by Nina Manning
London, June 2009
Three months until the wedding
* * *
It’s been three days since I texted Caitlin about the party favours and I have a growing sense of unease. I know she is busy and likes her time to herself when she’s not working, but she didn’t need to sit on that one text all weekend. I feel ignored.
I have Immy to distract me, as she wasn’t feeling well today so has stayed off school. There is absolutely nothing wrong with her as far as I can make out. She just fancied a sneaky day off lessons. Kelly asked if we could watch her, so we said we would have her overnight. I was happy as always to oblige, mothering Immy comes easy to me. Sometimes I am overcome with annoyance at how easy it is. If I can enjoy being a stepmum to Immy, then surely I would manage as a mother to my own child. But that sneaky doubt quickly creeps back in again: am I truly good enough?
I watch Immy now, busy with my old dressing-up box that Mum brought round last time they visited. They had forgotten all about it and had only found it after having a good clear-out in the loft and had thought it would be perfect for Immy. They were right, and she loves to sit amongst it, trying on plastic pearl necklaces and glittery princess shoes. I watch her from the kitchen. I enjoy her being in the moment, no responsibilities or commitments, no issues with friends – at least not real issues just yet. I try to force myself into her mindset, to feel her oneness with the world. It lasts merely a few seconds, as I am thrust back to reality by the pinging of a message. I walk over to my phone and I am surprised to see Caitlin has finally messaged me back.
Been bit tied up this end. Do pop in this afternoon and can discuss more x
Her formality irks me but as usual I put it down to external factors. Caitlin had probably just been with an awkward client – she always has a desk-load of paperwork – or she had come off the phone from a particularly tricky conversation. I try to forget that I sent her the text three days ago.
I look at Immy playing happily. I was intending to be totally present with her today, follow her lead with games. But already I can feel my fingers itching to text Oscar. He said he could leave anytime and be home if I needed to work – he didn’t expect me to look after Immy by myself all day even though he was on site. But I had been adamant that I wanted to and had put all my work commitments to one side to be here with her. But I feel the pull towards Caitlin’s offices on the other side of town. I imagine the praise that Caitlin will offer, her relief that I have swapped the cliché candles for something a little more unique. I do need to get them signed off. I could be there in half an hour and be back to do Immy’s tea and bath.
I quickly text Oscar. I tell him a new client is in the area and I need to pop out for an hour. He replies he will be back as soon as he can, so I pop the kettle on whilst I wait – I can never guarantee getting a drink when I’m at the Miller and Anderton offices. With my tea in hand, I perch on the sofa, making myself available to Immy even though she is immersed in some role-play and hasn’t looked up at me for some time now.
As I watch her, I drift off, trying to remember when I was as small as her and how absorbed I would be with my dressing-up box and Wendy house. I’m almost staring right through her into my past when a glimpse of something in Immy’s hand yanks my attention back. A flash of white and black clutched in a tight fist, holding an object I had once clung to so many times before. I put my tea down on the table next to me and fall to my knees and crawl my way to Immy, listening to her little voice chat away to the character she has created in front of her, and closely inspect the object. It has been years since I have seen it and now my hand flexes as I reach out to grab it.
‘No! Mine!’ she says.
‘Can I just see for a moment, Immy? I’ll give it straight back.’
Immy grimaces, an over-the-top expression. The scowl doesn’t match her tone, and I know it’s just bravado – ‘only-child syndrome’ I dared to joke once, and Oscar had looked forlorn. ‘It’s not her fault she doesn’t have any siblings.’ And I had felt the force of his words.
‘If you promise.’ Immy opens her hand and I take it from her. ‘I promise,’ I say.
It’s almost as though I’ve been thrust back in time as my fingers lace themselves around the ivory structure. The muscle memory is so fierce, I could never forget the feel of such an austere object.
I am surprised to see the skeleton key still attached. I had rubbed my finger over the intricate metalwork so many times. I remember now, thinking back, the way Caitlin had told me how she was to become heir to Saxby and it had thrilled me to my core. As a twelve-year-old girl living amongst a four-hundred-year-old estate, I had been gripped by her narrative of how Ava had been written out of the will. Only now the same story disturbs me. I also remember the months after the key fell into my hands and how distraught Caitlin was. Somehow, I had never found a way to get it back to her.
It is such a unique, yet ugly figurine that as I hold it in my hands and look it over, I actually try to feel where my fingers would have been all those years ago. Even though my hands were slightly smaller then, I can still feel where I pressed my fingers into the crooks so many times. Caitlin would take it and show it off to me, and I would say to her, ‘You need to hide that, someone could see it.’
‘No one will see it,’ she would say. ‘People only see what they want to see around here.’ She spoke with real sincerity, and I remember the look she gave me, as though she knew what she was talking about.
But that was what Caitlin was like when she was younger. She was a daredevil, a thrill seeker. When we moved to Saxby, my parents had imagined a quiet and serene life, a far cry from where I had been raised in Hackney. But when I met Caitlin, I just knew things would become interesting. I felt it in my gut, the first time her hand touched mine in the wildflower meadow.
I can see that Immy has moved on to another game now and hasn’t asked for the key back. I feel compelled to hold on to it, even though it means nothing to me now. Holding the keyring only brings memories of such an intense combination of bittersweet that I can’t decide if I wish to entertain the memories or throw it away and try to forget all about it.
But of course I know that will make no difference, with or without the key, I am already too intrinsically connected with what was behind those locked doors at Saxby.
As I drive through town towards Miller and Anderton, I begin to mull over Caitlin’s three-day silence again. Was her behaviour because she suspected my intentions back when we were in Tsilivi? It was certainly reminiscent of the days at Saxby where when she was annoyed with me, she would say little or nothing to me for hours, and yet I still hung around next to her like a silent playmate. I would follow her around the estate, but she would favour my little brother, Hunter, over me, telling him how funny he was and giving him the key fob to the front electric gate so he could run off and open and shut it a few times – until my dad discovered him and he was marched back to return it. Caitlin’s face would be a look of confusion, pretending to Dad that she had no idea how the fob had got into Hunter’s hands.
I had texted Caitlin before I left to say I would be there around three, but it’s now past that. Oscar had been held up in traffic, which had a knock-on effect on my departure. I know Caitlin won’t leave her office until at least seven anyway, but still, the lateness is a thought that nags at the back of my head. I can imagine the look on Caitlin’s face. She has always been an exceptionally good timekeeper.
As I hit the traffic in central London, I regret my timing as cars honk their frustrations around me, and I feel the beginnings of the need to wee and my stomach protesting about the lack of food since lunch.
I can feel the skull keyring in the pocket of my jean shorts. Seeing it again after so many years has brought more memories to the surface. The years I spent at Saxby are so heavily engrained in my psyche that I could close my eyes right now and transport myself back there. I only have to smell fresh lavender and immediately I’ll be sitting in the wildflower meadow;
if I drink elderflower cordial, I’m back in the kitchen of the cottage with Mum playfully swiping for me as I go over my daily ration. But I’m not at Saxby, I am driving my silver Peugeot 3008, which I had proudly bought this year with profits from Space Consultancy, through London on my way to see Caitlin.
I pull the car down a side street, a few yards from Miller and Anderton, and try to steady my breath as I see the time is now almost 4 p.m. When Oscar finally arrived, I had just jumped into the car and drove, and I never use my phone in the car, so I quickly text Caitlin now, an apology for the traffic and tell her I’m on my way up.
Miller and Anderton have the whole top floor of a huge, modern glass-and-mirrors building in Farringdon. I am still baffled as to why Caitlin felt the need to invest so much time and energy into a business when she could retire on the profits from Saxby, which still sits there, empty of visitors. Poor Josephine passed last year and so everything that Caitlin knew had been coming to her was now hers. And yet since then, she has showed little interest and hasn’t talked about what she could do with it, not even once. Caitlin had visited her grandma there regularly until she died, and I even believe she was there with her when Josephine took her final breath. I have brought up Saxby a few times with Caitlin over the last few months, even suggesting we hold the wedding there, but she dismissed it immediately and I could tell she didn’t want to discuss it. I never pushed for an explanation. I presumed since Josephine’s passing, the house had little else to offer her.
There is a caretaker couple who look after it now, much like my parents did when they worked there. They have a young child who has the run of the grounds all year round, and I often try to think how that child feels with all that space and freedom. Do they feel as lucky as I did for all those years?
I know Caitlin has her reasons for not wanting to return, but I wish I could be sure of them. I always imagined her residing there as an adult, only working a little in London to tide her over and cover the estate bills.
I sometimes imagine myself back there too, walking amongst the grounds, which would no doubt be alive with memories of our childhood. But after my family and I left when I was sixteen, Caitlin never did invite me back there again, and whenever I asked after the huge estate, Caitlin would always say she had ‘popped’ in to visit Granny. I didn’t dare to linger over the matter that Saxby was a two-hundred-mile round journey from where Caitlin lived in London.
But something is keeping Caitlin away now, even though it all belongs to her. I wonder if that will change when she marries Chuck. I wonder if he will have some influence on what she does with it.
I take the lift to the highest floor and arrive at the bright blue-and-white reception area. The receptionist’s long oval desk sits in the middle like an island, clusters of plush white chairs have been placed with intention around the perimeter. I know Caitlin and Mabel are busy all the time, and I know they are a commercial firm, but I really don’t know or wish to know any more. Fortunately, Caitlin has never offered up any more information about her day-to-day responsibilities, but this seems to be Caitlin’s life, and even more so since Josephine died and she became engaged to Chuck. I had trouble pinning her down before, but now she spends so much of her life in her office or at meetings with clients that we rarely spend any time together. Which is why, now I am here, I am glad, not only to get the wedding favours finalised, but because surely it will be nice to just spend a bit of time together. After all, that’s what best friends do.
The receptionist, who I know is called Elspeth from the countless times I’ve stopped by with muffins and coffee for Caitlin, beams at me from behind the desk, showing me her pearly white teeth. She speaks with an endearing lisp, which makes her seem even younger than the millennial that she is.
‘She’s just finishing up with a client, and I’ll buzz her as soon as she’s done. Do you want to take a seat?’ Elspeth gives me one of her winning smiles.
I thank her and distract myself by flicking through some magazines. Most are too high end for me – Nobleman and Affinity – but I spot a Grazia, grab it, and sink into a chair and immerse myself in an article about summer sandals.
I lift my head for a moment when I sense someone approaching. I presume it will be Caitlin, but I’m shocked to see it’s Ava. I can see she has come from the direction of Caitlin’s office and is about to pass me on her way to the lifts. Immediately my senses are on high alert. Ava is not the sort of mother who would pop in to see her daughter at work – besides, she lives in Surrey. I can only presume she had some wedding issue to discuss with her. Even though she must be at least sixty years old, Ava doesn’t have one grey streak in her still very dark hair. She looks as well presented as she always did; today she is wearing a light grey suit jacket and trousers, but that hard, steely look hasn’t changed in years.
I sink down into my chair and raise the magazine over my face. I let my eyes scan across the top of the magazine to steal a gaze at her. Even though she has always made me feel uncomfortable, I am still intrigued by her as she glides past me, her chin raised an inch more than anyone else, and I notice a wry smile has escaped and is etching across her lips. I can’t be certain she has seen me, but it’s an expression I recognise from my childhood; when she thought she had bamboozled me. I wait until she has left the reception and hear the lift doors open and close again before I stand and straighten myself out. Elspeth is holding the phone receiver in one hand and gives me a wave to let me know that I can go through.
I feel the familiar fizz in my tummy as I approach Caitlin’s office, the power relationship between us that began as children has seamlessly followed us into adulthood. The first thing I notice when I enter through the open door is that the blind is drawn on the large glass window that looks out towards the corridor, something I know she does when she is with a difficult or important client and doesn’t want anyone to see the drama unfolding inside. I instantly begin to imagine what dramas might have taken place with Ava moments before I arrived.
The second thing I notice is that Caitlin isn’t in the room. She must have stepped out for a moment.
Caitlin’s office is bigger than my front room and kitchen combined and with only a desk, a sofa and chair in here, I always feel as though I want to perform a cartwheel across the room to emphasise the space. The only time I offered to do this, Caitlin looked at me with complete horror. ‘Don’t worry, Cait, I would never embarrass you in front of your posh work colleagues,’ I’d said, and I had watched as her face morphed into an expression I couldn’t fathom, but wondered if it was shame. Shame that I was her friend, maybe? It was times like these when all our obvious differences would sit heavily at the forefront of our friendship, selfishly pushing away everything that had bonded us over the years.
I find myself walking across the room, naturally drawn to the light of the window behind where Caitlin has situated her desk. I look out onto the high street below, a fairly mediocre view. Caitlin has been here for several years and I wonder if she ever considers moving offices so she can enjoy more gratifying scenery. But then I think of how little time she spends outdoors these days and how the gardens and woodland of Saxby no longer bring her joy; maybe she is happy with the no-frills working environment.
I gaze down at her bespoke Italian mahogany desk, and out of respect only briefly allow my eyes to scan across it. There are only a few paper files, closed and lined neatly next to one another, and the thick sterling silver fountain pen I have seen her use for signing documents sits a few inches in a perfect vertical line away by itself. I notice the only desk drawer is open slightly, and I let my gaze fall upon the contents. A few pieces of writing paper, a few more pens and tucked underneath, just poking out, a photograph. Only half a face is revealed but it’s one I recognise – I had seen it often enough as a child. There is a manicured hand slung over the shoulder within the half of the photograph I can see. My fingertips ignite, only inches away from the image because I want to confirm my initial recognition and discover wh
o the arm belongs to. I steal a glance at the doorway and listen for footsteps, then I arch my body so I can slip the photo out as though I’m not actually committing to the act. I pinch the edge and pull it out another couple of inches. Then I see the two beaming faces of Caitlin and Hackett. It must be a fairly recent photo as Caitlin is sporting her recent cropped locks. It looks like a selfie from the angle and it has been taken outside, a blur of green and browns in the background. I imagine Caitlin on a visit back to Saxby, grabbing Hackett for a snap. I hadn’t imagined he would still be working there, and I wonder if Caitlin had paid him a personal visit to his house in the village on one of her rare excursions back to Dorset.
A clearing of a throat causes my fingers to let go of the photo. I look at the doorway, my heart pounding in my throat.
‘Ah, you’re here.’ Caitlin is wearing a white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt. She isn’t wearing shoes, which is why I didn’t hear her. I now spot a pair of black stilettos under the desk, which I step away from. She walks towards me, a large black folder in her hand.
‘I was about to leave you a note, wasn’t sure if you were coming back,’ I say, hoping that explains why I am so close to her desk.
‘Sorry about that, Mabel needed me to…’ Caitlin trails off as she arrives behind her desk and looks down at the open drawer. Then she looks up at me, her eyes assessing me momentarily. ‘… Anyway, I’m here now.’ She gives the drawer a firm shove with her leg and looks up at me with an inquiring smile.
I walk around and flop into the soft chair opposite. I wonder if this is where Ava had been sat minutes earlier. Should I apologise again for being late? Then I remind myself how long it took Caitlin to respond to my text and how she answered it as though she had read it seconds before.
Caitlin takes a deep breath in, opens the file she is carrying, flicks through a few pages, then slams it shut. I’m about to speak again, when she cuts in before me.
