Savannah screws up her face. ‘Great, considering the amount of time you spend prying into mine.’
‘Yours? What sex life have you got?’
Savannah laughs. ‘Chill, Mum, chill.’
The coffee is strong and bitter and burns Cordelia’s throat. She spoons in sugar. ‘Where’s Granny?’
‘In the shower. She’s been up for hours.’
‘She saw Patrick then?’
‘Don’t know. She was doing stuff on her laptop when I came down.’ Savannah stretches out a hand towards the bowl of plums in the middle of the table. Her lips close over the fruit. ‘Yuk!’ She throws the plum in the direction of the draining board. It thuds against the window and bits of flesh splatter on to the glass.
‘Savannah! What now?’
‘They’re sour.’
‘You’re not supposed to eat them.’
‘What are they for?’
‘I saw them in the market yesterday. I love that purple, especially against the cream bowl.’
‘Flip me, Mum.’
Cordelia sips her coffee. Her headache’s getting worse. ‘How come you’re up? I usually have to prise you out of bed.’
Savannah points to the white envelope on the table. It’s been opened and its contents shoved back inside. ‘Wanted to get to the post first.’
Cordelia studies the writing: Mrs Cordelia Heaney, Rose Cottage, Little … For a moment she’s sidetracked. Why do people address her as Mrs when she makes it plain that … ‘What are you playing at, Savannah? This is addressed to me.’
‘It’s about me! I’m entitled to read it – data protection and all that.’
‘Only once I’ve opened it.’ Cordelia sighs. ‘You might as well tell me what it says.’
‘Silly old cow wants to see you.’
‘Which particular silly old cow?’
‘Miss Wentworth! Who do you think?’
Cordelia’s lost count of the number of times she’s been summoned by her daughter’s headmistress, a woman whose tailored grey suits and half-moon glasses conjure up images of Cordelia’s own teachers. When she waits in the corridor outside Miss Wentworth’s office, her eyes fixed on the heavy oak door that will spring open at any moment, the smell of far-off school dinners haunts Cordelia’s nostrils, and her legs itch from the navy serge of her uniform skirt.
She drags herself back to the present. ‘What is it about this time?’
‘Same old stuff.’ Savannah uncurls her arms from around her legs and stands up. The T-shirt barely reaches the top of her thighs and Cordelia catches a glimpse of dark hair. She looks away.
She can feel Savannah watching her. What does she see? A mother? A friend? Perhaps she just sees old. Cordelia’s forty-two and, in spite of her long floaty skirts and skimpy tops, is probably not far off Miss Wentworth’s age. What Savannah can’t see, Cordelia thinks, is a fugitive, someone constantly on the run, someone scared of their own shadow in case one day it won’t be there.
‘Are you going to go for it?’ Savannah asks.
‘Go for what?’
‘Come on, Mum … I’d have to be a retard not to have heard the great debate the other night.’
‘You shouldn’t eavesdrop.’
‘Don’t go all arsey. It doesn’t suit you.’
Cordelia carries her mug and the coffee pot to the sink. She watches the stream of brown liquid as it circles round the plughole and then scrapes the grounds of coffee into the bin. ‘Never mind about me. What does Miss Wentworth want?’
‘I took a day off, that’s all. Stop fussing. Tell me about you and Patrick.’
Cordelia straightens up from the bin. She feels Savannah’s arm round her shoulders and breathes in her daughter’s warm smell, a mixture of hair shampoo and bed. ‘You know what I think about marriage.’
Savannah pulls away. ‘Just because your mum and dad couldn’t hack it, doesn’t mean you can’t.’
For a second Cordelia is back sitting at the top of the stairs, clutching at her father’s kiss and then opening her eyes to find he’s gone …
‘You should do it,’ Savannah’s saying. ‘Patrick’s loaded. You could give up that poxy job.’
‘I need to work,’ Cordelia protests. ‘I believe – ’
‘Not the female independence speech.’
‘But – ’
‘What do you want more than anything in the world?’
Cordelia’s not used to her daughter asking her what she wants. ‘To paint, I guess,’ she says at last. ‘To sell my paintings.’
‘There you are then,’ Savannah pronounces. ‘Patrick will get you a studio. I bet he’s got zillions of contacts with arty people.’
‘I want to sell my paintings because I’ve got talent, not because my husband – ’
‘For fuck’s sake, Mum! You’re too idealistic for this world.’
Cordelia doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It would be wonderful to stop working in the art shop, answering the same old questions about brush types, quality of paper, acrylic versus water colours. To have a proper studio instead of working in the conservatory, sweltering in summer and freezing in the winter. Perhaps then she could think of herself as a real artist.
‘I wish you’d watch your language,’ she resorts to saying. Immediately she feels Savannah withdraw from her.
‘Do what you like about Patrick, but don’t do that bourgeois crap about swearing.’
Cordelia glares at Savannah. ‘Bourgeois? Me?’
‘Yeah! Cottage at the foot of the hills, rich boyfriend, artist, not full-time, of course – ’
‘That’s enough!’
Savannah turns away. For once Cordelia thinks she might have got the last word, but Savannah reappears in the doorway. ‘If you’re not bourgeois, how come I’m lumbered with a crappy middle class name?’
‘Savannah? It’s a beautiful name. It reminds me of … ’ Cordelia starts to smile. She’ll never forget that summer in Georgia … or Jason …
‘Okay … I know the story – it reminds you of being in the States. You met my dad, fell in love with Savannah and with him – ’
‘You needn’t sound so angry. I did. ’
‘But not enough to marry him and give me a real dad – ’
‘Shut up!’ Cordelia’s arm slices through the air, forward and up. Savannah’s face is inches away. The chin is raised, the cheek waiting, defiant. A whitish light floats above her head. Cordelia’s hand falters. She watches as colour drains out of Savannah – from her pink T-shirt, her glossy hair, dark eyes. She stares at this monochrome version of her daughter. Her hand drops to her side.
‘You’ve gone too far this time,’ she says, but her voice is pale, lacking in energy.
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’ Savannah’s lit up brightly again, pink and vibrant. ‘Just so’s you know,’ she says, ‘I’m Sarah from now on.’
‘You can’t change your name. I won’t let you.’
Savannah gives a little snigger that makes her top lip curl. ‘If Patrick can, so can I.’
‘Patrick?’
‘Hasn’t he told you he used to have a different name?’
‘What – ’
‘I’ve got to go. I’ll be late for school and fart-face will get arsey again.’
A dark shape appears at the window and is silhouetted against the lightening sky. Charlie, Savannah’s tabby, sits hunched on the sill, fur raised in a frieze of outrage at being shut out. Cordelia winces as she gets up from the table. The top of her foot aches where the vase landed on it. She lifts the catch of the window and Charlie steps over the sill and on to the worktop. She picks him up and rubs her cheek against his fur.
The argument with Savannah – she won’t think of her as Sarah – has knocked her for six. To have her reject the name Cordelia picked with such joy makes her insides shrivel. Cordelia loves her own name. Her father chose it. When she was little, he used to tell her stories about a famous king i
n a play who had a daughter he loved beyond all others: her name was Cordelia. It made her feel special.
She stares down the garden at the rowan tree that grows in the lane just beyond. The leaves are tinged russet and gold. A feathery mist hides the crest of the hill that rises up behind the cottage. She imagines handing in her notice at the shop, having a studio at the top of the garden, time to paint. Patrick is younger than her, only thirty-six, attractive and exciting. When they met at a party in Oxford, she expected it to be a one-night stand. Eight months on, he says he’s in love with her. He loves the way she bites her bottom lip when she paints, her silence first thing in the morning, her enigmatic dark eyes. It’s the first time he’s ever felt like this, he says. She’d like to believe him, like she believed Savannah’s father.
She’s standing at the window when the door opens. As she swings round, Charlie leaps from her arms.
‘Morning, darling.’ Vanessa is dressed in black trousers and a turquoise polo neck. Gold hoops dangle from her ears. How does she manage to look so elegant at this hour of the morning?
‘How did you sleep?’ Cordelia asks.
‘Fine.’
Vanessa’s face has that animated expression that makes her look much younger than her years. Cordelia feels the dark kohl-lined eyes sweep over her, taking in her tousled hair and crumpled T-shirt. Vanessa’s hair is caught up at the back of her head in a comb. There are a few steaks of silver amongst the auburn, but its colour is rich and shiny.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ Cordelia asks.
‘I’m ready for one. I did a couple of hours’ work first thing.’
Cordelia snaps on the kettle. ‘Savvy said you’d been on the computer. I never seem to wake up properly until the middle of the morning.’ She goes to the fridge to fill the milk jug.
‘Have you hurt yourself?’ Vanessa asks.
‘No. Why?’
‘You’re limping.’
I knew she was watching me, Cordelia thinks. ‘There’s nothing. It’s fine.’
‘Are you sure? Let me take a look.’
‘It’s okay. I told you.’ Cordelia hears the bite in her voice. Why does she let Vanessa get to her like this? She vowed that this time she wouldn’t. There’s no need. She has Patrick – she isn’t poor Cordelia, messing up her life time after time.
She sits down at the table opposite Vanessa. ‘Did you know Esme has been in touch?’
Vanessa looks up from stirring her coffee. ‘No. When?’
So my little sister doesn’t tell you everything, Cordelia thinks. ‘She emailed last week.’
Vanessa clasps her hands together and her bracelet clunks against the table. ‘I’m so pleased. I hated your little rift.’
Little rift! If that’s what you choose to call a full-blown, out and out, thumping great row.
‘I never did know what it was about.’
Cordelia studies her mother’s face. It’s smooth and unconcerned, but she’s fishing, for sure.
‘Oh well,’ Cordelia says, ‘looks as if it’s water under the bridge now.’
‘Have you replied?’
‘Of course I have. She’s going to come and see me when she gets back from Australia. I can’t believe she’s been out there for months.’
‘She’s having a wonderful time,’ Vanessa says. ‘She’d been diving off the Great Barrier Reef last time I heard.’
‘And what about Jake? I suppose he’s doing exciting stuff as well.’
‘He’s got a part in a play in Sheffield. He’s sending me a ticket. You should come.’
‘Has he still got that glamorous girlfriend?’
‘Which one? There seem to be at least three.’
Cordelia adores Jake, always has, ever since he was born, but why does Vanessa have to sound so stupidly proud of him? Why can’t she acknowledge, just for once, and you, Cordelia, look how well you’re doing. Patrick obviously idolises you. Why can’t she say how good-looking he is, how successful, how much she likes him? It’s always been the same: she’s had to wait that bit too long for her mother’s approval. A new dress, haircut, a job – they’ve never come up to scratch.
‘You haven’t said what you think of Patrick. You must have met him this morning.’ Cordelia can’t believe the words are out of her mouth. She was determined she wouldn’t ask.
‘You kept so quiet about him,’ Vanessa says, ‘I thought the subject was taboo.’
‘I didn’t tell you because I knew how you’d be.’
‘And how is that?’
‘Difficult.’
‘What were you planning? To keep him hidden the whole time I was here?’
Black dots swarm over Vanessa’s face. Cordelia blinks them away. She won’t lose control. She won’t. ‘Of course not. I thought if you met him first, you couldn’t pre-judge the situation.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you do. It’s what you do.’ Cordelia can hear her voice start to wobble. ‘You’d have raised all sorts of objections. I’ve only known him five minutes. How do I know I can trust him? Have I met his family?’
‘Have you?’
Cordelia hesitates. ‘Of course. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’
She watches as Vanessa eases the emerald ring over her knuckle and resettles it. She twists the snake one until it’s perfectly positioned. Those damn rings. Why is she always fiddling with them?
‘I’m probably worrying unnecessarily,’ Vanessa says. ‘Can you blame me? You’d be concerned if it was Savannah.’
Picture your feelings, the counsellor told her. Give them a shape, a size, and they’ll be more manageable. Cordelia squeezes her eyes shut and sees an express train, hurtling, screaming from a tunnel. It rocks perilously from side to side, swerving round a curve in the track. She shakes her head, closing the image down. She opens her eyes. Her mother’s cool gaze rests on her.
‘That’s precisely my point,’ she says, relieved to hear her voice sounds calm and controlled. ‘Savannah is fifteen. I’m a woman, able to make my own decisions.’
‘I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. Why are we arguing?’
‘Okay, we won’t,’ Cordelia says. ‘What do you think of Patrick?’
‘I only saw him for a few minutes.’
Hedging round the question; as ever not willing to step up to the mark. ‘But first impressions count,’ Cordelia insists.
Vanessa places her coffee mug on the table. ‘I agree with Savannah. He’s cool.’
‘Cool? Say what you think. Do you like him?’
‘How could I not? He’s attractive, charming, and apparently ‘dead rich’ to quote my granddaughter.’
‘He’s great with Savvy.’
‘Just as well,’ Vanessa says. ‘He told me he’s asked you to marry him.’
Weals of heat scorch their way up Cordelia’s neck and flare into her cheeks. How dare he? How could Patrick tell her mother when she hasn’t even said yes? If he thought he’d get Vanessa on side, he obviously doesn’t know her.
Charlie stands by the fridge, filling in the silence with a piteous miaowing. Cordelia gets up to pour milk into a saucer. ‘Yes, he has,’ she says. ‘Seeing as you know, you might as well tell me what you think of the idea.’
‘It’s not up to me, is it? You’ve made that clear.’
‘This is different. I’m asking for your opinion.’
‘If you’re happy about it, then I’m pleased for you.’
Cordelia bangs the saucer down on the floor. ‘You’re no good at telling lies. Are you?’ The black dots reappear, jump in front of her eyes. She turns to face her mother. ‘I know how you feel about marriage. You told us often enough.’
‘People change. That was then. I was hurt by your father, but – ’
‘I would have married Savannah’s father if it hadn’t been for your indoctrination.’
‘Really?’ Vanessa looks down at the floor. She scratches at the ma
terial of her trousers as if specks of dirt are lodged there.
Cordelia feels a trickle of satisfaction, like warm tea sliding down her throat. At last, a crack in her mother’s composure.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I truly am.’ Vanessa’s voice is quieter than usual. ‘But I thought marriage made women weak.’
‘And doesn’t it?’ Cordelia can’t let the argument go.
‘It’s not marriage. I let myself be weak.’
‘So you’d approve if I say yes to Patrick?’
‘I want you to be happy,’ Vanessa says, ‘and if Patrick makes you happy … ’
Charlie finishes his saucer of milk and begins licking his paws. Cordelia lifts him into her arms. She feels the moist warmth from her breath on his fur.
She sits down at the table again. ‘Are you going to see him?’ she asks.
The question seems to startle Vanessa. ‘Who?’
‘You know who I mean.’
‘Your father?’
‘Yes.’
Vanessa stretches out her hand and strokes Charlie’s head. ‘I don’t know. He wants me to.’
‘He wants you to. It’s always been about him, hasn’t it?’
‘When you were younger, you were the one who desperately wanted him back,’ Vanessa says.
Cordelia stares at the silver bracelet that slides up and down Vanessa’s wrist. She’s worn it for as long as Cordelia can remember. She thinks of that other memory, the one that comes to her sometimes in nightmares: her mother returning from the hospital after the accident, her face a funny grey colour; Cordelia asking: ‘Where’s Dad?’ She remembers screeching words into Vanessa’s face: ‘You’ve told him he can’t come to see us, haven’t you?’ Vanessa not flinching, just standing there with a blank look in her eyes. ‘I’ve sent him away. He won’t be coming back.’ Cordelia hated her mother then. How could she send him away? Her wonderful, exciting, glamorous Daddy. How dare she?
She stares across the table at Vanessa. ‘I did want him back. But that was before I knew what he’s really like.’
Five
Vanessa was working on a pen and ink image of St Pancras. The process was delicate and fiddly and when the drawing class ended, she scarcely noticed the other students leaving. ‘I’ll wait in the coffee bar,’ Andrew said. She nodded.
Unravelling Page 4