Conditional Love

by Cathy Bramley

  Nick raked a hand through his hair and frowned. ‘I’m convinced the layout I’ve come up with is the right one, but the clients can’t envisage the finished article.’

  He handed me a sheet of paper which I unfolded on my knee, the sort I recognised by now as being one of his drawings.

  ‘It looks great,’ I said with a frown. ‘But I don’t see how I can help?’

  ‘He wants you to go round there and tell them not to be so dim,’ said Emma unhelpfully.

  Nick laughed and then catching Emma’s eye, turned it into a cough. ‘This is a big ask, so feel free to say no, and it’s really not a problem if you’re not keen –’

  ‘Whatever it is, I’m sure she’d love to help,’ said Jess sincerely.

  The blush I had just managed to banish came back with a vengeance. I slurped my tea and tried not to drip on the paper.

  ‘But what it needs, I’ve realised,’ said Nick, polishing his glasses on the front of his shirt, ‘is to be brought to life. It’s not enough for them to see the house as a flat plan. They need to be shown the possibilities, how they could use the space. That’s where your talents come in.’

  ‘Talents!’ mouthed Emma at me as if to say, ‘Get you!’

  I cocked a quizzical eyebrow at him. He sat forward in his chair and stared at me. A little tuft at the front of his hair was sticking up again. It was all I could do not to lean over and smooth it down.

  ‘When I was in my office pondering my next move, I spotted the boards you made for your own house.’

  A warm feeling trickled through me as I remembered how much I had enjoyed creating them.

  ‘One room. That’s all it would take,’ he said. ‘I thought maybe the living room? If they could see how it would look full of furniture, colours, fabrics, textures, all the detail that you so expertly poured into your brief, then I’m sure they would get it.’

  An interiors scheme. For a real house. Designed by me.

  I was so touched that he would even consider asking me that for a moment, I couldn’t speak.

  ‘Would you pay her?’ asked Emma, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘Of course!’ said Nick, running a finger round his collar. ‘What do you think? If you haven’t got time, just say.’ He was staring at me again.

  ‘No, no, I’m not too busy,’ I said, finally finding my voice and crossing my fingers that neither of my flatmates had been paying too much attention to my previous whingeing.

  ‘I’d need it before Christmas.’

  My life was possibly at its most turbulent point ever: I’d just split up with the man of my dreams; my father was winging his way across the Atlantic to fill me in on the gory details of my parents’ marriage; my mother, as a consequence, was incommunicado; and I had more targets to meet at work than a professional hitman.

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ I replied earnestly.

  Nick beamed. And there it was. The little dimple in his left cheek.

  ‘Thank you,’ he sighed. ‘Your spark of creativity is exactly what the project needs.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I mumbled before catching Emma’s poorly-disguised amusement.

  Luckily, Jess evidently felt that I had received enough attention.

  ‘We’re all highly creative in this flat,’ she said. ‘In fact my sister has been nominated for a national award in silver stuff –’

  ‘Shortlisted,’ said Emma, looking coy and twirling her hair round her fingers.

  ‘And I’m in charge of putting on a major Christmas production,’ added Jess, bending over the side of the sofa to retrieve a folder out of her school bag without giving a thought to the length of her skirt.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Emma. ‘In fact, isn’t it time to start working on your ass?’

  ‘I’d better be off,’ said Nick, looking flushed as Jess gave us all a flash of her knickers.

  After a brief discussion of the clients’ tastes – primary colours not pastel, leather not chintz, Pollock not Picasso – I showed Nick to the door.

  ‘Could you meet on the twenty-third, do you think?’ He opened up a small diary and took out an even smaller pencil.

  I hesitated. I had planned to do all my Christmas shopping in one fell swoop on that day.

  ‘I can meet you in town,’ said Nick affably. ‘Besides, I still owe you for that coffee you promised to have with me.’

  ‘It’s a date,’ I said smiling, instantly regretting my choice of words.

  A bout of sniggering ensued. The girls had their ears pressed to the door, I just knew it.

  ‘Oh, nearly forgot.’ He slapped his forehead and held out a set of drawings and the photograph. ‘These are for you.’

  Our fingers touched as I took them from him and I felt the heat from his skin. The hair at the nape of my neck tingled and I shivered.

  Was it my imagination or did his fingers hold onto the drawings for just a second too long?

  thirty-four

  Dear Mum,

  Please let me know if you're ok.

  I’ve tried calling and texting but you don’t answer. I’ve Skyped, but you're never online. This is my third email. Short of flying over myself, I don’t know what else to do.

  I’m worried about you. We’ve never gone this long without speaking. If you're still mad with me, then fine. Well, obviously it’s not fine and we need to talk about it. But at least give me a sign that there is nothing seriously wrong.

  I hope that you’re still coming to England as usual this Christmas. It won’t be the same without you.

  Looking forward to hearing from you soon.

  Love

  Sophie xxx

  thirty-five

  Four days until Christmas. The flat was looking its twinkliest best; fairy lights hung around the fireplace. The tree, which was bushy and not too tall, was laden with Shaker-style decorations; the hall was festooned with holly garlands; and optimistic bunches of mistletoe hung from every light fitting. I’d even managed to find some Christmas scented candles which were burning merrily on the mantelpiece.

  I plumped up the cushions and tucked the TV remote out of sight. There was an empty crisp packet in the waste paper bin and I scooped it out.

  Emma watched me from her position at the living room window with muted mirth. ‘For goodness sake, Sophie, will you sit down? You're making me dizzy.’

  I dropped onto the sofa with a sigh. My stomach was churning and I’d bitten my lip so much that I’d made it sore. My emotions were all over the place and my coping strategy since getting up this morning had been to keep busy.

  Only when I’d reorganised the cutlery drawer for the second time did Jess intervene and force me to relax in a hot bath.

  I checked my watch. Five minutes to go. A wave of panic propelled me off the sofa. I went to join Emma at the window and scanned the street below.

  Somehow, despite publically vowing never to see my father again, when he had phoned to let me know he was back in the country, I was so surprised that Brodie had passed on my message that I’d found myself inviting him round to the flat.

  It had seemed like the right gesture to make, especially after the way I had treated him last time. I had thought I would feel more confident on home turf, but as the date had got closer, I had become more and more nervous about it. Right now, I was terrified. Having agreed to listen to what he had to say, I had the feeling that neither of my parents would come out of the story well, and after all these years, was it really worth all the heartache?

  Jess waltzed in wearing a loose-fitting purple chiffon tunic, dotted with sequins, and matching tights. ‘What do you think?’ She gave us a twirl. ‘Is it suitable for being proposed to?’

  Emma and I doled out the required compliments. Jess was still convinced that Spike would be saying ‘Merry Christmas’ with an engagement ring. I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes if he didn’t deliver.

  Jess gave me a tight squeeze.

  ‘I’m so sorry I can’t stay. But it’s our only chance to be together and Spike
and I are going to exchange presents today. I can’t wait!’

  Spike was working every day over Christmas except the twenty-fifth, which he would be spending with his mother. Jess had been devastated to learn that she was not invited.

  The door buzzer sounded and my stomach dropped to somewhere below my knees. I smoothed my dress down and tried not to panic.

  ‘OK. Remember the plan. Jess, you let him in and offer him a drink. I’ll be waiting by the Christmas tree. Emma, you don’t leave my side unless I give you the code word. Which is?’ I pointed at her.

  ‘Patricide.’

  ‘Emma!’

  ‘Mince pie.’

  Buzzzzz.

  ‘Go, go, go!’ I flapped my hands at them both and positioned myself by the tree.

  The front door opened.

  Oh, sod it.

  I shrugged my shoulders at Emma and raced into the hallway.

  My dad was here, in my flat, all bundled up in a heavy wool coat and holding a plastic bag. His eyes found mine and a nervous smile lit up his face. He looked a lot healthier this time: his face was tanned and although there was a lattice of fine lines across his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes were gone.

  The situation demanded a physical gesture of some sort. Last time we met, I had pushed him over. I wouldn’t do that, but couldn’t quite bring myself to hug him either. Not yet.

  ‘Mr Stone! Merry Christmas!’ cried Jess. She flung her arms round his neck, then looking up at the mistletoe, giggled and kissed his cheek.

  Great. Now anything less than a hug from me and I’d look a right cold fish.

  I took a step forward and Terry did the same.

  The look of sheer pleasure mixed with apprehension on his face did weird things to my insides. My hands were clammy and my heart was beating wildly. Before I had chance to move, he clasped me to him briefly and then took my hands in his.

  ‘It’s wonderful to be here,’ he murmured, gazing directly into my eyes.

  ‘Nice to see you,’ I stammered.

  He had worker’s hands. So rough compared to Nick’s. Nick’s? What on earth had his hands to do with the price of fish? I realised that I had no idea what Terry had done for a living since leaving the Navy. So far, all conversation had focussed on the events circa 1980.

  ‘Oh!’ said Jess. I looked over Terry’s shoulder and followed her gaze.

  A tall young man with a mop of wavy dark hair filled the doorway. He wore a thick orange hoodie and jeans.

  ‘Brodie wanted to meet you. I hope you don’t mind?’ said Terry, raising his eyebrows He held his hand out towards me and looked at his son.

  So this is the guy who chewed me up and spat me out over the phone. I swallowed. I hadn’t bargained on Brodie tagging along too. From the look on his sulky face, he didn’t seem particularly happy to be here either.

  ‘Brodie, this is your sister Sophie.’

  ‘Half-sister,’ Brodie and I said together.

  He looked me up and down from under his floppy fringe, hands on hips. He was so young! I couldn’t believe I had been subjected to such a thorough character assassination by this whippersnapper!

  ‘Drinks?’ said Jess, merrily taking orders in the cramped hallway. Milky tea for Terry, beer for Brodie and large glass of wine for me. She bustled off to the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks for giving me another hearing,’ said Terry.

  Brodie huffed.

  ‘This is for you. For Christmas. In case I don’t see you again. I mean before then.’

  He took out a rectangular box, beautifully wrapped and tied with Bloomingdales ribbon. I took it from him and thanked him. It hadn’t even crossed my mind to buy him a present.

  ‘And these are for now. We can’t get decent ones in the States.’ He handed me a box of Marks and Spencer’s mince pies.

  As I helped Terry out of his coat, he touched my hair.

  ‘Your curls.’ He shook his head softly. ‘Just like Aunt Jane said. Just like mine.’ He paused. ‘And Brodie’s.’

  Brodie glowered at me as I ushered them both into the living room in front of me. I resisted the urge to poke my tongue out him and twisted my mouth into a reluctant smile.

  What was his problem? It was me that had the axe to grind. He’d had a lovely cosy life with two loving parents by all accounts. Brodie’s presence was making an already difficult situation worse. I considered telling him to bob off and leave us alone.

  No sooner had Brodie stepped into the living room, he reappeared before I’d even had a chance to follow.

  ‘Who’s the hot redhead?’ he hissed.

  ‘Emma, my flatmate,’ I replied, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.

  ‘Nicole Kidman, eat your heart out. Is she single?’ he said, blinking his green eyes at me hopefully.

  ‘Yes and thirty-three.’

  He shook his head and gave a low whistle. ‘Will you put in a good word?’

  God, this kid was unbelievable! Our father must have passed my share of the confidence gene onto him.

  ‘Which one, sullen or argumentative?’

  ‘Please?’

  I pushed Brodie ahead of me just as Jess came in with the drinks.

  Emma introduced herself as Terry lowered himself onto the sofa and I sat next to him. I was so close that I could smell his scent. I was no expert on men’s aftershaves, but this was lovely – woody with a hint of cinnamon, quite appropriate for Christmas. I was tempted to bury my nose in his neck for a good sniff. On the snug sofa, his leg brushed against mine and we both inched apart. Brodie perched on the arm next to his dad and gazed across adoringly at Emma, who grinned back at him from the arm chair.‘Sorry not to join the party,’ said Jess jauntily, looking anything but. She handed Terry his tea. ‘I’m meeting my boyfriend for a very special dinner.’

  She giggled from the doorway as she collected her bag and coat. ‘Don’t wait up!’ And then she was gone.

  We sipped at our drinks in silence for what seemed like hours. I started to feel a bit claustrophobic. I regretted wearing a wool dress; it was hot and itchy and felt tight round my arms.

  Was no one going to speak? I looked over at Emma. She flashed a smile at me and then went back to studying Brodie appreciatively.

  I couldn’t believe the transformation in him! He had changed from Rottweiler to Labrador puppy; I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d had his tongue hanging out.

  ‘So,’ I said, unable to stand the tension any longer. ‘Terry, tell me how you met my mother.’ I squashed myself into the furthest corner of the sofa and turned to look at him.

  Terry took a slurp of his tea and handed Brodie his mug. Brodie bristled and sat up straight as if ready for a fight.

  ‘I don’t know how much you know, so I’ll start at the beginning,’ he said.

  I nodded some encouragement. He leaned forward and clasped his hands on his knees.

  ‘We met at a club. Someone’s birthday, I think. She wasn’t a guest, she was singing.’ He smiled and his eyes softened. ‘Valerie was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I was star struck, there’s no other way to describe it. She was so full of energy and life, a free spirit, I suppose.’

  Terry flicked a brief glance at me. I heard Brodie huff.

  ‘The complete opposite to me. I’d finished my apprenticeship as a tiler. I was earning good money. All I wanted to do was settle down, get a house, start a family.’

  I frowned. So far he sounded like perfect husband and father material. Hard to believe, given the circumstances. I held my tongue and listened to what he had to say.

  ‘Most of Valerie’s friends had gone to uni or were still at school. She liked the fact that I was a bit older and had a steady job. She brought out a lighter side in me and I was totally smitten. I couldn’t believe my luck when she agreed to marry me. We had only been together six months.’

  Terry reached into his wallet and took out some photographs.

  ‘I thought you might be interested in these,’ he sai
d.

  He passed me a picture of him and my mother on their wedding day. Tears pricked at the back of my eyes. They looked so young and happy.

  Terry was handsome in a dark suit and sapphire blue tie. But it was my mum who I couldn’t take my eyes off. Even from this old photograph I could see her blue eyes sparkling. She looked radiant in her long, puff-sleeved wedding dress. She was holding hands with her new husband and laughing. I wiped away a tear. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her that happy in my whole life. I passed it across to Emma.

  ‘This was a few months later,’ said Terry quietly. I took the second picture from him.

  What a different story! It looked as if there was a celebration going on in the background, but the couple definitely weren’t in the party spirit. Terry had his arm around Mum, but her body language was telling him that he wasn’t wanted. She had her arms folded and shoulder turned away.

  ‘Jeez, Dad! What are you wearing?’ said Brodie.

  I sniggered under my breath. Terry’s jumper wouldn’t have looked out of place in the video for Wham!’s ‘Last Christmas’.

  Brodie caught me laughing and scowled. ‘Little wifey’s true colours are coming out in this one, aren’t they, Dad?’

  ‘Brodie!’ Terry frowned at him.

  ‘Well, wasn’t it around then –?’ Brodie began to protest.

  ‘Mince pie, anyone?’ I said, reaching for the box.

  Emma leapt up out of her seat. ‘Brodie, fancy nipping out to the pub? I’ll buy you another beer.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Brodie nonchalantly. He followed Emma out of the room and punched the air behind her back.

  ‘Have you seen Eyes Wide Shut?’ I heard him ask as they left the flat.

  ‘Cheeky!’ snorted Emma.

  ‘Sorry about Brodie,’ said Terry. ‘This year has been tough on him. He’ll come round.’

  Maybe. I wouldn’t be holding my breath. In truth, my offer of a mince pie was a genuine one, I’d forgotten about the code word. But Emma and Brodie had seemed keen to get away and actually, now that we were getting to the crucial part of the story, I was glad it was just the two of us.