She raps lightly on the door with the dessert spoon, then more loudly, then a third time, and eventually Cecily calls out, ‘What fresh hell . . .?’ which is probably the warmest welcome Kate’s likely to get.
Kate puts on a smile, steps into the warm, bright room and her forced smile becomes an entirely natural one before her jaw drops open. Cecily’s living area contains a single bed covered in a peach satin quilted bedspread next to a small wooden side table. Every other object in sight is a book. Every inch of wall space from carpet to ceiling is fully lined with shelves; Kate counts eight shelves high along the main walls. There are shelves entirely surrounding the large bay window that looks out on to the garden. Kate catches a glimpse into the bathroom and laughs in delight. There are shelves covering the area above the sink where a mirror would normally be; there are even books stacked neatly under the sink.
The books are arranged broadly in size order, the spines ranging from murky green and brown leather bindings from the nineteenth century, through to colourful, modern paperbacks. There must be thousands of them, but because there is good natural light, and because the vertically stacked rows are frequently broken up by neat horizontal piles, the room feels magically uncluttered.
Cecily sits in a beige wing-backed chair in the far corner, back straight, as if on a throne. A tray table next to her houses a small portable radio, a hands-free telephone and a pair of glasses. The strong, familiar smell of old paper and ink reminds Kate fondly of her father’s tiny study, but here there’s a sweeter, powdery note Kate recognises as Chanel No. 5, and, sure enough, one minor concession to anything other than the written word is a black-and-gold tube of talc on the bedside table.
‘I wondered much to see: that all my wealth should be confined in such a little room . . .’ says Cecily, sweeping her hand in the direction of the wall of books behind her. ‘Traherne, one of the metaphysicals. He lives in the bathroom.’
‘This is the best room I’ve ever seen,’ says Kate, staring up at the top shelves in wonder. ‘I could happily spend all day in here.’
‘I had a couple of falls in my lovely old home in Finchley after I turned ninety. I only agreed to come here on the basis that I’d be dead shortly after. Two thousand and something days I’ve been trapped in this tiny box surrounded by books I can no longer read. “Happily” would not be an accurate adverbial summation.’
‘I’ve brought your soufflé,’ says Kate, holding out the dessert to Mrs Finn, who turns her head as if the sight is offensive. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t show up today.’
‘I’m tired,’ says Mrs Finn. ‘Besides, I couldn’t bear another session listening to that interminable Bessie Burbridge.’
‘Bessie? How can anyone not like Bessie?’
‘Inane people-pleaser.’
‘I thought it was Maud you didn’t like?’
‘That clown-faced, flatulent show-off? I’ve had tea with Ingrid Bergman, got drunk with King Edward the Seventh and drunk Bellinis with Richard Burton at Harry’s Bar in Venice – or his doppelgänger, I was quite merry so I can’t be sure which – but you don’t hear me dropping all that into every conversation. Anyway, why should I have to like any of those women?’
‘It might make your life easier.’
‘Au contraire, it would make this deluxe knacker’s yard even less tolerable. So – what did you think of the poem?’
‘Did you write it?’
Cecily grunts. ‘Did I write it? Hardly. It’s Wordsworth.’
‘Really?’
‘Not the Wordsworth, another Wordsworth, his great-niece Elizabeth. Well?’
‘Honestly? I don’t think it’s great – the second line doesn’t scan properly and I’m not sure it’s particularly true. Am I to assume it contains a veiled message for me?’
‘And if I told you it was, in fact, I who wrote it?’
Kate laughs awkwardly. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you to embarrass me like that, but I suspect you could write a better poem.’
‘Hmm,’ says Cecily, and she pulls a face to try to hide the fact she’s secretly pleased with the compliment. ‘Anyway, I need to go to bed now, so you can leave. I wanted to say one thing: don’t bother with the half-baked volunteering nonsense, I can smell a rat a mile off.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s a waste of time.’
‘Well, you’ve voted with your feet – the other ladies seem to enjoy it.’
‘They know nothing about food, but I meant it’s a waste of your time.’
‘Why?’
‘Living with your mother? Doing a job half a monkey with half a typewriter could do in half an hour? No wonder you have a constant expression of haunted misery.’
‘I do not – do I?’
‘As far as I can see, you’re doing life all wrong, blundering around like a fart in a pickle barrel,’ says Cecily, pointing a finger at Kate.
‘You know what? I’m going to go now because I do not like the way you speak to me. You have no idea what I’ve got on my plate right now.’
‘You should be grateful for all of it. You have freedom, opportunities, your eyes work, your mouth works—’
‘So does yours . . .’
‘You are young, attractive, you can bathe without the indignity of a heavy-handed Filipina midget in the room. Every single book in my library could be in Cyrillic for all I can see. I haven’t eaten anything worthwhile since 2005 and even without the Parkinson’s, each meal served here has been a war crime. Everyone I’ve ever loved is long dead, and as for the other residents? Intolerable, each in a distinct way. The only interesting one, Dora Bassett, went and died of pneumonia in May – it was my turn next, she was only ninety-two!’ she says, furiously. ‘I have been starved of decent conversation far longer than is humane, so, frankly, I will speak to whom I want, howsoever I choose, but anyway, please go now, I am extremely tired.’ Cecily closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and her bony chest lifts up and down.
Kate stands watching as Cecily breathes heavily in and out. ‘Cecily, are you OK . . .?’
‘It’s Mrs Finn. Now go.’
Kate backs out of the room carrying the soufflé, her face burning with indignation. How dare she speak to her like that? It’s not Kate’s fault the old woman’s decrepit. If Cecily doesn’t want to show up to another demo, brilliant – everyone’s a winner. Even if there was a gram of truth in what she said, it’s none of her business. She’s not Kate’s grandmother, she’s just a bitter old woman who takes sadistic pleasure in tormenting people.
Kate is standing by the kitchen sink, washing up the ramekins, still smarting from the conversation, when she hears footsteps behind her.
‘You had an interesting chat, then?’ says Mrs Gaffney, with barely concealed curiosity.
Kate shakes her head. ‘Sorry, but that woman is bloody difficult. How do you put up with her?’
‘Normally she doesn’t put up with us. Take her interest as a compliment.’
‘Fresh meat more like,’ says Kate, lifting the last of the washing-up onto the draining board.
‘She phoned me just now.’
‘Did she?’ says Kate, wiping her hands on her jeans. ‘Bet she didn’t say I was timid.’
‘She said she’d like you to visit on Sunday, and something about training a monkey.’
Kate shakes her head and stares out into the dining room and beyond to the garden. ‘Mrs Gaffney, I find her really quite vicious.’
‘Mrs Finn is a lot of things. We all are. We “contain multitudes”. That’s Whitman, one of Cecily’s favourites. You have to get past Cecily’s bite.’
‘Do I?’
‘I think she’d appreciate the company more than she might show, and I think you might get something out of it too.’
‘I don’t need the aggravation.’
‘The thing is . . . the weekend numbers are so small there really isn’t justification for your Sunday slot, and then it doesn’t make sense only to do Thursdays, so t
he cooking thing isn’t going to work for us.’
‘Are you blackmailing me?’ says Kate, laughing.
‘It would be a great kindness. Cecily is the only one here with no visitors.’
‘Well, that’s because she’s mean.’
‘I’ll cut you a deal – come back and see her on Sunday and if you can’t handle it—’
‘I can handle it. I just don’t want to handle it.’
‘Come and see Cecily on Sunday and if you don’t enjoy it, I won’t mention it again.’
Kate folds the dishcloth and puts it neatly to one side. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to think about it.’
Chapter Eighteen
KATE’S REASONABLY SURE SHE had a life before Nick, yet somehow she’s forgotten how to have fun without him. After a Saturday spent as errand girl, queueing for an hour in Aldi for a cheap posh candle for Rita, then typing up the minutes of the last residents’ meeting, she agrees to meet Cara in a bar in Soho for drinks.
Kate and Cara joined Fletchers on the same day nineteen years ago, and instantly bonded over their shared view that a food business really should offer better milk than those pesky UHT sachets that always spurted on your clothes. Cara quickly abandoned ship and now runs a glamorous food PR firm; all Kate can do is look on in awe.
Cara arrives late looking immaculate – her dark hair scraped back, her smoky eyeshadow contoured to perfection. ‘You’re not texting that dickhead, are you?’ she says, settling down opposite Kate and taking a swig of Kate’s wine.
Kate puts her phone back in her bag. ‘He’s not a dickhead, he’s confused.’
‘What makes you think he’s confused?’
‘Because he said he was, in France. And since then—’
‘Maybe he only said that because he didn’t want to hurt you.’
‘He was in the middle of cheese-grating my heart and you think he paused to comfort me? Anyway, I met up with him last Wednesday and—’
‘Er, why would you meet up with a confused dickhead?’
‘And we had a great chat, and he’s going to sort himself out.’
‘You’re mad to still be talking to him.’
‘He had a panic, partly because he’s scared of intimacy and partly due to work stress. Nick’s a terrible multi-tasker. . . .’
‘Oh yeah, like the time he forgot your birthday?’
‘That was not a big deal.’
‘Let’s write a list of crap things about Nick – knock him off that pedestal you’ve stuck him on,’ says Cara, grabbing a pen and a cocktail napkin. ‘Number one – Forgets birthdays. Two—’
‘Cara, this is not how I want to spend my Saturday night.’
‘Plays PlayStation at forty-four,’ says Cara, heavily circling the numbers with disdain.
‘He doesn’t play shoot-’em-ups, he plays puzzle games – it’s like doing a crossword.’
‘But the point is he chooses to play them instead of spending time with you.’
‘Cara, you expect a man to worship at your altar 24/7. I’m far lower maintenance, and I accept Nick likes his own space.’
‘Stop making excuses for him and accept he’s just not that into you.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, that is the most simplistic, unhelpful phrase ever. This . . . incident didn’t happen after a first date, he’d just asked me to move in. It is complex.’
‘There are so many men out there. That guy in the red T-shirt’s totally been checking you out.’
Kate doesn’t bother turning her head. ‘Look, Nick made a mistake, he’s not perfect. And I can write lists till the cows come home about how he should trim his toenails or buy me more flowers, but pen and paper are not going to stop me loving him.’
‘Fine.’ Cara shrugs. ‘If you’re not up for talking to hot guys, I’ll have to do it for both of us.’
By 10 p.m., Cara is in the corner of the bar snogging a hunky Danish man. Kate is stuck in another corner fending off a sweaty married letch from Croydon. Cara is more than happy to be left with the Dane, so Kate heads home, cursing the fact that she didn’t take Nick up on his offer of steak and chips and a DVD.
Cara’s totally wrong about Nick. He’s been sending loads of chatty texts since they met up. He had a fantastic first session with a therapist on Friday and he’s going to go every week. Kate is hugely hopeful he’ll sort himself out, but she’d be foolish to go straight back into the relationship, which is why she turned down his invite tonight. They’ve agreed to just be ‘friends’ while he’s figuring himself out. Kate will be compassionate and patient, stay close, yet at a safe enough distance until he’s sure about their future. She figures if she speaks to him but doesn’t see him, she can’t get hurt.
The following morning Kate wakes with a hangover of grumpiness, playing Cara back in her mind. There’s no point visiting Mrs Finn when Kate’s already in a bad mood, it would be masochistic, and besides, she doesn’t owe that woman anything. No. She’s going to read a good book and maybe go for her own little jog around the park.
She’s about to head out in her running gear to buy cigarettes when Rita intercepts, insisting Kate accompany her to the recycling centre in Kentish Town with an old microwave. Their journey starts innocuously enough. They drive to the dump, Kate takes some primal satisfaction in hearing the crash and smash of glass and metal. As soon as Kate gets back into the car, Rita claims she needs Kate’s advice, though actually she just wants a gossip. John Pring, the pettiest of Heathview’s residents’ committee – a man who once denied Mrs Ren, who walks with a stick, a parking permit because her application had a typo – has been complaining vociferously about the rodent problem. Mikhail, the night porter, was called to Mr Pring’s on Friday after another sighting and uncovered a vast nest of baby mice in a wardrobe bursting with Mr Pring’s stash of yellowing 1970s porn mags!
‘That is totally gross,’ says Kate.
‘And I only know this because Mikhail told Sonia, Gerry’s cleaner, but now we all know, how do we broach it with John?’
‘Ew, just ignore it, Mum.’
Rita has successfully managed to lull her daughter into a false sense of security and she catches her own reflection in the rear-view mirror and smiles. ‘Gerry and I think it’s time you had dinner with Jeremy. If I were five years younger, I’d make a play for him myself.’
‘Er, even if I fancied Jeremy – which I don’t – I don’t want you setting me up with anyone.’
‘He’s got an excellent job, he’s now publishing director. Of a very large publisher.’
‘Not a small one? You should’ve said.’
Rita’s hands grip the steering wheel tighter.
‘Look, Mum, I do appreciate you trying to help but please don’t fix me up. And anyway, I don’t need a date, things with Nick are looking up.’
Rita’s eyes narrow and Kate turns to look out of the window. She shouldn’t have given her mother a crumb, such a basic error.
‘You saw Nick on Wednesday, didn’t you? I knew you looked guilty when you came home.’
‘I was not looking guilty, I was looking preoccupied. He’s finally got a job, and he’s agreed to therapy. Aren’t you happy, vindicated at last?’
‘What type of therapy?’
‘I don’t know – the type where you sit in a chair and slag off your mother.’
Rita barks a laugh. ‘I’ve always said his mother sounded emotionally negligent.’
‘I agree it was the mother’s fault,’ says Kate pointedly.
‘Ah! You and your Larkin, though you never do blame your father The Saint.’
‘Nice.’
‘You’ll have to take my word for it that I did the best I could. Read Winnicott on good-enough parenting, on my bookshelf.’
‘Your bookshelf is full of reams of psychobabble – if any of those books could fix heartache, it would have sold more than Fifty Shades and Harry Potter put together.’
‘Darling, I’ll be honest with you.’
�
��Please don’t be.’
‘You’re at the bargaining stage of your break-up on the Kübler-Ross curve. It comes before acceptance, but you should have moved through that by now. You were like this after your father died.’
‘Sometimes it takes as long as it takes to deal with grief,’ says Kate, forcing herself not to rise to her mother’s bait. ‘Anyway, Nick and I are no longer in a break-up situation.’
‘You probably are – just in a messy, protracted one. Nick isn’t going to change overnight,’ says Rita, indicating left as she turns right. ‘He’s lived dysfunctionally for forty-four years. There are no miracle quick fixes. He’ll take years to heal. He may never be a fully integrated adult. Meanwhile, you need to read up on codependency.’
‘I know what codependency means – it means allowing difficult people to take advantage of you.’
‘You’re always saying Nick is the problem child, but Nick seems perfectly capable of taking care of his own needs.’
‘That’s only because he doesn’t realise what his real needs are.’
‘Darling, that’s pure codependency talking. You need therapy too.’
‘I do not . . . I just need Nick to love me.’
‘You give your energy to all the wrong people. Right, I’m going to head down to Selfridges to take back those L. K. Bennett wedges. It’s a bugger to park round there, so you’ll need to sit in the car while I dash in.’
‘And that would be a perfect example of me giving my energy to the wrong people,’ says Kate triumphantly, her thoughts crystallising as she speaks. ‘Besides, I’m having tea with someone.’
‘Nick?’
‘Someone who needs me more than you do.’
Kate waits for the next set of traffic lights to turn red, then jumps out and makes a bolt for freedom, feeling a small thrill of rebellion as she turns and heads towards Hampstead.
She’s been rude to Rita. She needs good karma. She’s off to befriend the dragon.
Chapter Nineteen
‘YOU MUST BE A GLUTTON for punishment,’ says Mrs Gaffney, coming to greet Kate in reception with a warm smile.
The Woman Who Wanted More Page 9
