The Two Hearts of Eliza Bloom
Page 31
‘Yes. I’ve been a complete arse. To him, and to you.’
He stares at the table, and I stare at him. His retro attitudes have shocked me, but they have shocked him too. And I have come a long way, because fifteen years ago, what he’s saying wouldn’t have shocked me at all. I would have accepted it as part of the deal of being female. You belong to your father, then you belong to your husband. Somewhere along the way, I have learned to think differently, have learned to value myself as a person in my own right. And here’s the thing; the person who taught me to do that is sitting opposite me, telling me what a shit he is.
Without him, I wouldn’t know that the things he is telling me are wrong.
‘Let go of my hand, Alex,’ I say, and he does, all hang-dog eyes.
I unclench my fist, and put my hand into his. ‘Now you can hold it again,’ I say.
Another Saturday morning. Alex goes to wake Leah. I’m almost looking forward to shul this time. Yes, there’s a bit of a stir when I come in: the girl who married out is back! Bringing her no doubt wanton daughter with her! Some of the more hard-core ones look away, won’t talk to me. Some of the others look at me with a smirking expression that says, ‘So you couldn’t find anything better on the outside, huh?’
I can handle it. The ones who are welcoming more than make up for it, and it’s been surprisingly nice to see some long-forgotten faces from my childhood: the rabbi, looking about 102 years old, and his wife, who is so astonishingly unchanged that she is the source of much covert women’s-gallery gossip on the topic of face-lifts. Mrs Benjamin, who used to reward my Hebrew learning at chedar with salty pretzels, a very effective technique, always smiles at me. The four Piller boys, who were kids then and now are grown men, almost identical, are each married with two or three kids of their own. Uncle Ben, still slightly smelly, has forgiven my transgressions, and hugs me warmly with the same ‘welcome back to the fold’ line each time.
‘And oy, the pretty daughter,’ he says, chucking Leah under the chin, regardless of – or because of? – the fact that she clearly hates it. I want to stop him, but I don’t. Being chucked under the chin by well-meaning relatives never did me any harm. Or maybe it did. Who knows what I’d be like if they hadn’t? Or if any of the other things that happened to me hadn’t happened? I am the person I am now because of all the things that have influenced me, and all the things I have done, even the messes I have made.
The only thing I would change is that I wouldn’t have said yes to Nathan. Either time. But nobody’s perfect, as it says at the end of Some Like It Hot. You can only muddle through, doing your best.
I’m eating muesli, though it’s early, and I don’t feel like eating. I’m still half asleep. Alex comes downstairs, and I say, ‘Is she in the shower?’
‘She’s gone back to sleep. Says she doesn’t want to go to shul today.’
We smile at each other. Is this over already?
On Monday, when Leah comes down in the usual panicking flurry of school books, hockey socks and homework not finished, I notice she is wearing a tiny skirt again. I say nothing.
‘Can I go to Ethan’s after school?’ she asks.
‘Sure,’ I say.
She pauses in the doorway, framed by it, a beautiful painting. ‘I like Ethan,’ she says.
‘He’s a nice chap,’ I say. ‘I hope he treats you nicely.’
‘He’s teaching me how to meditate. It’s really helping me concentrate at school.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Buddhism is cool, Mum.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘I might become a Buddhist, maybe.’
Oh, god.
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You’ve met Mrs Bright. She’s that nice woman who lives three doors down and always smiles at you in the mornings. She’s planning her thirtieth wedding anniversary with her husband. She wants to travel, read endless books and take beautiful pictures. She’s been waiting for this forever.
For the past twenty-nine years, Kay Bright’s days have had a familiar rhythm: she works in her husband’s stationery shop, cooks for her family, tries to remember to practice yoga, and every other month she writes to her best friend, Ursula, and Ursula replies. Kay could set her calendar by their letters: her heart lifts when the blue airmail envelope, addressed in Ursula’s slanting handwriting, falls gently onto the mat.
Ursula is the only one who knows Kay’s deepest secret, something that happened decades ago that could tear Kay’s life apart today. Ursula has always been the person Kay relies on. Knowing she will hear from Ursula is like being sure the sun will rise tomorrow.
And now Ursula has stopped writing. Three missing letters doesn’t sound like a lot, but Kay gets out her shoebox of notes from her best friend, in case there’s something she overlooked. Ursula seems fine, but the further back she goes, the more Kay begins to question every choice she has made in her life. Which might be why, at ten o’clock one morning, Kay walks out of her yellow front door with a just a rucksack, leaving her wedding ring on the table...
An emotional and heart-warming novel for anyone who knows it’s never too late to look for happiness. Fans of Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, A Man Called Ove and The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry will fall in love with this feel-good and moving story that shows you that the best friendships truly last forever.
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Books by Beth Miller
The Two Hearts of Eliza Bloom
The Missing Letters of Mrs Bright
The Good Neighbour
When We Were Sisters
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Acknowledgements
Books are like overflowing suitcases. Sometimes you need help folding things up neatly, and someone to tell you it’s OK to leave a few items out. It’s also great to have friends who’ll sit on the lid with you to squash everything in. With boundless thanks then to the most brilliant folders, sifters and lid-sitters, my writing group: Liz Bahs, Jacq Molloy and Alice Owens. Really couldn’t have managed without you.
Thanks also to my agent, Judith Murdoch, who suggested I re-work the entire chronology, the equivalent of getting me to start over with a rucksack: painful, but correct. And thanks to my special reader, Saskia Gent, who always says the right thing, and is a dab hand at capsule packing.
&n
bsp; For guidance on various tricky aspects, thanks to Juliette Mitchell, David Seidel, and Ivor Silverman.
For useful writing chats and much-valued support from people who are going through it themselves, huge thanks to Melissa Bailey, Jo Bloom, Sharon Duggal, Lulah Ellender, Kerry Fisher, Abbie Headon, Ellie Knight, and Becca Mascull. And thanks to all the Prime Writers, a great group of talented authors who don’t mind saying how it is.
For championing the book and telling me her favourite bits and being just lovely to work with, thank you to Maisie Lawrence, my sparkly publisher at Bookouture. And to everyone at Bookouture, particularly Kathryn Taussig, Kim Nash and Noelle Holten, thank you for making me feel so welcome.
Thanks to my children, for being funny and kind and supportive, and for giving me plenty of material for stroppy dialogue. Of course, all characters and incidents portrayed in this book are entirely fictitious. Finally, the biggest thanks of all to John, for never wavering in the encouragement he gives me to keep re-packing that damn suitcase for as long as it takes.
Published by Bookouture in 2019
An imprint of Storyfire Ltd.
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.bookouture.com
Copyright © Beth Miller, 2019
Beth Miller has asserted her right to be identified
as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-78681-682-5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.