‘No, go ahead,’ says Kate, taking another sip and settling herself into her chair.
‘If you’re sure, then. The war had ended and it was finally time for Samuel and me to return to England. We boarded the ship, together at last. It felt like we were truly coming home to each other. Sweden had changed me; I’d become more confident, accumulated attractive clothes and a new swept-up hairstyle which was more becoming. I’d broadened my horizons and improved my tastes – superficial things, but good for my morale. My brother’s face when he met us at the port brought me swiftly down to earth. He’d lived through those last awful years of bombing and rationing. He made a comment about my clothes – I wanted to explain that my beautiful velvet coat was given to me in exchange for English lessons – but there was no point. I felt guilty I’d had so comfortable a war when they’d suffered so much.’
‘That was hardly your fault.’
Cecily shrugs. ‘When I walked back into that house in Bournemouth my heart sank. Mama looked so diminished. And in sentimental thoughts of “home” the house had seemed larger, warmer – now, after all the modern comforts of Stockholm, it dismayed me. Papa had left me £1,500 in his will and we decided to move to London. We put a deposit on a house in Finchley and Mama moved in with us. She lived the last two years of her life well cared for. I will never forget Samuel’s kindness to her. Every morning he’d make her tea and chat for hours, in spite of her incessant grumbling about the smallest things.’
Kate stifles a giggle as she imagines Cecily’s mother as an exact replica of Cecily.
‘Samuel would take her for a drive every Saturday. He treated Mama like his own mother, even though he was still grieving Shindel. Mama’s health gradually began to fail, and sensing she needed more care than we could give, she insisted on a nursing home and died there six weeks later with minimal fuss, the way it ought to be done. It was the great gift of my life to be at her bedside, holding her hand when she died, to know she hadn’t been alone. In death she was as beautiful as in life, her fine bones stood out from the wrinkled ivory of her skin. Her lustrous hair was spread out against the pillow as I combed it for the last time.
‘You were a very good daughter.’
‘No more so than average. I mourned Mama, of course, but I was relieved her final years hadn’t been too lonely – there’s nothing worse than loneliness,’ she says, her brow furrowing at the thought. ‘Still, any time I felt down, Samuel was there for me, I knew I’d be OK. After a few months, life started to return to normal. My sister May moved to America that spring, she’d met another fella. Leo bought a flat down in Brighton, he’d met one too. Samuel and I were living in our house in Finchley. We’d made it into a lovely cosy home, planted a garden. Samuel carried his sadness more lightly by then – finally he was feeling more optimistic. He’d found a job he enjoyed working as a translator for a shipping company, and was earning a good wage. I was considering applying for a job in food, I’d enjoyed my work at the hotel. We started talking again about adopting. Having lost his own family he was keen to give a child who needed it a happy home. And we started looking forward to some of the adventures we’d planned. We’d begin with a two-week trip to America, visit my sister in New York, then rent a car and head down to Florida where Gisele now lived.’
‘Samuel’s niece?’
‘That’s right. She’d fallen in love with an American GI, Louis, and they’d gone back to live in the States. Gisele had started her own dressmaking business and she’d recently given birth to a daughter whom she’d named after Sophie. Samuel was so excited, he couldn’t wait to meet the new arrival. He’d already bought the baby a beautiful pink blanket from Liberty. I’d been to the travel agent that morning to discuss tickets. Samuel wanted us to celebrate and travel in style. I was worried about the expense, but he wanted to treat me. He always wanted the best for me, he was the kindest man. I spent a good hour in the travel agent talking through our options and wrote all the details down to discuss with Samuel later that night. As I was leaving the travel agent, it started to rain – a sudden April shower, though the weather was mild that day – in fact, quite muggy. I’d forgotten my umbrella so on a whim I popped to the cinema to see Key Largo – I suppose talk of Florida had put the idea into my head. After the film I decided I’d make Samuel his favourite supper, so I headed to the butcher’s for lamb chops. When I came home, as I was taking the keys from my bag, I heard our phone ringing in the hallway. It didn’t normally ring in the day. I set my shopping on the doorstep, I remember fumbling for the keys as I rushed to answer, thinking it must be the travel agent. But it wasn’t. It was Samuel’s secretary. She’d been trying to call for hours. Something bad had happened.’
‘Why? What?’ says Kate, caught off guard.
‘Something quite dreadful . . .’ says Cecily, shaking her head. ‘Samuel had collapsed, at his desk. I was to come to the hospital immediately,’ she says, looking down at her fingers, which have started to shake. ‘I rushed into the street in a panic. My neighbour saw me and offered to drive. I kept telling myself it would be fine, it had to be, but when I arrived at the ward I could tell from the nurse’s face that something was terribly wrong.’ She slowly strokes one hand over the other, her gaze downcast.
‘Why, what was it?’ says Kate, with a sudden sinking feeling.
Cecily shakes her head, more slowly this time. ‘An aneurysm,’ she says, swallowing hard. ‘He went out like a light.’
‘What?’ says Kate, holding her breath. ‘But he was OK, though, wasn’t he? He wasn’t – he didn’t . . . he was OK?’
‘No,’ says Cecily, finally meeting Kate’s gaze. ‘He wasn’t.’
‘But . . . what?’ says Kate, shaking her head in disbelief.
‘Samuel died, in the ambulance, on his way to the hospital.’
‘But . . . but . . . no!’ says Kate, feeling suddenly sick to her stomach.
Cecily shakes her head as her eyes fill with tears. ‘By the time they let me see him he didn’t even look like Samuel. Mama’s body had still looked like Mama, but Samuel? Here was a stranger lying in the bed, eyes shut, skin such an awful colour, cold to the touch. How could this be the Samuel who’d kissed me goodbye that morning, a man of such endless warmth and life?’ she says, her head dropping.
‘Oh, Mrs Finn . . .’
‘I remember feeling dizzy,’ says Cecily, biting her lip. ‘And the next thing I knew, the nurse was handing me sugary tea and giving me a look I never want to see on anyone’s face again. That look made me realise this was real. After some time, it must have been hours, my neighbour drove me home. The bag of shopping was still on the hall floor. I must have been in shock, but all I could think of was letting the travel agency know as soon as possible that we wouldn’t be needing their help after all, and I was sorry to have wasted their time—’ She takes a deep breath and looks back at Kate, who is struggling to hold back her own tears.
‘To live through the worst of the war,’ says Cecily, ‘to grieve everyone he loved . . . he had been so brave in the face of such senseless horror . . . he was finally starting to live again. How is this world just? It still makes no sense,’ she says, suddenly choked with a sadness that makes her whole body shake.
Kate has instinctively rushed over to kneel by Cecily and takes Cecily’s clenched fingers in her hand.
‘All the years we spent apart in the war – you think you have all the time in the world, but you don’t. You know, I think I’d better have a whisky, dear,’ she says, fingers trembling as she squeezes Kate’s hand tightly. ‘Underneath the bedside table.’
Kate pours the whisky, then gestures to Cecily that she’d like a shot too and pours it into her empty champagne glass. She comes to sit back down on the floor by Cecily’s side.
‘But I had no idea, Mrs Finn – I thought you grew old together? In your book, all those meals together, and anniversary dinners, the menus were always Samuel’s favourites?’
Cecily shakes
her head. ‘A work of fiction, I’m afraid,’ she says, forlornly. ‘Poor Samuel didn’t get to have his future, so I wrote one for him. I imagined the meals we’d have enjoyed. If I could write us sitting down at a table, sharing our supper, I could keep a part of him alive.’
‘But Mrs Finn, you said you went to Hollywood with him, that he was with you in Italy . . .’
‘But he was,’ says Cecily, with such conviction it makes Kate ache. ‘He was there in my heart.’
‘But Sweden – you said for his eightieth birthday you took him back there? To look at the beautiful flowers . . . you said that.’
‘I said my truth. I went back to the place I’d promised to take him, where he’d have wanted to be. He was with me every step of the way.’
‘Mrs Finn, this is just . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, I’d never have asked you to talk about him if I’d known.’
‘Oh Kate, I’ve lived more than sixty years without him. At times our marriage seems like a dream. Still, you don’t stop loving someone simply because they’re no longer in the room with you.’
‘But you never remarried? You were still young.’
‘Hardly young. And I was barren. And Samuel’s death so soon after my parents’ – it all took its toll. There followed several very bleak years. I must admit, if I’d had any faith in God or a heaven, I’d have tried to get myself there. It wasn’t until I was around your age that I started coming back to life again.’
‘Oh no,’ says Kate, rubbing her heart. ‘I’m sorry I made you talk about this.’
‘You asked how I became a writer. I never set out to be one. Samuel and I had so many plans, but life had different ones. One thing his death taught me is to embrace life on life’s terms, or suffer accordingly.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I grieved. At times I thought the sadness would pull me under. But this world keeps spinning whether you like it or not. I forced myself to think about what Samuel would have wanted – he would never have wanted me to stay broken. So I started to write myself out of the pain. I tried to revisit the children’s book, but it reminded me too much of Sweden. I didn’t pick it up again for a decade. The only thing that comforted me in my sorrow was cooking – the act of creation was healing. And writing those memories, those meals, made them tangible. Thought for Food had such short chapters, little bites of life – each time I thought, This is silly, I should give up, I knew I only had another page or two to go. It wasn’t like writing Proust. That book saved me. I had created something that would endure. After it was published, I could look at it there on my shelf and know that Samuel and I had existed – and I was still here. Everything I thought my life would be, it wasn’t, but what I got in its place was wonderful. But the only way I could move forward into that life was to let go of what I’d hoped my future would be. Be brave, Kate. I know it’s hard letting go when you’re scared.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Mrs Finn, you sound like you’re about to die.’
‘Of course I’m about to die, Kate, I’m ninety-seven.’
‘No, but, like, today – which would put an even bigger downer on my birthday, if I’m honest.’
‘Today’s not the day,’ says Cecily, her chin falling to her chest as she shakes her head, then emits a small burp. ‘Take the rest of this champagne home,’ she says, giving Kate’s hand another squeeze. ‘Have a good day. Don’t let anyone ruin it.’
Kate grips Cecily’s hand once more, then gently kisses her goodbye. She takes the rest of the champagne to Bernadette in the kitchen, who gives her an awkward birthday hug and insists on sharing a glass.
Kate heads back out into the street. It’s one of those relentlessly grey winter days; it will rain solidly all afternoon. Paris is beautiful even when it rains.
Nick has texted again, asking if she’s OK. She replies:
Fine, see you at dinner.
She would normally worry that this sounds passive-aggressive or cold, but she’s so upset by Cecily’s story, she is for once unbothered about trying to make Nick feel OK. Instead, she wraps her scarf more tightly around her neck and heads home. She’s going to spend the afternoon in bed, reading and eating leftover birthday cake. Hopefully, by the time dinner comes around, she’ll have more of an appetite for it.
Chapter Fifty-four
KATE STILL FEELS BRUISED when the cab arrives to take her to dinner. That haunted look in Cecily’s eyes earlier . . . the memory of it makes Kate want to weep. She rolls down the taxi window, breathes in the cold night air, forces herself into better spirits. She can feel sad for Cecily tomorrow, but tonight is her night.
Kate’s journey into town is disrupted by a voice in her head haranguing her. It’s not the normal voice, the one that tells her she’s getting old, that her thighs are too big and that she doesn’t earn enough compared to her peers – it’s worse. This voice is saying Cecily was right all along, Kate is wasting her life on a man who doesn’t love her enough.
Kate finds herself arguing with the voice, trying to explain that of course Nick loves her, because he says he does – and you say what you mean, except for those times you don’t because it might make you look really bad. But the voice is insistent, telling her it’s time to let go.
It’s bad enough having her own critical voice in her head, which is really just a handed-down version of Rita’s – but three’s a crowd. And the reason this third voice is telling her Cecily is right is because this voice is Cecily’s, a woman whose world may now be confined to one small room, but who has lived an expansive life full of great joys and profound sorrows, and who speaks truth.
*
The restaurant is fabulous. It only has forty covers and it isn’t remotely stuffy even though it’s Michelin starred and French. The service is perfect – friendly and attentive without being over the top. The decor is modern and stylish, the velvet chairs so plush they’re almost on a par with last night’s mattress. Yet Kate keeps shifting on her seat, unable to get comfortable.
Everything on the menu sounds fantastic. Kate’s ordered the salmon starter, then lamb chops with gnocchi. Nick’s opted for scallops, followed by squab with truffle sauce, which made Kate give a wry smile because actually squab’s just a fancy name for pigeon.
Nick’s been incredibly generous with the wine, ordering a lovely crisp French white. Kate finds herself reaching for her glass frequently. It’s not because the wine is delicious, although it is. It’s because she’s desperately trying to swallow down this horrible feeling that’s back again, the one she’s worked very hard to be free of.
Their starters arrive and Kate and Nick each taste a mouthful, then pause, dumbstruck – it’s the sort of food that’s so good you can’t speak until you’ve devoured every last morsel. It’s only after their plates are cleared and Nick starts telling her in detail about the problems of last night’s databases, that the thought occurs to Kate that he hasn’t yet asked how her day has been, her actual fortieth birthday.
Perhaps he hasn’t asked because he’s still feeling sheepish about earlier. Or perhaps it’s because he’s so self-absorbed he rarely does ask how her day’s been, and suddenly she’s not at all sure why she’s been OK with this throughout their entire relationship.
She gazes at the waiter wheeling an impressively laden cheese trolley over to a couple in the corner, then turns back to Nick. She sits for a moment, smiling gently at him, hoping it might occur to him to ask: How was your day?
She’s so uncomfortable with the silence, she decides she’s going to have to break it herself. ‘Mum rang me from Lanzarote . . .’
‘Oh yeah?’ says Nick, pouring her more wine. ‘What’s she doing out there again?’
‘Some ridiculous breathing retreat,’ says Kate, with a raised brow. ‘I don’t think she’d have managed to get to sixty-three if she didn’t know how to breathe, but still . . . She’s back on Wednesday, so I’ve got two more weekends maximum in that flat and then I’ll be free.�
� She smiles. ‘On which note, if your project’s finishing next week, would you rather I move my stuff in next weekend or the one after?’
Nick’s smile freezes as he looks down at his place setting. ‘Sure. So . . . actually, how does Easter weekend sound for you? Is that OK?’
‘What?’ says Kate, her laugh dying in her throat. ‘We agreed mid-December.’
‘The thing is . . . Rob asked if he could take the spare room, just till he sorts himself out,’ says Nick, scratching an invisible stain on the tablecloth. ‘Since Tasha threw him out he’s been kipping on a mate’s sofa.’
‘Yeah, you already told me that,’ says Kate, gripping the stem of her wine glass tighter as she feels her face grow hotter.
‘Rob’s having a hard time.’
She’s about to make another knee-jerk comment about Rob’s inability to keep his genitals under control, but that comment is obscuring a far more important one. ‘So hang on, are you saying Rob would have the spare room and you’d rather it wasn’t the three of us?’ Kate is definitely not up for living in an episode of Men Behaving Badly.
Nick’s about to say something but pauses.
‘Because I do not want to live there with Rob,’ says Kate.
‘Yeah, no, that’s fair enough.’
‘Oh. So you assumed I’d hang around till Rob finds somewhere that suits him?’
‘Well, not exactly, but you didn’t seem to care about specific dates when we spoke about it at your mum’s?’
‘What? I was reasonably relaxed about when in December, but we agreed December, and we’ve been talking through details ever since.’ She reaches again for her wine and takes a long, slow sip. Stay calm this time.
The low, sinking feeling that’s swelling in her stomach feels horribly like the one she had in France, but this time she knows: it’s not an overreaction, it’s her body giving her a huge signal that something is wrong. This time she won’t ignore it.
‘I didn’t think you’d be bothered about a few more months,’ he says, reaching for her hand.
The Woman Who Wanted More Page 27
