‘Amelia said that you all but disappeared,’ I say. ‘That you didn’t bother to keep in touch.’
‘Well, yes, but it seemed like the right thing to do when I heard . . . to come here . . . and see you.’
‘Bit late. There were phones in the nineties. Even Amelia had one.’
‘I remarried.’
I don’t know what to say to that. On birthday cards, his only attempts at contact, he’d always written: To Dear Lily-flower.
‘Elizabeth Juliette Magnolia,’ he smiles at his own out-of-date joke.
He always said if it had been up to him, I’d have been an Imogen, but my mother had been insistent. Whilst people in the eighties and nineties had tight perms, shoulder pads and embraced consumerism, my mother decided to remain in the sixties and seventies. Flowers. The Beatles. Parties. Drugs. Drink. Fun, fun, fun. My father was a long-distance lorry driver and my mother’s ‘excuse’ was that she didn’t feel comfortable being the only adult in the house. She’d conjured up a fear of murderers and burglars forming an orderly queue outside the front door the moment he left for work.
My father taps his watch. ‘I have to go. Train to catch. Let’s not be strangers. I’m even on email now. I’ll write it down. Maybe you can come and visit sometime?’
‘Maybe.’ Unlikely.
‘I do think of her and him, you know . . .’
‘Goodbye,’ I say.
He hesitates. For a dreadful moment I think he is going to try to hug me, but he doesn’t.
‘Goodbye, Lily-flower.’
I turn back to the room full of strangers. Amy had offered to come, but old habits die hard; I’d never been at ease mixing family and friends.
‘I hope you’re going to stick around for a few more days,’ says Barbara. ‘You need to help sort out the house.’
She doesn’t add that it’s the least I can do. Surprisingly, my mother has left a will. With her skewed logic, she probably thought it would make amends for the past. I’m now the proud, sole owner of Sweet Pea Cottage.
‘I’m going to stay there tonight.’
‘Alone?’
‘Alone.’
‘Goodbye, Babs. Lovely spread,’ says a tall, thin man clutching a walking stick.
‘Bye. You look after yourself,’ says another woman, touching my aunt’s arm briefly before grabbing her coat.
Everyone trickles away. The kitchen is spotless due to the numerous offers of help. Everyone likes a job when the alternative is making small talk with people you don’t really know, about a dead person you knew even less.
‘Are you quite sure?’ asks Barbara as I pack my bag, ready for the short walk to Sweet Pea Cottage.
I wave a small torch – the one work suggested we buy for use in the crew bunk area. ‘Totally. See you in the morning.’
My sympathy reserves are dry and I crave solitude. Besides, I’m in the right kind of mood to face ghosts.
My footsteps echo on the road and then the path. I take out my old keys, inhale deeply and turn the lock. The wooden door creaks. It always has, but it’s only noticeable now that the house is silent.
The early years were filled with people. They were just there; hanging around, laughing. I remember a lot of laughter. Raucous, drunk, giggly. That’s what I remember the most. And debates. My mother got it into her head that what was wrong with the world was that people no longer expressed themselves.
‘Tony Blair does,’ someone had said.
‘Princess Diana did,’ another voice had chipped in. ‘And look what her death did. It freed people up to openly express their emotions.’
The more alcohol infused their brains with notions, the louder the debates became, against an eclectic mix of music. I learned how to make myself invisible. Nothing like a kid to put the dampener on fun. It was different for my two-year-old brother, though. When chatting about him with others, the adjectives my mother used were ‘cute’, ‘funny’ or ‘adorable’, whereas I was ‘quiet’, ‘moody’ and ‘unaffectionate’.
During the latter years at home, once the constant stream of visitors had stopped, my mother had usually been asleep by late afternoon. The TV or radio, sometimes simultaneously, were left blaring. I’d turn down the sound and I’d take off her shoes and cover her with a blanket. Once I’d put Will to bed, I’d sit in an armchair, reading or making up stories and plays.
Now a clock ticks. I’ve always hated the sound, even before ‘the Incident’, as everyone referred to it later. Four-year-old William Florian Jasmin grins at me from the mantelpiece. He’d have been called Nicholas if my dad had been allowed his way. Six years younger than me, he’d had an inbuilt talent for charming people. All now irrelevant, dead information.
I head for the shiny wooden drinks cabinet. A bottle of gin sits among a random selection of alcohol. Surprisingly, it is nearly full. I open the fridge, not quite sure what to expect. Among the ready meals, some onions and three wizened apples, are six cans of tonic. No lemons or limes. Inside the freezer compartment, there are several trays of ice. Clutching my mother’s favourite drink, I go upstairs. The clink of an ice cube makes me jump as I push open her bedroom door, inhaling cold and damp.
I step in. Floorboards creak in familiar places. I pull open a wardrobe door and am hit by my mother’s signature perfume. Opium. I hate perfumes that scream of camouflage, to hide odours like drink and neglect. I shiver at the memory and look behind, half-expecting to see Amelia carrying her drinks up the stairs on a doily-lined tray in an attempt to make addiction respectable. I can smell smoke even though no one has smoked in this house for years.
Turning back to the job in hand, I lift hangers off the rail holding mainly dresses. I stare at a rose-patterned one before holding it against me. I look in the mirror; it doesn’t suit me. This was her favourite one. She wore it every summer, back in the days before the drink sucked her in completely. In the mornings, before her lunchtime wine, she’d sometimes take me and Will to the nearby woods, pointing out flower names along the way. I remember cowslip, bluebells and foxgloves.
There was a green-fingered woman who had lived along the way and Amelia adored her garden, especially in spring. The woman had died not long after the Incident. The new owners of her bungalow were keen to remodel the place, and years of building work destroyed all the beauty. But by then, Amelia wouldn’t have noticed or cared.
I pull open the built-in wardrobe drawers, each wooden front prettily engraved with flowers. Underwear. Tights. Musty jumpers. A gardening book. Inside the front cover are two pressed daisies. I drain my glass before heading downstairs for some bin bags and a refill.
I yank open the last drawer. It’s lighter than I expect, so it shoots out, causing me to fall back. It’s empty, apart from a yellowing envelope Sellotaped to the back. I rip it open. That’s when it all hurtles back; suppressed memories swirl through my mind like water down a chute. And it hits me.
I run to the bathroom and throw up. Turning on the cold tap, I splash drops on to my face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I need to leave.
I go outside and call a taxi to take me to the station. I wait at the end of the path by the wooden gate. As the cab approaches, its beams highlight the overgrown hedges and the suffocating ivy that have always threatened to swallow the cottage. I must stay strong and not allow myself to be clawed back by the past. I quietly repeat my mantras under my breath, hidden in the darkness of the back seat, whilst the driver listens to a football match on the radio.
Stick to the plan, stick to the plan.
Fail to plan, plan to fail.
As long as I don’t veer off course, nothing can ever harm me again.
4
I disembark from the coach at Heathrow. The automatic doors to the Report Centre part. Flashes of green and blue – our corporate colours – rush by. In the canteen, I spot a vacant corner table as I order a double espresso. Above, monitors constantly update the tantalizing list of destinations. Rome. Nairobi. Athens. My eyes rest on Los Angeles: m
y first destination as an operating crew member. I want distance from Sweet Pea Cottage, Dorset and the past. Thoughts are swamping my mind.
LAX crew report to room nine flashes up on the screens.
I stand up, gather my belongings and head for the pre-flight briefing room. I am allocated a working position at the back of the plane.
The flight itself would be a lot easier if there weren’t so many passengers. Entering the economy cabin isn’t dissimilar to my idea of walking on to a stage because hundreds of eyes watch me and I sense their silent anticipation. I release the brake on the trolley and push it in front of me. Bottles rattle. When I stop at my allocated aisle – row thirty-six – I can almost hear passengers mentally recalculating the order in which they will be served, and it injects me with a surge of power.
I smile. ‘Lasagne or chicken curry? Red or white wine?’
A well-known chef is in first class and is apparently sharing cooking tips with the galley crew and other passengers. I am half-tempted to go and join them; perhaps he can pass on something new which will impress Nate. However, I get caught up preparing for the afternoon tea service. And before I get a chance, we are commencing our descent.
After landing, people make plans on the crew bus.
‘Anyone fancy a tour of the stars’ houses?’ asks someone.
I can’t think of anything worse than paying to catch glimpses of unattainable lifestyles. I choose to join a group of five who suggest brunch somewhere by the coast tomorrow. We are eight hours behind the UK, so even I will want more than a coffee by then. I didn’t mention that it was my very first flight, just that I was fairly new and that I’d never been to LA before. I’d heard rumours about ‘pranks’ – I detest the very word and the images it conjures up – such as informing a new recruit that it was their responsibility to carry a bag of ice off the aircraft for a room party or that they had to carry the captain’s suitcase to his room.
Venice Beach.
Now I’m here, in a place so familiar that I feel as though I’ve walked on to a film set, I want to pinch myself. I can’t believe that I am here, living Nate’s lifestyle. To think . . . all those times I was at our home, waiting for him, whilst he was cavorting around the world, having a ball. What a mug I was. I gaze at the vast beach. Beneath the tall, skinny palm trees people unselfconsciously work out at the outdoor gyms. A lifeguard hut catches my eye. I’d watched Baywatch a couple of times at Babs’ house and I’d been enthralled.
I stroll along the Boardwalk with my temporary new best friends – my colleagues – browsing the market stalls crammed with sunglasses, T-shirts, crystals, souvenirs, whilst dodging beautiful, thin people jogging, roller-blading and skateboarding. An artist wants to draw my portrait, but I refuse with a smile. I feel almost relaxed.
We decide on a restaurant with outside seating for brunch. I order an egg-white omelette and a sparkling water.
‘Don’t fancy a Buck’s Fizz, then?’ asks Alan, the cabin service manager. ‘You can drink, as long as you stop at least twelve hours before duty.’
‘I don’t drink much,’ I say. ‘I’m not really that fussed.’
Everyone bursts out laughing.
‘What?’ I say. ‘It’s true.’ I look round the table of sage faces.
‘You won’t be saying you don’t drink a lot for much longer,’ says Alan, taking two gulps from his flute glass. ‘I give you six months. Tops.’
They can laugh and make assumptions all they like. I zone out.
As I walk 35,000 feet above the Atlantic operating the flight home, the only thing that keeps me going through the endless demands is the knowledge that this is all a means to an end. I have an uncomfortable moment when I am summoned by Alan via interphone to speak to a French passenger in first class who has some queries.
‘Can’t he speak English?’ I say.
‘She. Not very well. That’s why we need you.’
I walk up the aisle as slowly as possible, willing someone to faint and slump over the aisle or ask me lots of complicated questions. The problem is that I exaggerated my ability in French on the application form. I’m barely GCSE standard. However, I took a gamble and only scraped through the mercifully short oral by cramming with a Teach Yourself audiobook a few weeks beforehand and by pretending I had a bad cold on the day. It was such a relief to walk out of the exam room that I forgot to think long-term. I saw it as another hurdle cleared, not as a potential future problem.
I smile as I’m introduced to Madame Chauvin, an elderly lady, who smiles up at me from her seat expectantly and launches into a long speech.
‘I can handle this,’ I say to Alan, who is hovering obsequiously nearby.
He shrugs and disappears through into the galley.
I learned one sentence off by heart in French, which I repeat. ‘Je ne parle pas très bien . . . I don’t speak French very well. Could you speak more slowly, please?’
She frowns, then smiles again and slows down her speech.
I crouch down near her seat, so that hopefully no one else can hear. I catch the words bagages and Paris. I think.
Still grinning, I say, ‘Pas de problème,’ in a voice barely above a whisper and offer her a café au lait.
She opens her mouth, but I pat her on the arm and say, ‘You’re welcome,’ in French, stand up and leave. Before I escape back to economy, I ask the galley crew to make her a coffee with three biscuits, preferably chocolate.
Alan, who is leaning against a counter, tapping his iPad, stops and peers through his glasses at me.
‘What did Madame Chauvin want?’
‘She was concerned about her baggage making a connecting flight to Paris.’
‘Oh. Is that all?’
‘Well, she also misses her grandchildren and is looking forward to seeing them. She’s been away for a long time visiting other relatives. I’d better get back, I haven’t completed my bar paperwork yet.’
I walk swiftly through business class, then premium class until I reach the safety of the rear cabin. The sea of economy faces is a welcome relief, but I don’t properly relax until we land. Every time the interphone rings, my heart leaps in case ‘The French Speaker’ is summoned again.
After landing, I return home briefly to dump my bags, shower and change before I catch the train to Dorchester. I send Babs a message, asking her to collect me, then close my eyes for a little doze on the train. She is waiting for me at the station in her red Mini.
‘I think I’m going to sell the cottage,’ I say to her as we drive past it. ‘I’ll have to hope that someone loves the whole Hansel and Gretel, fairies, flowers and toadstools in the merry forest-style theme, though.’
‘I agree, my love.’
I’d expected a list of objections, all stacked up like planes awaiting air traffic control. My mother had been given the house by my grandparents, both of whom had died before I’d reached my first birthday. Barbara was married to Ernie at the time and they were happy in a modern, detached house where ‘everything worked’.
‘I’d been on at her for years to sell, but she vehemently refused. The cottage was for a family, and as for the grounds . . .’
‘. . . a jungle, from what I’ve seen through the window.’
Amelia liked to buy mixed packets of flower seeds, tip them all together in a huge bowl, then stand in the middle of the garden and throw handfuls into the sky and watch in joyful anticipation as they rained down haphazardly. Of course, some grew; bursts of colour among the random weeds and grass, until they were strangled or gave up the fight after long periods of warm weather with no water.
‘She was never going to heal here, alone, surrounded by memories,’ Babs says softly, almost to herself.
‘She had me,’ I say.
I don’t mention the succession of unsuitable men after Dad left.
‘I did keep an eye on you,’ says Babs quickly. ‘I made you soup and apple crumble. And you knew that my home was an open house when it came to you.’
Oc
casionally words fail me. Soup and bloody apple crumble. Birthday cards from Father. My family are like the Waltons. Amelia resigned from maternal responsibility when I was awarded a drama scholarship at a boarding school, an institution that prided itself on its values. The Latin for light and truth – lux et veritas – was carved into a wooden panel in the dining area. When not in school uniform, my unfashionable clothes and childish Disney pyjamas ensured I was even further set apart from the queen bee and her friends, with their matching silk pyjama sets and designer sweaters, trousers and shoes.
We reach Barbara’s house. She parks outside her garage, which she hasn’t used since Ernie’s sudden death from a heart attack seven years ago. He loved hiding away in there, listening to Radio Four and carving wooden chests that he liked to sell at car boot sales. Babs turns the key in the lock of her white PVC front door and I follow her in, taking my bags up to the spare room.
‘Will you help me clear the cottage out?’ I say when I return downstairs. ‘I want to get some estate agents round. Maybe once it’s sold, it will start to feel possible to lay some of the past to rest.’
‘Yes, of course, Lily love.’
‘I call myself Juliette now.’
There’s no harm in her knowing.
‘Oh. OK. That’s fine, as long as you don’t expect me to remember all the time.’
‘Let’s have a coffee, then walk over,’ I say. ‘I want to get it over with.’
The chill of winter is weakening now that the end of March is imminent. Cherry blossom coats the branches of the village trees and clusters of crocuses push their way through patches of grass. Amelia’s favourite time of year. Not for me, though, because it is a blatant reminder that time is moving on. Without Nate. We got together in July last year and it is my intention to get us back on track before that anniversary. I quicken my step, mustering up a fresh sense of determination, and shove open the gate to Sweet Pea Cottage.
The Perfect Girlfriend Page 3