by Jane Green
Safe, she finds herself thinking. I have come home.
NINE
Emma wakes up early the next morning, crawls out of bed to make some coffee, then brings it back with her, slipping between the sheets again, reveling in the luxury of a lazy morning.
All those years she dashed out of bed, went running, on a literal or proverbial treadmill from the minute her feet hit the floor to the minute her head hit the pillow later that night. How she is loving the lack of stress, the fact that she has nowhere to be, no one to report to, nothing to do other than lie between these sheets and sip coffee, watching the sunlight filtering in through the sheer curtains: another beautiful day in paradise.
The phone buzzes on the nightstand next to her, and Emma reaches over to see who’s calling. Her mother.
“Hello, darling,” she hears through the phone. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I know it’s early, but you’re always so busy.”
“Not so much since moving out to the suburbs,” says Emma. “It’s fine. How are you?”
“Very excited, darling! Guess what?”
“You won the lottery?”
“Don’t be silly, darling. No. But Cousin George is engaged.”
“Oh, that’s great. I didn’t know he was seeing anyone, though.” Emma barely remembers Cousin George. He’s younger than she is by a good few years. She remembers him as a feminine and rather pretty boy. And almost certainly gay, she had thought, although, given her mother’s news, clearly incorrectly. As a child she babysat and played with him on the rare occasions he and his parents visited them. He is a cousin of her father’s, whose family is more aristocratic than her mother’s. Hence her mother’s involvement, for she distanced herself from her side of the family, embarrassed by their distinct middle-classness.
“He’s been going out with the Honorable Henrietta Chapman,” says Emma’s mother, as Emma mentally rolls her eyes. No one but her mother would bother putting in the Honorable bit, but of course she has to repeat every title she comes across, as if doing so will somehow elevate her in the eyes of the world.
“That’s nice,” says Emma.
“It is nice,” her mother replies. “It’s wonderful, and I have offered to throw them the engagement party here at Brigham Hall.”
Brigham Hall didn’t used to have a name. It didn’t used to be called anything other than home. But years ago, Emma’s mother decided that every smart family lived in an old stately home with a name, and therefore their own old, not terribly stately home must have one, too. Weeks were spent trying out possibilities. Should it be a Manor? A Farm? A House? The name Brigham appears to have been pulled out of thin air, although Emma’s mother claimed it was from her own mother’s side of the family. Brigham House sounded like an orphanage, they all decided. Brigham Farm was nice, except it wasn’t really a farm; they just had a few acres and a couple of sheds, which didn’t really count. Brigham Manor was very nice, too, thought Emma’s mother, but her husband thought it too grand, too pretentious. So Brigham Hall it became, complete with personalized stationery and an embosser for the envelopes.
“Put it in your diary, darling, because you’re expected to be there.”
Emma resists a bark of indignant laughter. “Expected to be there? What does that mean?”
“It means that all the family are coming, and you haven’t been home in over a year. Everyone’s asking for you. Especially George.”
Emma sputters with laughter. “Why on earth would George be asking for me? I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Exactly. That’s the point. He very much wants you to meet the Honorable Henrietta. He still says you’re his favorite cousin.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. He barely knows me. And, Mum, you really don’t have to call her ‘the Honorable’ every time you mention her. I’m not sure it’s really the done thing.” Ouch. Emma’s mother has never taken criticism well, but better, thinks Emma, for her mother to hear it from her rather than from anyone else.
“I didn’t . . . I mean, I know you don’t actually use that term. I’m only saying it for you.” Her mother stammers slightly, embarrassed at being caught out.
“Naturally,” says Emma. “I don’t know if I can make it, though. It’s such a long way and it’s not like George and I are close. What’s the date?”
“September fifth,” says her mother. “Not too long. Write it down, and do your best. Darling, I know you have a busy life and I know it’s far to come, but it would mean a lot to all of us. Especially me and your father. He misses you and he’s not doing so well.”
Emma’s heart skips a beat. “What do you mean? Is he sick?”
“He has a touch of gout again, and you know what a bear he is when he’s not feeling well. He’d love to see you, darling. Try to make it. I know you will.”
Emma sighs. “I really don’t know. Let’s talk nearer the time. I’ll do my best.” She knows she won’t, however, knows already that she will come up with an excuse, any excuse to avoid a great big family reunion.
“Didn’t you get the invitation? I sent it last week. I’m surprised you haven’t received it by now.”
“I haven’t been out to the mailbox in days,” says Emma, realizing as she speaks that it’s true. “It’s probably in there. I’ll go and check now.”
“All right, darling,” says her mother. “Let me know when your flight gets in and we’ll send someone to pick you up.”
Emma doesn’t bother telling her mother that chances are she won’t be coming. She merely says good-bye, putting it out of her mind.
• • •
It really has been days since Emma has checked the mail. This business of not working is great, but it’s also disastrous for any kind of routine. It would be so easy to just while away the days drinking coffee in bed, renovating the house, and binge-watching TV series on Netflix, as she has been doing evening after evening, alone in her little house.
But a promise to her mother cannot be broken, she thinks to herself with a small smile. She’ll just retrieve the invitation and then jump into the shower. She pushes open the door and trots over the lawn, still damp from the morning dew, to the mailbox. As she does so, the front door next door opens and Dominic walks out.
Shit. Emma is in her sleeping shorts and a baggy T-shirt, which is far too sheer to be worn without a bra, as she is wearing it now. And her hair! Oh God. She hasn’t touched it since she woke up. Despite not having had the misfortune of seeing herself in the mirror, she’s pretty certain it will look the way it always looks when she wakes up, before she has had a chance to shake it out or scrape it back: flat on one side, sticking up at the back and on top, tight curls at the nape of her neck where the night sweats have got her.
And, oh no—oh God, please, no! Last night, at Dominic’s party, the drinks kept flowing, and while she hadn’t drunk enough to be hungover now (thank God, because it could be so very much worse), it was bad enough that last night she fell into bed without washing off her makeup, which means there is undoubtedly mascara smudged halfway down her cheeks.
She’s not supposed to see anyone. It’s 7:32 in the morning, for God’s sakes. She’s supposed to run to the mailbox, grab the irritatingly large stack of catalogs and handful of bills, and get back behind the safety of her front door without being spotted. Now Dominic is waving hello with a big smile, and— Oh God! No! He’s walking over. Emma grabs the mail and clutches it to her chest to hide the fact that her T-shirt is nearly transparent just as she realizes that she hasn’t shaved her legs for days.
She slides a hand through her hair, attempting to shake it out slightly as she smiles a hello, backing slowly toward the house, hoping she can get away with the wave and nothing more.
“Hey!”
Nope. Dominic is almost upon her, and no hole in the ground is opening up to swallow her, so she is just going to have to brazen it out. Maybe she
will get lucky; maybe he wears contact lenses and will have forgotten to put them in. Maybe a miracle will happen.
Why, she thinks, for a fleeting second, does she even care?
She watches him curiously, half expecting him to recoil with horror at what she looks like, but his smile is as natural and open as it always is.
“You’re up so early,” he says, as Emma takes a step backward, realizing—and how could this possibly be any worse than it already is—that she hasn’t yet brushed her teeth. So not only did she not remove her makeup last night, she didn’t brush her teeth, either. Her breath is so stale, she can taste it.
“Early riser,” she says, attempting to speak without letting any breath out of her mouth, so her words sound vaguely strangled.
“Wasn’t that a fun party last night? My friends thought you were great.”
“Thank you.” Emma shoots a desperate look at her front door, so near, and yet so far. “I thought they were great. You’re up early, too.”
“Yeah. Jesse’s sitter canceled and I have a doctor’s appointment at nine. I’ve been phoning around the sitters to find someone.”
“Did you?”
“Not yet.”
“I can watch him,” Emma finds herself saying, without meaning to. “I mean, I’m right next door. It’s totally fine. You can send him over whenever you want.”
Dominic’s face lights up. “Really? You wouldn’t mind? That would be awesome.”
“It’s no problem. What does he like to do?”
“Jesse’s the easiest kid in the world. He’ll do anything. You can stick him in front of the television and he’ll be happy. Or on the computer—he’ll gladly play Minecraft for days on end.”
“Can I take him out? I mean, if I have any errands or anything, would he come?”
“That would be great. Let me put the car seat in your car just in case. Wow. Thank you, Emma. This is saving my life.”
“It’s nothing. The least I can do. Just bring him over whenever you’re ready. I’m going to get dressed, okay?” she says, finally making it to the safety of her house.
Only once she has successfully escaped her front lawn does she remember that she’s not exactly a natural when it comes to small children. She loves teenagers, with their strong opinions and sense of moral outrage, loves children when they are old enough to have an adult conversation. But a six-year-old? Why did she offer to babysit a little boy she barely knows, when she has no idea how to talk to children his age? What on earth could she possibly have been thinking, other than how to get away as quickly as possible?
But Dominic had brought his son over and left. Jesse, now that he is here, seems entirely comfortable. He walked in, went straight to the sofa, where he sat down with his iPad mini, and has barely said a word for the past hour.
Emma has made herself busy with what she is calling work, although it’s hardly that compared to what she is used to. She has Pic Stitched together a photograph of her office/library, the before and after shots, and is posting them online. She has put them on a local Facebook page and the classified sections of local websites, along with copy that offers inexpensive interior design services.
She wishes she had more photographs, more rooms that she had designed. While Jesse is busy playing online games, Emma examines the cabinets in the kitchen, standing in the doorway for a while, looking around. She has a moment of feeling guilty for not engaging with Jesse more, trying to talk to him or find something they could do together. But looking at his complete absorption in whatever is on the screen of his iPad, she decides he is fine, probably happier to be ignored by her. She turns back to the kitchen cabinets. She could easily spray-paint them white after taking the doors off, giving the room an open-shelf look. She could add the leftover molding from the library onto these shelves to thicken them up, make them look more substantial.
It’s a pity there are no backsplashes on the kitchen counter. The Formica counters are among the ugliest things she has ever seen. She goes back into the library, stopping for a second to admire her work—such a pretty room!—before sitting at her computer to search out some kind of plastic countertop sheeting. There must be something. Some kind of sticky-back plastic or contact paper that will mask those countertops.
She finds something online, rolls of sticky plastic printed to look like marble—contact paper. It isn’t expensive, and she buys two rolls, recognizing the nervous thrill she always gets from buying something online—it is likely to be either disastrous or the greatest thing she has ever seen. But it’s cheap, so she’ll find out which it is in about three days.
The blank wall facing the window needs something. Open wooden shelves like the ones she re-pinned on Pinterest the other day. Maybe a small butcher block island underneath, but narrow, enough to provide another work surface and some storage but not crowd the room.
She pulls her tape measure out from a drawer and makes measurements, noting them down in her phone. She’s so inspired, she hates having to sit still. She turns back toward the boy on the couch.
“Jesse?” She has to ask three times before he looks up, so absorbed is he in his iPad. “Do you want to come to Home Depot with me?”
“Sure,” he says, jumping up, eyes still glued to the screen. “That’s my dad’s favorite store.”
“Great. We could go somewhere else, too. Maybe grab some ice cream?”
Jesse’s eyes are big. “Before lunch?”
“If you don’t tell, I won’t tell.”
“Deal!” he says, high-fiving her as they walk out the door.
Emma runs through a number of beginner conversations as she steers the car up Compo and onto the Post Road. She could ask Jesse about school, what grade he’s in, what his favorite subjects are, but she instinctively knows how boring that would be. She remembers a friend who had a schtick with little kids. He would ask them what job they had and whether they were married, whether they had any children, and they would invariably burst out laughing.
Emma thinks about what would happen if she asked Jesse if he’s married, cringing in horror at how ridiculous she would sound. She can already picture his sideways glance of disdain.
She turns on the radio instead, scrolling through until she finds 95.9 The Fox, grateful for Steely Dan, amazed that Jesse starts singing along right away. He knows all the words, more than her, even, and she starts to laugh.
“How do you know this?”
“This is what my dad and I listen to all the time.”
“Steely Dan?”
“All the old music. Neil Young. Lynyrd Skynyrd. The Allman Brothers.”
“You’re a pretty cool little kid.” Emma laughs. She feels amazed at how relaxed and open he seems with her after their silent morning together. “You know that, right?”
“Yup,” nods Jesse. “I know. Hey, did you ever go to the Humane Society?”
“What’s the Humane Society?”
“It’s where you go to rescue animals.”
“I haven’t. I don’t have any animals. Which is a shame. I’d kind of love something to keep me company, but I’m not sure I could handle a dog.”
“I love animals,” Jesse says, staring at her with great seriousness and intensity. “I wanted a cat for my birthday, but Dad is worried it will get run over. I don’t know why. Our neighbors have three cats and they’ve lived here for ages and they’re fine, and they live outside and inside, too.”
“So he won’t allow you a cat?”
Jesse shakes his head with such a solemn look on his face that a ridiculous idea blooms in Emma’s head. Surprised, she shakes herself, trying to dispel it. Of course Emma shouldn’t get a cat. For starters, she has no idea if animals are even allowed in her lease. Although, surely, given that she is babysitting Jesse today, her friendship with Dominic has reached a level where she could persuade him to say yes, even if the lease said n
o.
Now that she realizes she’s talking herself into it, she stops to wonder why the prospect of a cat suddenly seems appealing. She’d never considered having an animal before. Is it for her, or is it to try to endear herself to Jesse? And why would she want to be doing that, anyway?
Because he’s a kid, she thinks. And he’s my neighbor. Because he’s sweet, and doesn’t have a mother, and wants a cat. And if I got one, we could share it.
She doesn’t stop to be shocked by her own thoughts. Instead, she finds herself saying, “Shall we go and have a look?” After a pregnant pause, she adds, “Just to see.”
Jesse nods, grinning widely now. By the look on his face, she can tell the two of them are now in this potentially naughty outing together.
When they arrive at the shelter, Emma really is planning to just look. She thinks they can get away with wandering the corridors gazing at the animals, maybe playing with one or two, but leaving empty-handed a few minutes later.
She didn’t expect the shelter to have kittens, much less a tiny tabby female who is the last one left. She didn’t expect the kitten to curl up in her hands, nudging Emma’s chin over and over as her whole body shakes with purring. Then Jesse sits cross-legged on the floor, the cat crawling all over him, up his shirt, as he heaves with giggles and nuzzles the tiny creature.
“If we got her,” Emma says, “not that we’re going to, but if we did, what would be a good name for a kitten like this?”
“I would call her Hobbes,” says Jesse.
“Hobbs like the clothing store?” Emma thinks about her mainstay in London.
Jesse frowns. “No. Like Calvin and Hobbes. The tiger. She’s kind of like a tiny brown tiger.”
She laughs. “I like it.” And then, not quite believing the words that come out of her mouth—what happened to the good girl, with all those years of banking in her past?—she says, “Should we?” Even as she speaks, she realizes that it isn’t really a “we” question. This cat would be hers. But she can’t help acknowledging she’d be willing and wanting to share her with Jesse for as long as she lives next door to him.