by Ruth Mancini
I nodded again. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Catherine looked up at me. “So?”
I looked back at her for a moment. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll leave him alone.”
Catherine smiled. “So that’s an end to it? No more worrying?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That you stop calling yourself fat. You’re lovely. You’re beautiful. You’re a... a MILF.”
“A what?”
“It means ‘A Mum I’d Like to...’, well, you know, that men would like to... It means you’re fit.”
Catherine burst out laughing. “Where the hell did you hear that expression?”
I looked at her for a moment and then cleared my throat. “You really don’t want to know.”
10
Helena’s exams started on my birthday, in the first week in June. By the third week they were over and she’d gone. Her room stood clean and empty, her remaining belongings packed up and ready to come in the car with me to London in two weeks’ time. Christian had found a work colleague to move into his home and he, in turn, had transported almost everything he owned, including half his furniture, to my place. He’d all but moved in already by the time Helena set off, and although I was used to seeing his shaver and toothbrush in the bathroom most weekends, it was strange to now find his dressing gown hanging on the back of my bedroom door, his books on my shelves and his laptop in semi-permanent position on my kitchen table. I wondered how he’d viewed this move. In one sense, he might see it as a step forward in our relationship, as it was still my home and most of my belongings were still there, co-existing side by side with his. On the other hand, I wouldn’t actually be there, save for the weekend trips home that I’d inevitably be making over the next few months.
Juliana was disappointed to see me go, though happy that ‘her best worker’ (as she called me) was going to be taking on the task of looking after the agency’s newest client. She was also hopeful that my presence at the hospital would lead to further referrals for her business, and had given me a list of marketing activities she wanted me to do whilst I was there. Suzanne was her usual philosophical self and wished me luck, promising to look in on Christian and to walk Lily when he was at work, and to come and visit me in London as soon as her own work schedule allowed. I knew that she wouldn’t. She didn’t like to travel much and had not left Paris in over thirty years.
On the last Friday of June, I set off in Helena’s car for Calais. Christian held me tight as we stood on the driveway and then reluctantly released me, before planting a kiss on my mouth and walking back to the house. I waved and looked back at him fondly as he stood there, larger than life, by my front door, holding onto Lily’s collar. I got into the driver’s seat and started the engine, moving off down the street and out of sight before brushing a tear from my eye. I took a brief look around me as I drove, and elbowed a box out of my way. I’d crammed as much as I could into the small boot and into every available space in the back and front of the vehicle. I felt a little hemmed in, surrounded by bags, suitcases, and Helena’s clutter, but happy to be setting off in the sunshine into my new venture.
The roads were clear and I was in good time for the ferry. It was a long time since I’d taken this route by car and I’d forgotten how much fun it was to sit up on deck, drinking a beer and watching the vast expanse of water around me, as it parted steadily in front of us and hit the side of the boat. I felt a real sense of nostalgia as we left France behind, but soon felt just as emotional about the white cliffs of Dover as they loomed up ahead. The splashing of the waves, and the boat, and the cliffs all combined to make me think of a beautiful Paul Weller song I’d not heard for many years: No matter where I roam, I will return to my English Rose. For no bonds can ever tempt me from she. I wiped yet another tear from my eye and told myself to stop being so emotional.
Driving in England took a bit of getting used to. For a start, the car was a left-hand drive, which was the wrong side for the British roads. I tried to go the wrong way round a roundabout soon after leaving the port and got completely lost on the ringroad in Folkestone. I hadn’t driven on the left since I’d left London eighteen years ago, and I still hadn’t quite got used to the fact that the car was an automatic. Dealing with all of these complications took all my concentration for most of the journey. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that the rear window was mildly obscured by the luggage that was crammed onto the back seat and that Helena’s fencing sword kept working its way down the pile beside me and poking me in the arm. Fortunately there was a long stretch of motorway to come, and after pulling into a service station in Ashford and reorganising my load, I sailed smoothly through Kent and negotiated my way without too much difficulty through the outskirts of London.
It was early evening when I pulled up outside Zara’s flat.
“Where’s Helena?” I asked, as Zara came out to help me.
“She’s gone out,” said Zara. “I think she’s swimming.”
“Seriously?” I sighed. “She was supposed to be here to help with this lot. That’s typical Helena. Most of this stuff is hers.”
“We’ll manage,” said Zara, picking up Helena’s sword and pulling it out of its sheath.
“Put it away!” I screeched, and grabbed for it. Zara started to dance around on the pavement, pretending to fence me and making stabbing motions towards me.
I glanced round me. “It’s an offensive weapon, Zara!” I yelled. “Put it down.”
“Chicken! Yellow chicken!”
I made a grab for the sword and caught it, losing my footing and falling heavily against Zara, who in turn keeled over and fell into a gap between the curb and the car, my parallel parking having fallen short of the required standard on this occasion. I landed on top of her and the sword clattered to the ground.
“Zara, are you okay?”
She let out a moan and then burst out laughing. “Do you remember that time when we first met and you fell on top of me into the bath?”
“Or the time when you carried me home from the Kings Arms in Smithfield and we laughed so much we couldn’t get up off the pavement?”
“Or the time when you, me, and Tim all fell into the bath at Christmas and got covered in red wine?”
“We didn’t fall that time, Zara. You pushed us, and then turned the shower on!”
“And that was when Tim kissed you.”
I smiled coyly and helped her up. “Never mind that. It was a long time ago. Come on. Let’s get this stuff inside.”
“They’ve invited us over, by the way,” said Zara, picking up a suitcase and a black bin-liner full of Helena’s clothes. “Tim and his wife. Next weekend. Shelley’s coming too. What do you say?”
I thought about that for a moment. “That would be lovely. I’d really like that. I was thinking about Shelley, only the other day.”
Zara headed into the flat and I followed behind with an armful of assorted bags and coats. “She’s really keen to see you again too. She’s always asking about you.”
Helena burst in through the door shortly after the car had been unloaded.
“My stuff!” she called out happily, going over to the large pile of bags that were already threatening to engulf Zara’s living room. She started to root through them.
“Nice to see you too,” I said. “Your timing’s impeccable. We’ve just finished unloading.”
“Oh, sorry Mum. I got held up.” Helena bounced over and gave me a hug before going back to her belongings and starting to unpack. Zara looked slightly unnerved as Helena began pulling clothes, books, and CDs out of the bags and scattering them over the carpet.
“Put them back for now,” I told her. “We’re going to need to get organised here. Poor Zara won’t be able to move for all our stuff blocking up the room.”
“Which is why,” Helena said. “I’ve sorted it.”
“Sorted what.”
“I’m going to m
ove into McLaren House. They’ve got a space.”
“What? You haven’t even got your exam results yet! You haven’t signed anything, have you? What if you don’t get in?”
“There’s no-one there at the moment. There’s loads of space. They said I can have it on a week by week basis until I get my results.”
“I see. What about the car? Where will you keep that?”
“They said I’d be entitled to apply for a permit. I’ll get the forms off the website tonight.” She came over and plonked herself onto the sofa beside me and Zara, squidging us up with her bottom. “Do you mind?”
“You moving into McLaren House?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head. “No. It’s probably the best idea. There’s obviously not enough room here. Like you say, it’s fairly inexpensive. And the less I see of your bloody fencing sword the better. Though you’d better make sure you keep it somewhere safe.”
“And the car? We were going to share it.”
I shrugged. “I don’t need a car. I’m working a twenty minute walk away.”
“Great. I kind of do need it. Competitions and that. ‘And other news’,” said Helena, mimicking the BBC news presenter that was mouthing silently on the telly in front of us.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got into the Camden Junior Women’s Biathlon team. I’ve entered the South East Regional Championships. First competition is next Tuesday.”
“Biathlon?”
“Yes. I couldn’t find a Pent Club locally, riding’s expensive and I didn’t want to travel to Kent. I’m thinking about specialising. Just running and swimming.”
I looked over at her fencing sword and stuck my tongue out at it. “Now you tell me.”
“Sky reckons I’m in with a real chance of qualifying for the British Championships Final next March.”
“Sky?”
“He’s my new coach,” Helena said proudly. “He’s brilliant.”
I looked up, “Really? When did this happen?”
“A couple of weeks ago. He suggested it and it’s so cool. He totally believes in me. My swim times have already improved with him on board. They’re getting better and better. He said he’s going to do everything in his power to make sure I qualify for the BC Finals.”
“I see. So where’s this competition on Tuesday?”
“Guildford. You will come, won’t you? Sky told me to ask you. He reckons that audience support is one of the top influences on an athlete’s success.”
I couldn’t help being surprised. I’d just begun thinking, vaguely, that Sky’s involvement in my daughter’s sporting career was going to impact negatively on my relationship with her in some way, but clearly I was wrong. He wanted to include me. Maybe I needed to stop being so paranoid. Maybe Sky had nothing against me. Perhaps it was all in my head.
I smiled. “In that case, how could I refuse?”
“Can I come too, then?” asked Zara.
“Of course. Brilliant. The more the merrier.”
I stroked my daughter’s arm. “I’m glad it’s all worked out so well for you.”
Helena leaned her head on my shoulder. “Me too. It’s worked out well for all of us, right?”
I thought of Christian and wondered what he’d be doing right now. Scrap that; I knew exactly what he’d be doing right now. He’d be sitting alone at my kitchen table with his big spectacles perched on his nose, his laptop or the newspaper open in front of him and the dog lying on the ground at his feet. He’d work or read there until around ten, before he wandered off to bed. I hoped he wasn’t going to be too lonely.
“I do hope so,” I said.
*
My first day at work surpassed my expectations. The job was fun and interesting and tailor-made for me. It was a bright sunny morning. I’d confidently left my raincoat behind as I left Zara’s flat soon after eight and walked to the hospital. Oli was already in clinic when I arrived, but he’d left me an apologetic note and a list of login instructions for his computer operating system. I’d taken him at his word and spent the first hour or two tidying up his office and creating a comfortable workspace for myself. It took a while to find my way round his computer system, but I was ‘in’ and already working on the first chapter of his book when he appeared just before midday.
“You’re right at home here, I see,” he smiled. “I knew you would be.”
I nodded and glanced round at the now tidy office. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. It’s a big improvement. Thank you. How are you finding the book?”
“Really interesting. I’ve researched those points you left for me and I hope I’ve got it right. I’m working on the translation now.”
“That’s good. Really good. You want some lunch?”
We ate at a small Italian cafe in the road adjacent to the hospital. I guessed that taking a lunch break was something that Oli had done in my honour, as the staff didn’t appear to know him very well and he ate quickly, looking at his watch several times throughout the meal. We discussed his various projects, mainly, and I asked questions about the workload that I had planned for that afternoon. Oli apologised for his haste and promised to spend more time with me later on in the week.
“It’s fine,” I insisted. “I love organising my own workload. You don’t have to feel you need to keep me company. I know the score.”
Oli placed his knife and fork neatly side by side on his plate and looked up at me. “I’d like to keep you company though. I wish I could. I’d enjoy that very much.” He smiled and looked at me for a long moment, his brown eyes boring into mine, before looking shyly down at the table. “Okay. Time to go,” he said, and laughed.
I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of excitement mingled with joy as we walked together back to the hospital building. It stayed with me all afternoon as I worked, and was still with me as I virtually skipped back home to Zara’s that evening.
The following day, Helena and Zara met me from work in the car and we headed straight out of London towards Guildford. Helena’s ‘English’ driving was way better than mine, but it didn’t surprise me in the least. I’d read during my research that morning that the brain takes just three days to adjust when your world literally gets turned upside down – according to the results of an experiment involving image-distorting goggles – and I’d found that amusing, because I’d been here in England for just three days, and yet my brain was still busy firing and wiring its neurons. Helena, on the other hand, was entirely at home in her new environment, and wasn’t in the least bit fazed by having to drive on a foreign road so soon after passing her test. But then, she had youth on her side, I told myself, with a sigh. There had come a time long ago – when she was just seven or eight years old – when I’d realised that it was quicker to ask her to set up a new TV or computer, to find the right button to do something electronic, or to digitally enter on-screen instructions with a remote control. Her brain was wired up for the digital age in a way that mine would never be. She chatted easily over her shoulder with Zara as she negotiated her way out of London and onto the A3 to Guildford. I wondered fleetingly whether her rapid adjustment to driving here was in fact more than a product of her youth. Maybe she’d inherited her father’s natural ability where cars were concerned.
“So where’s Sky?” I asked.
“He’s meeting us there. He’s getting a lift down.”
“Oh?”
“One of the other team coaches. He lives near to Sky. So, your boss didn’t mind you leaving early, then, on your second day at the job?”
“Not at all,” I smiled. “He’s happy for me to work the hours that suit me best. I think he’s just glad to have the help.”
“’My boss lets me do what I want because he fancies me’,” Zara mimicked me from the backseat, in an ultra-girly voice.
I laughed.
Helena glanced at me sharply. “Is that true?”
“Of course it’s not.”
/> “Of course it is,” said Zara. “And he’s totally dreamy, by all accounts.”
“What do you mean, by all accounts?” I looked at her over my shoulder. “You’ve only had my account, and I simply told you he was handsome. He wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“Mum,” Helena reprimanded me. “What about Christian?”
“For crying out loud,” I protested. “He’s my boss. That’s all.”
Zara sniggered from the backseat.
“Christian loves you, Mum. He wants to marry you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. He told me.”
“What? When?”
“Before I left for England. He said that he hoped that he could be a real father to me when I came back home.”
I looked at her. “And?”
“That’s it. That’s what he said.”
“Well, how does that mean he wants to propose?”
“It means he wants to be my dad. Ergo, your husband.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Would you like him to be your dad? I mean, your stepdad? Would you like him to adopt you?”
“Adopt me!” Helena gave me a sideways glance. “Why would he do that? I’m eighteen!”
“It makes no difference,” I said. “Anyone can adopt an adult – with their permission. And, in fact, no one can interfere once you’re eighteen.”
Helena glanced at me again. “Meaning my real dad?”
I shrugged. “Anyone.”
“So... what you’re actually asking me is, if he was my dad, would I be willing to forget that I had another one?”
I looked out of the passenger window. “Would you?”
Helena ignored my question and it made me feel childish. She said, “That’s not a good reason to marry someone.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. You marry someone because you love them and want to spend the rest of your life with them.”
I smiled. The easiest way to deal with one of Helena’s impending lectures was to act like you agreed she had all the answers. “Is that so?” I asked.
Helena wrinkled up her nose. “Well, isn’t it?”