be rushed to A & E.
‘He only uses tangerine peel in emergencies.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘It means he’s drinking gin and tonic. At nine-thirty a.m.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’ll come right round. At least I know where I am with drink. The heroin was a bastard.’
Suddenly life in suburbia didn’t seem that boring after all.
Less than half an hour later, Debora was on the doorstep. To Stella’s astonishment she removed a portable drip from the car which she had managed to blag from a private hospital that specialized in boob jobs and liposuction. Maybe Cameron would be the only known case of having fat piped back into him.
‘Debora,’ Stella demanded, ‘what the hell is that?’
‘Deathbed relief. It’s what med students use when they’ve been out on the town and have to be back on the ward with no sleep and more alcohol in their bloodstream than Oliver Reed.’
‘What on earth’s in it?’
‘Intravenous rehydration. When you drink one p
int of beer you pee out two pints of liquid. That’s why you get that headache from hell. This puts back all the salts and stuff. Potassium, calcium, anti-nausea and all that shit. Let’s hide it in the kitchen and see if he needs it.’
Once the rehydration unit was safely hidden, they knocked on the door of the Airstream.
After a moment or two Cameron opened it. His new friend Bernie sat at the small table, a half-bottle of Bombay Sapphire in front of him. The tonic was finished but two of the three tangerines remained.
‘Good morning, ladies, come to check up on the old winos, have we?’ There was a dangerous glint in Cameron’s eye, but his speech was clear and he didn’t seem to be at all the worse for wear. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ He gestured to the table where a black-and-white photo was propped up against the empty tonic bottle rather like a little altar. ‘Bernie brought round that photograph of my dad and we were just having a little toast to him.’
‘Isn’t that nice?’ Debora, though not one hundred per cent convinced of his innocence, smiled at them both in her all-embracing motherly way. ‘I’m sure he’d appreciate being saluted in gin before it’s even time for a coffee break.’
‘Oh, my dad could put it away, believe me. He carried two bottles in his work bag, one of vodka and the other of white spirit.’
‘I never knew that!’ protested Bernie. ‘He hid it bloody well.’
Debora and Stella glanced at each other, sharing the thought that it must have been tough for Cameron even if he did love his dad, if he’d been that far gone. ‘Let’s hope he didn’t ever mix them up,’ Debora said brightly. ‘Now, I hate to break up the party, but you’re needed over at The Glebe.’
‘I’ll drop you there, if you like,’ Stella offered. ‘I need to go out anyway. We can give Bernie a lift on the way.’
While Cameron and Bernie readied themselves, Stella and Debora headed back to the house.
‘Apologies for the false alarm,’ Stella whispered.
‘Better to be safe than sorry. I’d only worry if they’d got to the third tangerine.’
‘How did you ever cope with all the dramas?’ Stella asked in genuine admiration. ‘Heroin, Hallelujah. Roxanne.’
