by Frances Pye
“No warning, then?”
“I can give you a vague idea, but no. No real warning. Will that be all right?”
“Sure. It’s fine. I’ll try to be ready. Let’s just hope there’s no one desperate for my attention those days. Course, with my luck, I’ll be supposed to meet with someone like Freddie ‘I’m Paying’ Hecht.”
“A customer?”
“You could call him that.”
“Bad?”
“You have no idea. He bought a loft off me last year. It was a reasonable price and well renovated, but he wanted more and more and more. Wouldn’t speak to any of my staff. It always had to be me. And with the smallest complaints. A missing nail. A minimally loose floorboard. A tiny section of not-quite-perfect paint. In the end, he threatened to take me to court over an improperly aligned radiator.”
“And did he?”
“No. I fixed the radiator. Moved it two millimeters. A nightmare.”
“He sounds bad. But nowhere near as bad as Leticia Smallwood.” When Jules said the name, she put on a doom-laden voice.
Sean laughed. “A difficult woman?”
“The absolute worst. Nothing is ever right. And she always knows best. I once organized a ball for her daughter. She was adamant, she wanted a tent made of pink silk and net. I tried to make her change her mind. This is England, after all. All I could see were yards and yards and yards of soggy material falling on the guests. But she was immovable. Of course it rained. And I somehow had to find a real tent and get it erected in four hours. Even then she blamed me for not managing to find a colored one in time. It just wasn’t good enough for her perfect little daughter.”
Sean laughed again. Jules wasn’t stuck-up at all. In fact, she was lots of fun. At last he could see the connection between her and Lily, could understand what it was that made the two friends. For the first time since he’d agreed to help Jules, he began to think that he was going to enjoy spending time with her.
twenty-one
Terry walked into the latest coffee-shop addition to the High Street. She could remember when the first of the frosted-glass-logo and zinc-tabled cafés had opened a few years before; everyone had been so excited about tasting the cappuccinos and the lattes and the espressos. Real coffee at last. Now they had become as commonplace as rats: you were never farther than seventy-five feet from one wherever you found yourself in London.
She ordered a nonfat, decaf latte and sat herself on a tall stool in the window so she could see Sean coming. Her shoulders were tight with tension and she had that heavy, pre-headache feeling in her neck. She had hoped that, having made the decision to go ahead with the share scheme, she would have stopped worrying about it. But she hadn’t. Maybe once it had all started, she would be able to relax more.
She looked over the road to see a metal-gray Saab reverse easily into a narrow parking space and Sean get out. She smiled. He could have been a bus driver.
As he crossed the road, Terry began to mumble mantralike phrases to herself. Please may this all work out. Please may it be the right thing to do. Her horoscope appeared to be favorable—for the last few days, there had been lots of talk about positive new starts in both the Mail and the Mirror—but she couldn’t help crossing her fingers just in case. She saw a spill of sugar on the counter next to her and quickly tossed some over both her shoulders. Okay, it was supposed to be salt, but maybe it worked with sugar too.
“Hi.”
“Oh. Hi.”
Sean got himself a double espresso and sat down next to Terry. “You look terrified,” he said.
“No. Not terrified.”
“But nervous.”
“A bit.”
“Don’t be.” Sean reached over to squeeze Terry’s hand for a moment. “I have a feeling this is all going to work out okay.”
“Well, Peter Watson in the Mail insisted that this is a good time for me to try and solve long-standing problems.”
“See. And Jonathan Cainer in the Mirror was convinced that I should get involved in something new.”
“You read your stars?”
“I know. I know. You should hear the girls in the office laugh at me.”
“Why?”
“Astrology’s for women.”
“That’s crap.”
Sean grinned at Terry. “What are you?”
“Aquarius. You?”
“Virgo.”
“Earth and air. Good combination.”
“See. We’re friends already.” Sean took a gulp of his coffee. “God, that’s hot. So what do we do? What do you want to tell Paul?”
“Only that you’re a pal. If that’s okay? Nothing about the arrangement and that. I mean, if he knows this is a setup to provide him with a father substitute, he’ll go all stubborn and say no.”
“Okay. I’m a friend. You’ve invited me back for…?”
“Dinner?”
“Sounds good. I’m ravenous. We builders need feeding often.”
“Bless. All that paper pushing must be exhausting.” Terry smiled at Sean. He already felt like a friend. It wasn’t just his reading his stars in the paper—although that was a wonderful discovery—it was his whole attitude. His lack of machoness. If there was such a word. Lils would know. He just didn’t feel threatening. There was never a hint that he was about to make a move. No lingering glances, no flirtatious looks, no tension.
“It is. It is. So is there any need for him to know more than that?”
“No. You’re a new friend I met at Lils’s party at the same time he did. And maybe we ought not to mention you’re with her? In case, you know, he figures it all out. He’s very bright.”
“Yeah. And I wouldn’t talk to a fifteen-year-old,” Sean looked at Terry, who nodded, “about my sex life, would I? Not likely, is it?”
“No. Anyway, this is about him finding a friend, isn’t it? Helping him get over Finn.” Terry thought for a moment, a slight frown shadowing her face. “Sean? If this works…well, you know, when he’s happier, you won’t…um…”
“I won’t what?”
A long pause. Finally, Terry mumbled, “Disappear.”
For a moment, Sean felt hurt. What did she think he was? A complete jerk? Then he reminded himself that she didn’t have much reason to trust men. Lily had told him all about the vanishing Finn. “No way. I’ll be round if he needs me. Okay?”
Terry nodded. “Yes. Course. Only it’s asking a lot, I know, and you hardly know us and—”
“Now, don’t start worrying again. This is going to be fine. Come on. I want that dinner you promised.”
PAUL WAS lying on his bed, the room vibrating to heavy, beat-driven music, when Terry burst in, Minnie in her arms, and thrust the little dog at her son.
“Keep her with you, will you, love?”
Curiosity won out over rebellion and Paul’s “Fuck off” died unsaid. “Why? Who’s here?”
“A friend. No one. ’Bye, Min.” Terry hustled out of the door, leaving Paul staring after her, clutching Minnie.
Half an hour later, she and Sean sat at the kitchen table, eating Terry’s bean-heavy minestrone soup. She’d been reluctant to offer it to him; in her mind, she pictured the heaped plates of all-day breakfasts, the sausages and beans and eggs and fried bread that she presumed all builders ate, and was concerned that her simple soup would be found wanting. But there wasn’t anything else; she had recently convinced herself that giving up meat and dairy products was the key to losing weight—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a fat vegan—and her fridge was full of fruit and vegetables and hummus. It turned out she’d had no need to worry; Sean had tucked in with all evidence of delight and no complaints about the lack of meat.
Terry, however, had barely picked at hers, too worried about where Paul was to think about food. “Where is he?”
“Relax. He’s a teenager. His mum’s having dinner with some man. He won’t be able to resist coming to take a look.” At that, there was the sound of a door slamming els
ewhere in the flat and clumpy footsteps coming nearer and nearer. “See?”
The door to the kitchen opened. Paul stomped in.
“Hey,” said Sean.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Yeah. How’re things?”
Paul shrugged.
“Have some dinner. Here, let me get you a bowl.” Terry jumped up and headed for the stove.
“D’you see the team on TV the other night?”
A long pause before Paul answered sullenly, “Don’t have a satellite.”
“Then next time come watch at mine.”
Silence. Terry leapt in to fill the gap. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You don’t want Paul bothering you when you’re trying to watch TV.” Terry might have been emotionally involved, but even she could see that if she didn’t want Paul to do something, he would immediately find that something the most attractive option in the world. What had Lily said? It was human nature.
“I’m not a baby.”
“He wouldn’t bother me. Would you?”
“Here. Here’s your soup.” Terry put the brimming bowl down on the table. Paul stayed where he was, leaning against the dresser.
Sean finished his food. “It’s very good,” he said to Paul.
Again, the boy said nothing, before bursting out with, “You said you’d take me to the Valley.”
“And I will. I promised, didn’t I?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Paul. It’s only been a few weeks.” Terry was embarrassed by her son. It was one thing to have him misbehave when there was just her around—after all, she was his mother and would love him regardless of what he said—but another to have to listen to him be rude to a kind man who was only trying to help.
“Who the fuck asked you?”
Terry stiffened. No matter how many times he was nasty to her, she still found it difficult to dismiss it as teenage rebellion. It hurt. It hurt a lot.
“Paul, I don’t think…”
“I’ll be back in a bit.” Terry got to her feet and walked out before Sean started to defend her and so made Paul see him as her ally, not his.
“Can you really get tickets?”
Sean debated talking to the boy about the way he was treating his mother but decided not to. It was way too early. “Should be able to. It’s a small ground and people are crazy for football right now, but I’ve got a few contacts.”
“I’d be…I’d be…”
“Pleased? Grateful? Made up? Over the moon?”
“Yeah. All of them. It’d be like when I saw Eminem. Cool.”
“Eminem, eh? Maybe you can explain something to me.”
“Sure.” Paul sat down opposite Sean, picked up the spoon that Terry had left there, and began to tuck into his food, showing every sign of being a starving fifteen-year-old who hadn’t eaten anything in an hour or so.
“Rap.”
“Hip-hop.”
“That’s what it’s called nowadays?”
“Well, yeah. And no. It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Go on. Try.”
“They’re sort of the same. Only rap’s just the music and hip-hop’s the whole thing. You know, dance and clubs and clothes and stuff.”
“The whole subculture?”
“Yeah. I guess. Course, ‘rap’ is the word for old people who read newspapers.”
“Like me?”
“Well…maybe.”
Sean grinned. “Okay, being an old person who reads newspapers, what I want to know is, what is it about it? Why do you all like it so much?”
Paul smiled. At last. An adult who didn’t say things like “Where’s the melody?” or “That’s not music,” or “It’s just talking.” He took a deep breath and set out to preach the new gospel.
TERRY INCHED open the door to the kitchen, hoping to be able to listen to what was happening before she was noticed. Paul’s portable CD player was pounding out a hip-hop track, so she was sure no one would hear her. She would have left them alone for longer, only she thought it might seem a touch odd to have deserted her dinner guest for such an extended period of time. Through the crack in the door, she could see Paul and Sean sitting at the table, opposite each other, eating fruit salad and ice cream straight from the bowl and the tub. Finally, the track ended and Paul reached out to turn the boom box off.
“Yeah. That helps. Thank you. I always got that it was your rock and roll but I never could see why you would like it. Apart from the fact that your parents didn’t, of course.” Sean grinned at Paul.
He grinned back. “But that doesn’t hurt.”
“No. I’m sure.” Sean couldn’t believe how nice Paul was. Anyone seeing him with his mother would think him a monster. But in fact he was a bright kid who thought hard about things and cared deeply. Maybe that was why he was being so difficult. The long lack of a father, followed by Finn’s sudden arrival and immediate death, must have hit him hard. Sean hadn’t been sure that Terry was right about the reasons for the kid’s problems, but now, seeing how Paul had opened up when an older man showed a little interest in him, he was convinced.
No question, the two of them were getting on well. To begin with, Sean had played it safe and gotten Paul talking about stuff he knew about, but now he decided to try and risk a little more. “Okay, so you love music. You love football. What else? Home?”
Paul looked over at Sean. “Home? What do you mean, home?”
Oops. Too far too fast. Sean tried to recover his error. “Um, you know, the area round here. Stoke Newington. North London. It was just a question, okay? Nothing sinister.”
Terry thought it was time she made her presence felt. “Hey! Hey! You’re supposed to use bowls. Not eat from the dish.”
Paul pulled back. His shoulders slumped over, his arms wrapped his stomach. His mother was here. He stood up and slammed out of the room without saying anything.
“God, I ought to have stayed out. I am so fucking stupid.”
“Course you’re not.”
“You were getting on so well.”
“And we’ll continue to get on well.”
“But I interrupted you. Now he’s back in his room and there’s no way we’ll get him out and—”
“Relax, will you? This is just the opening round. I’ll call him next week, talk to him about football, that kind of thing, you know? Then maybe I’ll suggest we do something together in a couple of weeks. It’ll be fine.”
“It will?”
“It will. Give it time. I like him, he’s a good kid under all those bristles.” Sean smiled his reassurance at Terry. “Now, do you think I could finish that ice cream?”
twenty-two
“How’re you doing, Tilly?”
“Finished, Mum.”
“Me too. Can we use the PlayStation now?”
“Yes. But it’s dinnertime in half an hour.”
“Okay, Mum.” Moo and Tilly left their completed homework on the kitchen table and disappeared through the door to the hallway. Standing at the stove, frying some onions and ginger in a pan, Mara smiled at the sound of their excited voices as they turned on the machine and decided what to play. She’d been reluctant to sanction the PlayStation, but she couldn’t help getting pleasure from her girls’ continuing excitement about it. And although she didn’t like the source, she was happy that they had something new for once. And something that was their very own.
Mara added some cumin, some coriander, and a chopped potato or two as she looked through the kitchen window at the darkening sky. It had been mercifully dry for weeks, but she knew what was coming. With the autumn, there would be rain. And lots of it. The roof would get worse. And it would get cold.
She was going to have to go back to collecting wood. Last March, the central heating had gone. For the next month or so, still needing to heat the house but unable to afford expensive smokeless fuel, she had started walking in the nearby grounds of Chiswick House every day, collecting enough fallen branches to keep a fire burn
ing while the girls were home. She’d hoped over the summer to be able to think of some way to raise the £1,200 she’d been told it was going to take to get the heating repaired. But she hadn’t been able to. And now it was September and she could see no alternative to her daily trips to the wood.
Since her visit to see Jules at her office, Mara had tried to ignore her own problems. To tell herself that there was no way a judge would tear Moo and Tilly away from her because of her long-past life as a prostitute and a few drips of water coming through the roof. Deep down, of course, she knew she couldn’t just let things slide forever, but while the weather held as the summer petered out into fall, she allowed herself to bury her head in the sand. And pretend things were all all right.
The doorbell rang. Mara glanced at the clock. It was five-thirty and all the girls’ friends would be at home. It must be someone for her. She pulled the food off the burner and went to the door.
A tall, bespectacled man in a three-piece suit was waiting outside.
“Mrs. Moore?” he asked.
“What is it?” In Mara’s experience, no one who called her Mrs. Moore boded well.
“John Ridgeman.” Mara looked blank. “From Barton, Kirkwood, and Ridgeman?”
“I’m sorry….”
“We represent Mr. and Mrs. Moore. Can I have a word with you?”
What did they want now? “It’s not a very good time. My daughters—”
“It won’t take long. If you don’t mind?” And the man walked straight past Mara and into her living room. Leaving her no real option but to shut the door and follow him.
“Moo! Tilly! Upstairs, please. To your room.”
“Mom, I was at the fourth level!”
“You can try again later. Now go on.”
The girls got up and inched toward the stairs, their faces alive with curiosity about their mother’s visitor. They couldn’t remember any man coming to call on her, let alone one in a suit, carrying a briefcase.