‘Bloody hell,’ Grant sniffed copiously, ‘we’d better not tell them about this back at the office.’
They let go of each other self-consciously. ‘No,’ Leo agreed. ‘You’re probably right.’
Leo and Grant both wiped their eyes on their sleeves. Lard was sitting there looking shell-shocked and they went to hug him too – now that they’d got this emotion thing sorted.
‘I need chocolate,’ was all that Lard could manage to say. ‘A Mars Bar.’
Isobel sat up and looked around her. The pinpricks of light became bolder, darting closer to them, and as they did Leo could see that they were tiny, iridescent fairies and silver butterflies no bigger than his thumbnail.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked Isobel.
‘Fine, Leo,’ she said. Her skin was changing from flesh tones, taking on a more translucent quality. She seemed so serene. Happy. And, Leo supposed, relieved. If Leo had been her he would have been very worried about placing her survival in the hands of three fairly useless City types. But they’d made it. And no one was more amazed than Leo.
He patted his pockets but he hadn’t got his mobile phone. Shame, but then two miracles in a day might be asking too much. ‘Give me your phone,’ Leo said to Grant. ‘I have to call Emma.’
‘Leo, this is the Land of Light. Remember? I’m not sure that the Vodaphone network stretches that far.’
His friend handed over his phone anyway and, sure enough, modern technology once again had met its limitations. Why was it that you could never get a signal when you most needed one?
‘Then we have to go back,’ Leo said.
‘What?’ Grant and Lard looked aghast.
‘We have to go back.’
‘But we’ve only just got here.’
‘Emma needs me,’ he said starkly. ‘She’s never ever needed me. Something must be terribly wrong.’
Chapter Seventy-Two
I never imagined that my mother could look so frail. Suddenly it’s like looking at an old woman. Catherine has always been so regal in her bearing, now she seems so tiny in the hospital bed. Her hair, always so meticulously styled, appears thin and lank on the pillow. One side of her face is slack and there is a fine line of drool coming from her mouth. She’d be mortified to see herself like this and for me, and the rest of the family, it’s frightening to see her so incapacitated.
Daddy is still being extraordinarily solicitous to his wife and, for once, I can tell why his patients love him so much. It’s the first glimpse I’ve had of my father’s legendary bedside manner. At home all we see is his gruff, complaining side and I rather like the softer father I’ve discovered. He’s slept in the armchair next to Mummy all night and is now beginning to look as if he has. I’ve urged him to go home and, at least, shower and change. He’s barely eaten either. Finally, he’s agreed, but I know that he won’t be away for long, so I’ve given him a list of useful things to bring in for my mother – toiletries and clean nightgowns being at the top.
My sisters Arabelle and Clara have arrived – their children having been despatched into the temporary care of various reliable friends. They won’t be able to stay for too long, and I know that I wouldn’t want to look after any of my nephews and nieces for any length of time; between them they can trash the most immaculate home within half an hour.
Arabelle is white-faced and dry-eyed. Clara, usually as constrained as me, has gone completely to pot and sobbed in my arms, terrified that our mother might never wake up. But around mid-morning Mummy rallies and we’re all immensely relieved. My mother tries to speak, but it’s impossible to understand what she’s saying. It sounds as if she’s been at the gin bottle for half of the night and I pray fervently that it will only be a short-lived loss for her.
Catherine currently has no movement down one side of her body too, but the doctor has reassured my father that this too could return with enough rest, enough physiotherapy and enough good luck. The private room is hot and crowded with equipment, and my sisters and I are squashed together. Already flowers are starting to arrive – great bouquets of lilies, carnations and gerberas. It seems that Henrietta Gooding has been straight onto the Kensington and Chelsea bush telegraph to transmit news of her friend’s misfortune. I smile to myself. All my mother’s cronies love a good crisis – Catherine herself is no exception. And I so hope that she will be up and about and gossiping soon.
I kiss my mother on her forehead. ‘I’ll be back later,’ I say. My sisters will have to leave shortly to be at home for their children and I become acutely aware that I have no one to rush home for. I’m the only one of my siblings without commitments and that’s more painful than I had imagined. The hospital is only a short Tube ride from my flat, and the plus side of my unshackled lifestyle is that I can call in any time. My sisters aren’t so lucky. I hug Arabelle and Clara and say goodbye, then I go out from the stifling heat of the hospital to the stifling heat of the London streets.
Caron is going to cover for me at the gallery again today and I know that if I want to take extended compassionate leave then I’ll need to talk to Gregory, the gallery owner. I feel that if there’s little that I can do for my mother while she’s in hospital, then I’ll probably be better occupying my mind with work. She might well need me more when she’s allowed to come home.
I walk along aimlessly. There are things I know I should be doing, but I can’t make my brain function clearly. A jumble of thoughts are swirling round my brain. And it isn’t long before I find myself outside Leo’s flat. I didn’t mean to come here, but I don’t know what else to do with myself.
Pressing the doorbell, I’m disconcerted to find that there’s still no answer and I stand here not knowing quite what to do. It seems as if another lifetime has passed since I was here, trussed up in a box like a turkey. I rest my finger on the bell and lean against it, as if dogged insistence might make my missing ex-boyfriend materialise. When nothing happens, I sit down on the doorstep and begin to cry. I should write Leo a note or something, but I can’t find the energy to search in my handbag for a pen or a piece of scrap paper.
‘This is becoming a habit,’ a voice says next to me.
Wiping my eyes, I look up. ‘Dominic.’
He sits down next to me. ‘I haven’t seen Leo for a couple of days.’
‘He seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth,’ I tell him. ‘He wasn’t in work today.’
‘Perhaps he’s just taking a breather from the stresses and strains,’ Dominic suggests. ‘He might be having a great time somewhere and here you are pining away. You didn’t do anything else silly with Superglue?’
‘No.’ I smile through my tears.
‘Is he worth all this angst?’ Dominic asks. ‘It seems as if he’s treated you very shabbily.’
‘It’s stupid, I know,’ I say with a sniff. ‘This isn’t all about Leo though. My mother’s ill.’ My voice cracks. ‘And I don’t have anyone else to turn to.’
Dominic puts his arm round me. ‘You have me,’ he says, hugging me to him. ‘Come with me and let’s see if we can find you some medicine.’
So, not having a better idea, I take Dominic’s hand and follow him down the hall.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Red wine, I agree, is very good medicine. After three large glasses of a particularly good Bordeaux, I’m feeling relatively little pain. My symptoms, whatever they were, have cleared up nicely.
Dominic grins in my direction. He’s standing at the cooker, stirring an impromptu sauce to go with the pasta that’s bubbling away in the other pan. This is a man who has a supply of fresh vegetables in his fridge. Courgettes, peppers, mushrooms, onions – a whole selection. There are three different types of yoghurt. The only thing that Leo has three different types of in his fridge is beer.
I look at Dominic over my glass of wine. It would be easy to fall in love with a man like this. It sort of helps that he’s really rather handsome too. Dominic has a lived-in air. He wears fairly battered jeans
, scuffed trainers and a black T-shirt that has seen better days. However, he looks as if he means to be scruffy, whereas Leo can wear a Paul Smith suit and still appear as if he’s fallen straight out of bed.
‘This is nice,’ Dominic says. ‘Cooking for one is infinitely more boring.’
‘Did you do the cooking when Lydia was here?’
He nods. ‘One of my many talents.’
‘Rescuing damsels in distress being another?’
‘I’m afraid that skill has only recently been added to my repertoire.’
‘I’m very glad of it,’ I say sincerely. I’m becoming too comfortable in Dominic’s sofa. ‘I feel very lazy sitting here. Can I do anything to help?’
Dominic shrugs. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I can manage. Besides, I think you’re in need of a bit of pampering, don’t you? You’ve had a very traumatic few days. The pasta won’t be long.’
I take the time to look around the flat, noticing that photographs of Lydia still grace most of the surfaces – as do photos of Leo in my flat. Whether you are male or female, it still takes a long time to let go of loved ones, it seems.
Dominic’s cat, Chloe, eyes me with deep suspicion. I return the gaze and, knowing when she’s beaten in the staring-out stakes, she slinks out of the room. This place isn’t a bachelor flat – the décor definitely holds a female touch. The sofas are cream brocade, scattered with beige embroidered cushions – a dead giveaway. What man would ever think to buy embroidered cushions? I bet the bedroom will be decorated in a pastel shade – lilac or aqua, maybe even pink with highlights of teal. Each of the flats in Leo’s block seemed to have a different layout – probably because it’s a converted house. Here, the living area is one big room with a small dining-table in front of French doors that overlooks the garden. I wonder if this flat has a roof terrace like Leo’s.
‘This is a great place,’ I say.
Dominic pulls a face. ‘All Lydia’s design,’ he replies, only confirming what I thought. ‘I have nothing whatsoever to do with anything that might smack of good taste. Unfortunately, I may well have to move out. Lydia’s the biggest earner between us and I won’t be able to afford to stay here on my own. I guess she’ll want her share out of it too. At the moment, she’s dossing down on her sister’s couch.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Oh yes,’ he says sadly. ‘Very much.’
‘Perhaps you can find a way to stay here?’
He turns away from me to stir the sauce. ‘I’d take a lodger but we’ve only got one bedroom. And I’m afraid that my line of work isn’t likely to earn me a quick million. Unfortunately, they don’t dish out huge salaries to youth workers.’
‘Is that what you do?’
My genial host nods. ‘I manage a centre for delinquent teenagers. The Little Bastards as we fondly call them.’
‘Very noble,’ I say.
‘And very badly paid.’
‘But rewarding?’
Dominic nods again. ‘Amid the paperwork there are rare occasions when we manage to get one of the kids off drugs or off the street or off the “At Risk” register. Then it’s rewarding.’
‘I work in an art gallery,’ I say flatly. ‘There’s no merit in that.’
‘People need beauty in their lives,’ Dominic says. And for some reason that makes me cry again.
Dominic comes over to me and kisses my hair gently. ‘It will get better. Just give yourself time.’
‘It hurts,’ I say. ‘I hurt. In places I never knew possible.’
‘Pasta with Dominic’s special sauce is a very good anaesthetic,’ he tells me. ‘Plus it feeds the soul. And if we’re not very careful, it’s going to be burned. Ready to eat?’
I nod, but even though a delicious smell of garlic scents the air, I have very little appetite.
‘I thought we’d go out onto the roof,’ he says. ‘It’s a warm night.’
‘You have a terrace?’
‘All Lydia’s doing again,’ he confesses. ‘But it looks great up there. You’ll see.’
He leaves me and is going back towards the kitchen area when a familiar pitter-pattering starts on the windows. Dominic lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘Rain. How typical,’ he complains. ‘The British weather thwarting my best-laid plans. Sorry, but it looks like I’m going to have to set the table inside.’
‘Do you mind if I go upstairs to have a look?’
‘Help yourself.’ Dominic nods towards a corridor at the other side of the room. ‘Just don’t be too long.’
‘I’ll be two minutes,’ I promise. I walk through the corridor, past the bedroom – which is, much as I’d predicated, a shade of pale lilac with cerise pink highlights. Chloe lies curled up on the bed. She steadfastly ignores my approach and continues going through some sort of grooming ritual, probably sharpening her claws. Beyond the bedroom is a short, steep flight of stairs that leads to a heavy door. The key is in the lock and, turning it, I let myself out onto the roof.
The rain is coming in distinct, weighty splots, splashing rhythmically on the terracotta tiles of Dominic’s terrace and spotting them darkly like a Dalmatian dog. It’s cooling on my head, which seems to be thumping with the start of a headache. Which I suppose isn’t surprising after the events of the last few days.
Like the flat, the roof terrace is a tasteful affair. Steel tubs hold exotic-looking plants and help to screen the small wrought-iron table and chairs in the middle of the patio. A Chinese-style water feature trickles delicately in the corner, holding its own against the faint hum of traffic noise. Nets of fairy lights are strung out on the back wall of the flat and, even in the rain, it has an intimate, magical air. Definitely Lydia’s touch again.
I gaze across to Leo’s flat. His roof terrace isn’t quite as attractive. There’s a rusting bike, a few old plastic sacks held down by bricks. Some scattered weeds in lieu of sophisticated planting. And very little else. No intimate little dinner setting. No magic. The lack of a woman’s touch is evident. Also, there are no lights on in the flat. Definitely deserted. It’s worrying. Where on earth is he? He can’t have simply upped sticks and moved in with this Isobel woman. That just isn’t the sort of thing Leo would do. But then, even I’d be the first to admit that Leo hasn’t been acting like his normal self recently. I will, however, kill him if I find out that he’s whisked his new girlfriend off to some tropical paradise for a holiday, as he would never have dreamed of doing that for me.
From the bottom of the stair, Dominic’s voice comes, ‘Dinner’s ready!’
I take one final look over the rooftops of London. It would have been very romantic to have eaten dinner out here, under the stars. My eyes fill with hot tears. Out there somewhere is Leo, just beyond my reach.
Dominic pokes his head through the door. ‘It’s wonderful up here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I say as brightly as I can manage. ‘What a shame it’s raining.’
We smile at each other rather sadly and I wonder if we’re both wishing that we were with someone else.
Chapter Seventy-Four
‘Maybe you could come to visit us some time,’ Leo suggested. ‘You know that I can’t go back,’ Isobel said quietly.
Tiny wings fluttered over her shoulders and she looked as if she might disappear at any moment, popping into the atmosphere like a soapy bubble. Even in this guise – full fairy mode – she really was extraordinarily beautiful. All trace of the contemporary young woman had gone, to be replaced by an ethereal, shimmering being. It was quite a transformation. In contrast, Leo felt too solid here, too substantial, too inextricably linked to reality. Truly the proverbial bull in the china shop. Being here was like climbing inside a Disney movie. Too cosy, too colourful, too cheery. Rather nice, but not quite real.
This was the moment he had been dreading and he had to force the question from his lips. ‘Never?’
‘No.’ She looked up into his eyes. ‘Not in human form. My powers are too weak.’
‘Can’t you take advanced fai
rying? At night school, or something? Upgrade yourself a bit.’
Isobel laughed, but at the same time she shook her head. ‘The world is too harsh a place for me.’
‘It is for me too,’ he protested. ‘I’m a sensitive soul on the quiet.’
‘You’re meant to be there, Leo. I’m not. You’re stronger than you think.’
Leo traced his fingers over the palm of her tiny hand. ‘Maybe one day there’ll be a way. Maybe we miserable mortals will find the magic in our lives again. Maybe we’ll believe in fairies once more.’
This time Isobel stayed silent.
His heart sank. ‘That bad, hey?’
Leo’s fairy friend nodded.
‘I don’t want to leave you,’ he said. ‘But you understand that I have to go back. Emma needs me.’
Isobel nodded.
The thought of Emma made Leo’s heart contract. If she knew where he was, she’d be worried. She always worried about him. But how could she know? How could she know the things that Leo knew? Even though she thought she had the measure of him, she really had no idea what had been going on in his life.
And Leo was a very different person now from the one he once was.
Chapter Seventy-Five
I sit at my mother’s bedside, her chill, frail hand clasped between mine. We’re watching some terrible daytime television show together. I don’t think that my mother has ever before seen daytime television. The Paul O’Grady Show would make her want to spill blood.
On the screen, women confront their boyfriends in high-pitched, shrieking voices about a series of misdemeanours real or imagined but often involving their best friends while a bouffant-haired presenter with long acrylic fingernails tries to keep them from punching each other. It’s banal beyond explanation. Is this the best that modern-day relationships have to offer? Feckless men shacked up with tattooed harpies.
My mother is propped up in the bed, surrounded by piles of pillows. ‘This is not fun,’ she says, her speech still slurred by her stroke. ‘Whatever happened to chivalry?’ But now she sounds as if she’s had three glasses of gin, not three bottles. ‘I do worry about you.’
It’s a Kind of Magic Page 29