by Ros Carne
Not bothering with a glass, he yanked off the tab and took a swig, picked up a tea towel and removed the pizza from the oven, dividing it into quarters and carrying the tray into the sitting room without a word. It was an unspoken understanding. They would eat in front of the telly, watching the drama together at nine.
But he didn’t join her on the sofa as usual. And as the dark tale unfolded and she began to unwind, she never lost the uneasy consciousness of her son’s silent presence on a separate chair. At ten o’clock, without commenting on the thriller, he stood up and carried the tray to the kitchen. Mel had wanted to ask again about Lola but she’d missed the moment. Why was it so hard to say what you wanted to say to the person you most loved? Jacob said nothing about Paul.
As she sat watching the news, barely hearing what was said, he came back in and told her he was going to his dad’s tomorrow night and would stay for a week. He was earning holiday money painting their spare bedroom and newly extended basement. The announcement came like a punch in the stomach.
‘I didn’t know you could paint,’ she said. It sounded pathetic. Ridiculous. A caricature of a needy mother. Like her own, she thought.
‘I’m teaching myself.’ He grinned broadly. ‘New skill. Like you always recommend.’
‘What about your bail?’
‘Dad reckons they’ll drop the case.’
If Dad said it, Jacob would believe it. He had a touching faith in his father’s wisdom. Despite her pain, she attempted to tell herself how lucky she was. Claude may have abandoned her, but he would never abandon Jacob. All sons needed to separate from their mothers. At least hers had somewhere safe to go and something constructive to do. He interrupted her thoughts.
‘Goodnight, Mum.’
‘Goodnight, Jacob.’ This was the moment. But she couldn’t speak.
‘You’re not cross, are you?’ he asked.
‘No. I’m not cross,’ she said. Then she asked, ‘Are you all right, Jacob?’
‘About what?’
‘About everything. The charge. The Lola business.’
‘I told you Dad said they’ll drop it.’
‘And Lola?’
‘I told you about that too. And yes, I’m all right. I’m not a kid.’
He was clamming up now. But he had not moved from the door and she stood up, walked across the room, opened her arms and hugged him. He stood very still, neither pulling away nor moving towards her.
‘If you ever want to speak, darling,’ she said.
‘I know, Mum.’
She let her arms drop. This was not the time for him. Would there ever be time? He turned towards his room. And now it was as if an unknown hand was reaching deep inside her and was tugging at her guts. Jacob had sought a promise from her. But he had not told her everything. And she hadn’t felt able to give it. Even so, confronting Natasha would feel like a betrayal.
The following evening, she rang her mother.
‘How did the show go, Mum?’
‘Very well indeed thank you, darling.’
Isabel made no reference to Mel’s absence, but Mel could tell from her clipped tones that she was hurt.
‘I’m really sorry. I was stuck on a train. I didn’t want to walk in an hour late. I’d love to hear about it. Shall I come over at the weekend?’
There was a pause.
‘I may be a little busy.’
Mel was stunned. Her mother could be peevish, martyred, even unwelcoming. But it was many years since she had been busy. Before she could respond, Isabel continued, ‘I met such a charming couple at the show. The young woman’s coming over to help with the costumes on Saturday and then we’re going out to lunch. Sunday’s Bridge Club as you well know.’
Mel had forgotten. Bridge Club met once a month. Usually it was a relief. An activity to keep her mother, if not happy, at least occupied. But today the news unsettled her. Isabel was still talking.
‘And you’re quite right about the cleaner. I took a fresh look at the place after the show and rang the agency this morning. They’re sending someone over.’
At seventy-eight, Isabel was embarking on a new life. Mel knew she should be pleased. Instead she felt confused, even bereft. The ground felt a little less stable.
She called Georgie.
‘Mel, sweetie. What you up to? We never see you these days. It’s all rush-rush in chambers.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. It’d be great to get together. How are you fixed at the weekend?’
‘Oh, shame. You should have rung earlier. We’ve got stuff on. But come for supper next Saturday. Farouk and I promised ourselves a night alone. Just us.’
‘I’d be gate crashing.’
‘Of course not. You’re family. You don’t count.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Thanks, Georgie.’
The ground was firm again. It was always a pleasure to spend an evening with Georgie and his partner, Farouk. That left tonight. And tomorrow. There were other friends, people she could ring. But you needed confidence to call people at the last minute to see if they were free on a Saturday night. And she didn’t need any more rejections.
She tried several novels but couldn’t concentrate beyond a single paragraph. Eventually she picked up a new book on Family Law reform which she’d been meaning to read for some time. It was dry, consisting mostly of suggestions for a new procedural framework. Yet tonight, its very dryness appealed, reminding her of one of the reasons she had taken up law. It provided a structure by which you could manage unruly emotions. People had the mistaken notion that law was difficult. It was so much easier than the emotions themselves.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Natasha
It was Sunday and she was ready for her second outing with Isabel.
‘You’ve really taken to the old dear,’ Luke laughed.
‘Please don’t call her “old dear”. It’s patronising. She’s a friend.’
Friend was not a word she often used. She wasn’t sure she had any. But she and Isabel were good together. Isabel liked to have an admirer. And it was easy to be a fan.
‘Or the mother you never had.’
‘Cut the psychobabble, Luke. We just get on. We’ve a lot in common. Anyway, you’re off to footie. I’m due at hers at ten. We’re going to lunch at a museum. I’m hoping she’ll let me wear one of the costumes. I’m a perfect fit for Darcy Black. Even the shoes.’
‘Don’t overdo it, darling.’
She wasn’t sure what he meant.
‘For fucksake, I’m not the seventy-eight-year-old.’
Had he noticed that she was more tired than normal? That she had eaten half her usual breakfast? Of course. Luke noticed everything. Though he had not seen what she saw in the Ladies’ toilet yesterday. The clear blue ring.
‘Just saying. Take care.’
He wore his anxious look. As if he feared something terrible might happen to her. She smiled at his concern, brushing her hand up his arm as she leant to kiss him goodbye, jumping quickly away towards the door before he could stop her leaving. If he had seen what she had seen in the toilet he would have looked even more anxious. Might even have suggested joining them. But she would not let him suffocate her. No, she would not have this baby.
When she arrived at the Dulwich house Isabel was in her dressing gown.
‘Oh, am I too early?’
‘Not at all. I thought we might choose our outfits together. Come in. I’m making coffee.’
The water was boiling. Isabel spooned fresh coffee into mugs, apparently forgetting you didn’t just pour hot water on the grounds. Natasha thanked her and they carried their gritty drinks upstairs into the spare room where the cupboard doors were open to reveal a tightly packed rail of dresses and suits. They dated back to the Eighties and Nineties and last weekend she and Isabel had sorted them all according to function or occasion.
‘Pick one,’ said Isabel.
‘You mean…?’
‘Choose one you’d like to
wear today. If you’re happy with it you can take it home. With the right shoes of course. You’ll find Schiaparelli, Prada, Gucci, most of them only worn once.’
Natasha chose a brilliant green suit with a floppy Thatcher bow. There was a hint of power dressing in the discreetly padded shoulders and nipped in waist and it was perfect with black and gold platform shoes. She twisted her hair high into neat bun like a ballet dancer and gazed into the mirror at the stylish stranger. The stranger’s carefully made-up lips returned her gentle smile. What would Luke think?
‘The designers used to give me everything. Apparently I boosted sales. Of course, I’m not the woman I was. One shrinks you know. None of this is any use to me now.’ Isabel looked wistful, pulling herself upright as if to dismiss a painful thought. ‘I could get a tailor to take in the seams, but it would feel all wrong. Like destroying a beautiful artwork. Mel says I should get rid of it all. Dump it at a charity shop.’
‘That would be a pity.’
Natasha calculated. She might get £100 or more for any one of these on eBay. And there were plenty of them.
‘Maybe I could help you sell them? After the exhibition of course. Come on, let’s find something for you.’
They moved into Isabel’s room and rifled through the jumble of garments in her own cupboards. Natasha pulled out a black silk shift. It was simple and elegant. The only problem was that the lack of colour drained all life from Isabel’s complexion.
‘Make-up!’ declared Natasha, settling Isabel in a chair in front of the mirror. She used her own pallet to add subtlety to Isabel’s foundation, lipstick, rouge and mascara, standing back to admire her efforts. There was something missing. Apparently reading her mind, Isabel pointed to the two inlaid wood and gilt boxes on the table in front of them. Natasha opened them both and picked out a flamboyant diamond brooch that transformed Isabel’s outfit from ordinary to exceptional.
‘Now you,’ said Isabel.
‘Me?’
‘Pick something for yourself.’
‘From your boxes?’ Natasha endeavoured to sound more surprised than keen.
‘That’s what I said, isn’t it? Anything you like. I’ve got far too much. Mel won’t want it. I might as well give it to someone who appreciates it.’
‘Well, maybe just for today.’
Natasha studied the contents of both boxes and chose a leaping emerald leopard encrusted in diamonds, or possibly glass, and a pair of matching earrings. It was extravagant and outlandish, but it looked cool on the vintage suit.
Finally, she presented Isabel with her own gift, a silver feathered fascinator she had picked up at Harvey Nichols ten years ago. She had never worn it herself and never would, but it was perfect for the old lady.
Isabel stood up and, taking Natasha’s hand, led her back into the spare room so they could both look at themselves in the full-length wardrobe mirror. They made a striking pair. Natasha tall and polished in her figure-hugging suit and platform shoes, Isabel inches smaller in low heeled pumps but still with the commanding presence of an ageing star. Her eyes gleamed with excitement.
At the front door she stopped, turned back to Natasha and tugged a large ring off her finger. It was another emerald setting, and this time it was obvious the diamonds were real.
‘Try it,’ she insisted.
‘I couldn’t possibly wear your ring.’
‘Nonsense. It will look wonderful on your long slim fingers. And ideal with the outfit. Anyway, it’s too big for me now. I’m worried it might fall off.’
‘Well, just for today.’
The ring fitted perfectly. To Natasha at that moment it felt that not only had she met Darcy Black, she was Darcy Black.
They took a taxi to the station where they sat in the bright morning sunshine, waiting for the train. It was already hot, and Natasha felt overdressed and sweaty in her suit. What had looked stunning in the privacy of Isabel’s spare bedroom might not look so stunning in the outside world where people wore shorts and jeans. It was a bit Margaret Thatcher. Did she look ridiculous? Were people staring?
Then came a twinge of hunger. She had forgotten to bring a snack. There was nothing to buy on the platform and there would be nothing on the train. What a fool she was. She had felt too sick to eat much breakfast and since then she’d been preoccupied with Isabel, allowing herself to focus on someone else, losing her grip on her own needs. Even when working she was better organised than this.
The train was due in a minute. If there were no delays they’d be in Victoria by eleven forty-five. She would buy something there. Her reader was in her bag and she took it out. It worked through her clothes and she was practised at running it over her upper arm without drawing attention to herself. But this morning she felt self-conscious. Yes, people were staring. She not only looked absurd but was behaving strangely. More importantly, the blood glucose level was dropping fast. She would need to eat soon.
A crowded train pulled in. They were forced to sit separately. Added worry. She’d need to be sure not to lose Isabel in the crowds when they got to the station.
Through the window the low houses and warehouses of south London gave way to the glassy office blocks and apartments of the centre. She continued to feel both sick and ravenous. Could it be the pregnancy? Was that why she was hungrier? Why her blood sugar had dropped more than usual? She hadn’t been able to eat much at breakfast. It was a cruel irony that just when you needed food you couldn’t swallow it. Was that what pregnancy would be like? Despite the heat of the carriage she felt cold inside at the thought. She couldn’t have a baby. It was impossible. It would interfere with everything. Her phone was ringing. Luke of course.
‘Hi, babe,’ she said. ‘I thought you were off to the pub.’
‘Not yet. It’s hours till kick off. I just rang to check you were OK.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘You were a bit funny at breakfast.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘When are you back?’
‘Five-ish. Listen. I can’t talk now. We’re just pulling into Victoria.’
In fact, they were held at signals. She put away her phone. She wouldn’t tell him. She would have an abortion. He would never know.
Passengers were already getting up and moving towards the doors. She joined them, stopping next to Isabel and leaning down so that she could hear.
‘I need to get some food at Victoria,’ she told her.
Isabel looked unhappy. It was obvious she was a woman who didn’t like her carefully made plans to go awry. ‘But we’ve booked a table at the restaurant.’
‘Just a snack. I told you. I’ve got type 1 diabetes.’
‘Goodness. Is it serious?’
‘It’s fine. I just need something to eat.’
‘You don’t look diabetic. I mean, not fat or anything.’
‘Or a drink. Then we can go to lunch.’
The explanation seemed to satisfy her, and she replied, ‘Of course, darling. Don’t you worry. I’ll look after you.’
The train was pulling into Victoria. Brakes squealed, carriages shuddered, slowed down, stopped. Passengers were rushing to get up, heaving luggage from overhead racks, pushing their way to the door. Isabel stood up to join them. Natasha was about to follow her when two young women on the other side of the aisle jumped up and shoved themselves forward. More people joined the queue to get out and soon the only sign of Isabel was the occasional glimpse of the silver fascinator bobbing in the gap between their heads. Natasha edged down the aisle steadying herself on the little knobs on the top of the train seats. Her platform heels made her feel enormous. She was practised on stilettos, but these were weird, like walking on stilts.
She was shaking as she stepped down from the train to the platform and the clatter and chaos of London crashed over her. Sweat poured from her body dampening the silky fibre of the stupid Eighties suit which clung to her back, her breasts, her stomach. She must reach the concourse. Must find food or drink. If only she�
��d worn something sensible, jeans, trainers. There were cafes in the distance but there was no way she could run in these useless shoes. And anyway, she hadn’t the strength.
The symptoms were familiar; the fog where thoughts started and faded like unfinished sentences. Stray notions flared up like flames in embers. She would make an appointment with the doctor tomorrow. She would get rid of this baby. She couldn’t look after it. She was not fit to be a mother.
Then, through the crowd and the fog she spotted Isabel waiting at the barrier. Memory clicked in and she located the tickets in the side pocket of her bag, handing one to Isabel who passed through the gate with ease. When she tried to insert her own into the slot, it stuck. Travellers were surging past through the other exits. The dizziness was getting worse, the fog drawing in again. Beyond her on the concourse, standing out like a lighted window on a dark night, she could see a Whistle Stop shop. She called to Isabel.
‘Get me a Coke. Or a Pepsi,’ adding, ‘not Diet Coke.’ But the thud of feet and rush of bodies drowned her voice and she wasn’t sure if the words had got out.
If she didn’t eat soon, she would pass out. Isabel was no use and Luke was far away. Her legs were too weak to take her much further, but diabetics didn’t wear placards announcing their condition. All she had was a wrist band, too discreet for anyone to notice until it was too late. The only thing she could do was wait, leaning on the barrier, hoping a railway employee would find her and let her through. Eventually a young man in a Hi-Viz jacket took her ticket, and the gate slid open. She staggered through, looking for Isabel who seemed to have been swallowed by the crowd.