The First Mistake

by Sandie Jones

  I worked my way through the wreckage fastidiously, refusing to allow my emotions to overwhelm the job in hand. But no matter how hard I tried, everything felt contaminated, sullied by a stranger’s touch.

  ‘Do you want to carry on doing this now?’ Thomas asked as he was putting all my books back in the bookcase. ‘We can do the rest in the morning.’

  I looked at him and wanted to cry again.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ he asked.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For just being so kind.’

  He looked away, as if embarrassed.

  I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, lifting a bottle of white wine out of the door. ‘I’d rather this.’

  ‘Yep, great,’ he said, following me in, watching as my shaking hands fumbled with the seal covering the cork.

  ‘Here, let me,’ he said, and I watched as his strong tattooed arm took the weight of the bottle away from me. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so safe, which was ironic seeing as I was stood in the middle of a crime scene.

  19

  ‘Tell me about your family,’ he said, as we lay in bed later that night.

  It seemed momentous, not only because we were talking properly, but because it was the first time that we were in bed without having ripped each other’s clothes off to get there.

  ‘There’s not much to tell,’ I said. ‘My dad died when I was thirteen and it’s just been me and Mum ever since.’ Just talking about him brought a lump to my throat. The thought of the only part I had left of him – his ring and the necklace he bought me – being in someone else’s careless hands turned my stomach.

  ‘So, no brothers or sisters?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope, a spoilt only child,’ I said, forcing a laugh.

  ‘Me too. Though I bet I wasn’t as spoilt as you,’ he joked.

  I smiled, knowing he was probably right. There weren’t many girls who got a pony for their seventh birthday, and a boat named after them. I can still remember the gasps of schoolfriends as they arrived at my house for birthday parties. If it wasn’t the long drive that stumped them, it was the swimming pool and extensive gardens. Every year, the celebrations were more outlandishly themed, from animals to Disney and circus acts, to my personal favourite, the actual Chitty Chitty Bang Bang taking us all for a ride.

  Mum would look on, quietly embarrassed, whilst Dad, the Italian showman, took centre stage, making all his daughter’s dreams come true. The very next day though, it became tradition for him to take me around all his restaurants and into the kitchens, where the hard work really happened.

  ‘No matter how lucky we are, we must never lose sight of what it took to get here and where we came from,’ he used to say to me.

  His wise words had stuck, as I’d barely missed a day’s work since. Even when I was genuinely ill, I’d think of the children who were expecting me and would drag myself into school.

  ‘I wasn’t that spoilt,’ I said, defending myself.

  ‘What? With the dad you had?’ he said, laughing. ‘I find that very difficult to believe.’

  I pulled myself up and turned on the light. ‘I wasn’t aware I’d spoken about my dad,’ I said, my voice clipped.

  ‘What?’ he said, still laughing.

  ‘When did I talk to you about my dad?’ I had no reason to be suspicious, but I couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable.

  ‘After we’d had dinner with Diego Rodriguez,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t remember that.’

  ‘You were a little tipsy,’ he replied, smiling, as his finger traced my lips. ‘It must have been somewhere between the train station and home because, if you remember, we were pretty busy at all other times.’ He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  I felt myself blush at the flashback of being pressed together on the train and the overwhelming urgency to get back to the flat. All the details in between were sketchy.

  ‘We were talking about the wine business and you told me that your dad was a successful restaurateur and that in another life, me and him would no doubt be in business together.’

  That did sound like something I would say, forever holding a candle to my father’s entrepreneurial spirit.

  I smiled. ‘He’d either be buying wine from you, or selling you his collection. He had a nose for a fine wine.’

  ‘Did your mum ever remarry?’ he asked.

  ‘God no. Dad was the love of her life. No other man stood a chance.’

  It’s funny. I’d desperately wanted to share exactly this kind of information with him, had thought that we weren’t really a proper couple until we did, but now that we were, it didn’t feel right, and my protective barrier was going up again.

  ‘What about your parents?’ I asked, deflecting the conversation back onto him.

  ‘My mum has dementia and is in a home, and my dad lives in Sydney with his new wife.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Do you see her very often?’

  ‘As much as I can,’ he said sadly. ‘I try to go in a few times a week.’

  ‘That must be really difficult. Does she know who you are? Is she able to recognize people?’

  ‘It’s a bit hit and miss,’ he said. ‘She has good days and bad days, but unfortunately she’s at a stage where it’s really starting to take hold.’ His voice caught in his throat. ‘Is your mum in good health?’

  ‘She is, yes,’ I said, whistling and touching the wooden surround of the headboard. ‘She’s made of stern stuff and puts me to shame.’

  ‘In what way?’ he asked.

  ‘In every way. She’s on the go 24/7; doing a yoga class, walking a neighbour’s dog, helping out at church, volunteering down at the soup kitchen. If I have half the energy and a quarter of the conscience that she has when I’m her age, I’ll be very happy with my lot. She’s a force to be reckoned with.’

  ‘So, she doesn’t work as such?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not in the sense that she earns money, though she probably works the same hours as a full-time job. But that’s not why she does it. She’s just a selfless person who gets a great deal of satisfaction from helping others. Making someone’s day easier is reward enough for her.’

  ‘So, she doesn’t have to worry, financially?’

  I laughed. ‘Good grief no. The only financial pressure she’s under is to spend more. She’s still in the house we all lived in as a family, but it needs some money spent on it. She’s essentially only living in the downstairs rooms, and yet she still won’t put the heating on or change the rickety old windows that are letting a cold draught through. The pool hasn’t been used for years and the stables are derelict. I’d love to see it restored to its former glory, but she reckons she’s happy with it the way it is.’

  ‘So, what’s she spending all her money on then?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘No doubt she’s giving some of it to worthwhile causes and I’m sure there’s a reason why Father Michael has a little twinkle in his eye every time he sees her.’

  Thomas raised his eyebrows playfully.

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘So, you don’t think it’s because she plays his organ every Sunday?’ he said.

  ‘That’s outrageous,’ I shrieked, hitting him with a pillow. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘She must be getting a return somewhere. It wouldn’t make sense to leave it lying dormant.’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s all in a building society, earning a pittance in interest. It could be put to work, so that she makes money without losing any of her capital, but she’s a tough nut to crack.’

  ‘She should invest in the wine business,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘What, and give all her money to a shady character like you? No chance.’

  ‘I’ll try not to take that personally,’ he said, through a smile. ‘I’d do it as a favour.’

  ‘And what would you get out of it?’

  He smiled. ‘Well, normally I wo
rk on commission, but for you . . .’ He moved himself down the bed, his lips setting my skin alight as he went. ‘For you, I could do a special deal.’

  ‘What kind of special deal?’ I asked, my back arching involuntarily.

  ‘Well, if you keep letting me do this to you . . .’ A breath caught in my throat as I felt his tongue. ‘Then I’d be very happy to take payment in kind.’

  20

  ‘Mum, you’ve got more of a social life than me!’ I was looking at her calendar hanging in the kitchen, the bottom of it moving ever so slightly in the draught coming through the windows.

  ‘What, dear?’ she asked absently as she disappeared into the larder. Tyson waited patiently outside, knowing that a treat was likely to come his way.

  ‘How are there possibly enough hours in the day to get all this done?’ I asked, as I surveyed the colour-coded event listings. ‘What does this all even mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s quite simple really,’ she said, pretending to sound put-out. ‘Blue is for the church, orange is for friends, and pink is for me.’

  ‘How does that help?’ I asked, unable to understand her system.

  ‘It just means I can prioritize at a glance,’ she said. ‘So, if a blue event comes in and there’s already a pink event scheduled at the same time, I know that I can move it to accommodate the blue event.’

  She really is that selfless, but I still felt the need to double-check. ‘So, if there was a blue event and a really important pink event came in, what would you do?’

  ‘I can’t think of an important enough pink event that would take precedent,’ she said, leaving me in no doubt.

  I shivered and pulled my coat around me as I felt the draught again, and was unable to stop myself picking at the flaking paint on the wall.

  ‘Mum,’ I said carefully, ‘I think the house is in need of some work.’

  She stopped stock-still, her hand in mid-air, holding a teaspoon of sugar. ‘Why do you say that?’

  I didn’t think I’d need to explain the obvious but attempted it anyway. ‘It’s too cold in here. Look – the curtains are moving. And we ought to get those damp areas looked at – they can’t be good for your chest.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my chest,’ she said indignantly.

  ‘No, but there will be if that wall stays like it is.’

  ‘It’ll cost too much,’ she said.

  ‘But it will be worth it,’ I said, putting an arm on her shoulder. ‘It’s not as if you’re doing anything else with the money. It’s just sitting there.’

  ‘Well, that’s where I like it,’ she said, bristling, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘What are you saving your money for?’ I asked, suddenly serious.

  ‘For a rainy day,’ she said, moving away from me to put a pan of sweet-smelling berries on the Aga. ‘And for whatever you may need in the future, when I’m no longer here.’

  ‘But I don’t want you to provide for me, I want you to spend your money on you. On making sure you’re fit and healthy, safe and warm . . . I want you to enjoy living here.’

  ‘I do enjoy living here,’ she said, her voice wobbling ever so slightly. ‘Of course, it’s not the same house that it once was, when you and your father were here, but . . .’

  ‘Do you want to stay here?’ I asked, knowing that if I looked up, she’d be staring at me, horrified that I even needed to ask.

  ‘Of course,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘But what about buying something smaller, something more manageable?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘The only way I’ll be leaving this place is in a wooden box.’

  ‘Okay, so if that’s the case, then perhaps we could get some work done, not only to make it more comfortable for you, but to make it look really lovely again,’ I said, over-enthusiastically. ‘We could get all the walls watertight and paint them in bright colours. Maybe even take one or two of them out. Imagine this as a great big space with an island and a new oven.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll not be getting rid of my Aga,’ she said, defensively. ‘And you can’t take that wall out, because of the wine cellar behind.’

  I peered around the door to the windowless store room at the end of the corridor, its bare brick walls housing indistinguishable bottles.

  ‘What have you got in there?’ I asked, walking towards it. Mum followed me, both of us ducking our heads to clear the low joist.

  ‘That stuff hasn’t been touched since your dad . . . I don’t know why I keep it really, it must be well past its best.’ She attempted to laugh, but I could feel her pain.

  ‘Oh my goodness, Mum, I can’t even read what these are, there’s so much dust on them.’ A cough caught in my throat and I battled to stop my eyes from watering as I picked up a bottle at random.

  ‘Well, this one is a cognac,’ she said, taking it from me and wiping it with the tea towel in her hand. ‘Your dad used to love his cognac. We’d have all his suppliers over for a dinner party, and they’d all know to bring a bottle of this or a fine whisky. You would have been too young to remember, but they were very glamorous affairs.’

  I vividly recalled sitting at the top of the grand staircase, peering through the banisters at the women in their furs arriving with well-turned-out men who seemed far older than them. Even then I could see the divide in their relationships; the bonhomie between the men, who would disappear into the drawing room, and the wives who seemed happy to be left to make small talk in the entrance hall. Only my mum would look wistfully after her husband, wishing she was with him instead.

  ‘We might be able to do something with these,’ I said, pulling out another bottle that had a 1966 seal.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘They could be worth something,’ I said. ‘I know someone who might be able to sell them. Only if you’d want to, of course.’

  ‘Who would want this old stuff?’ she asked.

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Well, if you think it’d be worth doing . . .’ she said. ‘More importantly, who’s this friend?’ She looked at me with a naughty glint in her eyes and I felt my cheeks flush. ‘Oh goodness, I’ve not seen you go like that in a long time.’

  I bowed my head. ‘It’s nothing,’ I said, fooling no one, especially my mother. ‘He’s just a friend.’

  ‘Well, feel free to invite him round,’ she said. ‘See if anything takes his fancy.’

  I smiled and followed her back into the kitchen.

  ‘Do you want a piece?’ she asked, as she took a lemon drizzle cake out of the oven and set it down on a cooling rack.

  ‘I’ll take a slice with me if that’s okay. I don’t want to ruin my appetite before Maria’s barbecue.’

  I didn’t tell her that Thomas was coming with me to said barbecue and that I felt sick to the pit of my stomach at the thought of him meeting my friends. And indeed them meeting him. I really wanted it to go well.

  I knew something was wrong the minute I opened the door. Whilst I was dressed up as if I was going to the Queen’s garden party at Buckingham Palace, Thomas was wearing a pair of jeans and a worried expression.

  ‘You okay?’ I asked, concerned.

  ‘I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to bail out of the barbecue.’

  ‘What? Why?’ I said, fighting the disappointment that was slowly working its way around my body.

  He looked at his feet. ‘It’s mum.’

  ‘Oh God, is she okay?’ I asked, ushering him into the hall and closing the door.

  ‘She didn’t have a very good night, and is very disorientated and confused today.’ He looked at me with sad eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I just feel I need to be there.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, rubbing his back, though what good that ever does I don’t know. ‘Of course. You should go.’

  ‘I’m really sorry to let you down,’ he said. ‘I was looking forward to meeting your friends.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter – we can do it ano
ther time.’

  ‘Will you still go?’

  I was taken aback by the question. It hadn’t occurred to me not to. Should it have?

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, okay, it’s just that I was wondering if you wanted to come with me.’ He looked down at his feet, shuffling from one to the other.

  ‘Go with you?’ I said, in surprise. ‘What, now?’

  ‘This is going to sound really weird, but I don’t know how long she’s got left, and as different as she is to the person I knew as my mum, I’d still really like you to meet her, before . . . well, you know . . .’

  I felt like I’d had the wind taken out of my sails as the magnitude of what he was saying sunk in. In the space of just a few minutes, I’d gone through a whole plethora of emotions from excitement to selfish disappointment, and concern to utter surprise. I had no idea which of those my mouth would choose to convey.

  ‘I . . . I . . . Well, of course, I’d love to,’ I faltered. ‘If you think it’ll be okay.’

  His eyes seemed to light up as he nodded.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to cause her any more anxiety though.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ he said, through the tiniest of smiles. ‘You’ll brighten up her day.’

  21

  ‘It’s best to keep conversation simple,’ Thomas said as we pulled up in the car park of the care home. ‘And it’s always wise to agree with her, no matter how absurd it sounds.’ He attempted to laugh but it didn’t sound real.

  ‘We’ll go through the normal routine. She won’t know who I am, I’ll remind her, she’ll acknowledge it and then immediately forget.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Though if last night is anything to go by, she may be even more confused than usual.’

  He bowed his head and I put a hand over his. If I had the right words, I’d offer them, but I didn’t want him to think me patronizing.