‘I wanted him to kiss me,’ Erika says. ‘Yes, I know it says it’s out of paper, but it isn’t. Just turn it off and turn it on again.’ This is clearly the highly advanced photocopier, which sometimes gets a bit confused. ‘I said, “Lionel, when Alex and his wife appear, you must kiss me on the lips with great feeling.” I told him to pretend he was in a play.’
‘Yes, I saw you discussing something rather earnestly. What happened?’ I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t run into the café at the crucial moment, but Blossom was looking at me so hopefully. I suspected she shared my sweet tooth. I really loved her for a while. That’s the kind of woman I am now: I fall in love with a horse at the slightest encouragement. My next significant other may quite possibly be a gerbil.
‘It was awful,’ Erika moans. ‘Alex and… and that woman turned up, and I kept waiting for Lionel to do something, but he just stood there looking like a mortified marmoset.’
I’m not sure what marmosets look like, but I’m pretty sure Lionel does not resemble one. In fact, he cut quite a dashing figure as he waited for Erika outside the paddock. His long legs looked most attractive in his fashionably faded jeans, and he was wearing a light-brown woollen jumper that was clearly expensive and might have been made in Italy. He looked rather Italian, actually, with his olive skin and brown eyes. His dark hair was short and stylishly unkempt, and his face had a soulful look about it. He was handsome enough to appear in a coffee advertisement. I don’t know why Erika doesn’t seem to notice his charms.
‘So – so I had to sort of grab hold of him,’ Erika continues. ‘Only he started to back away from me, so I grabbed his jumper and plonked my lips on his. And then he opened his mouth and our teeth bashed together, and I yelped and stumbled and landed on my bum in a pile of horse shit.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘It was dry horse shit,’ Erika says bravely. ‘I could brush it off fairly easily.’
‘I was wondering what that pong was in the car. I thought it was Milly.’
‘I must have looked desperate – and Alex must have seen the whole thing.’
‘Lionel opened his mouth when you were kissing?’ This seems like an important detail.
‘Yes, and then when he’d helped me up he ran off. For a man with tight ankles he can move pretty fast. He mumbled something about needing to go to the toilet and just disappeared. It was ridiculous.’
‘But he did go to the toilet,’ I remind her. ‘It’s a pity he didn’t add that he was going to have a short walk and then sit in the saddle room and have a cigarette, but at least we found him.’
‘After twenty minutes of shouting, “Lionel!” as though he was a German shepherd,’ Erika snaps. ‘We should have just left him. What on earth can Alex have thought?’
Alex threw us an extremely quizzical glance before driving off with his wife in their flashy jeep. I bet they don’t really need a jeep. Why do so many city types want to look like they live up some long dirt track?
‘Lionel’s just a boy, basically,’ Erika continues. ‘He’s five years younger than me and very immature for his age. I’ve been trying to train him into adulthood, but I think I’m going to have to drop him, even though he’s sold seven of my cats so far. At least it will let me off the refugee thing.’ Her voice lowers to a whisper. ‘He’s coming over. I have to go.’ Her voice returns to its normal level. ‘No, Lionel, I don’t want your bloody organic stem ginger biscuits.’ The line goes dead.
What a pity, I think. Lionel seemed very sweet, if extremely bashful, and he looked at Erika with such longing. He just needs a little coaching – and there will be plenty of women willing to coach Lionel. I sincerely hope he doesn’t bump into Fabrice.
Fabrice. The word lands in my brain with a thump. Aggie’s still going on about Fabrice and her travels and her views on world peace.
I creep, bow-legged, upstairs. It is clearly time to have a long soak in the bath, because I’m walking like some gunslinger in a Western. As I sink into the warm water, I think about my conversation with my parents last night. I decided to phone them from Erika’s, after my first glass of wildflower liqueur; I needed company and Dutch courage. They were aghast and disappointed to hear that my marriage is over, but they weren’t as surprised as I expected. I am no longer their ‘good’ daughter. In fact, the main thing I am to them at the moment is a puzzle. I am a puzzle to myself, too. I thought I could train myself to live a conventional life, marry a conventional man, have a conventional – if stylish – house and make conventional chicken casseroles. I should have known from the casseroles that I wasn’t up to it; I don’t know what I did to them, but they tasted like oregano-flavoured mud pies.
‘Take it easy, now,’ Mum said softly. ‘Be kind to yourself. Do you want to come over for lunch? I’ll make your favourite chicken casserole.’ I almost cried at the word ‘casserole’, but I managed to smile bravely. I said I would love to come over for lunch, but not just yet; I would phone very soon. Then I got off the phone quickly, before she suggested I take up tennis. Mum has been wanting me to take up tennis for the last fifteen years. She loves tennis herself. There is a whole tennis world out there, apparently, and she thinks it would make me happier. I have never told her that, any time I’ve attempted to play tennis, it has taken me ages to actually hit the ball, and when I do, I send it over walls and hedges and wire fencing. On one occasion it ended up in the middle of a dual carriageway.
I suspect that she and Dad were relieved that it was Diarmuid who finally called an end to our marriage. This way I can seem like the wronged party, and it will sound so much better when they have to explain it all at Marie’s gathering.
‘Poor Sally, do you think she’ll ever find someone?’ The overheard conversations between my parents and Marie return to me while I soak in my lavender-scented bath.
‘I wonder if I’ll ever have grandchildren. Neither April nor Sally seems to have any intention of getting married.’
‘She keeps meeting these awful men who leave her.’
‘She leaves some of them, too.’
‘Yes, but with good reason. None of them really seem to want to make a commitment to her.’
‘What do you think she’s doing wrong? Should we talk to her about it?’
‘When she meets the right person it will be different.’
‘But she isn’t getting any younger.’
Of course, I shouldn’t have listened outside the kitchen door; I should have just marched in and made myself a cup of tea like I wanted to. Why did I care what they said? Why did I believe it?
People make up stories about other people, and those become their truth. And if you don’t watch out you may start believing their version of you. You forget how to be anchored in your own life; you become the product of other people’s fears and hopes and weaknesses. But we are more than our stories. We are more than our past and our mistakes. I knew that when I was riding Blossom, and when I found Aggie. DeeDee knew it, too. She refused to believe in the limits that were being set for her. I hope she became an actress even though they thought she wasn’t that type of person. If only she had returned to challenge the family’s view of her. She let Joseph off far too easily. She should have returned with his baby and forced them all to face the truth.
Suddenly I long with all my heart for Nathaniel. I wish I could tell him what has happened. We fit, somehow. I don’t have to struggle to make him understand me. He doesn’t make me feel alone. That’s the worst kind of loneliness: feeling alone when you’re with people who are supposed to know and love you.
‘My beautiful stranger…’ I say the words out loud, just to hear them. He really would make the most wonderful biscuit.
I get out of the bath and dress quickly. I need, urgently, to eat something. I go downstairs and make some toast and another cup of tea. Then I go to the sitting room and turn on the computer, and start to write.
‘The nicest house I ever lived in had faded carpets,’ I write. ‘The curtains were old and the lining w
as worn, and the floorboards were a bit loose in places and squeaked. The lawn needed mowing and the bathroom tiles needed re-grouting. There was a sign above the toilet that said, “Flush sharply,” the shelves were stuffed with shells and stones we’d found on beaches, and there was no particular colour scheme. But that house had love and hope and faith in it, and forgiveness. It was a shelter and a sanctuary. We were larger in it. There was a heartbeat in its silences. I never felt alone there.
‘When we lived in that house, we weren’t trying to impress anyone. It was a home. It didn’t have to look like the magazines; we knew what we needed, and we didn’t compare the house to other places. I’ve begun to remember something I’d forgotten: you can have a house, or you can have a home. And a home will sometimes be a bit inconvenient. There will be things you can’t throw away, and it will sometimes be a bit messy – like life, and like love. But, because you aren’t seeing it through other people’s eyes, you will know what fits there and what is cherished. And you won’t fuss around trying to make everything perfect, because that’s an endless, pointless task.
‘So buy the sofa you want, even if it’s bright red and clashes with the wallpaper. Change things at your own rhythm or leave them as they are. Most of all, don’t worry about what other people think. What’s the point? Everyone has their own tastes and preferences. And maybe you’ll be alone in that house, or maybe you’ll share it; but, whatever your circumstances, you will know more about the largeness of life and love and how to belong somewhere. How to listen to your heart.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Fiona is beaming. Her smile hardly fits on her face. ‘It’s a kind of miracle, isn’t it?’ she says, cradling the mug of tea I have made her. We are sitting in my kitchen in the company of numerous ants.
I am smiling too – smiling with relief and happiness, and trying to hide any slight trace of suspicion. I’m finding it hard to believe what she’s telling me. The main thing that makes it plausible is that it happened to Fiona. These sorts of things happen to Fiona quite a lot.
It looks like Zak’s sperm may not have been quite so slow after all. In fact, according to Fiona, it seems highly likely that Milly is Zak’s daughter. He himself is in no doubt about it. Milly is, apparently, the spitting image of his great-grandmother Mabel – who, it turns out, was one-quarter Chinese.
Zak hardly knew anything about Mabel and her exotic provenance until the day before yesterday. He was up in the attic, hunting for the antique lace tablecloth that Fiona wanted to use at the christening party. He plonked a photograph album on a wonky table; it promptly slid off, hit his shin, landed on the floor with a wallop and burst open at a two-page spread entitled ‘Bella’s Christening’. Fiona is quite convinced that the angels guided Zak to the album. I think this angel thing is catching. Ever since I told Fiona and Erika about Aggie’s angels, they’ve been keeping a beady lookout for their own.
Zak knew that his grandmother had been called Bella; and, since he was soon to be deeply involved in a christening himself, he glanced at the photos with mild interest. His eyes fixed on the woman who was holding Bella. Someone had written ‘Mabel and baby Bella’ underneath the photo in tidy blue ink. Zak had seen photos of his grandmother, but Mabel was only a thin and distant name, more of a story than a fact. Though the image was brownish and faded, he could make out Mabel’s features quite clearly. He gazed at her almond-shaped eyes; her pert, charming nose; her high, exotic cheekbones. She was virtually an adult replica of Milly. You could see that she was more European than Eastern, but there was a distinct suggestion of improbable exoticism.
Zak took out his mobile phone and called his mother, who said that Mabel was a strange woman. She had met Zak’s great-grandfather when he was working on a building site in London. He had brought her home to County Westmeath, and no one had really known what to make of her. She was basically English and had a Cockney accent. There was some talk of her having a Chinese grandfather, but even Mabel was vague about the details; the main thing she knew about him was that he had wanted to go to America but had somehow got off the boat in Liverpool. For a long time, many people thought that Mabel herself had ended up in the wrong country – but then the differences slowly softened, and she was just Mabel, who had somehow landed in the middle of them all like an exotic bird. She was quiet and shy, and even her genes seemed to share her reticence: her children all looked like their father, and her grandchildren didn’t seem to resemble anyone in particular. ‘It’s almost like she went back to where she came from and didn’t leave a trace,’ Zak’s mother said.
‘Yes, she did,’ Zak said. ‘Milly looks like her.’
His mother debated this point. She said that, at three days old, Milly had been the spitting image of her Aunt Sasha – ‘Though your father says she looks more like me,’ she added. ‘She has my eyebrows.’ Zak began to realise that, at the christening, Milly would be likened to half of his relatives. They would see what they wanted to see, and he would not correct them. He smiled to himself and put the phone back in his pocket. He himself knew that Milly had his hands and his chin and his ears, but he had been very disappointed that she didn’t look more like Fiona. And he had sensed that, in some way, Fiona was worried about Milly’s appearance. Now he could explain it to her.
‘I really want to find out more about Mabel,’ Fiona says as she stoically munches one of my rice cakes (my house is now a biscuit-free zone). ‘It’s like you and DeeDee. Families are so strange, aren’t they? There are so many hidden, secret things. It’s fascinating.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I agree, deciding not to tell her that I’ve put DeeDee in the ‘too difficult’ file for the moment.
‘Apparently, some family characteristic can skip generations,’ she continues enthusiastically, ‘until you get a son or a daughter like Milly. Zak says there are families who don’t know they have a black relative until a lovely dusky little baby suddenly appears. I know it sounds funny, but I almost feel like Mabel’s genes suddenly decided to reassert themselves through Milly. And, once they decided to do it, they really got down to business. I mean, how else can you explain it? I was told over and over, by people who are supposed to know these things, that Zak would never be a father – a biological father. I felt so guilty about hiding the truth from him, but now I’m glad I did.’
‘Why?’
‘Many people have done amazing things because no one told them that they couldn’t. The only person who said Zak could be a father was that acupuncturist. He gave him herbs he had to boil up and drink. They tasted really awful, but I think they must have helped.’ Fiona’s eyes shine with joy. ‘He found that album at just the right time. It sort of jumped out at him. It wouldn’t let him ignore it.’
I try to eat a rice cake myself. I desperately want to lose weight for Marie’s party. Ditched, divorced and fat would just be too demoralising.
‘I was going to tell him about the fertility clinic that very night,’ she says. ‘I just couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. I’d even phoned my mother to say I might need to come and stay for a while.’
‘Oh, poor Fiona.’ I touch her arm sympathetically.
‘If Zak ever finds out what I did, he’ll be furious.’ She frowns. ‘I don’t think he’d leave now, but it just wouldn’t be the same between us.’
‘Don’t think about that,’ I say gently. ‘I’m so pleased for you.’
‘I so wish you could meet someone you love as much as I love Zak.’ Her eyes are sorrowful. ‘I’m so sorry about Diarmuid. And I’ve been no support to you. I’ve just been going on and on about myself.’
‘Well, I think we all kind of knew it wasn’t a marriage made in heaven,’ I mumble. ‘I’m beginning to think you marry the same way you live. I haven’t listened to my heart enough, Fiona. I haven’t believed it. It… it seemed to want some things that frightened me. Things that seemed like too much of a risk.’
‘Like your beautiful stranger at that party,’ she says softly. ‘Like Nathaniel.�
��
‘Yes.’ The word is a whisper. ‘I don’t know who I’m becoming, Fiona, but I’m different. I can’t lie to myself like I used to. I miss that, in a way. It seemed easier, even though it wasn’t.’
‘So you lied to yourself when you married Diarmuid?’
‘Yes, I did, but I didn’t know it. I didn’t listen to that little voice that kept whispering, “This isn’t right. You don’t love him. Don’t be so frightened of being alone.” I was so scared, Fiona – so terrified that I mightn’t find anyone who wanted me. I didn’t want people saying, “Poor Sally, she never married…”’
‘Well, at least they won’t say that now.’ Fiona smiles.
‘Yes, but they’ll say all kinds of other things instead. They’re going to judge and comment, and some of them will blame me. And these feelings I have aren’t going to stop until I decide other things are more important.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like honesty and compassion and courage. Like love – real love.’
She reaches out and hugs me. She is so warm and sweet and kind – and she works so hard at being Fiona. She puts her beliefs into practice. She is brave and true, and she doesn’t expect everything to be easy.
‘So how are preparations going for the christening?’ I ask, as she rises to leave.
‘They’re a mess,’ she sighs. ‘Zak found the album, but he didn’t find the antique tablecloth; I must have thrown it out by mistake. And the house is a tip – there’s stuff all over the place. We’re just too tired to put things away, and we never seem to get around to cleaning. Milly has thrown up on almost all my good clothes. I go around smelling of stale milk. I’ve forgotten who I’ve invited, and I keep phoning people to check if I’ve told them. I’ve never been this disorganised.’ She smiles happily. ‘Sometimes we have muesli for dinner.’
‘Sounds a bit like my life,’ I laugh. ‘At least you don’t have ants.’
The Truth Club Page 30