The House of New Beginnings

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘It’s funny, you know,’ Janet went on, with a stagey little laugh, ‘I always start off my speeches this way and nobody ever puts their hand up. Never. Not once! But I know I’ve been lonely in the past. Oh goodness, yes. I remember when I started at university, feeling dreadfully homesick and wondering if I’d get to make any friends. Similarly when my first daughter was born and I felt house-bound with her for a while, my social life closing off like a door shutting . . . I felt lonely then, too.’ She looked around the room, making eye contact with anyone who dared look back, although Charlotte gazed hurriedly down at her feet. ‘I’m pretty sure that everyone else here will have felt lonely at some point as well. We can all remember those days, however much we’d like to forget them. They are hard, painful times. They make us unhappy and uncertain, they make us question ourselves and whether we’ve got what it takes.’

  There were a few other bowed heads in the room and Charlotte could feel a crumpling sensation inside. Oh Christ, Janet, give it a rest, she thought dismally. This was not exactly the most motivational speech she’d ever heard.

  ‘As for elderly people, who can find it difficult to get out of their homes, who might have lost their loved ones, who perhaps no longer work or have a reason to leave the house . . . Loneliness can be a real problem. They call it the silent killer because it can be every bit as deadly as cancer, eating away at a person, day after empty day, destroying every last bit of their confidence.’ She paused for dramatic effect, the atmosphere in the room now well and truly subdued. ‘But that’s where we come in. And hopefully that’s how you’re going to help too.’ She beamed and pressed a clicker in her hand and a new slide appeared with the words BEFRIENDING THE ELDERLY; rays of golden sunshine emerging above the lettering.

  Cheese and Onion man had slumped beside Charlotte. She knew how he felt.

  ‘We are thrilled that your company has chosen to partner us in a community project,’ Janet went on. ‘We work closely with the elderly population here in Brighton to ensure that as many people as possible have a friendly face popping in every now and then – whether it’s for a cup of tea and a chat, or to run little errands for them, to help with any computer or technical problems they may encounter, even to accompany them to a doctor’s or hospital appointment. Some of these people have nobody else,’ she said, her smile fading momentarily. ‘I can’t tell you how much a visit from our befriending team can lift their spirits. Between us we can make a real difference to our elderly neighbours. So welcome on board! I hope you’ll really enjoy the project. I know our clients will.’

  ‘Thank you, Janet,’ Anthony said with a respectful nod, and led the room in a smattering of applause. His hands were pink and smooth, and came together politely in light claps as if they didn’t know each other very well. Then he turned to address the rest of the staff. ‘So you’re probably all wondering how this is going to work,’ he said, to some furtive eye-rolling and shuffling at the back of the room. ‘Over the next week, we will either assign you an elderly person local to you, or you can find your own willing victim – I mean, participant, ha ha. And then, from next Friday, we’re going to finish work an hour early every week for the next three months, so that you can spend some time with this person. Build a relationship.’ He beamed insincerely. ‘I, for one, am really looking forward to this wonderful new venture.’

  ‘Simpering prick,’ muttered Cheese and Onion man under his breath.

  ‘I’ll put a sign-up sheet on the shared drive,’ Anthony went on, ‘with full details of the partnership. Thanks again for coming in, Janet. The rest of you can get back to work now. Thank you.’

  ‘Great,’ groaned a woman ahead of Charlotte as everyone made their way back towards their desks. ‘Pensioner-bothering. Why can’t they just let us get on with our sodding jobs?’

  ‘I don’t even know any oldies,’ another woman said, tossing her hair and not noticing as it almost whipped Charlotte in the face. ‘And are senior management going to be doing this too, I ask myself? Are they bollocks.’

  Charlotte sat back down at her desk and refreshed her computer, sipping on the coffee she’d left there which was now stone-cold. Everyone else seemed to be whinging about the new directive and moaning that they couldn’t spare the time. She, on the other hand, was almost looking forward to it. How would her colleagues react, she wondered, if she admitted to them that a weekly one-hour meeting with an elderly person would be the sole social encounter of her sad solitary life?

  Imagining the looks of horrified pity, she said nothing, though, as usual, and buried herself in work instead.

  It had been a sunny spring day and the air still felt warm as Charlotte made her way back towards the flat that evening, some salad and halloumi in a carrier bag swinging from one hand, plus a Waitrose New York cheesecake just in case she was still hungry afterwards. (Let’s face it, she was always hungry afterwards.) Her gaze was caught by the sea ahead, a tranquil blue today with a scattering of yellow flashes where the sun fell on the water. Ssssh, said the waves, as if keeping a secret. Ssssh.

  Let’s see; Thursday, she thought to herself, approaching Dukes Square. Thursday meant ironing and dusting, the recycling to put out, that new Channel 4 drama starting on telly. Busy, busy! She had taken to ironing everything since she moved house, she found it relaxing and it was a good way of filling her time. As for the dusting – you’d be surprised how much could accumulate on a single potted plant and the television set over a week. Plus she would definitely fit in the bracing post-dinner stroll along the seafront that she kept vowing to add to her routine. She had bought some trainers especially but they were still in their box, and now pushed under her bed out of sight. Once upon a time she had been the sort of person who went to aerobics classes and rode a bike and thought nothing of swimming fifty lengths in the pool before work. These days, a soft layer of fat encased her body and her cheekbones had all but disappeared. She’d gone up a whole size in trousers. But so what? she thought bitterly whenever she had to suck her stomach in to do up a button. Who cared anyway?

  As she neared SeaView House, Charlotte saw a small, rather hunched woman with silvery hair and a black raincoat at the front door, turning a key in the lock. Hurrying the last few steps towards her to catch the door, Charlotte felt a prickle of curiosity. Despite living at 11 Dukes Square for three months, she’d only ever seen a single other resident there, a scarlet-haired woman called Jo from one of the downstairs flats, who had asked her in for coffee both times they’d met. Unfortunately Charlotte had been on her way out each time – first en route to the dreadful ‘Fun Day’ in Rye and already late, and the second, dashing to catch the train back to Reading for her mum’s birthday – and she’d had to make her apologies and flee on both occasions. Although Jo seemed perfectly nice, Charlotte had shied away from knocking on her door and taking her up on the offer of coffee since then because . . . well, she didn’t know, really, other than she had lost her nerve when it came to things like knocking on people’s doors these days and making conversation. Conversation always seemed to lead to awkward questions and somehow it just felt easier to get along on her own.

  She hung back now, shyness creeping in, but the woman who was pushing open the heavy wooden door with some effort must have noticed her, because she held it open, waiting for Charlotte to catch up. ‘Hello there,’ she said, a trace of a foreign accent – French? – just detectable in her voice. She was so small and slender she looked as if she might blow away in a sea breeze, Charlotte thought. ‘Do you live here or are you just hoping to take advantage of a feeble old lady and break in?’

  Charlotte smiled tentatively, hoping that this was a joke. ‘I live here,’ she replied. ‘Charlotte Winters, from Flat 4.’ She held up her keys, as if that proved anything.

  ‘Ahh, then you’d better come in,’ the woman said. Once they were both inside and the door had shut with a muffled thud, she extended a slim hand with a lot of fine gold bangles clinking at the wrist. ‘Margot Favager,’ she went
on. ‘Flat 5. Right at the top. All those stairs, my God!’ She had a lined face but her silvered hair was cut in a stylish jaw-length bob with a cool short fringe, and her eyelids were dusted with lilac eyeshadow that brought out the blue in her eyes. As well as her black belted raincoat she wore a Liberty print scarf at her neck and small black ankle boots, and carried a large shiny handbag with an old-fashioned clasp fastening on top.

  Charlotte shook the hand of tiny Margot Favager, feeling lumpier and frumpier than ever. If even a woman the age of her grandmother looked more stylish than she did, then what hope was there? She doubted Madame Favager had ever consumed an entire Waitrose cheesecake alone, either with or without tears dripping silently down her cheeks; she probably lived off China tea and delicate petits fours, approximately one a year, to be nibbled at now and then. ‘Hello,’ she said politely as they both walked through the entrance hall, ‘it’s nice to meet you.’

  Given the choice, she would have hurried up the stairs and away, bad as she was at chit-chat nowadays, but of course that would have been rude, and Charlotte’s mother had brought her up to be well mannered. And so they walked up side by side, with Charlotte making a tactful swerve to Margot’s right so that the older woman could take the banister if need be. ‘Do you want me to . . . um . . . carry any of your shopping?’ she asked, remembering in the next moment the Befriending project at work.

  ‘That is very kind of you, but I’m fine, thank you. I am not dead just yet. Not today,’ Margot replied, as they plodded slowly up the stairs. ‘Tell me about yourself then. Charlotte, did you say? How are you finding SeaView House?’

  ‘Very nice, thank you. I’ve been here a few months now. It’s . . . lovely,’ Charlotte answered gamely, trying not to think of the house she and Jim had owned back in Reading, with its long leafy garden and the all-mod-cons kitchen and Kate’s tiny room upstairs, hopefully decorated with the Winnie the Pooh frieze around the wall, the brand-new Moses basket she’d never even slept in. Don’t think about that now. ‘Really lovely,’ she repeated, more forcefully.

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ Margot said. ‘I have lived here for twenty years now, can you believe it, and I have seen many people come and go from this house. They wash up with the tide, some of them, it seems.’ Her eyes were shrewd as she considered Charlotte. ‘But then they find their life again – is that the saying? – and they leave, somewhere nicer, that is what usually happens. Apart from me, of course, and I’m not going anywhere now – until I am carried out in my . . . how do you say it? Box.’

  ‘Er . . . Coffin?’ Charlotte hazarded, hoping she hadn’t misunderstood horribly.

  ‘Coffin! Exactly. Yes. In my coffin. Ha! It will be hard work down these stairs, eh? They will be complaining about me, non?’

  Charlotte ventured a smile, not certain of the etiquette, how best to reply when an older woman joked about being carted off in a coffin. ‘Well . . .’ she began hesitantly, then decided to give a polite laugh instead. ‘I’m sure it’s all part of the job. For the . . . um . . . funeral people. I mean . . .’ She broke off, wishing she had kept quiet after all.

  ‘Yes. Part of the job. Not a very nice job, I think.’

  ‘No.’ God, how had they ended up talking about this? Charlotte thought, her face growing hot with the awkwardness. Thank goodness they were almost at the first-floor landing now and she’d be able to make her escape.

  Margot’s sharp eyes were on her again, though. ‘And you have made a lot of friends here?’ she asked. ‘You are happy, enjoying life by the sea?’

  ‘Oh! Well . . . You know, I’ve met people at work, and . . .’ Charlotte’s voice trailed into nothing and she looked down at the carpet as she took the last step up. No, she thought in embarrassment. No, I wouldn’t say I was happy. But then again, I wasn’t exactly happy in Reading either, was I?

  ‘I see.’ Margot’s face softened as they both stood on the landing and Charlotte delved in her bag for her keys, thankful that this ordeal was almost over. She would not insult stylish, self-assured Margot by asking if she needed befriending for the Sunset Years project, she decided; the older woman would probably take great offence at the question. She might even wallop her with that gigantic handbag.

  ‘Anyway, nice to—’ Charlotte began saying again, but Margot spoke at the same time.

  ‘You must come for tea,’ she announced. ‘Perhaps at the weekend, when you are not so busy.’

  Charlotte could feel herself turning pinker at the thought. It was as if her neighbour knew full well that Charlotte filled every evening with cleaning and eating and the watching of terrible TV programmes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be very nice.’ She smiled politely. ‘Well, better be off. Bye now.’

  ‘Before you go,’ said Margot, and now she was sliding a hand into her own handbag and withdrawing a small black leather purse. ‘Here,’ she said, unzipping it and taking out a pound coin. ‘For you. It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlotte nonplussed, looking down at the pound coin in her palm. It was like going to visit an elderly relative and being given some pocket money. Maybe Margot wasn’t quite as with it as she’d first thought. ‘Are you sure? No, I couldn’t . . .’ she began saying, but Margot waved away her protestations.

  ‘I insist,’ she said, briskly walking across the landing to the next flight of stairs. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Oh,’ Charlotte said again, still faintly bamboozled. ‘Well, thank you. That’s very kind.’ She hesitated before slipping it into her pocket. ‘I’ll spend it wisely!’

  Margot turned and smiled. She must have been beautiful back in her day because the smile lit up her whole face. ‘I know you will,’ she said. ‘Until next time.’

  And then she was gone, leaving Charlotte fumbling to get her key in the lock before escaping into the quiet sanctuary of her small flat.

  There. Safe. Private. She leaned against the door, eyes shut and trying not to think about the fact that an elderly neighbour had just taken pity and attempted to befriend her, rather than the other way round. Then she took a deep breath, hung up her jacket, stowed her shoes neatly in their place by the door, and went to assemble that evening’s meal. Busy, busy. Just keep busy.

  She was fine, she reminded herself with all the conviction she could muster. This was all fine. Whatever Margot Favager might think, Charlotte Winters was definitely, one hundred per cent, fine.

  Chapter Five

  Rosa sifted flour into the bowl, watching it fall like fine snowflakes onto the creamy yellow mixture beneath before folding them gently together. Baking a cake was her favourite kind of magic: the alchemy of ingredients, the soothing processes of measuring and mixing, the scent of something delicious in the oven. She added a tablespoonful of milk and then a teaspoonful of vanilla extract, and after one final stir, decanted the contents of the bowl into two greased tins and slid them into the oven. Setting the timer on her phone, she saw that Jo’s daughter Bea would be home in less than an hour. Rosa might not have the first clue about teenage girls and how to look after them, but she did know at least that a slice of home-made cake could prove a great comfort in times of adversity.

  Cook it better; she should really get it printed on a T-shirt. When her first teenage boyfriend Jon (floppy hair, bad poetry) dumped her, she had baked for two weeks solid: brownies, pies, bread, sponge cake, like her life depended on it. After her grandma died, she’d gone home to her mum’s for a week and made lasagne and casseroles, hearty comforting family food to help them through their sadness. Following the split with boyfriend number two, Peter the cheater, she’d thrown herself into more cheffy things, home-made pasta and flaky pastry. Croissants, even. And now look at her – working with food full-time after the most devastating heartbreak of all. It helped, though. It made her feel better. And nobody could fail to be cheered by sponge and buttercream, right?

  As she washed up, Rosa heard the quick light footsteps above her head that meant someone was home up there. She
hadn’t yet met the new people living in the flat upstairs but had heard them: furniture being moved around, a piping treble voice singing along to the radio, an explosive argument one day, and some very loud sex that same evening. Today the female voice was singing ‘I Feel Pretty’ loudly and quite badly over the roaring of the Hoover. She smiled briefly, tightly, remembering how Max’s neighbour in Islington had been a semi-professional soprano; how they’d been able to hear her practising her arias on summer evenings when the windows were open. Was he still keeping up pretences and living there? she wondered for the hundredth time, picturing his long lean body as he . . .

  The wet ceramic mixing bowl slipped in her fingers suddenly, clattering against the draining board. No, she told herself. Forget him.

  Once the sponge cakes had been baked and were cooling on a tray, Rosa still had twenty minutes left before Bea was due home, and found herself drawn towards her laptop, as if it carried a powerful magnet she was unable to resist. Just a quick look, she told herself. Five minutes. Her guilty little secret.

  The Facebook page came up as her most-visited site now, more so even than her email and Netflix. It wasn’t stalking, she kept telling herself. Could she help it if Ann-Marie was so clueless as to leave her page unprotected by privacy settings? It was as if she wanted the world to see her smug, happy life, as if she positively welcomed onlookers to inspect the glorious honour of being lucky Ann-Marie Chandler. Come in, roll up, take a look, try your hardest not to envy me! Tricky, huh! Shucks.

  Beautiful, wholesome Ann-Marie was thirty-seven, which meant she was actually two years older than Rosa – although annoyingly, she looked younger, happier and way more photogenic. Maybe that was what having a wonderful life did for you: it magically airbrushed away those pesky worry lines and eyebags, ensured those hands remained soft and pretty, as if they’d never washed a dish or peeled a potato in their blessed life. Perhaps your body simply aged differently when you lived in a picture-perfect Cotswold village with a massive garden and your own Land Rover Discovery, and you had two blonde beaming children, Josh and Mae (also known as ‘my little man’ and ‘my little princess’). Yeah, it must be great, living in a real-life Boden catalogue; all those coffee mornings with friends, and their picturesque children, and the rolling green countryside, and . . .