by Susan Lewis
‘Colin,’ he said, tucking the mobile into the crook of his neck so he could talk to the Foreign Secretary as he continued to cook. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I might ask you the same question,’ came the reply.
Puzzled, David said, ‘I don’t follow.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At home, with Lisa. Why?’
‘Did you get my message? Dinner, seven o’clock, usual place.’
David stopped what he was doing. ‘I checked my voicemail about an hour ago,’ he said, ‘there was nothing.’ Then, ‘Listen, I’m sorry. Something’s obviously got screwed up somewhere. Have you ordered yet? We could come and join you. Or you could come here?’
A chuckle tumbled down the line. ‘Now you’re talking, because no way am I going to deprive myself of an evening with the lovely Lisa, so if you can bear to share her for a couple of hours, I’ll come there.’
David was looking at Lisa as he said, ‘We’ll have a drink waiting for when you arrive.’ He was frowning as he rang off, and quickly going through to his voicemail he checked again to see if there were any messages. Nothing. However, there was an email from Miles reminding him that The Times wanted an answer on whether Lisa was willing to take part in the interview next week.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, when he finished telling her about it.
‘Well, first up,’ she said, ‘I think I’d better get dressed if Colin’s on his way over, if only to go out and get another steak. And about the interview …’ She pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure. If we only had ourselves to consider I’d say yes right away, but I can’t help worrying about how it will go down with Rosalind, seeing us together like that.’
‘Mm, yes,’ he said, his tone conveying the guilt he felt at not thinking of Rosalind himself. ‘I’m sorry. She’s having a tough time right now, what with everything …’
‘I know, it’s OK, you don’t have to explain. Incidentally, have you spoken to her about the text she sent me this morning?’
‘No, I’ve decided to leave it till I see her at the weekend. I don’t want to be preparing her for an article that’s bound to feature our upcoming nuptials at the same time. That really won’t help matters at all.’
‘So no to The Times?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Picking up her wine Lisa went up on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘You’re a good father,’ she told him.
He smiled and kissed her again. ‘I don’t think she’d agree with that right now,’ he said quietly. ‘In fact, I know she wouldn’t, but all things considered, I suppose I can’t really blame her for that.’
Chapter Four
EVER SINCE ROSALIND and her husband Jerry had moved into this house with its sweeping views of the lake, and the meandering swell of the Mendips beyond, her parents had come for lunch on Saturdays. Dee, her aunt, who lived in the next village and helped to run the constituency office, generally fitted them into her busy schedule too, and more often than not Rosalind’s close friend Sally came to join them. In fact, all their friends were invited whenever they wanted to come, they simply had to let Rosalind know a day in advance and a place would be set for them.
Today, since Sally was in bed with a bout of summer flu and Dee was helping out at a car boot sale, while Jerry, who was a pilot with BA, was away until Tuesday, the large farmhouse table that she often laid for as many as eight, or even ten for this weekly ritual, was set only for three.
After popping the lasagne – one of Lawrence’s favourites – into the oven, she remembered to prime the timer, and resisting the urge to start on the wine before her father arrived, she ran up stairs to close the windows before the storm that seemed to be threatening had a chance to break. Since the old mill had originally been converted and extended for a Bristol sea merchant and his large family, it was a rambling place with five bedrooms and three bathrooms, all of which had been more recently renovated, furnished and decorated by Rosalind and her mother. This meant that almost everywhere Rosalind turned there was a memory of Catrina waiting to spill its joy and grief all over her. The loss was still so raw in her heart that sometimes it felt as though it was deepening instead of lessening, and during moments of utter despair all she wanted was to be able to go and join her mother wherever she might be, leaving this complicated and cruel world behind her.
On the way out of her and Jerry’s bedroom where the wrought-iron bedstead was raised on a dais that enabled them to lie back against the pillows and enjoy the views, she caught her reflection in the antique cheval mirror that had once been her mother’s, but was now hers. Seeing how gaunt and dishevelled she looked, she darted into the bathroom to pull a brush through her curls, another gift from her mother, and apply some colour to her cheeks. She didn’t want her father thinking she wasn’t coping, because she was, quite well as a matter of fact, no thanks to him. Her eyes closed, and taking a deep breath she blew it out slowly before opening them again. The woman in the mirror was watching her with caution, seeming unsure whether to keep her there to continue brightening herself up, or simply to let her go. She looked tired and anxious, which was hardly surprising when she’d been up in the night listening and worrying as Lawrence padded about the house, switching lights on and off, flushing toilets, pulling curtains open and closed, tidying chairs into place, turning on taps, and doing whatever else made him feel certain that the house was functioning normally, before going back to bed.
She was glad Jerry hadn’t been there to hear it. He had less patience with their son than she did. On the other hand, he was the one with the early morning call, and pilots, above practically everybody else, needed to get the right amount of sleep. She sometimes wondered what he really thought of Lawrence. She was sure he loved him, and would do anything in the world to make him happy, in so far as anyone could make Lawrence happy, but it had to be hard for Jerry never being able to hold his son, or share the same things with him that other fathers shared with their nine-year-old boys. As his mother there was nothing in the world she wouldn’t give to be able to pull Lawrence into her arms and envelop him in one of the giant bear hugs her father used to give her when she was small. Or to smooth a hand through his silky curls, or to hear him laugh uncontrollably the way children should, so it had to be the same for Jerry.
Poor Jerry. Poor Lawrence. Poor her.
‘Hello? Are you in here?’
‘Oh Dad, yes,’ she gasped. ‘You made me jump.’
‘Didn’t you hear me calling?’ he asked, as she came out of the bathroom.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I was miles away. How are you?’ and walking into his arms she squeezed him tight and felt herself longing to sink even deeper into the comforting circle of his embrace. ‘Have you seen Lawrence?’ she asked. ‘He’s in the tree house.’
‘Not any more. He’s at the table now, piecing together a new jigsaw. Are you OK? You look tired.’
‘He was up to his usual tricks during the night,’ she confessed, and gazing into his wonderfully tender eyes she felt her own starting to well with tears. ‘Come on, lunch will be ready soon,’ she said, quickly linking his arm. She didn’t want him to see her crying, because she didn’t want him to know how fragile she was really feeling. Nor did she want to start his visit off by confessing how afraid she was that they were drifting apart. She knew he’d insist it wasn’t the case, that it was all in her head, and he loved her every bit as much now as he always had. Actually, she didn’t doubt that, but she’d never dreamt he’d behave the way he had since her mother had died.
She couldn’t think about her mother now or she really would lose it.
‘So, you brought him a new jigsaw,’ she said chirpily, as they started down the stairs. ‘I hope he didn’t snatch it.’
‘As a matter of fact, he even said thank you.’
Her heart swelled with pride. Of them all her father had always been the one Lawrence responded to most, he even seemed to get some of his terrible jokes, and for the past year or so he’d taken
an interest in what was happening in Parliament, asking which policies her father was supporting, or what he was doing to help someone in the constituency. For a boy of nine he had an extraordinary understanding of current affairs, but like his occasionally oddly formal vocabulary and reluctance to make eye contact, it was all a part of the syndrome that made him not quite like everyone else.
Not wanting to appear too eager for a drink, she stood over Lawrence watching him sorting the pieces of his jigsaw, while her father uncorked a bottle of Spanish wine. It was a Belondrade y Lurton which they’d first discovered while on a family holiday at La Residencia in Deià, Mallorca. They’d visited this hotel most summers for a week or ten days, in addition to a week or two spent somewhere else in the Med such as a Greek island, or the French Riviera. At the end of December they’d fly off somewhere hot – Barbados, Mauritius, Thailand – to escape the post-Christmas gloom. They hadn’t been able to go anywhere these last two years because of her mother’s treatments, and Rosalind was still trying to come to terms with the fact that they probably wouldn’t ever go anywhere as a family again.
‘Is Dee joining us?’ David asked, as he passed her a glass.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘She sent a text earlier saying she’d pop in for coffee after the car boot sale.’ She clinked her glass to his and took a large, restorative sip. ‘So how are you?’ she asked, going to check the lasagne.
It was a moment or two before she realised he hadn’t answered, and when she turned round she found him staring curiously out of the window.
‘Is someone there?’ she asked.
Seeming not to have heard, he said, ‘So how are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ she replied, watching him turn back. Obviously his mind had been on her and now he was no doubt wishing he hadn’t bothered to come here. ‘What about you?’ she said, fighting back more tears of resentment. ‘When does the summer recess start?’
‘I believe it’s the twentieth,’ he said. ‘Anyway, about a month from now.’
She tensed in case he mentioned the wedding that was due to take place two weeks later, but he didn’t, even though she knew it must be uppermost in his mind.
‘David,’ Lawrence said, which was what he always called her father, ‘Noah’s Ark can’t have been real, because it isn’t possible to fit all those animals on board, and he was 600 years old when God told him to build it and people don’t live that long. Plus, the geological column shows various anomalies that disprove it.’
David smiled, and went to sit next to him. ‘What do you know about the geological column?’ he asked, watching Lawrence’s nimble fingers sorting through two thousand pieces to create an intricately detailed picture of Noah and his Ark.
‘I know that beneath the surface there is topsoil, then coal, then dried-up river bed with desiccation cracks in the mud.’ He looked at David’s iPhone as it started to ring.
‘It’s Miles,’ David told him, and Rosalind guessed the reason he’d announced the caller was to let her know that it wasn’t his girlfriend on the line. ‘Yes, Miles, what can I do for you?’ he said, getting up from the table to go and fetch some peanuts from a cupboard. ‘Don’t tell me you’re at the office. You are allowed to take weekends off, you know.’ He laughed at Miles’s response, then said, ‘No, Dee’s not here at the moment. Can’t you get her on the mobile? She’s probably switched it off. Anything I can do?’ He munched as he listened, then said, ‘No problem, you’ll be arriving around six tomorrow night, instead of just after lunch. The surgery’s in Keynsham on Monday morning, I believe. Yep, I’ll be coming up to London with you straight after. OK, good. See you then,’ and ringing off, he tipped a generous supply of nuts into a bowl and carried them to the table.
‘So where’s Jerry this weekend?’ he asked, going back to the fridge.
Rosalind glanced at the clock. ‘Right now, on his way to Cape Town. Thanks,’ she added, as David topped up her glass. Would he register the significance of Cape Town and make some comment? She wasn’t sure whether she wanted him to or not, but when he didn’t she felt angry and let down. He never used to be so dismissive or neglectful of her feelings, and he obviously knew how difficult it was for her every time Jerry flew back to the place where he’d had an affair, so why didn’t he say something? Because all he could think about was her, that was why. ‘There are some accounts I need to go through with you after lunch, if you have time,’ she said, feeling suddenly unbearably lonely as she emptied a packet of salad leaves into a bowl.
‘I have,’ he confirmed.
‘David, are you going to be Prime Minister?’ Lawrence asked, keeping his eyes on his jigsaw.
‘Not this week,’ David told him.
‘There have been fifty-two prime ministers of Great Britain,’ Lawrence informed him, ‘starting with Sir Robert Walpole in 1721 right through to the man who’s there now. These animals are called walruses.’
David glanced over and pulled a face. ‘They could be mammoths,’ he said, ‘or hairy cows with horns, hard to tell.’
Lawrence looked at him, blinked slowly, then returned to his task.
Rosalind exchanged a smile with her father. He was one of the few people who could get away with contradicting Lawrence.
Out of nowhere, she began asking herself how they were going to manage at Christmas and birthdays from now on? They always celebrated their special occasions as a family, Lawrence looked forward to it, but how could they get together if that woman was going to be around? She probably wouldn’t even invite them into her home, but even if she did, Rosalind would rather cut off her feet than allow them to cross the threshold of the woman who’d probably dance on her mother’s grave, given half a chance.
‘Darling, what are you doing to that salad dressing?’ her father asked. ‘If you shake it any harder it’ll turn into soup.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, trying to give a laugh. ‘I guess I’m a bit on edge today. Jerry and I had words last night – nothing serious – but then I hardly slept, and there are some issues going on with one of the properties on Clifton Vale …’
‘Anything I can help with?’
‘No, no, it’ll be fine. I’m going over there on Monday to talk to the tenants. Nothing for you to worry about. Ah, the lasagne’s ready,’ she declared as the timer beeped. ‘Can you take it out, please? Lawrence, go and wash your hands, there’s a good boy.’
‘I have to finish this first,’ he reminded her.
Knowing that to throw him off track would either trigger one of his tantrums or silence him for days, she didn’t argue, simply took three plates from the warmer and set them on the table.
By the time the meal was over Lawrence had regaled them with a chronological list of prime ministers, an alphabetical list of animal species, every football team in the premier league and every player. This last surprised, and touched her, because he’d never shown any interest in his father’s favourite sport before, so maybe he’d memorised all those names to try and impress him. Who knew?
‘Feel like going fishing tomorrow?’ David said, as they cleared the table.
‘Yes, that would be very enjoyable,’ Lawrence replied. ‘I’m going on the computer now,’ and after wiping his face with the paper towel his mother was offering, he folded it neatly, handed it back and left.
‘It’s such a lovely day, we should have eaten outside,’ Rosalind commented, as she began filling the kettle.
‘We can always have our coffee out there,’ David suggested. Closing up the dishwasher and reaching for her hand, he said, ‘Now, we can go on avoiding the real issue between us if you like, but unless we discuss it, it’s never going to be resolved.’
Rosalind’s face was already tightening. ‘I don’t see what there is to discuss,’ she responded shortly. ‘Your mind seems to be made up, so obviously what I think doesn’t count.’
‘Come and sit down,’ he said, trying to lead her to the table.
‘I’m making the coffee,’ she reminded him, and pulling he
rself free she turned her back.
Stifling a sigh, he watched her take down the cafetière and start to ladle in three scoops of fresh grounds. ‘I saw the text you sent to Lisa on Thursday,’ he told her. ‘Can’t you see you’re only hurting yourself, behaving like this?’
‘Well, that’s OK,’ she snapped, ‘because anything that hurts me is obviously fine by you, or you’d stop seeing her.’
‘Rosalind, I’m going to marry her …’
‘I don’t want to discuss this.’
‘We have to. The wedding isn’t far off now and I’d like you to be there.’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s not going to happen.’
‘Please listen to me …’
‘No, you listen to me,’ she cried, spinning round furiously. ‘I don’t want that woman in our family. She’s nothing to me, nothing, do you hear me?’
‘But …’
‘She’s a gold-digging whore, Dad, and for you to try and foist her on us when Mum’s only been dead for a matter of months just goes to show how much our feelings mean to you.’
The troubled look that came into his eyes told her how deeply she’d hurt him, but she didn’t care. He needed to understand how much he was hurting her too.
‘Please don’t ever call Lisa that again,’ he said roughly. ‘You don’t even know her, so to be …’
‘I know all I need to know, thank you very much. She almost broke up your marriage once, and she even tried to see you when Mum was ill. For all I know Mum was right, you did see her then.’
‘She never contacted me once when your mother was ill.’
‘That’s not true! I saw the card she sent …’
‘Your mother was …’
‘And look how fast she managed to get her claws into you once Mum had gone, and you, fool that you are, aren’t doing anything to try and stop her. She’s no good for you, Dad. She’s a hanger-on, a nobody …’
‘Rosalind …’
‘… she jets around the world with the rich and famous thinking she’s something special, when all she is is a lame excuse of a writer who contributes absolutely nothing of any value to the world, and who’s never been able to hang on to a man because, apart from you, they’ve been able to see straight through her.’