by G J Morgan
“I think they left this morning, Molly.”
“Oh,” she said, looking sad.
“Hey, why don’t you and your dad go for a swim when we get back? Give Nanny time to pack our things.”
“I don’t want to go. I like it here.”
“You’ll like where we are going even more.”
“Are we going back home to England?” she said, looking hopeful.
“No not yet, darling. We’re here for a good while longer yet.”
“But you said about airports?”
“Someone’s coming to visit, Molly.”
“Who?”
“Someone special.” Later that night, as I read the last of my book I noticed something in the doorway, something sulking.
“What’s wrong Mol?” She was stood, teddy in one hand, looking all grumpy and dishevelled. “Do you wanna come and lie with me for a bit?” She nodded, climbing on top of me and nestling into my chest, her hair her all wet and sticky. “Is your fan on?” She nodded, rubbing her eyes. “You’re soaking.”
“I had a bad dream.”
“What about?”
“Can’t remember.”
“I bet you’re pulling your blanket over your head again.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s not your fault, I think it’s hereditary. I know someone who used to do that too.”
“What are you reading?”
“It’s a daddy book, bit boring.”
“Is it about kissing and cuddling like Nanny’s books?”
“A little bit. I tell you what, as a special treat, would you like a midnight feast?”
“Yes please,” she said as I carried her over to the kitchen and sat her on the worktop. “You promise straight to bed afterwards?”
“Can I have a story too?”
“No stories. It’s extra late, even Nanny is in bed. Right.” I looked at the options. Noodles and hot sauce. Savoury things, not much for children. Thank God, I found chocolate spread.
“Daddy, what’s happening with our house?”
“It’s being rented, darling.”
“Rented?”
“Renting is like borrowing. Some people are borrowing it till we come back.”
“Like sharing?”
“Yes. Like sharing.”
“They won’t mess up my room, will they? Or play with all my toys?”
“No, your room will be exactly how you left it.”
“How long are we sharing it for?”
“Quite a long time. Till next year.”
“We’ve been on holiday for a long time.”
“I know. Are you still having lots of fun? Do you want to go home or stay?” She didn’t answer, her mouth full of sandwich. I knelt down, started to search through the fridge, eggs, a half jar of salsa, milk about to turn. It was clear we barely ever ate in.
“Did you enjoy the funeral today?”
“It was boring.”
“Most funerals are.”
“Have you been to lots of funerals?”
“A few, yes. Do you want a drink?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what Molly?”
“Yes please,” she said, her mouth covered in chocolate. “How many funerals, Dad?”
“I’m not sure.” I passed her a bottle of water. “It’s not something you keep count on.”
“I don’t want Nanny to die.”
“That’s a sad thing to say, Mol.”
“The doctors need to fix her.”
“They are trying to.”
“Promise me Nanny won’t die.”
“I can’t promise those sorts of things, darling.”
“Please promise.”
“Sometimes sad things happen, Molly.”
“Like when next door’s rabbit died?”
“Like when the rabbit died, yes. Sometimes beautiful things have to go to heaven.” I gave her a big cuddle. “But hey. Nanny is getting a lot better. Taking lots of medicine.”
“Mummy is never coming back is she?”
“No, sweetheart. That’s right.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy. I don’t get sad anymore, do I? I’m a grown-up now.”
“You’re allowed to be sad, you know.”
She didn’t answer.
“You’re probably too old for Nutella now. Seeing you are all grown up.” I picked up her. “Probably best if I eat the last triangle.”
“You’re silly.”
“Your mummy would be very proud of you. I love you, smelly pants.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
“And you happy we came here still?”
“My tummy hurts, Dad. Can I have a story?”
“Funny how your tummy hurts went you want something.”
“Please.”
“Just one,” I whispered, carrying her back into her room, the blast of cold fan and mosquito spray, the smell of chocolate from Molly’s cheeks.
Two hours later. A single scream. I barged through her door, she was sat upright, crying, frightened. She’d been sick, everywhere, over herself, her blanket, the floor. Mum was already up, stripping the bed, though neither of us was quick enough. Round two was all over the hallway, ten minutes later, round three. At least the final time it was down the sink, though by that stage there was nothing left to be sick, just the noise, her stomach emptied of whatever bad that was inside. Poor thing puked up everything she had, gave her a quick wash, a glass of water, gave a her a few minutes to take it all in, it had been quite the ordeal. Mum was in the next room working quickly to put her room right, fresh sheets, mopping the floor, new pyjamas.
“I want to go home,” she whispered into my chest. “I want my old room. I don’t like it here. I won’t eat salad ever again,” she said. I kissed her head, took her back to her bed, shushed her till she went back off, it didn’t take long, she was exhausted.
Mum and I chatted a little, had a cup of tea, discussed who was to blame, salad or chocolate, or both, either way both would be banned. Just before we took ourselves back to bed we poked our heads around Molly’s door, checked she was OK, which she was, sucking her dummy, out for the count.
This wasn’t a place for a four-year-old, I thought, as I stared at a spinning fan. Things moved too fast for little girls used to empty fields and duck ponds, for all its clear oceans and white beaches, life here was still filled with hidden danger, roads, diseases, con artists, insects, food. I just assumed Molly would be fine, her body and stomach would cope with it all, take it in her stride, lap it all up. Didn’t stop to think that mine and Mum’s paradise may not be hers. And worse still, we never even asked.
49
She asked me if I’d ever go back to England, and the magazine that millions read, as did I, would see my answer printed clear as day, three words, short and sweet, I hope so.
But that wasn’t the answer I gave.
Far from it.
I remembered it had been a bad morning, couldn’t find a particular sweater, stubbed my toe on a stack of boxes, period pains, out of milk, a new home where nothing knew where to be, including me. A series of shit events, that individually I could deal with, whilst grouped together I could clearly not. I was not in the mood for visitors and I certainly wasn’t in the mood for questioning, luckily the guest due to arrive was a good friend who wouldn’t judge my mental state or the conditions I was forced to live in, at least not out loud.
Her name was Frances Bernard and she was everything you’d expect a Frances Bernard to be, just what you’d expect someone who worked for an international women’s magazine. But don’t be fooled, behind the Chanel and the Wayfarers and the quick tongue and the emotional distance was quite possibly my most favourite person on the planet. In fact, she’d even promised to aim her bouquet purposely in my direction when she got to fling i
t over her shoulder in a few months’ time – not that that was any guarantee of marriage, seeing as her throwing was probably as bad as my catching.
For some obscure reason, I’d agreed to let her interview me at home today. Franny thought it had some significance, all the boxes and bubble wrap, conveyed a change, a new me, thought it would make for an interesting theme for both me and her audience. A popular format she said, trust me she said, not that I saw it myself – didn’t the world know enough about me without knowing the colour of my kitchen units? But hey, she was the expert, she was good at what she did. I trusted her thought process having always come off well in whatever she had printed.
She arrived with her little team just before lunch, cheek kisses in the doorway, I apologized instantly for not having anything to offer them to eat or drink. Of course, she put them to task, sending one poor girl off to fetch us Japanese whilst the rest scurried off around the house and pool looking at angles and lighting and whatever is was they checked for. Meant me and Franny could have a quick chat before we had to put our work faces on.
We talked for a bit, mostly about her, panicking about being ready for a winter wedding, worrying about big things and small details. Who could blame her? The woman advised on health, beauty, relationships, fashion, how to have better sex. Her wedding, her hair, her body, the weather, all of it needed to be perfect. No wonder she looked thin, though she said I looked thinner. Still, the weight of expectation would crush any woman, so as much as I could I tried to offer advice I wasn’t suitably qualified to give, attempted to make her see past table flowers and glassware and focus on what the day really stood for and eventually after bento boxes and bridal affairs it was time to get down to the matter of business.
Even before we started Franny admitted this wouldn’t be hard-hitting journalism, an excuse to have a pretty photo of myself and make my life sound unobtainable. The world was more concerned about my thoughts on heavy knits and trench coats than what I thought about oil spills and tensions in China, and for once I was relieved.
Franny sat down opposite, got herself prepared with pens and pads and voice recorders, reassured me again not to worry, said she would go easy on me, told me to pretend we were just in my front room, she joked. As predicted and pre-warned she did ask about Max though, in fact the bulk of the interview was concerning our rekindled relationship and I fed Franny the lies I’d rehearsed in my head the night before, even managing to convince myself that what me and Max had become was wholehearted and sincere, just like I’d managed to convince half the planet and my close friend sat directly in front of me.
“England, Lilly. Excuse my ignorance, having never ventured outside of Bond Street, but what is there to do down in Devon? I have visions of mud and pigs and men with beards.”
“No pigs and beards. There was mud. Lots of sheep too.”
“How awful.”
“Not one for Mother Nature, Franny?”
“Animals are fine if groomed and trained. It’s mud and beards I have the issue with. But you’re glad to be finally home, I bet?”
“I don’t think glad is the right word.”
“Happy? Relieved?”
“I don’t know. Not relieved.”
Franny looked surprised, offended. “Sounds like you didn’t want to come back.”
“I did. It’s just I enjoyed England. I enjoy LA. The two don’t have to compete.”
“OK, Hannah Montana. So, you’re more comfortable in Hunter wellies than in your Jimmy Choos all of a sudden. But what else did your time in England teach you?”
“Taught me not to take good weather for granted. Taught me that I’m a better cook than I thought. That I need to get out and about, see more of America. Taught me I’m more capable than I give myself credit for. How to enjoy the simple things. To be comfortable in my own company. To let my guard down.”
“You’ve come back a changed woman.”
“You could say that. I know now what is important and what things aren’t.”
“England was an education then? Does LA fit into this new ideal of yours?”
“LA is so fast sometimes we all forget to slow down. I think I’m gonna try and lie low, keep my head down, definitely not party like I used to that’s for sure.”
“New home, new man, a quiet life of mud and cooking. Sounds like you are nesting?”
“I assure you I’m not.”
“Do you think you and Max will have children?”
I looked at her, hoping she’d take the hint, which she didn’t.
“We’ve only just got back together. It’s far too soon. It would be irresponsible.”
“Was it hard being away from Max and your family?”
“I was so busy with work, I didn’t have much time to think.”
“Must’ve been lonely. The only Yank in the village.”
“We had a great cast. Made me very welcome. I wasn’t lonely.”
“Did it bring you together, that time apart from Max? Absence makes the heart grow fonder so they say.”
“I think we both needed our separate space after what had gone on before. We needed that time apart. Those months apart taught us a lot about each other.”
I could tell Franny wanted to delve deeper, bring up London, the kiss, old wounds, she was a journalist after all, gossip was her field, scandal and heartbreak must have been hard to resist. Franny glanced at her notes, her list of harmless questions.
“What did you find out about Max that you didn’t already know?”
“That he’ll never give up,” I said, a little too quickly.
“That’s a very romantic quality, I would say.”
“I’m very lucky.”
“Any plans to go back?”
“I enjoyed my time there.”
“So, you do plan to go back?”
“I’m going to be so busy with filming and press and family.” I took a sip of water.
“I’m sure our English readers would love to see you back there again. It seems they’ve taken you in as one of their own. I’m sure if it wasn’t for a certain Kate Middleton then you may have been the future Duchess of Cambridge.”
I didn’t answer. Took a few more sips of water.
“You OK, sweetie?”
“I’m fine. I’m a bit away with the fairies today.”
“Guys.” She turned to her entourage behind her. “Could you leave us for a bit? Go out and grab us all a bite. Lilly, you want something? You didn’t eat much.”
“No, I’m fine thanks,” I smiled, watching her staff as they let themselves out.
“Lilly, you don’t seem yourself at all. Is it the set-up? Would you rather we do this somewhere else? I don’t mind rescheduling to somewhere not so invasive.”
“No, no it’s fine. Having a shitty morning, that’s all. Nothing major, promise.”
“Are you sure? I didn’t mean to grill you too much. I know I went a little off piste. And of course, Max is a hard subject to avoid right now. I’d be shot if I didn’t come back with something Salter-related.”
“No, the questions were fine. I’m just a little hormonal.”
“I’ll go and fetch you some more water.” Franny got up, went over to my kitchen. When she came back I was in tears.
“Lilly, this is obviously not nothing.”
“I told you. I’m just having a bad day.”
“This is more than a bad day. You look exhausted. You look thinner than me too which can’t be a good thing seeing as I’m practically Skeletor these days. Is it the press? Are they giving you a hard time again?”
“No, it’s not them.”
“Is it Max again?”
I didn’t answer.
“It’s Max, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Tell me.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“Lilly tell me.”
And I did.
All of it.
About Max.
About Tom.
Everything.
Finally, I just broke, just couldn’t keep it in any longer, I had to tell someone, turned out I chose to tell it to a journalist, one with an incredible memory and voice recorder I had to assume had been turned off.
* * *
The magazine came out a few months later, just before Christmas and true to her word Franny didn’t print a word of what was spoken that day in September. I had to give her credit for that, what I told her could have made her a fortune, could have paid for her entire wedding day, but instead, as promised, she kept silent. She was far from quiet on the day though, cursed Max, threatening to take legal action into her own hands, offering solutions both then and in the months that followed. I wish I could say I took any of her advice, and I wish that my reluctance to fight Max in a courtroom, as Franny wanted me to, hadn’t damaged our friendship, but I’m quite sure it had. And I wish she understood why I chose to stay, but she would never understand what Max was capable of, what his worst could look like and the damage it could cause.
You never know, if I waited long enough, once filming was done, once Max had got what he wanted from me, then I could run back to Tom, if he was still there, or still wanted me for that matter. I had to have a little faith at least, a blind faith perhaps, but faith nonetheless.
We finished the interview, I recomposed myself, Franny got the required answers needed to make her word count. As I said the article came out a few months later, just before Christmas. And when the reader saw the question on whether I’d ever go back to England, my reply was just those three little words, short and sweet.
I hope so.
Not the truth, but not a lie either.
I never did catch that bouquet, though I don’t think she had me in mind when she threw it; she aimed it at women who actually stood a chance.
50
You wouldn’t have thought we were about to go to the airport. Mum was having a lie down before all the excitement. Molly, now over her ordeal, was sat on a sun lounger in front of the pool, cutting card with scissors, sticking things with glue. She was deep in concentration, her lip curled towards her nose, as she put together the final touches to her welcome banner. Flight was landing in an hour, we were in no rush, though I still wanted to set off with plenty of time spare, so was already giving her ten-minute warnings of our pending departure.