‘And more than anything, you’re too hungry for someone like Nick, who doesn’t have enough to share.’
‘Mum: enough!’
‘You’re foul-tempered because you’re experiencing cognitive dissonance, you’re clearly in withdrawal.’
‘Withdrawal from what?’
‘Love. Join a codependency or love addicts support group. I know you won’t confide in me but there are other people out there with similar struggles.’
And similar nightmarish mothers. Kate throws back her duvet. ‘I’ve got something important to do today.’
‘Don’t come back between two p.m. and four p.m., I’m doing lower-body work with Cole. Though you could join us, exercise would do you good.’
‘I’m going to be late,’ says Kate, grabbing a sundress that looks like it could work for whatever mysterious appointment she isn’t going to.
‘Water those plants. And let me know when I should ask Jeremy round for dinner, he’s a nice man.’
‘No matchmaking, Mum, please? Not now, I’m too fragile. In fact, not ever.’
Chapter Eleven
EVERYBODY NEEDS A BEST friend like Bailey, who will listen to you cry down the phone for weeks on end, and then, when you call on a Saturday morning desperate for an escape, will literally pick you up from a street corner and take you somewhere, anywhere, away from the place in which you’re stuck.
‘Perfect timing,’ says Bailey, leaning towards the passenger seat to give Kate a quick hug. ‘I’ve got two hours before I need to pick up the girls, and I have a plan.’ A plan means action; being in motion means Kate won’t have to feel her feelings. ‘We need to get you out of your head.’
‘Drugs?’ says Kate. ‘Or jogging? If so, can I choose neither?’
‘I know how much you love animals. I’ve found a pet care centre in Hampstead. They need volunteers for kitten socialising; it’s the perfect distraction for you, just for a few weeks till things sort themselves out.’
‘Kitten socialising?’
‘It’s the job you were born to do,’ says Bailey cheerily.
*
‘Look, I know it’s not ideal but they didn’t mention there’d be a waiting list,’ says Bailey an hour later, biting her lip as she sees disappointment etch itself more deeply on Kate’s face.
‘But now I’ve seen those kittens, I’ve realised I need to be around fluffy, adorable creatures. Maybe there’s a less popular pet centre somewhere else. Shall I google?’ says Kate, taking out her phone.
‘Look, let’s just try this Lauderdale place. That woman said they definitely need volunteers, plus it’s round the corner, plus – well, I have to pick the kids up in ten minutes,’ says Bailey, turning the key in the engine and speeding the car round the corner.
Kate nods rapidly. She feels like Bailey is single-handedly crowd-surfing her around North London, but without the thrills or rock music.
‘The main thing is it’ll be a distraction. And they’ll be all cute and funny, just like in that film your dad took us to see when we were kids.’
‘Gremlins?’
‘Cocoon!’ says Bailey, pulling up outside Lauderdale House for Exceptional Ladies, and pushing Kate out of the car. Kate is in danger of sinking even lower if she doesn’t do something, anything, soon. ‘You can teach them how to break-dance,’ she says, cheerily waving Kate goodbye.
I’m not qualified to teach anyone anything, thinks Kate sorrowfully as she walks up the stone path, through the neatly manicured garden towards the imposing three-storey red-brick Victorian building feeling like it’s her first day at a new school.
It all happens so quickly. She’s buzzed into a high-ceilinged oak-panelled entrance hall that smells mildly of TCP and Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup. The Director of Care, a middle-aged woman with grey cropped hair and electric-blue-rimmed glasses, strides out of her office, introduces herself with a firm handshake as Jackie Gaffney, and next thing Kate knows she’s being formally interviewed.
‘What brings you to Lauderdale today?’ The kittens rejected me.
‘What is your greatest strength?’ My ability to tolerate bad behaviour.
‘When have you overcome a major challenge?’ I managed to get out of bed this morning.
Kate fudges answers to the above, then freezes when asked what she can bring to the role.
‘I suppose—’ Kate pauses. ‘Well, I suppose I understand a bit about loneliness.’
The older woman nods as if it’s the first intelligent thing Kate has said. ‘And what do you know about us?’
‘Nothing . . .’
‘Well, I’ll be delighted to fill you in! Lauderdale House was set up in the 1950s by Lucinda Winterford, one of the first women to graduate from Oxford. Her mother was a lively eighty-something at that point, and Lucinda felt she’d be better served around equally dynamic ladies rather than rattling around her house with a carer. Lucinda wanted to replicate the companionship of a collegiate experience, with professional high-end care. Residents here maintain as much independence as possible. They have access to a raft of social activities – everything from art classes to cocktail nights.’
‘Cocktail nights! How brilliant,’ says Kate, smiling for what feels like the first time in weeks.
‘Around thirty ladies live here. They’re a phenomenally distinguished group, smart, switched on. They’ve lived full and fascinating lives, and our duty is to make their time comfortable, dignified of course – but more than that – fun. A few of the residents are a little tricky, but their loss of independence can be a challenge. Many of them are highly sociable and take part in our activity programme. Others prefer time in their rooms.’
‘And what do volunteers do?’
‘All sorts. How’s your Scrabble?’
Scrabble, Boggle, cards: all Nick and Kate activities. Kate wants no reminders in this place of why she’s here in the first place. ‘Not my forte, I’m afraid.’
‘Do you play any instruments? We have a volunteer who plays the Celtic harp.’
Kate shakes her head.
‘What do you feel strongly about?’
A man who doesn’t know if he loves me enough. ‘Books,’ says Kate. ‘I love reading . . .’
Mrs Gaffney looks unimpressed, as if everyone else who walks into Lauderdale is a dab hand at Chinese calligraphy – though the truth is, no one’s offered to volunteer all year; she’s almost as desperate as Kate.
‘You work at Fletchers? Are you a “foodie”?’
‘I’ve always loved cooking, and eating.’ Kate rubs her stomach, which has developed a permanent low-level ache. It could be sadness, or the corrosive effects of her new diet of nicotine and black coffee. Not only has her appetite disappeared, but so has her thought for food. The other day she bought a sandwich from a petrol station. A new low.
‘But you cook?’ says Mrs Gaffney. ‘If so, let’s put you down for cookery demos on Thursday nights and Sunday afternoons, starting next Thursday at 7 p.m. Nothing too crunchy, spicy, rich or salty. Keep your portions small, be mindful of dentures – and you can use alcohol.’
‘I can drink?’
‘I meant as an ingredient,’ says Mrs Gaffney, looking concerned. ‘I suppose you could have a glass, if you’re desperate.’
Kate laughs awkwardly. ‘Cocktail night sounds great and all, but I’m really not a big drinker. I’m not.’
‘You’ve never volunteered before?’
Kate fears this question is somehow related to the fact that she just sounded like an alcoholic, so she digs deep in an attempt to impress but ends up sounding like a poor man’s Gwyneth Paltrow: ‘I guess you reach a certain stage in life where you want to give something back – to others.’
Mrs Gaffney’s eyes narrow still further. ‘Yet you’ll only commit for September?’
‘I’m not sure I’ll be living near the area beyond then . . .’
Mrs Gaffney is a skilled negotiator and realises that now is the time to up the ante. ‘Per
haps you don’t actually have the skill set we’re looking for . . .’ Nothing like removing an option from someone to make them want it.
Sure enough, it rapidly dawns on Kate that she could be turned down from a second unpaid role in the space of two hours. ‘I think I’m up for it, can I let you know on Monday?’
*
Kate had rather hoped her mother would be proud. Instead Rita throws her head back and laughs. ‘You? Volunteering? At an old people’s home? Absurd.’
‘Absurd that I should want to help others?’
‘Spending your spare time with a bunch of random geriatrics when you should be out living your life? Those are prime dating hours. You’re only doing this because you’re holding out for Nick. It will be so depressing – senility, incontinence, flatulence . . .’
‘I can get all that here.’
‘Honestly, Kate, wasting time with a group of decrepit people with no future? They’ll be more depressed than you. Forget this Laudanum place, invest time in meeting a man: join a golf club. You haven’t got time to waste, it’s rare that a woman gets more attractive with age,’ she says, tucking the corner of her bob behind one ear and touching her lobe to check the diamond is still there.
‘Mum – if it is definitively over with Nick, I’ll be taking a break from men altogether.’
‘Don’t leave it too long or we’ll be competing for the same ones,’ says Rita, laughing. ‘And you’ll still be in the spare room when you turn fifty, you’re only minutes from forty now.’
Kate doesn’t wait until Monday. She calls Mrs Gaffney straight back to say she’ll be reporting for duty on Thursday, at 7 p.m. on the dot.
PART TWO
Friendships should not be hastily formed, nor the heart given, at once . . .
Mrs Beeton, The Campaign for Domestic Happiness
Chapter Twelve
THERE HAS BEEN PROGRESS! Kate has spent the last few days thinking about what to cook for the old ladies rather than obsessing about Nick. She’s decided to make raspberry cheesecake brownies, a favourite old recipe from a time before cooking became inextricably ‘Kate and Nick’s favourite pastime’.
The ingredients are sitting in Rita’s fridge, Kate will grab them after work – but on Thursday afternoon as she’s sitting signing off Halloween Howlers artwork, her phone rings.
‘It’s Jackie Gaffney, from Lauderdale. Forgot to mention, ovens are off limits. Bernadette, our head of catering is prepping an Irish stew. You’ll have to do something uncooked.’
‘Oh, but I’ve already bought all the—’
‘Bernadette rules the kitchen with an iron fist in an iron glove. You don’t want to upset her on day one. Or frankly ever. A few other things: don’t worry about the food being perfect, it’s nice simply for the residents to see a new face. A lot of them suffer from macular degeneration or loss of hearing, so be patient. Don’t take it personally if they doze off – some of them do T’ai Chi on a Thursday, they’ll be tired. Oh, and come twenty minutes early and I’ll show you around.’
*
Mrs Gaffney is running late and takes Kate on a whirlwind tour of Lauderdale, every room of which is cosy, softly furnished and slightly too warm. They start in the dining area where Kate will be doing her demo. It houses a dozen tables with a longer table at one end and sparklingly clean French windows looking out on to the beautiful manicured gardens. Down the corridor are the administration offices, carers’ stations and nurses’ rooms, then there’s the entertainment room where half a dozen residents sit watching BBC news on high volume. When Kate enters they sit up in unison, turning like meerkats to examine Kate with wide-eyed curiosity and a few smiles.
Over in the library there’s a wide selection of large-print books, board games and jigsaws, and the air smells strongly of rose water. Four of the residents are concentrating on a round of canasta, another three sit on the sofa, mobility walkers to one side, clearly enjoying a gossip as they look up guiltily when greeted, like naughty schoolchildren.
Mrs Gaffney heads down the main corridor to show Kate a couple of bedrooms, which are spacious and comfortable, furnished with framed photos of children and grandchildren on every surface.
‘You can see the gardens another time,’ says Mrs Gaffney, checking her watch. ‘You’re on in two.’
Kate hasn’t felt this nervous since her second date with Nick. In front of her sit ten watchful elderly ladies, like a gang of headmistresses. What is the collective noun for headmistresses? Perhaps the same as for porcupines – a prickle?
The youngest resident, Emily Sinclair, is eighty-six – the eldest, Constance Madrigal, a hundred and three. Some have walking sticks, most have hearing aids, all but one wear spectacles on chains or dark glasses. They wear smart blouses, sleeveless jumpers, long-sleeved tea dresses, buttoned up to their chins though it’s mild outside, hotter still in here. They have immaculate hair and make-up, most wear earrings, necklaces, gold watches and wedding bands. On the back wall hangs a framed tapestried quote: First you are young, then you are middle-aged, then you are old, then you are wonderful. Kate will be chuffed if she gets to eighty-six looking as wonderful as these women do.
Kate’s been given a brief introduction by Jackie but she’s forgotten most of it – Edith Goldfarb worked at MENSA, Olive Paisner was a sculptor, Maud Rappapot is the widow of a wealthy property developer.
Kate looks down at the ingredients laid out on the long wooden table in front of her: two fresh eggs, the pale greeny-yellow stewed gooseberries, a small mountain of sparkling golden caster sugar and a bowl of luscious double cream. Time to get cracking.
‘Hello, I’m Kate. Tonight I’ll be making a simple gooseberry fool, ideal for this lovely weather.’ She glances outside, wishing she was in a pub garden rather than standing here like a lemon. She decants the gooseberries into a larger bowl, explaining how she’s mixed in a smidgen of elderflower cordial, to bring out the floral sharpness.
On the front row sits Bessie Burbridge, who has a delicate bird-like face, piercing blue eyes and thinning white hair combed over her pale pink scalp. Next to her is Maud Rappapot – angrily hunched, neck sunk into her shoulders, with a solid helmet of bleached hair and full Baby Jane make-up. Bessie smiles encouragingly as Kate pushes the fruit through a sieve. Maud purses her heavily painted lips as if biding her time.
Kate has been told to chat about her day, the highlight of which was debating with Devron whether they have to have alliteration on every sodding piece of packaging, because Crunchy Carrots was simply too mundane for words (answer: affirmative). She decides to talk more generally about the nineteen years she’s worked at Fletchers. She doesn’t like public speaking so she’s relieved it’s a small gathering, and that two of the ladies doze off within minutes, heads tipped forward, emitting gentle rhythmic snores. It’s not until Kate starts whipping the cream that she hears any voice other than her own.
‘Colder bowl!’
Kate looks up. On the back row, sitting alone, is an old lady with a shock of bright white hair, an intense brown-eyed stare and an expression of mild amusement. ‘Page twenty-eight!’
Kate smiles awkwardly and carries on beating until the cream has formed beautiful thick ripples. Normally she’d dip a fingertip in to taste it but it could be Dulux today as far as her appetite is concerned. ‘. . . And every Friday at work we get to try new products, which is a lovely perk of the job.’ Kate carefully separates the eggs, putting the yolks to one side.
‘Cus-tard!’ the voice from the back calls again, as if reprimanding a dog of that name.
‘I’m actually doing a fool,’ says Kate cheerily.
‘No, fool,’ says Cecily Finn. ‘Use the yolks for custard, don’t waste them.’
Did that woman just call her a fool? Unsettled, Kate returns to her bowl and starts whisking. ‘Ah, now see? These egg whites are perfect.’
‘Borscht,’ says Cecily, which comes out of her mouth sounding awfully like a profanity.
Kate lo
oks up again and notices that Cecily’s hair is moulded into a glossy white peak slightly off to one side, not dissimilar to the stiffly beaten whites in Kate’s bowl.
‘Dinner for your son’s fiancée,’ says Cecily, as if reciting a rather obvious lesson. ‘Food should be simple but excellent – an example and a warning.’
Poor woman – Cecily must be one of the ones with dementia. ‘Then finally,’ says Kate, ‘you stir in the fruit purée.’
‘She is not fair to cultural view, as many maidens be,’ says Cecily, with a touch of glee.
‘Oh Cecily, do hush,’ says Maud Rappapot, turning angrily towards the back. ‘Let this girl get on with it, stop interrupting.’
‘I’ll stop interrupting when you learn the difference between two no trumps and four,’ says Cecily, angrily.
‘It was four! I would have made it if I wasn’t dummy.’
‘Ne’er a truer word.’
‘Ladies, it’s fine!’ says Kate. ‘I hope you’re not referring to me, not fair to view?’
‘Oh, such nonsense,’ says Cecily, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Read the book.’
It would be unkind to argue with a sick old lady, even if she is rude, thinks Kate, as she dishes out ten portions of dessert. Kate helps the ladies gather round the main table. Their arms feel like pure bone beneath their soft cotton sleeves. She’s terrified as she resettles them that one of the ladies will fall and break a limb.
Maud Rappapot grabs a spoonful of dessert tightly, sniffs it, then sticks her tongue out like a tortoise and takes a small mouthful. Her mouth pinches, making the veins of crimson lipstick under her bottom lip intensify.
‘What’s the verdict?’ says Kate, smiling.
‘My grandson, lived in Japan for a decade,’ says Maud. ‘He speaks Japanese, French, Spanish and German fluently, and his Mandarin is passable. He used to bring me back these exquisite delicacies, Mochi, m-o-c-h-i. They were better than this.’
‘Number one killer of old people in Japan every New Year!’ says Cecily triumphantly.
‘How dare you!’ says Maud. ‘He’s a wonderful boy.’
The Woman Who Wanted More Page 5
