by Lisa Jewell
She shrugged. ‘OK,’ she said.
He smiled, and the smile took the breath out of her. It was real and sincere. It was, she felt, utterly without guile, a rare sighting of the real Dom Jones. And she liked it. She felt an overwhelming compulsion to jump to her feet and squeeze him hard. Instead she laughed.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘nothing.’
He smiled at her again, that sweet sincere smile and she smiled back. And then, after a round of hugs and kisses and nibbles of various children’s fairy cakes, he was gone into the summer evening, off to be a pop star.
The party was a crashing disappointment, lots of people talking about schools and nannies and restaurants with Michelin stars in Chelsea. Betty made her excuses at 11 p.m. and headed up for bed. She peered through the window of her bedroom (a boxroom next to the baby’s room) at the street below. The pavement was pooled in yellow light from the ornate Victorian streetlamps, and Primrose Hill itself was bathed in blue, a luscious swell of bucolic splendour rising from the heart of north London. And there they were, like rats in jackets, the paparazzi, hoping for something shocking to splash all over the front pages of the Sunday papers. Betty felt like opening the window and shouting out, ‘Go home! They’re all really boring!’ But instead she climbed into her pyjamas and got into bed.
It took her a while to fall asleep that night, the sounds of the bass from the sound system banging through the bones of the house and into the very marrow of her. She eventually dropped off at about midnight and when she woke up an hour and a half later, her first thought was that one of the children must have set off the monitor and disturbed her, but then she realised there was someone in her room. She sat bolt upright and searched for the light-switch with her hand.
‘Ssh,’ said a voice, ‘it’s just me. It’s just Amy.’
Betty groaned and croaked, ‘What? Are the kids OK?’
Amy took a few steps towards Betty’s bed. ‘Kids are fine,’ she said. ‘I just went in and checked on them.’
‘Oh,’ said Betty, running her hands down her bed-messed hair and rubbing her eyes. ‘Good.’
‘They look so beautiful when they’re asleep,’ Amy breathed, perching herself gently on the edge of Betty’s bed.
Betty pulled herself up into a full sitting position and moved towards the wall.
‘Like angels. You think you couldn’t love them any more. You think you’re going to die of it. Their beauty. Their innocence. Their little hands curled up into those tiny fists. And then they wake up the next morning, and Jesus fucking Christ, you wonder why the fuck you ever had them.’
She laughed and then sighed. ‘I don’t really mean that,’ she said. ‘Of course I don’t. It’s just, you know, they’re all so little and I don’t really know them yet, and I know that one day, when they’re older – you know, proper little people – I’ll be so so grateful I had them, but right now ...’ she sighed again. ‘Jeez. I dunno. It’s such hard work. Even with my beloved Betty.’
She squeezed Betty’s hand under the duvet and smiled into the darkness, and now that Betty’s eyes had adjusted to the dark she could see that Amy was drunk. Or if not drunk, incredibly stoned.
‘What would I do without you, my wonderful Betty? You know, I do honestly believe that my husband is a humungous prick of the highest order, but he got it right with you. I’ll give him that. That was a good call. Good call, Dom!’ She paused and stared at Betty. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Betty smiled awkwardly. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said. ‘It’s a pleasure. Your children are great.’
‘Aren’t they?’ smiled Amy. ‘And you know, shit, I watch you with them and I think, shit, why can’t I be like that with them? Why can’t I just be patient and kind and gentle like that? Like Betty? You’re a special girl, Betty Dean. A very special girl. You know, forget the two-week trial. Seriously. I’m sold. I’ll sort you out on a salary from Monday. OK?’
Betty nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
And then Amy slowly lowered her face towards Betty’s and kissed her gently on her cheek.
Betty froze.
Amy stroked her hair away from her face.
‘Sleep tight, pretty Betty,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
She paused and stared at Betty dreamily for a moment, before squeezing her shoulder and tiptoeing quietly from her room.
The following morning it was as if the whole thing had been a dream. Amy came down just after eleven, showered and bleary-eyed, dressed in a vintage summer dress and slippers, her titian hair woven into two plaits. Betty and the children were in the garden playing in the sandpit.
‘Good morning, my lovely children,’ she called from the kitchen doorway where she was clutching a mug of coffee and a strip of painkillers. ‘Good morning, Betty.’
Betty smiled at her brightly. ‘Morning!’
‘How was your night?’
‘Fine,’ said Betty. ‘Fine. Astrid woke up at three for a bottle, Acacia woke up at four for a cuddle and Donovan was standing in my doorway at quarter to six, ready to start the day.’
‘Oh God, poor you.’
Betty shrugged. ‘It’s fine. I thought it would be worse to be honest.’
Amy popped two pills from the strip and knocked them back with a gulp of coffee. ‘You’re a star,’ she said. ‘A total star. I’m taking the kids to Kate’s for lunch today, so you can go home then, say about twelve thirty?’
Betty smiled again. ‘Great.’
‘Great,’ echoed Amy.
And then she was gone.
53
1921
Dear Lilian,
Well, to say that I miss you all would be a statement of extraordinary inadequacy. I miss all of you, every moment of every day (except, perhaps, your younger brothers!). I miss London, I miss the buses and the motorcars, the noise and the smell. I miss parties with Minu, and the music. I really do miss the music. How are you all? How are the building works going? I suppose it will be a long time before the house is ready for you all to move back in. But then, an apartment in Hyde Park is likely a fine compensation for you all in the meantime.
I am sorry that I left so suddenly and without proper farewells. And now that I am away from everything, I feel I can share with you the exact reasons for my disappearance. I overheard Godfrey having a conversation with a young girl about their unborn baby. She gave him back a sum of money that he had given her to deal with the situation and told him that she ‘couldn’t do it’. Now I, more than most, can understand that, as you know. It is no one’s fault. I left Godfrey without explanation, he owed me nothing. And this poor girl is just doing what she feels is right. There is no one to blame, no one to be angry with, but Godfrey has to be free to do the right thing with regard to this girl and he won’t be able to do that easily with me in the picture.
So, here I am, back where I started. My mother is so happy to have me back. Already my time in London feels like a dream. Travel really is just a momentary pause in the ongoing rhythm of real life. Nothing changes. Not really. But, Lilian, I need you to do something for me. Please would you stay in touch with Godfrey? I want to know that he is well and happy, that his baby comes without any drama, that he finds a way through this. Please? As far as I know he will be in London for the whole of the summer. I still love him so very much, and I know I always will.
Love and best wishes to you all,
Your friend,
Arlette.
Dearest Arlette,
How shocking! Your dilemma is clear and I hate to say it but I think you have done the right thing. Poor Godfrey. Poor you. Poor little baby. It should all have been so very different, I feel.
I did see Godfrey last week. Minu and I went to a Love Brothers show at the Blue Butterfly. He looked very sad, his eyes like the eyes of an orphaned Spaniel. I can’t tell you.
Anyway, I did talk to him after the show. I told him that you’d written, that you were well. He did not mention a
baby, but I did see a young girl sitting in the wings, knitting something in white wool. I took her to be the young lady in question. But I was not introduced. The whole affair seems very much steeped in sadness and consolation.
We are all well. The house is very far from being repaired. I cannot bear to look at it when I return on occasion to visit Philip.
Fondest love to you, my friend,
Lilian
Dearest Lilian,
Thank you so much for your report and I’m sorry I have not written for so long. Mother was taken ill, a bout of terrible bronchitis, and I have spent these last weeks going back and forth to the sanatorium. Thank goodness I was here. I feel more than ever I made the right decision. Although, if I can share with you a terrible truth, every time I think of Godfrey I feel so angry at the world, at my mother, at the unfairness of everything.
Please send more news, of you, the family, and of course Godfrey, whenever you get a minute.
Yours,
Arlette
Dearest Arlette,
Well, I start with joyful news. Philip has asked me to marry him and I have accepted! I will become Mrs Philip Love. Is that not the most charming name, worth marrying for that alone! I will be having a joint twentieth birthday party and engagement party in September. If your mother is feeling better and you can face the journey back to London, it would be so super if you were to be there. It will be a really happy, splendid night. One I feel we could all do with after the many sadnesses of the last year.
As for Godfrey, I have not seen him, but I hear he is off on tour again. And Minu saw him a couple of weeks ago and apparently he mentioned that he has a new girl and a baby on the way. He said it is due in November. But more than that, Minu did not ask and I do not know. He asked after you. She said he still has the sad eyes. And that his music is more piquant than ever.
Sweet dreams, my lovely friend, and best wishes to your dear mother from my dear mother,
Lilian
Dearest Lilian,
Oh, my dear friend! I have been dancing with joy at your news! Philip seems such a good man and you will be the loveliest, sweetest little wife. You already have so much practice in running a home. Where will you live? Oh, I’m sure it will be somewhere utterly divine. You two lucky people, I could not be happier. Whether or not I will be able to make it across for your engagement party remains to be seen. I will most definitely do everything I can, be assured of that much.
I wish that I could write and say that my heart is healing, that I am missing Godfrey less, but that would not be true. My mother and her family are forever introducing me to nice chaps, really, perfectly nice chaps. But I see them, and their bland faces and their small lives – some have never left the island, you know – and I cannot bear for that to be the end of it. There has to be more, don’t you think? Well, for me at least. And as long as I shall live, I will always know, deep in my heart, that the best has passed me by, in a terrible chaos of tragedy and bad luck. Nothing will ever compare, I shall live out my life in a state of pitiful resignation.
Best regards, my dear girl,
Arlette
54
1995
‘ARE YOU DECENT?’
Betty stood outside the front door of her flat and waited for a response.
‘I am fully clothed,’ John shouted out.
She turned her key in the lock and walked in. John was on the sofa in a white polo shirt and jeans, his hair freshly washed and messed up, his feet bare, watching a TV presenter, who’d been at Amy’s party the night before, lasciviously interviewing Louise Wener from Sleeper on the television.
Betty laughed. ‘Met him last night,’ she said drily.
John raised a minutely interested eyebrow at her. He pointed at Louise Wener. ‘Did you meet her?’
Betty shook her head and John sighed dramatically. ‘Shame.’
Betty smiled again and headed for the kettle. ‘Tea?’
‘Let me,’ said John, leaping to his feet.
‘No,’ said Betty. ‘You sit. You’re ill.’
‘I am not ill,’ he said. ‘I am recovering.’
‘Well, all the more reason to take it easy,’ she said, filling the kettle with water.
John sighed and sat down again. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I was thinking. It’s a beautiful day. And I’m so grateful to you for everything you’ve done. I’d really like to repay you. I’d really like to take you out to lunch. In fact ...’ he blushed slightly, ‘I’ve taken the liberty of packing a picnic.’ He stood up and opened the fridge. ‘I got sushi, do you like sushi?’
She shrugged and said, ‘I’ve never tried it.’
‘Oh, well, I also got some champagne.’
‘But you can’t drink.’
He grimaced. ‘Champagne,’ he said, ‘is not drink. Well, not where I come from, anyway. So, smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels, and look ...’ he pulled out a tiny glass jar, ‘some caviar.’
Betty blinked. ‘Wow,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ he said, scratching his chin, ‘I know. I went a bit OTT, but you know, I never get a day off. This is my first free Sunday in over a year, so I just thought ... well ...’ He closed the fridge door and looked slightly embarrassed.
‘Thank you,’ said Betty. ‘Seriously. That is amazing.’ She was about to say, ‘No one has ever bought champagne for me before,’ but stopped herself as she remembered that someone had. Dom had. At the Groucho. That awful night when he’d cried those big crocodile tears, squeezed her bum and called her ‘the nanny’. She shook the memory from her thoughts and said, ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Green Park?’
‘Lovely,’ she said, ‘I’ll have a shower and put on a nice dress.’
‘And listen,’ John called out to her retreating back, ‘I want you to know, I’ve already lined up some places to view tomorrow. I won’t be hanging around. OK? In case you were worried?’
Betty turned and smiled at him. ‘I wasn’t worried,’ she said.
*
If there had ever been a more beautiful Sunday afternoon in the entire history of Sunday afternoons, Betty would have been very surprised indeed.
The sky was an electric blue and scattered with puffy clouds that passed across the sun at convenient intervals as though it was their job to stop sunbathers from overheating. After they’d eaten their picnic on a bath towel and drunk champagne from mugs, Betty and John rented deck chairs, which they turned at angles to face the sun.
‘Now, this is the life,’ said John, stretching out his legs and smiling into the sun.
‘Not secretly wishing you were at a record fair, then?’
‘Oh, well, yeah. Obviously I’d rather be in a big dusty hall in the suburbs with a load of lonely guys in stale T-shirts ...’
‘... buying Ultravox picture discs ...’
‘Buying Ultravox picture discs. But this will do. This will very much do.’
He pulled a Discman from his jacket pocket and plugged in some headphones. ‘Wanna share?’ he said, offering her an earpiece.
‘Depends what you’re listening to,’ she said.
‘Ultravox, of course.’
She raised an eyebrow at him and he smiled.
He returned her smile. ‘What do you want to listen to?’
He passed her a small leather case full of CDs out of their boxes and she looked at him curiously. ‘You thought of everything,’ she said.
‘I certainly did,’ he said, watching her leaf through the pages of discs.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘let’s listen to this one.’
It was an album by the Chemical Brothers. She chose it because she liked the title, Exit Planet Dust.
‘Good choice,’ he said, looking at her with respect. ‘Their first album. Only just came out yesterday.’
Betty nodded seriously, as if of course she knew that, as if she was a big fat muso, just like him.
He put the disc in the player and passed her an earpiece, then he turned up the volum
e and for the next hour they sat just like that, side by side, their arms hanging at their sides, the sun playing on their skin, the breathtaking, mind-blowing sound of Chemical Brothers, whoever the hell they were, taking them both to another place entirely.
As the album came to a close, Betty opened her eyes and saw John smiling at her.
‘Why are you smiling at me?’ she teased. ‘You’re freaking me out. I can see your teeth and everything.’
John pulled his lips down over his teeth. ‘I’ll never do it again,’ he promised.
‘Good,’ said Betty, folding her arms across her chest.
‘So, what did you think?’
‘Amazing,’ she said. ‘Totally.’
‘Good,’ he said, with some kind of unspoken satisfaction. ‘That’s good. What sort of music do you normally listen to? I have to confess, I’ve had a look around your place, not a scrap of vinyl or a CD to be found.’
She shrugged. ‘I left it all at home,’ she said. ‘Didn’t think I’d need it.’
‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘different strokes. The first thing I’d pack if I was leaving home would be my music. It would be my “what would you rescue first in a fire” thing. What would yours be?’
She paused and considered the question. ‘Right now,’ she said, ‘it would be Arlette’s stuff. Her photos. The book. The flyers. Apart from that, nothing really. It’s all just stuff, isn’t it? None of it really means anything.’
He nodded. And then he smiled and said, ‘One more treat.’ He leaned down and pulled a small paper box from the picnic bag. It was tied up with pale blue ribbon and had the words ‘Patisserie Valerie’ printed on it. He opened the lid and offered it to Betty. The box was filled with pastries, some topped with strawberries, others oozing whipped cream and confectioners’ custard.
‘Good God,’ she said, her mouth hanging ajar. ‘Those look amazing. But I mustn’t.’
He looked at her blankly. ‘What?’
‘Oh God, I just can’t. I put on so much weight when I was at Wendy’s, and now I’m constantly eating with the children and look ...’ She grabbed her spare tyre and showed it to him.
