by Isabel Wolff
As I opened the door I felt as though I’d been plunged into ice-water.
‘Hello, Phoebe,’ said Guy.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Oh. Yes.’ I thought my legs would give way. ‘I … wasn’t expecting you.’
‘No. Sorry – I just thought I’d drop by, as I’m on my way to Chislehurst.’
‘To see your parents?’
Guy nodded. He was wearing the white skiing jacket that he’d bought in Val d’Isère: I remembered that he’d only chosen it because I’d liked it. ‘So you survived the banking crisis?’ I said as we went into the kitchen.
‘I did.’ Guy drew in his breath. ‘Just. But … can I sit down for a minute or two, Phoebe?’
‘Of course,’ I said nervously. As he sat at the table I looked at Guy’s handsome, open face and his blue eyes, and his short dark hair which was longer than I remembered him wearing it, and visibly greying now at the temples. ‘Can I get you anything? A drink? A cup of coffee?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Nothing, thanks – I can’t stay long.’
I leaned against the worktop, my heart racing. ‘So … what brings you here?’
‘Phoebe,’ Guy replied patiently, ‘you know.’
I gave him a quizzical look. ‘I do?’
‘Yes. You know that I’m here because for months now I’ve been trying to talk to you but you’ve ignored all my letters and e-mails and calls.’ He began fiddling with some holly I’d put around the base of a big white candle. ‘Your attitude has been completely … implacable.’ He looked at me. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I knew that if I tried to arrange a meeting with you, you’d refuse to come.’ That was true, I reflected. I would have refused. ‘But tonight, knowing that I’d be almost passing your door, I thought I’d just see if you were here … because …’ Guy heaved a painful sigh, ‘… there’s this unfinished … issue between us, Phoebe.’
‘It’s finished for me.’
‘But it isn’t for me,’ he countered, ‘and I’d like to resolve it.’
I felt my breathing increase. ‘I’m sorry, Guy, but there’s nothing to resolve.’
‘There is,’ he insisted wearily. ‘And I need to start the New Year feeling that I’ve finally laid it to rest.’
I folded my arms. ‘Guy – if you didn’t like what I said to you nine months ago, then why can’t you just … forget about it?’
He stared at me. ‘Because it’s far too serious to be forgotten – as you very well know. And as I’ve tried to live my life decently I can’t bear the idea that I would stand accused of something so … terrible.’ I suddenly realised that I hadn’t emptied the dishwasher. ‘Phoebe,’ I heard Guy say as I turned away from him, ‘I need to discuss what happened that night just once – and then never again. That’s why I’m here.’
I pulled out two plates. ‘But I don’t want to discuss it. Plus I’m going out soon.’
‘Well, would you please hear me out – just for a minute or two.’ Guy clasped his hands on the table in front of him. He looked as though he was praying, I reflected, as I put the plates in the cupboard. But I did not want to have this conversation. I felt trapped, and angry. ‘First of all I’d like to say that I’m sorry.’ I turned and stared at Guy. ‘I’m truly sorry if I did or said anything that night that might have contributed, however inadvertently, to what happened to Emma. Please forgive me, Phoebe.’ I hadn’t expected this. I felt my resentment subside. ‘But I need you to acknowledge that the charge you levelled at me was completely unfair.’
I took two glass tumblers out of the dishwasher. ‘No, I won’t – because it was true.’
Guy shook his head. ‘Phoebe, it was untrue – and you knew that then just as you know it now.’ I put a tumbler on the shelf. ‘You were obviously very distressed …’
‘Yes. I was distraught.’ I put the second tumbler on the shelf, so hard that I almost cracked it.
‘And when people are in that state they can say terrible things.’
If it weren’t for you – she’d still be alive!
‘But you blamed me for Emma’s death, and I’ve been unable to bear the accusation. It’s haunted me, all this time. You said that I’d persuaded you not to go and see Emma.’
Now I faced him. ‘You did do that! You said that she was that “mad milliner” remember, who “exaggerated” everything.’ I took the cutlery basket out of the dishwasher and began flinging the knives into the drawer.
‘I did say that,’ I heard Guy say. ‘I was pretty fed up with Emma by then – I don’t deny it – and she did make a drama out of everything. But I only said that this was something you needed to bear in mind before rushing round to see her.’
I threw in the spoons and forks. ‘Then you said that we should go to the Bluebird, as planned, and have dinner because you’d booked it and didn’t want to miss it.’
Guy nodded. ‘I admit that I said that too. But I added that if you really didn’t want to come then I’d cancel the table. I said that it was your call.’ I stared at Guy, the blood rushing in my ears now, then turned back to the dishwasher and took out a milk jug. ‘Phoebe, you then said that we should go out to dinner. You said that you’d phone Emma again when we got back.’
‘No.’ I put the jug down on the counter. ‘That was your suggestion – your compromise.’
Guy was shaking his head. ‘It was yours.’ I felt the familiar sliding sensation. ‘I remember being surprised, but I said that Emma was your friend and that I’d go with your judgement on the matter.’
I was suddenly filled with dismay. ‘Okay …’ I did say that we should have dinner – but only because I didn’t want to disappoint you, and because it was Valentine’s Day so it was going to be a bit special.’
‘You said we wouldn’t be out for long.’
‘Well, that’s right,’ I said. ‘And we weren’t: then when we got back I did phone Emma – I phoned her straight away; and I was going to go round to her house then, right then –’ I stared at Guy. ‘But you dissuaded me. You said that I was probably over the limit to drive. You were making these drinking-and-driving gestures at me while I was on the phone to her.’
‘I did do that, yes – because I knew you almost certainly were over the limit.’
‘Well there you are then!’ I slammed shut the dishwasher. ‘You stopped me from going to see Emma.’
Guy was shaking his head. ‘No. Because I then said that you should therefore go round to her house in a taxi and that I’d go outside and hail one for you. And I was about to do that, if you remember – I’d even opened the front door …’ Now I was no longer sliding, but falling, hurtling into a chasm. ‘… when you sud denly said that you weren’t going to go after all. You said you’d decided not to.’ Guy was staring at me. I tried to swallow but my mouth had dried. ‘You said that you thought Emma would be okay until the morning.’ At that my legs gave way. I sank on to a chair. ‘You said that she’d sounded so tired, and that it would probably be best for her just to have a long sleep.’ As I stared at the table, I felt my eyes fill. ‘Phoebe,’ I heard Guy say quietly, ‘I’m sorry to bring all this up again. But having something so grave flung at me, without any chance to rebut it, has disturbed my peace of mind all these months. I’ve been unable to let it go. So I just want – no, need you to acknowledge that what you said just wasn’t true.’
I looked at Guy – his features had blurred. In my mind’s eye I could see the forecourt of the Bluebird Café, and Guy’s flat, then the narrow staircase at Emma’s house and finally her bedroom door as I pushed on it. I drew in my breath. ‘All right then,’ I croaked. ‘All right,’ I reiterated quietly. ‘Perhaps …’ I stared out of the window. ‘Perhaps I …’ I bit my lip.
‘Perhaps you didn’t remember it quite right,’ I heard Guy say softly.
I nodded. ‘Perhaps I didn’t. You see … I was very upset.’
‘Yes – so it’s understandable that you … forgot what really happened.’
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br /> I stared at Guy. ‘No – it was more than that.’ I looked down at the table. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of having to blame only myself.’
Guy reached for my hand and enclosed it in both his. ‘Phoebe – I don’t think you were to blame. You couldn’t have known how ill Emma was. You were simply doing what seemed to be right for your friend. And the doctor told you that it was very unlikely that Emma would have survived even if she had come into hospital the previous night …’
I looked at Guy. ‘But it’s not knowing for sure. It’s the terrible, tantalising possibility that she might have survived if I’d only done things differently.’ I covered my face with my hands. ‘And how I wish, wish, wish that I had.’
My head sank to my chest. Then I heard Guy’s chair being scraped back and he came and sat next to me. ‘Phoebe – you and I were in love,’ he whispered.
I nodded.
‘But what happened just – smashed everything up. When you phoned me that morning to say that Emma had died I knew then that our relationship wouldn’t survive it.’
‘No.’ I swallowed. ‘How could we have been happy after that?’
‘I don’t think we could. It would always have cast a shadow over our lives. But I couldn’t bear to have parted from you on such awful terms.’ Guy shrugged. ‘But how I wish that it had never happened …’
‘How I wish that too.’ I stared bleakly ahead. ‘I wish with all my heart.’ The phone was ringing, forcing me to surface from the fantasy of what might have been. I grabbed a piece of kitchen towel, pressed it to my eyes, then answered.
‘Hey – where are you?’ said Dan. ‘The film’s about to start and they get shirty with latecomers here.’
‘Oh. I will be coming, Dan.’ I coughed to cover my tears. ‘But a little later, if that’s okay.’ I sniffed. ‘No … I’m fine, I think I’m just getting a cold. Yes, I’ll definitely be there.’ I glanced at Guy. ‘But I don’t think I can face Godzilla and King Kong.’
‘We won’t watch it then,’ I heard Dan say. ‘We don’t have to watch anything. We can just listen to music, or play cards or Scrabble. It doesn’t matter – just come whenever you can.’
I put the phone back in its cradle.
‘Are you with someone now?’ Guy asked gently. ‘I hope you are,’ he added. ‘I want you to be happy.’
‘Well …’ I wiped my eyes again. ‘I have this… friend. That’s all he is for now – just a friend, but I like being with him. He’s a good person, Guy. Like you.’
Guy inhaled, then slowly let out his breath. ‘I’m going to go now, Phoebe. I’m so glad I’ve seen you.’
I nodded.
I walked him to the front door. ‘I wish you a happy Christmas, Phoebe,’ said Guy. ‘And I hope this year will be a good one.’
‘For you too,’ I whispered as he hugged me.
Guy held me for another moment, then left.
I spent Christmas Day with Mum, who had at last, I noticed, taken off her wedding ring. She had a copy of the January edition of Woman & Home with its ‘Ring in the Old’ fashion spread, featuring my clothes with a prominent credit, I was glad to see. A few pages further on I saw a photo of Reese Witherspoon at the Emmy awards wearing the midnight blue Balenciaga gown that I’d got at Christie’s. So this was the A-Lister who Cindi had bought the dress for. Seeing such a big star in a dress I’d sourced gave me a buzz.
After lunch Dad phoned to say how thrilled Louis was with the Lights’n’Sounds baby walker Mum had given him the day before and with my Thomas the Tank Engine starter set. Dad said he hoped we’d both come and see Louis again soon, and as we watched the Dr Who Christmas special Mum did some more to the blue pram coat she’s been knitting Louis and which I’ve given her the aeroplane buttons for.
‘Thank God they’re getting a nanny for Louis,’ she said as she looped the yarn over the needle.
‘Yes – and Dad said he’s going to do some teaching at the Open University so that’s given him a boost.’ Mum nodded sympathetically.
On the 27th the sale began and the shop was heaving, and I was able to tell everyone about the vintage fashion show and to ask those customers I had in mind whether they’d be willing to model the clothes. Carla, who’d bought the turquoise cupcake, said she’d love to – she added that it would be the week before her wedding but that it would be fine. Katie said she’d happily model her yellow prom dress. Through Dan I got in touch with Kelly Marks and she said she’d be delighted to wear her ‘Tinker Bell’ dress, as she called it. Then the woman who’d bought the pink prom dress came in. So I explained that I was putting on a vintage fashion show for charity and asked her if she’d model her pink cupcake dress for it.
Her face lit up. ‘I’d love to – what fun. When is it?’ I told her. She got out her diary and wrote it down. ‘Model … happy … dress,’ she murmured. ‘The only thing is … no, it’s okay.’ Whatever she had been about to say, she’d clearly thought better of it. ‘February 1st will be fine.’
On January 5th I took the morning off to go to Mrs Bell’s funeral at the crematorium in Verdant Lane. It was a very small affair: there were two friends of hers from Blackheath, her home-help, Paola, and Mrs Bell’s nephew, James, and his wife, Yvonne, both in their late forties.
‘Thérèse was quite ready to go,’ Yvonne said as we looked at the flowers afterwards by the side of the chapel. She drew her charcoal wrap more closely round her shoulders in the thin wind.
‘She did seem contented,’ said James. ‘When I saw her the last time she told me that she felt quite calm and … happy. She used the word “happy”.’
Yvonne was examining a spray of irises. ‘The card on this one says With love from Lena.’ She turned to James. ‘I never heard Thérèse mention anyone called Lena – did you, darling?’ He shrugged then shook his head.
‘I heard her mention that name,’ I said. ‘But I think it was a connection from a long time ago.’
‘Phoebe, I’ve got something for you from my aunt,’ said James. He opened his briefcase then handed me a small bag. ‘She asked me to give this to you – to remember her by.’
‘Thank you.’ I took it. ‘Not that I’ll ever forget her.’ I couldn’t explain why.
When I got home I opened the bag. Inside, wrapped in newspaper, I found the silver carriage clock and a letter, dated December 10th, written in Mrs Bell’s by then very shaky hand.
My dear Phoebe,
This clock belonged to my parents. I give it to you not just because it was one of the things I most treasured, but by way of reminding you that its hands are going round, and with them all the hours and days and years of your life. Phoebe, I implore you not to spend too much of the precious time you have left regretting what you did or didn’t do, or what might or might not have been. And whenever you do feel sad then I hope you will please console yourself by remembering the inestimable good that you did me, your friend,
Thérèse
I re-set the clock, gently wound it with the little key, then put it in the centre of my sitting-room mantelpiece. ‘I will look forward,’ I said as it began to tick. ‘I will look forward.’
And I did – first of all to my mother’s birthday.
She held her party in an upstairs room at Chapters wine bar – a sit-down supper for twenty people. In her short speech Mum said she felt that she’d come of ‘age’. All her bridge friends were there, and her boss, John, and a couple of other people from work. Mum had also invited a pleasant man called Hamish whom she said she’d met at Betty and Jim’s Christmas party.
‘He seemed nice,’ I said to her over the phone the next day.
‘He’s very nice,’ Mum agreed. ‘He’s fifty-eight, divorced with two grown-up sons. The funny thing is that Jim and Betty’s party was very crowded, but Hamish started talking to me because of what I was wearing. He said he liked the pattern of little palm trees on my outfit. I told him that it was from my daughter’s vintage dress shop. That then led to a longer conversation about fabric
because his father worked in the textile industry in Paisley. Then he phoned me the next day to ask me out – we went to a concert at the Barbican. We’re going to the Colliseum next week,’ she added happily.
In the meantime Katie, her friend Sarah, Annie and I were working flat out on the fashion show. Dan was going to do the lights and sound and had assembled a montage of music that would take us seamlessly from Scott Joplin through to the Sex Pistols. A friend of his was going to build the catwalk.
On the Tuesday afternoon we went to the Great Hall to do the run-through, and Dan brought with him a copy of that day’s Black & Green in which Ellie had written a preview piece about the show.
There are still a few tickets available for the Passion for Vintage Fashion Show which will take place at Blackheath Halls tonight. Tickets are £10, and will be redeemable against purchases at Village Vintage. All profits will go to Malaria No More, a charity that distributes insecticide-treated nets in sub-Saharan Africa where, sadly, malaria kills 3,000 children every day. These bed nets, which cost £2.50 each, will protect up to two children and their mother. The show’s organiser, Phoebe Swift, is hoping to raise enough money for the charity to buy a thousand of them.
During the rehearsal I went backstage to the dressing room where the models were getting ready for the fifties sequence and were all in New Look suits, circle skirts and ‘wiggle’ dresses. Mum was wearing her coatdress, Katie, Kelly Marks and Carla were in their cupcakes, but Lucy, the owner of the pink one, was beckoning to me. ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem,’ she whispered. She turned round and I saw that the top of her dress gaped by a good two inches.
‘I’ll give you a stole,’ I said. ‘It’s funny,’ I added as I looked at her, ‘but it fitted you perfectly when you bought it.’
‘I know.’ Lucy smiled. ‘But you see I wasn’t pregnant then.’
I looked at her. ‘You’re …?’
She nodded. ‘Four months.’
‘Oh!’ I hugged her. ‘That is so … brilliant.’