The Woman Who Wanted More

by Vicky Zimmerman

  She needs to pull herself together. She forces herself to stop drinking. She eats as much of the dinner as she can; it’s probably delicious but the dauphinoise potatoes feel like lumps in her mouth, the lamb like tangled flesh.

  Pete is besotted with his new bride. In his speech he talks about their first holiday together, how beautiful Mia looked as they were driving around Sicily, her little finger twitching with excitement whenever she caught sight of the sea; how this made him realise he wanted to share every adventure with her, to spend his life making her happy.

  Kate fears she’ll be sick, not from booze but from sheer envy. It’s not a cool sentiment – Pete is a great friend, he deserves happiness; she just wishes he could have got married a month before The Wobble rather than after it.

  Just because they’re happy doesn’t mean Kate won’t be happy one day; there’s not a finite amount of happiness to go round.

  Just because they look blissful now doesn’t mean they won’t be arguing about who’s taking the bins out in a year’s time. You don’t know someone after eight months; people can surprise you horribly at any time.

  Kate does not want to be here, wallflower at the wedding, having bitter, uncharitable thoughts.

  Oh, and here comes the music – and it’s her absolute favourite, it is actually Debbie Harry up on the mic! – a friend of Mia’s dad – and she’s going to sing, and Kate can’t bear not to share this with Nick: it will break her.

  *

  All very well Kate commending herself on the train earlier for her superhuman self-control, but that’s only because she hasn’t been this blind drunk since New Year’s Day when she and Nick drank far too many White Russians while watching The Big Lebowski.

  She goes to dial Nick, then curses: she’s deleted his number. Oh but she hasn’t – she’s merely changed his name to prevent her doing precisely this. The problem is she’s now too drunk to remember what he’s saved under.

  That’s OK – she doesn’t need his number: she has his email. She has to tell him about Debbie Harry and also ask once and for all if it’s definitely over, because it’s better to know, even if the truth hurts – at least then this madness ends.

  She types: Can you please phone me? x presses send, instantly regrets the kiss mark, then the entire email. She sits on the toilet floor and rests her spinning head on the toilet lid. She will wake tomorrow and all that will remain is an imprint of shame. She’s lost her favourite shoes, but most of all she’s lost her beloved. Actually, those shoes are a pretty close second.

  She lets out a small sob. It doesn’t matter. This too shall pass. We’re all going to die one day, possibly sooner rather than later in the current sociopolitical climate. She rests her head and is instantly asleep, but then her phone rings, caller ID: DO NOT CALL WHEN DRUNK.

  Adrenaline kicks in. She sits bolt upright. She’s too drunk, she should not answer his call. She answers his call.

  ‘Hey!’ says Nick, and Kate’s heart aches from missing his voice. ‘You must be at Pete’s wedding?’

  ‘I lost my shoes,’ says Kate. ‘I lost my other shoes too. And Debbie Harry is here! And I feel rotten.’

  ‘Debbie Harry? What do you mean you lost your shoes? Are you drunk?’

  ‘I’m asleep in the toilet,’ she sobs. ‘I wish you were here.’

  ‘Oh babe, so do I. Not necessarily in the toilet, but I wish I was there to take care of you. How are you getting home? Do you have money for a cab?’

  ‘I was going to get the buses and the trains and the planes and the automobiles . . . It’s like the middle of nowhere, Nick, it’s not even London, I can’t afford an Uber.’

  ‘OK: what’s the name of the venue?’

  Kate blows out hard. ‘That is such a difficult question.’

  ‘It’s in Kingston, right?’

  ‘It’s . . . Hale . . . Hen . . . Halewick . . .? It’s white.’

  ‘OK, stay on the line . . . Heatherington House or Halewood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘It has a maze full of Vogue-shaped monsters, an amazing maze, a noisy oyster.’

  ‘Definitely a maze?’

  ‘Uh-huh . . .’

  ‘OK, I’m pretty sure you’re at Halewood House. Listen to me carefully, Kate: go and get a pint of water and drink it and then go and stand in reception and drink another, an entire pint. Be careful not to tread on any broken glass. I’m calling you a cab.’

  ‘No! You’ve got no job, it’ll be millions of pounds.’

  ‘I had a final interview at Allsom this week, it’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Oh, Nick. You’re so sweet. Nick, why did you set fire to what we had? Why did you burn down our entire relationship like it meant nothing?’

  ‘I didn’t, I didn’t mean to. I really need to talk to you, when you’re sober. Look – go and stand in reception. Keep drinking water. Try and find a bread roll to soak up the booze. You’re not going to be sick, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m OK,’ she says wearily.

  ‘OK, so stay on the line with me till you’re back home.’

  ‘I’ve lost my Florida tourist shoes, they were by the umbrella stand. Who would even steal them?’

  ‘Probably not Debbie Harry . . . Listen: I’m staying on the line till I know you’re safely back in bed, OK?’

  ‘You’d do that for me?’

  ‘Of course! I’d come down and rescue you but I think you need to get home quickly.’

  ‘Nick,’ she sighs.

  ‘Kate, I’ve been waiting for you to call for over a month, I didn’t think you wanted to speak to me. It’s so good to hear your voice. I think about you every day.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I didn’t realise how big a part of my life you are.’

  Kate feels an epic wave of relief wash over her. Kavita was right and Rita was wrong and can piss right off.

  Nick does love her. It’s all going to be OK.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE SOUND OF THE front door slamming wakes Kate: Rita, off to bridge club for their Sunday social. Kate runs her tongue over her teeth in an attempt to find moisture. Her entire body feels like it’s been soaked in vinegar and left to air-dry, like a Japanese shrivelled pickle.

  This morning she doesn’t need to check her phone to see if Nick’s texted. Of course he’s texted, several times:

  Hope your hangover’s not as big as the Big Lebowski . . .

  Please let me know you’re OK?

  Eat some carbs x

  What can she cling to from last night’s phone call that might stop her drowning in mortification? He’d called four minutes after receiving her email – that was hugely encouraging. She’d blabbed and blubbed and he hadn’t hung up – that was good too. He’d definitely said he missed her. If he hadn’t rescued her, she’d probably still be asleep in that toilet, locked in the venue till Monday.

  She rubs her forehead. She needs water, food. She’d cooked Bailey dinner every night for that first hideous week after Tom’s affairs were discovered. Bailey’s always vowed to repay the favour one day: well, today’s the day! Kate’s halfway through dialling Bailey’s number to plead for a bacon sandwich, when she remembers with a sudden dread that she’s committed to preparing tea for the Lauderdale ladies this afternoon – and with a heavy heart puts the phone back down. Such a dumb idea to volunteer there – she can’t let old people down, and that is so annoying.

  Why is daylight so bright? She slowly gets out of bed. She washes, makes coffee and a slice of buttered toast with Marmite. It tastes surprisingly brilliant, possibly because she’s so desperate for salty carbs, possibly because now that there’s a thin scraping of Nick back in her life she might be able to eat normally again.

  What’s her next move? She feels like she has some power back because Nick sent the last text; she must hold on to that power for as long as possible. More pressingly, however, she needs to buy the ingredients for tea. She wa
nts to go via Karma Bakehouse in Hampstead for their challah bread. It’ll be lovely and soft, and avoids a hard crust issue so hopefully that crazy Cecily Finn won’t have anything to moan about.

  Kate only has two hours to do that, and it’s taken her two whole hours to get from bed to dressing gown. She needs to move.

  *

  She is dozing on the bus to Hampstead when Nick texts again, fourth text in a row:

  Fancy a sausage sandwich to help soak up the booze?

  Oh she does, she does! She could get off the bus, take a cab straight to his flat, eat that sandwich with ketchup and mustard, lie down on his sofa and let him stroke her hair till she passes out. That is everything she ever wanted in life right there – but no, she’s going to stay on this bus and make the grannies their tea, because she said she would and also because how dare he think he can just waltz back into her life without some sort of penance?

  *

  In the reception area at Lauderdale, Kate sits waiting with couples young and old and the occasional baby being brought to meet a great-grandmother. Most visitors carry flowers or cakes, and there’s a lively bustle, the visitors chatting with familiarity and a shared camaraderie.

  As a consequence of families visiting, Kate’s audience is even smaller today, only seven ladies – probably a blessing, given her delicate state. There’s Bessie again, beaming at her from the front row, and Maud, wearing lilac eyeshadow that makes her look like Michael Winner in drag.

  Kate had rather hoped Cecily might be entertaining her family, but no such luck – there she is again, alone on the back row, wearing a crisp blouse as bright and white as her hair, and navy slacks. She raises her chin towards Kate and frowns, adding a hundredth crease to a face already more creases than skin.

  Kate and Nick once ate at a posh pub that served miniature toasties on challah topped with perfect fried quails’ eggs. Kate’s fine motor skills are definitely not up to cracking a quail’s egg right now, but she can handle a Breville. She’s picked up the challah and bought good ham and cheese from Sainsbury’s. She sets up the equipment on the long table. All she has to do is slice the bread, butter both sides, layer on the ham and cheese, grill for two minutes with a flip halfway, then cut into delicate squares – a five-stage process even Rita could pull off.

  ‘Are we not having mochi?’ says Maud before Kate has even unpacked. ‘You promised, you wicked girl.’

  Kate smiles awkwardly. ‘I’m actually doing savoury today. I did look up a mochi recipe, but you need a Japanese red bean paste that’s hard to find. It’s probably easier to ask your grandson to buy some.’

  ‘He’s far too busy! He’s very successful – his company now supply wine to all the finest hotels. And now he has the children half the time, I wouldn’t dream of asking.’

  Kate notices that Cecily has turned to face the wall, away from the direction of Maud’s monologue.

  ‘Just a thought,’ says Kate, putting the bread on the table.

  ‘My eldest great-granddaughter has won a scholarship to The Mayhew,’ Maud continues. ‘She plays tennis for the county too. She’s fantastic at everything.’

  ‘Except coming to see you,’ says Cecily, chuckling.

  ‘That’s because her mother makes it so difficult,’ snaps Maud. ‘I told him that’s what happens when one marries beneath oneself.’

  ‘Pardon me! I keep forgetting you’re royalty,’ says Cecily.

  Oh please, not again. ‘Er, Bessie, do you have children?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Bessie, straightening up in her chair. ‘My son lives in California with his second wife and they have twins who are at university. My daughter lives in London, she visited yesterday. She and her husband didn’t have children. Are you married, dear?’

  ‘No,’ says Kate, frustrated to find herself blushing furiously as she reaches for the cheddar. ‘I’m . . . not with anyone at the moment.’ There. She’s said it.

  ‘You’re not one of those strident feminists, are you?’ says Maud. ‘One of those women who’s so dismissive of other women who choose motherhood?’ Maud looks pointedly at Cecily.

  ‘You utterly dreadful harpie,’ says Cecily, shaking her head. ‘Dreadful!’

  ‘Gosh, no, I very much want a partner,’ says Kate, stumbling in. ‘I’d love to be in a relationship again, I was – well, it’s a bit . . . it’s not something I need to burden you ladies with.’

  She feels Cecily’s focus on her sharpen as she struggles to find the end of the plastic wrap on the Cheddar. Kate turns redder and redder as she wrestles with this most basic of tasks and ends up stabbing the cheese open instead.

  ‘Oh well, dear, I’m sure you’ve still got time. Girls nowadays seem to do things so much later.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll all work out the way it’s supposed to,’ says Kate, swallowing down the wave of sadness that hits.

  ‘The hope I dreamed of was a dream, was but a dream . . .’ says Cecily from the back row, in a sing-song tone as if crooning. ‘And now I wake, exceeding comfortless and worn and old.’

  That’s pretty much how Kate is feeling – a coincidence she could live without.

  ‘“Mirage” . . . Rossetti . . .’ says Cecily.

  Random, incoherent babbling; no point in trying to decipher any meaning, Kate’s head is throbbing as it is. Instead, Kate turns her attention to buttering the bread. ‘So I’ve chosen challah—’

  ‘Not a patch on Grandpa’s,’ says Cecily.

  ‘It’s like a brioche dough and it’s very—’ Kate grabs a glass of water; her brain is moving too slowly. ‘Versatile. Yup. Here we go, let’s stick that in the Breville. Ladies, Mrs Gaffney mentioned some of you cook for yourselves sometimes?’

  ‘Occasionally I’ll microwave a soup,’ says Bessie. ‘Or an egg, if I fancy something light.’

  ‘Mrs Finn?’ says Kate with trepidation.

  ‘Why bother? One morsel’s as good as another when your mouth’s out o’ taste. Are you acquainted with Eliot?’

  ‘Eliot . . . I don’t think I know him,’ says Kate, trying to keep the cheese from spilling out of the sides of the bread. ‘Does he work in the kitchen?’

  ‘George Eliot.’

  ‘George Eliot, nope, haven’t met him yet.’

  ‘Good grief, you are a halfwit. Scrap that, a quarter-wit!’ says Cecily, and this thought seems to amuse her greatly.

  ‘Marvellous, OK, time to flip these sandwiches,’ says Kate, her face colouring. Seriously, she could be on Nick’s sofa right now rather than being a punchbag for this mad old cow. She came to Lauderdale to escape a difficult woman – not swap one directly for another.

  The toasties have turned out surprisingly well. Bessie Burbridge announces that they are the nicest she’s ever tasted. Maud Rappapot eats two and doesn’t mention the mochi again. Olive Paisner takes tiny bites like a mouse, her jaws working overtime, and ends up eating four. Cecily sits at the table silently.

  ‘Won’t you at least try one, Mrs Finn?’ says Kate. ‘I know you don’t like food going to waste.’

  ‘They’re not salty enough.’

  ‘Again, why not taste the food before forming an opinion?’

  ‘My eyesight isn’t what it once was, even so: challah contains a lower salt ratio than other breads – not as low as what we used to eat in Tuscany but, nevertheless . . . And cheap supermarket ham and cheese cannot provide an adequate salty crystalline underpinning. I am ninety-seven years old, I have eaten sandwiches on thousands of occasions, on every continent on this wretched earth, so I do not need to taste your sandwiches to form my opinion because my opinion is based on observation and ninety-seven years of experience.’

  ‘Fine. Then add salt now.’

  ‘Now they’re tepid.’

  ‘Mrs Finn . . .’

  ‘A deluxe rarebit would have had sufficient salt. From the bacon. Page 148, I think.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Every continent on earth?’ interrupts Maud, her
scarlet lipstick curling into a vicious smile. ‘You haven’t been to Antarctica, you absolute liar, Cecily Finn.’

  Cecily takes a deep breath as if her patience has never been quite so tested. ‘We visited King George Island in the South Shetlands in the spring of 1973. We were served peculiar food, possibly a penguin sandwich, but we felt it impolite to question our hosts, unlike certain people who don’t seem to comprehend the concept of impertinent and vulgar questioning.’

  ‘But Cecily, aren’t the Shetlands in Scotland?’ says Bessie, her brow furrowing in confusion.

  Cecily looks straight through Bessie as if she’s invisible.

  ‘Of course the Shetlands are in Scotland,’ says Maud. ‘Harold and I had a friend who owned a castle there.’

  ‘The South Shetlands,’ hisses Cecily. ‘You are a shamefully unintelligent creature, Maud. Ho-rren-dous,’ she says, rolling the word around her mouth like a mint imperial.

  ‘Ladies, ladies!’ says Kate, holding her hands up in an attempt to calm the group down. ‘Please, let’s be gentle with each other. Mrs Finn,’ she says, turning to Cecily with a pleading look, ‘I’d really like to make you something you’ll actually eat next time.’

  Cecily shrugs. ‘It is of such little consequence to me – but if you insist, you could attempt a dark chocolate soufflé.’

  Kate nods. ‘A chocolate soufflé. With a salty crystalline underpinning?’

  Cecily raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Everyone happy with that?’ says Kate.

  The others nod enthusiastically. Kate glances at her watch – ah, thank goodness.

  She starts to pack up as the ladies slowly head from the dining room. Now that Kate’s distraction is over, her thoughts switch straight back to how to respond to Nick. She turns to leave but Cecily remains sitting, palms resting on the table, her intense brown-eyed stare focused on Kate.

  ‘Buried down the road, of course,’ says Cecily. ‘In Highgate Cemetery.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Finn, who is?’