*
I’d never had a woman like her in my life before. Within just two months, I had experienced Connie’s directness, her interesting selfishness that was not really selfishness. It was more a selfness. Catlike, she just let you be near, and as a result it made you want to stay.
But I was in a dilemma. The longer I was silent, the longer I could live inside this sanctuary, but also the longer I would spoil in ignorance of who I truly was.
‘Did you show anyone your work like this, before?’ I asked her one afternoon after I had finished typing up her pages for the day.
‘No,’ said Connie, sighing as she slid herself into the chair opposite mine and began to slowly open and close her fists as if getting the blood back into them. ‘I usually keep it a closely guarded secret.’
I closed the laptop. ‘What’s different this time?’
She frowned. ‘Different? Well, I’d quite like to get this book published. Last time, I had a contract. I suppose that’s what’s different.’
‘I guess secrets are sometimes necessary,’ I said. ‘As protection.’
‘True.’
‘So – you really don’t mind, that I can read it like this? That you’re sharing this secret with me?’
She looked at me enquiringly. ‘I want to finish this book, Laura. My fingers are killing me, and you do half the labour for me. The compromise is, you get to see it before it’s ready. We all have to make compromises.’
‘Are you – scared about what people might think of the book?’
The corners of Connie’s mouth turned down and she peered into the nicks and whorls of the old oak table between us. ‘It is what it is,’ she said.
I swallowed, gripping the edge of my laptop. ‘I think it’s excellent, by the way. The character of Christina is fascinating to me.’
Connie looked up. ‘Really? You see her? She’s believable?’
‘Very. Very believable.’ My heart began to thump fast in my chest. ‘It’s weird, actually. I feel almost as if I’ve met her before.’
Connie stared at me. ‘Good. She was the hardest to write.’
I was about to ask why, when Connie suddenly pushed back her chair, her gnarled fingers hooked round the edge of the table for balance. I faltered, desperate to keep her in the room, but knowing that to do so might reveal more than was wise. ‘Her dynamic with Margaret’s quite toxic, but strangely loving,’ I said. She narrowed her eyes at me and I began to gabble. ‘I mean – I’m sorry – I’m not trying to offer you a critique.’
Connie looked down at me. ‘Thank goodness. Because then I’d probably offer you the door.’
I was stunned. I couldn’t tell if she was joking. Connie walked out of the kitchen, and I stared at the lid of my laptop, listening to her soft retreat upstairs.
23
I hadn’t seen Kelly since our awkward ramen date in Soho. We never usually had a bad feeling between us, and I knew that Kelly would be as upset by it as I was, so I was glad when she texted asking to see me. We agreed to meet at one of our favourite cafes in Spitalfields and she said she was bringing Mol. I bagged us the best table at the back with the squishy armchairs, away from the steamed-up windows and the cold draught of the door being opened and closed. The PA system was playing classic Christmas songs and when they walked through the door to Bing Crosby’s ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’, I thought I could see Kelly’s bump had started to show quite obviously, even though she was so bundled up against the winter cold. My heart lifted at the sight of Mol in some excellent miniature knitwear. She saw me too, and her face lit up. ‘Rosie!’ she said, skipping through the chairs and tables towards me.
‘Hi, Molcheeks. I got you a slice of cake,’ I said, giving her a hug. Her little shoulders felt so bony and fragile. ‘Chocolate.’
Mol beamed in ecstasy. She sat down, and the velvet armchair was so huge for her she looked as if she had been shrunk. ‘I think my face is actually freezing off,’ said Kelly, unwinding Mol’s scarf, pulling off her daughter’s hat like a knitted tea cosy. Mol’s hair was a fuzzed crown. Kelly looked at her daughter. ‘Do I still have a nose?’ she asked.
Mol hooted as she lifted her legs up and down in delight. ‘Of course you do, Mummy. Do I?’ She fumbled with her elasticated mittens in a rush to get to the cake.
‘You OK?’ Kelly said to me, still standing beside the table.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘You?’
‘Come here,’ she said. I did as I was told and we hugged. I thought I might cry – I wanted to, to let it out – but the presence of Mol and the public setting prevented a full-blown sob. I just gave my best friend an extra squeeze.
We sat down, Kelly sighing heavily as if she had just walked fifty miles and could finally take the weight off her feet. ‘I ordered you a decaf and an apple juice for Mol,’ I said.
She grinned. ‘Thoughtful. You all ready for Christmas, then?’
‘Nope,’ I said. ‘You know how I love Christmas.’
‘We’re off to Dan’s mum and dad tomorrow. I’ve had to be super-organized. You know they don’t have any phone coverage? You go there and it’s like you’re dead.’
‘You’re always super-organized. And it’ll be good to have some time off the Internet.’
‘This is true. Although you will remember who I am, won’t you? When I come back from the dead?’
‘I’ll remember you.’
‘You going to Joe’s parents’?’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘Good old Dorothy.’
‘Oh, don’t. And Daisy – oh, my god.’
Kelly laughed. ‘Don’t go. Skip the trustafarians. Go and see your dad.’
‘Too late to buy a flight or a ferry now.’
Kelly sighed. ‘No it isn’t. Rosebud, why don’t you just do what you want to do? You can, you know.’
‘What do I want to do, though?’ I said.
‘Well, that is the question on everyone’s lips.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ I said. ‘Dan’s mum and dad are lovely. You’re sorted.’
Kelly lifted the fork from her daughter’s hand, and with the ferocity of a crazed dictator carving up a map, she divided the slice of chocolate cake into bitesize chunks. The fork tinked aggressively on the plate. Mol looked slightly frightened, knowing her mother was electrified about something. ‘It’s so claustrophobic there,’ Kelly said, her voice now more under control as she handed Mol back the fork. ‘I end up offering to chop logs for their wood-burner – in sub-zero temperatures for fuck’s sake. I do it every year. Just so I can breathe. And then by day three I’ve cracked and I go and stand on a hill with my phone aloft hoping to make some outside contact.’
I tried not to laugh. ‘You chop logs?’
‘I’m fucking excellent at chopping logs, thank you. How do you not know this about me? I’m a bloody lumberjack. I’ll be chopping logs all day long if I have to.’
Kelly had begun to laugh too, and it was such a relief to let go of the worries about our friendship that I think we’d both brought with us through the door. ‘Oh, my god,’ she said, shaking her head, bravely trying to summon good cheer. ‘I still have so much to do, you know? I don’t want to go, but his parents want to see Mol so badly. I’ve got this huge project coming up with a really cool brand I’ve been cultivating for months.’ She didn’t mention the actual brand, because we both knew I would never have heard of it. ‘Mol’s only with me because Dan said he had some last-minute work he had to sign off, as if my schedule wasn’t just as important. But you and me had this coffee date planned for days. I was going to come on my own, then go and do some work, but no.’
Her smile had gone, and she sat back, radiantly furious.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I got wrapped up in my own thing. As usual. I didn’t know about this project.’
‘I probably didn’t even mention it. I can’t even remember my own name most days.’ She raised her eyebrow at me. ‘Bit like you, Laura.’
I ignored her. ‘How’s all that going?’ she pushed.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I really like Connie.’
‘Uh-oh. What do you actually do every day?’
‘Well, at the moment, I’m typing up her manuscript. She’s written a new novel.’
‘Is it any good?’
‘It’s amazing. It’s set in Massachusetts in the 1620s. There’s this woman, and she has a daughter. And the community start accusing the woman of being a witch. And then her daughter gets pregnant and it starts going wrong for them.’
‘Why the 1620s in America?’
The waitress brought us our coffees and the juice for Mol. Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow at Kelly. ‘You don’t ask questions like that. You just take what she gives you, and join the dots up later.’
‘And are you? Joining up the dots?’
I sighed. ‘Maybe.’
‘What does that mean?’
I told Kelly about the conversation I’d overheard between Deborah and Connie. Kelly frowned. ‘But she didn’t mention the name Elise?’ she said.
‘Well, no. But she did talk about a man, and how he never blamed Connie for what happened.’
Kelly looked dubious. ‘Rosie, that could be about anyone. Why don’t you just talk to her about it?’
I took a sip of coffee. ‘It’s weird, Kel. I just feel – comfortable there. I like being with her.’ Kelly looked dismayed, so I pressed on. ‘I just feel useful. And she’s a really interesting woman.’
‘Do you think she has any idea who you are?’
I put the coffee down and picked up some of Mol’s chocolate cake crumbs from the edge of her plate. ‘Well. Sometimes, I think she looks at me funny. She stares at me.’
‘What, like she recognizes you?’ said Kelly, her eyes widening.
‘Sort of? Or that she knows exactly who I am and she’s just playing with me.’
‘Oh man. That’s weird.’
‘And then I think that’s just my wishful thinking.’
‘But she hasn’t tried to poison you yet?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘So you are. You’re a real weirdo sometimes, Rose, but I’m glad it’s working out for you. Just take care. Old ladies, man, they’re dangerous.’
‘Thanks, Kel.’ I decided, on reflection, not to tell her how I had recast my boyfriend in the role of an antiques dealer. ‘Do you – talk to Dan about how you feel – the work balance, and stuff?’
Kelly sighed. ‘I’ve learned to pick my battles. I’ll just get the work done later when Mol’s in bed.’
‘I just seem to wander into my battles,’ I said.
‘You do a bit, but that’s OK. You’ve got good armour. You’re Laura Brown.’ Kelly laughed and leaned back in the armchair. ‘No, but seriously, the real difference between me and you, Rosie, is that I know I’m not going to win every battle and it drives me crazy, and you never think you’re gonna win any. And I hate that for you. You’ve got to believe in yourself. You know I only get angry because I love you and I want the best for you.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
There was an awkward beat. ‘Don’t say sorry. I’ll always love you,’ said Kelly.
‘And I’ll always love you,’ I replied.
We sat there, luxuriating in our robustness as Eartha Kitt sang ‘Santa Baby’ and Mol polished off her chocolate cake. Kelly sighed, resting her hand on the back of her daughter’s small head.
‘So what would you do for Christmas, if you had the choice?’ I asked.
Kelly closed her eyes. ‘Rosie-Rose, I would sleep for a thousand years.’
24
After my grandparents died it felt almost ridiculous for my dad and me to celebrate Christmas, to share a turkey, the biggest, driest bird that two people would have to tackle well into January – or even bother with a tree. I was always happy when it was over and life returned to normal. For the last five years, I’d spent Christmas at Joe’s parents’ house, and never really enjoyed it. Dad had been invited several times but always declined, asking me to come to France instead. I never did.
Christmas was getting nearer, but our flat bore none of the evidence. Joe was out a lot, catching up with his friends from school and university, and I was at Connie’s a great deal, often not leaving before ten at night. I was blocking Christmas out, so was taken by surprise when I got to Connie’s one morning in mid-December to see a Christmas tree, deep and green and unadorned, waiting in the bay of her front-room window.
‘They’ve just delivered it,’ she said. ‘Will you decorate it for me?’
I stood in front of it – about seven foot, a quite majestic spruce. There was a large box on the armchair. ‘My baubles,’ Connie said. ‘I was flustered with their threads. I can’t pull them apart. You’re going to have to do it.’
I surveyed the tree, inhaling the smell of sap. ‘That’s OK,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ said Connie. ‘Don’t bother about work today. Let’s do this instead.’
‘But we’re so close to the end.’
‘Exactly. We don’t need to panic.’
Since our awkward conversation about Connie choosing to share the contents of her novel with me, I hadn’t dared to ask her any further questions. It wasn’t as if she had overtly warned me off that afternoon, but a rebuke was in the air between us: You have a job to do. Type it up and stop asking me about it. As much as I wanted to satisfy my own desire for answers about Connie’s relationship with my mother, I felt that trying to do this might actually push Connie – and the spectre of Elise – further away. Then I would be completely lost. And it wasn’t just this. I liked Connie. I liked the fact that somehow, because it was her, I didn’t mind decorating a Christmas tree.
*
I set a fire going and Connie brought out a bottled of chilled champagne. ‘It’s ten in the morning,’ I said.
‘And? Can you open it? Jesus, my fingers.’
I poured us a couple of glasses. I’d never met anyone like her, a woman who made champagne at ten a.m. feel perfectly acceptable, almost necessary. I opened her bauble box: Connie had gone all out. Inside were white fairy lights, tinsel, old and frail-looking tin globes in cerise and turquoise, pillar-box red, bright orange. Their shades surprised me: I did not think Connie was one for all that glitter. Again, I had to recalibrate her in my mind. Just when I thought I’d got a hold on her, she wriggled away.
‘Are you having guests on the big day?’ I asked, trying to keep my balance on the armchair, my hand plunging into the fresh dark branches. ‘Is that why you’ve bought such a large tree?’
‘No,’ said Connie, puzzled. ‘Are you?’
I laughed. ‘In our flat?’
‘So where will you go?’
‘Joe’s parents’,’ I said.
‘You make it sound like you’re going to Fagin’s.’
‘Fagin’s would be preferable.’
‘But I bet you get glorious presents from him.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘What’s the best thing he’s found for you?’ she said, her eyes alight.
I ran my memory over the many Christmases we’d had together. Joe had never really tailored my presents particularly tightly. Nice picture frames, a cashmere shawl, candles, books. All lovely, but not the considered thoughtfulness one might hope from an antique-dealer boyfriend. ‘There’ve been so many,’ I said. ‘I can’t pick one.’
‘I see,’ said Connie. ‘And who will cook?’
‘His mother.’
‘Of course.’
‘She never makes it a very relaxing experience.’
Connie placed her glass down, and began to comb a stretch of gold tinsel. It looked like a giant caterpillar shimmering from the light of the fire. ‘Then why are you going?’ she said.
‘That’s what my best friend says.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m going because I love him.’
Connie turned her focus to the tinsel, continuing to
comb it out with a shaking finger. I sorted through the box to look for the next bauble to attach, feeling my cheeks go red, grateful for the fact I had to lean over, thereby avoiding Connie’s gaze. ‘The lights are what I like most about Christmas,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The twinkling. They bring me peace.’
I closed my eyes and suddenly felt my mother falling away inside me, unclaimed, unspoken. ‘You’re lucky, being able to be on your own,’ I said. ‘I’ll probably be sat next to Lucia.’
‘Lucia?’
I looked up, my fingers round another bauble. Connie was sitting very still and upright, as if she was waiting for something. ‘Joe’s niece. She’s six,’ I said. I’d given away another real name, and it felt to me as if I was shedding the skin of my made-up self.
‘You don’t like children?’ Connie said.
‘I don’t like Lucia.’
Connie chuckled, coming over with the tinsel and clumsily attempting to push it deep into the tree. ‘I’ll do that,’ I said.
She sighed, handing over the tinsel and returning to her armchair where she slowly yet determinedly took another sip of champagne. I saw the glass shake, and looked away. ‘Why don’t you like Lucia?’ Connie said.
‘Because she’s precocious.’
‘Maybe she’s just confident and you don’t like it.’
This was a radical thought and I didn’t like that. But maybe it was true? Maybe I did see a self-confidence in Lucia, a happiness in her self that I’d never known. Was I jealous of a six-year-old? I felt pathetic. ‘She’s actually just irritating,’ I said defensively. ‘It is possible to be six years old and unlikeable, Connie.’
The Confession Page 17