by Beth O'Leary
I nod. “All right. How’s about we make sure to take names, then, and count everyone in and out so nobody lingers?”
She tilts her head. “That’s … Thank you,” she says stiffly. “That sounds sensible.”
There’s a somewhat steely silence.
“So you’ll give your permission for the club to go ahead?” I prompt. “You’re the only person we’re waiting for.”
Her eye twitches. “Fine. Yes. Fine, as long as we count everyone in and out.”
“Of course. As agreed.” I shake her hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Sally.”
Pleasure is a bit of a stretch, but needs must.
“You too, Eileen.”
I march back to Leena’s flat.
“All sorted with Sally in Flat 6,” I tell Fitz, sweeping past to Leena’s bedroom.
Fitz watches me go by with his mouth hanging open.
“How do you do that?” he says.
* * *
A few nights later, Tod and I are side by side in the bedroom of his very grand townhouse, propped up on the pillows. Lying tangled in each other’s arms becomes slightly less practical when you’ve both got bad backs. That’s not to say this isn’t delightfully intimate: Tod’s arm is pressed against mine, his skin warm from lovemaking, and he’s shifted the blankets over to my side because he knows how chilly my toes get.
It’s dangerously intimate, in fact. I could get quite used to this.
A phone rings; I don’t move, because it’s always Tod’s, and it’s usually somebody very important on the other end of the line—a producer, or an agent. He reaches for the phone on the bedside table, but its screen is black. I glance over at mine: Marian calling.
I scrabble to reach it.
“Hello?”
“Mum?” says Marian.
She starts to cry.
“Marian, love, what is it?”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ve been trying so hard to give you some space. But … I just … I can’t…”
“Oh, love, I’m so sorry.” I slide my feet out from under the covers and try to reach for my clothes. “You’ve not had…”
“No, no, nothing like that, Mum. And I’ve been looking after myself, I promise—I’ve been eating properly, doing my yoga…”
I breathe out. It’s not for me, all that standing on one leg and bowing, but yoga has helped Marian enormously. It’s the one fad that’s stuck, not just for months but for years—she started when Carla was first diagnosed. When Marian stops doing yoga, I know things are bad.
“That’s good, love. Has something happened with Leena, then?”
“We had this awful shouting match in the middle of the road on Monday night, and all week I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about how she … she’s so angry, Mum. She hates me. I wasn’t there when she needed me, and now—now I’ve lost her.”
“She doesn’t hate you, love, and you’ve not lost her. She’s hurting and angry and she’s not acknowledging it yet, but she’ll get there. I’d hoped this time with the two of you together would help, but…”
I sort through the pile of my and Tod’s clothes in a frenzy, frustrated with my slowness, trying to keep the phone to my ear with one hand.
“I’ll come home,” I say.
“No, no, you mustn’t do that.” Her voice is thick with tears. “I’m all right. I’m not—having one of my, you know, my moments.”
But who’s to say she won’t, any day now? And if Leena’s shouting at her in the street, who’s going to be there to keep Marian in one piece?
“I’m coming back and that’s that. See you soon, love.” I hang up before she can protest.
When I turn, Tod is looking at me with raised eyebrows.
“Don’t say anything,” I warn him.
He looks taken aback. “I wasn’t going to interfere,” he says.
“No talking about family,” I say. “We both agreed. Boundaries.”
“Of course.” Tod pauses, watching me carefully as I dress. I wish I could move more quickly. “But…”
I pick up my bag from the chair by the door. “I’ll call you,” I say, as I pull the door closed behind me.
Once I’m outside Tod’s house, I find a park bench and settle down to take a breath. Tod lives in a posh part of town called Bloomsbury—there are lots of green spaces edged with black iron fences, and expensive cars with tinted windows.
I can’t fathom a version of the Cotton family where we have screaming matches in the street. That’s not how we do things. How have we come to this?
I should never have left them alone together. It was pure selfishness, this trip to London, and I’m glad Marian’s brought me to my senses before she gets any worse up there in Hamleigh without me.
The pigeons tap around my feet as I rummage in my handbag until I find my diary. Well, Rupert’s invited us for drinks at his and Aurora’s flat tonight, to celebrate getting permission to launch the Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club. I can’t back out of that now, Letitia won’t go unless I do, and she needs this. I’ll leave tomorrow. That’s that. I’ll call Leena in the morning.
I’m not sure I can hold my temper if I speak to her now.
* * *
When Letitia opens the door I can tell right away how nervous she is. Her shoulders are drawn up to her ears, her chin down to her chest.
“Come on,” I say bracingly. I’m not in the right frame of mind for this event either, but we made a commitment, and besides, I am proud of what we’re doing with that space downstairs, even if I won’t get to see the Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club come to life.
“Do we have to?” she says mournfully.
“Of course we do!” I say. “Come on. The sooner we go, the sooner we can leave.”
Martha and Fitz are coming too, though I’m not sure Martha can get down the stairs these days, with that enormous bump of hers. She can’t manage the journey into the office now, so she’s usually set up on the sofa with her feet on the coffee table and her laptop balanced precariously on her stomach. And there’s still no word from Yaz on when she’s coming home. I purse my lips as we head down toward Rupert and Aurora’s flat. I’d quite like to give that Yaz a piece of my mind.
“Mrs. Cotton!” Aurora says as she throws open the door to the flat. “I owe you an abject apology for my hangry behavior when we first met.”
“Oh, hello,” I say, as she sweeps me in for a hug. She has a strong Italian accent; perhaps “hangry” is an Italian term, although it doesn’t really sound like one.
“And you must be Letitia,” Aurora says, cupping Letitia’s face in her hands. “What magnificent earrings!”
Letitia’s eyes dart toward me with unmistakable panic. I think the face-touching might have been a little much for her. I take Aurora’s arm and give it an encouraging tug.
“Do show me around your lovely flat, won’t you?” I say.
“Of course! Your flatmates are already here,” she says, gesturing to the stylish gray sofa, where Martha has already settled, feet up in Fitz’s lap. I feel a startling pang of fondness as I watch the two of them bickering idly with one another. I’ve not known them long. I ought not to have got so attached; tonight, I’ll have to tell them I’m leaving.
“This is my latest sculpture,” Aurora is telling me, and I give a little squawk as I follow her gaze. It’s a gigantic penis made out of marble, with a marble parrot sat on the top. Or the … tip, I suppose I mean.
I can’t help myself. I glance over at Letitia. “A sign from the beyond,” I whisper to her; her lips twitch and she disguises a giggle as a cough.
“Marvelous,” I say to Aurora. “So … evocative.”
“Isn’t it?” she enthuses. “Now, if you follow me into the kitchen, I’ll mix you up a cocktail…”
* * *
“No,” Fitz says firmly. “Absolutely not.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“You can’t leave!”
He points an ol
ive on a toothpick at me. Aurora and Rupert make very good cocktails, though I was a bit suspicious about the toothpick olives, at first. Fitz says they’re “ironic.” Now I’ve got that floaty perfume feeling again, tucked between Martha and Fitz on the sofa, a martini glass in my hand.
“Mrs. Cotton—Eileen,” Fitz says. “Have you done what you set out to do?”
“Well,” I begin, but he waves me off.
“No you have not! The Silver Shoreditchers’ Club has barely begun! You’ve not met your swoony Old Country Boy! And you are definitely not done with sorting my life out,” he says.
Hmm. I didn’t realize he’d noticed I’d been doing that.
“Are Eileen Cottons quitters? Because the Eileen Cottons I’ve met don’t strike me as quitters.”
“Not this again,” I tell him, smiling. “I have to go, Fitz.”
“Why?” This comes from Martha.
I wouldn’t give an honest answer to a question like that, usually. Not if it was Betsy or Penelope asking. But I think of Martha waving me over in tears and telling me how afraid she was about the baby coming, and I tell her the truth.
“Marian needs me. She can’t cope on her own, and Leena’s only been making things worse.” I stare at my martini. I might be a bit sloshed. That was very indiscreet. “She’s been rowing with her mother. Shouting at her in the street! That’s not how we do things.”
“Maybe it should be,” Martha suggests mildly, swirling her “mocktail.”
“Yeah, totally,” Fitz says. “Those two needed to clear the air. Half the problem is Leena bottling everything up for the last year. Have you seen her on the phone to her mum? Twenty seconds of small talk and then she gets this frozen-rabbit face of total panic”—he demonstrates, quite uncannily well—“and then she’s bailing on that chat like a sailor with a hole in his boat.” He pauses. “Did that simile work?” he asks Martha.
She screws up her nose.
“Leena’s mad at Carla as much as she’s mad at Marian,” Fitz says definitively. “And more than either of them, she’s mad at herself, because when did Leena Cotton ever come across a problem she couldn’t fix with a lot of effort and, what does she call it, a thought shower?”
“It’s good that they’re expressing their feelings,” Martha says. “A row is cathartic, sometimes.”
“But Marian is fragile,” I tell them. “She’s grieving. How is shouting at her going to help?”
“Is she fragile?” Martha asks gently. “She’s always struck me as very strong.”
I shake my head. “You don’t know the whole story. This past year, she’s had these—patches. Episodes. It’s awful. She won’t let me in the house. I knock and I knock and she pretends she’s not there. The last time was the worst—she wouldn’t come out for days. In the end I used my key to get inside, and she was just sitting there on the carpet with one of those God-awful tapes playing, the ones with some man droning on about how grief is a prism and how one must let the light enter one’s being or some such tripe. It was like…” I trail off, noticing Martha’s pained expression. “What? What did I say?”
“No, no,” Martha says, hand to her belly. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely not what?” Fitz asks.
“Oh, dear,” says Letitia. She hasn’t spoken in so long we’re all a bit surprised; she looks rather startled herself. She points at Martha’s stomach. “Was that a contraction?”
“Don’t worry,” Martha says, breathing through her nose, “I’ve had them since lunchtime. They’re not real contractions.”
“No?” Letitia says, eyeing Martha. “How can you tell?”
“Because Yaz isn’t back yet,” Martha says, “and I’m not due for another three weeks.”
“Right,” Fitz says, looking at me with raised eyebrows. “Only I’m not sure the baby necessarily knows your schedule.”
“Yes it does,” Martha says through gritted teeth. “It is—oooh, oww, oww!”
She grabs Letitia’s hand, which happens to be nearest. Letitia yelps.
“OK,” Martha says, leaning her head back against the sofa again. “OK, fine. Done. What were we saying? Oh, yes, Eileen, go on—Marian’s episodes?”
We all stare at her.
“What?” she says. “It’s fine. I mean, I only go to the hospital if the contractions are … if the contractions are…” She leans forward again, face twisting. She lets out an alarmingly animal sort of groan. I recognize that sound.
“Martha, love … those look very much like real contractions,” I tell her.
“It’s too soon,” Martha gasps once the contraction has passed. “Not … can’t…”
“Martha,” Fitz says, placing his hands on her shoulders, “you know when you say a client is being totally ridiculous and can’t see what’s right in front of them? Like that woman who thought her drawing room was big enough to take a picture rail?”
“Yeah?” Martha pants.
“You’re being that woman,” Fitz says.
Ten minutes later and the groans are more like screams.
“We need to get her to the hospital,” Fitz tells Rupert and Aurora. I’ll give them their due, they’re not shying away from getting stuck in. Aurora is dashing around fetching water and typing questions into Google Search; Rupert, who did a spell as a paramedic in his youth, is desperately reciting the advice he remembers about childbirth, which is not calming Martha, but is making the rest of us feel a bit better.
“What was Martha’s plan for when the baby came?” I ask Fitz.
“Yaz,” he says, pulling a face. “She’s got a car, she’d drive her to the hospital.”
“But she’s not here,” I say. “What was the alternative plan?”
Everyone blinks at me.
“I have a motorbike?” Rupert offers.
“A scooter,” Aurora corrects him. Rupert pouts.
“I’m not sure that’ll work,” Fitz says, rubbing Martha’s back as she leans on the sofa arm, groaning. “How long ’til the Uber arrives?”
Rupert checks his phone and whistles between his teeth. “Twenty-five minutes.”
“Twenty-what?” Martha yells, in a voice that sounds absolutely nothing like Martha. “That is literally impossible! There is always an Uber within five minutes! It is a law of physics! Where is Yaz? She was meant to bloody be here!”
“She’s in America,” Letitia offers. “What?” she says, noting my glare. “Isn’t she?”
“She’s not picking up her phone,” Fitz says to me in a low voice. “I’ll keep trying her.”
Martha lets out a half groan, half scream, dropping into a crouch. Fitz flinches.
“I am not meant to be witnessing this,” he says. “I’m supposed to be downstairs having a cigar and a whiskey and pacing, aren’t I? Isn’t that what men do in these situations?”
I pat him on the shoulder. “Let me take over.” I swing a cushion off the sofa for my knees and get down next to Martha. “Fitz, you go and knock on the neighbors’ doors. There must be someone with a car. Aurora, fetch some towels. Just in case,” I say to Martha when she turns panicked eyes my way. “And Rupert … go and sterilize your hands.”
* * *
“In! In!” Sally from Flat 6 is yelling.
This emergency situation has been a wonderful bonding experience for the building. I can finally say I’ve met every single neighbor. I was astonished when Sally stepped up to the plate, though she was rather strong-armed into it: she’s the only one in the building with a means of transport, and by the time we got to her the sound of Martha screaming blue murder was echoing down the halls.
“All I know about Sally is that she is a hedge-fund manager and lives in Flat 6, yet I have no qualms about getting in her enormous, serial-killer-style van,” Fitz observes wonderingly. “Is this community spirit, Eileen? Trusting thy neighbor, and all? Oh, holy mother of God…”
Martha has his hand in a vice-like grip. She’s leaning her forehead on the headrest of the seat in front; whe
n she sits back, I notice she’s left a foggy dark patch of sweat on the fabric. She’s in a bad way. This baby is not dilly-dallying.
“Go! Go! Go!” Sally yells, though to whom I’m not sure—she’s in the driving seat. She pulls out of her parking space to a series of outraged honks. “Emergency! Baby being born in the back!” she shouts out of the window, waving her arm at an irate taxi driver. “No time for niceties!”
Sally’s definition of niceties is quite broad and seems to cover most of the rules of the road. She goes through every red light, clips someone’s wing mirror, drives up three curbs, and shouts at a pedestrian for having the gall to walk over a zebra crossing at the wrong moment. I find it fascinating that a woman so anxious about feeling safe in her own home drives as though she’s on the dodgems. But, still, I’m delighted she’s throwing herself into things. Though I’ve yet to get to the bottom of why she owns quite such a big van, as a woman living alone in the center of London. I do hope Fitz’s not right—I’d feel awful if she turned out to be a serial killer.
Martha startles me out of my reverie with a long, loud, agonized roar.
“We’re almost there,” I tell her soothingly, though I haven’t a clue where we are. “You’ll be in the hospital in no time.”
“Yaz,” Martha manages, a vein standing out on her forehead. She grabs my arm with that urgent, animal grip that only comes with pain.
“I can’t get hold of her, honey,” Fitz says. “I think she’ll be on stage. But I’ll keep trying her.”
“Oh, God, I can’t do this,” Martha wails. “I can’t do this!”
“Of course you can,” I say. “Just don’t do it until we get to the hospital, there’s a love.”
19
Leena
I’m on my fifth batch of brownies. I have discovered four entirely different ways of making brownies badly: burning them, undercooking them, forgetting to line the tray, and missing out the flour (a real low point).