by Jade Beer
‘Are you OK? You know, there’s plenty of wine in the fridge, if you fancy a chat?’ She looks sheepish, which is rare, not her usual arrogant self at all. And she’s bought wine, instead of just helping herself to mine. Progress. ‘Wouldn’t mind one myself, actually… after that.’ It’s the first sign of vulnerability I think I’ve ever seen her show. She’s placed a needy hand on my shoulder and is doing that thing where people make their mouth form a smile, but everything else about their face begs, look after me, please. I should be doing the decent thing and responding. After all, I caused whatever she has had to deal with alone tonight. But I can’t, my head is full of too much else. Her timing is off.
‘Not tonight, Marianne. I just need to crash out. Sorry.’ And I close the bedroom door on her.
* * *
There is a letter of Mum’s that I’ve wanted to open for a long time, but the six words scrawled on the front of the envelope always told me not to rush this one. I’m guessing from the handwriting that it was penned in her final days. Just looking at the way the letters dip downwards across the paper, jagged and uneven, make me think there was pain involved in writing them – physical and emotional perhaps?
‘When you’re old enough to understand.’
Helen gave me such a lovely flash of motherly love today, but now I need more. I want to read this letter and feel grown-up and capable. Like I can handle whatever’s in there. I need to feel like Mum could have told me herself and I would have understood – just like I understood and shared Helen’s pain today. I decide I can’t face this one without the aid of something full-bodied, red and at least fourteen per cent alcohol, so I duck quietly into the kitchen and pour myself an obscenely large glass of Shiraz, ignoring the pair of men’s boxer shorts that I can see languishing on the floor under our tiny dining table. How long will it be before I crack and have to drop them in the bin with a pair of kitchen tongs? I return to my room, pull on my warm fleecy pyjamas and yank the duvet up under my chin. Then I force my thumb in under the envelope that has remained sealed for all those years.
* * *
This is a difficult one to write, Jenny, and I question, now, whether I should be writing it at all. But if I was alive, being a real mum to you, I think we would have had this conversation. So, I am committing it to paper in the hope that it will help you, give you a more rounded view of the world. More than anything, I hope it won’t make you think any less of me.
Before I got ill and was confined to this bed for days on end, I decided I was going to leave your father. I know this will come as a big shock to you but let me explain. It took me a long time to get there but I know it was the right decision. I felt like I was dying in our marriage and I should have done something about it before that became horribly, prosaically true. He was such a kind man, the kindest of them all, and I think he guessed how I was feeling because he tried so hard to please me, every day. I never stopped loving him for that.
But I had lost sight of myself. All those years in the chorus line, the supporting act, knowing how he would end his sentences before he did, the routine, the perfectly repetitive pattern of our lives, all that sameness. It comforted me once, I actually longed for it before I had it. Then I let it swamp me and eventually I started to crave the spotlight again. Something, anything, to surprise me. Does this make me sound selfish? I hope not. I just couldn’t be truly happy being someone else’s person the whole time. It starts small, Jenny. I instinctively always took the passenger seat. I stopped asking questions. I deferred. Then I woke up one day and wondered where I went. I can’t honestly name one thing in my life that is just for me.
It’s not his fault, please don’t ever think that. It was my mistake. And it was such an easy one to make, creeping up on me over the years before the error was so big, stretched right across the page of our daily lives, there was no way of rubbing it out.
Fly in your own sky, that’s what I always used to say to you, do you remember? Well, I didn’t, but you must, Jenny. Live your life like you are ten times yourself. I wish I had before it was too damn late to do a thing about it. This might be the most selfish letter I’ve ever written to anyone and I’m sad it had to be to you. It makes me feel better to commit it to paper, but I know it might make you feel worse. It’s important, though, and you need to know.
Put yourself first, just sometimes. Even when everyone else needs you more. You deserve it, my beautiful, beautiful girl.
Love Mum x
* * *
It’s the hardest of her letters I’ve had to read. I can’t bear to think of her being so unhappy for all that time. And I’m shocked, deeply shocked, that in my childish naivety I looked at them both every day and didn’t see what was really there, plastered all over her face, in every stifled sigh, in every avoided touch. But I’m angry too. What a thing to dump on me, when I can do nothing about it. I can’t ask her a single question that might help me understand how the vision of my perfect family life just got rewritten in the time it took to read that letter.
* * *
When I wake the next morning, still clutching the letter to my chest, my cheeks are wet. Was I crying in my sleep? Part of me wishes I’d never read it. All that sad resignation is going to weigh me down for weeks, I know it. The other part of me feels so sorry for Dad. To be married to someone that long, knowing they weren’t really in it with you, not any more. How could he cope? Maybe it’s what made moving on to Sylvie so much easier than any of us could understand at the time. His marriage was over, long before Mum died – and he knew it, not that it stopped him caring for her, right until the end. What a love-filled man he is, when all I have done is despise him for transferring all that love to Sylvie so quickly.
I pull my phone off the bedside table and text a quick message to him.
* * *
Dad, I’d love to come and visit and see the new place, if that’s OK with you and Sylvie? Love Jen x
* * *
His response pings straight back:
* * *
Fantastic, we would love to see you, just name the date. And have you ever been skiing, Jen? I could do with some tips! Love Dad x
* * *
Then I have no choice but to haul myself out of bed. It’s ten o’clock and I’m meeting Helen at a café on Park Lane in two hours.
Elan Café is so pretty, it’s hard to believe its purpose is merely serving coffee and cake. Helen has already grabbed us the perfect spot and as I step through the front door, passing under the branches of a silk blossom tree that is stretching its petal-heavy arms above the tables, she waves fondly at me.
‘Oh my goodness, Helen, this place!’ I find myself kissing her on both cheeks, which should maybe feel weird, given how long we’ve known each other, but doesn’t at all.
‘I knew you would love it – a client told me about it a while ago and I’ve been dying to come. I’m so glad you could join me.’ She looks just as excited as I feel, and I notice she has made the effort to dress up in a pretty caramel-coloured cashmere cardigan with a mix of different vintage floral buttons dotted down the front. She’s the vision of a soft, warm, gentle mum and I momentarily force the memory of last night’s letter out of my head. Then I’m envying the wardrobe of a woman who is so much older than me.
‘Thank you for inviting me!’ My eyes are everywhere. There is a pale blue bike, the sort a beautiful French mademoiselle might cycle through ripe summer vineyards, positioned near the door, its wicker basket filled with pretty soft pink and white blooms. The chairs have expensive-looking gold frames and are upholstered in nearly-nude fabric and there are light grey mini Christmas trees dotted around, with fairy lights in them gently twinkling away. Behind our table is an entire wall of silk flowers in various shades of pink, blush and rose, and more flowers suspended from the ceiling.
‘I could get married right here,’ I tell Helen, actually believing for a second that could be a possibility, overlooking that as well as having no mum, I am also without the crucial fiancé.
&n
bsp; ‘Just wait until you see the cakes. Go on, go and have a look.’ Helen’s nodding in the direction of the window, where they are all displayed in neat rows or on individual marble cake stands.
It’s so funny the effect this place is having on Helen too, she’s clapping her hands together like someone just told her she’s won the EuroMillions. I take off my duffle coat and hang it over the back of the chair, aware that it is totally ruining the indulgent aesthetic we’re all enjoying, and step towards the cake display. Everything is dusted with the finest shower of icing sugar. There are perfectly formed mousse domes and fruit piled so high on top of tarts that they look like they could topple over at any moment.
We order and when the food arrives, I’m glad to see Helen has not held back but has gone for a layered chocolate cake that I seriously doubt she is capable of finishing, and a ruby latte that’s an intense deep crimson colour. My red velvet cake comes covered in pretty pansies that, apparently, I can also eat, and a rich creamy coffee blended with sweetened condensed cream. Can you even imagine!
‘Have you seen the sign?’ Helen tilts her head backwards.
‘Adventure awaits, but first coffee,’ I read aloud.
‘That is our mission today, Jenny. After this, I’m taking you to Selfridges to look at Philippa Craddock’s flowers, and then we’ll hop in a cab to Islington, for a final treat.’
‘Wow, thank you so much! I know you must be so busy.’
‘I was always planning to come here with Betsy, that’s my daughter, she’s engaged too, but…’ She doesn’t finish her sentence and I wonder if it’s OK to ask why.
‘Is she not around much?’ I venture.
‘Well, it’s not so much that, she’s just showing a little less enthusiasm for wedding planning than you are – I’m supposed to be walking her down the aisle on Christmas Eve, but I’m seriously starting to wonder if it will happen.’
Poor Helen, she looks a bit crushed by that thought. I’m not sure if the disappointment comes more from the possible lack of a wedding or the feeling of disloyalty that she’s been so mildly critical of her own daughter.
‘Is that what you were planning? Wow, how wonderful!’ I pause for a minute then ask her, ‘Have you ever thought of re-marrying?’ She’s so easy to talk to, like I don’t need to pretend with her at all – which is a bit of shame, all things considered.
‘Not yet.’ She smiles a little as she says that and tucks her expertly styled hair self-consciously behind her left ear, which I take as an indication that there must be someone special on the horizon at least.
‘But… you could?’ I glance down at my plate, realising I’ve polished off nearly all the cake, just a glorious big dollop of butter frosting to go.
‘Well, let’s just say it’s an option but I’m really not sure it’s the right thing to do. Betsy needs me at the moment and I should be there for her.’
She seems pretty definite about that and it makes me sad to think that she’s sacrificing another chance to snatch some happiness. ‘What’s his name?’ I think my nosiness is being fuelled by the sugar rush.
‘Nick. He’s wonderful. Cut from a very different cloth to my first husband, but kind, so kind, and far more patient than I probably have a right to expect.’
Helen is so precise in the way she’s eating her cake. I somehow managed to spread mine across the entire plate, but she is using her little fork to carve hers up, only ever raising to her lips what she can delicately eat in one small mouthful.
‘I think you’re completely deserving of him, Helen.’
She smirks like she thinks I’m just paying her a hollow compliment, which I’m not.
‘I mean it. You’re kind too, you sound well-matched to me.’ I wish I could appoint myself Helen’s borrowed daughter and share happy times like this with her every week. Maybe make her my new mum. Do we both need each other a little? Is she feeling that too? I know she couldn’t replace my mum, I’m not completely mad, but I so badly want to have moments like this in my life. Feeling so comfortable in another woman’s company – with none of the competitiveness and comparison that seems to fizz between women my own age.
‘Enough about me. Come on, tell me about Will. Better yet, show me a picture, you must have plenty on your phone.’ She motions towards my iPhone on the table between us and which I now instinctively make a grab for.
I feel my jaw tighten and I sit back in my chair, forcing a less intimate space between us. I don’t mean to, it’s just instinctive. I see Helen’s head twitch slightly and her eyebrows shift a fraction as I do, the smallest registering of her surprise at my reaction, I fear.
‘Er, let me see if I can find one.’ It’s painful, I actually sit there flicking through my images, knowing damn well I’m not going to find one. She wants to see the two of us together, doesn’t she? Arm in arm on a weekend away, curled up in bed with the Sunday papers or clinking glasses on a night out. I’d show her one of Sam and me, but I deleted them all one night after he dumped me and Facebook surprised me with one of its unwelcome picture memories. I can’t deliver the goods and I start to panic. Think, think.
‘Oh bugger, my battery is really low! I better save it, Helen, or I won’t have enough to snap everything later.’ I feel awful lying to her. I wonder if she can tell. What might she say if I just confess all, right here and now? I’m tempted, but it sounds like she’s had enough disappointment with her own daughter. I don’t want to add to her problems, I’m already too fond of her.
‘OK, let’s get cracking then. Lots to see!’ She insists on paying and we jump straight in a cab to Selfridges, me feeling every bit the bride-to-be about to choose her wedding bouquet. God, wouldn’t it be handy if we could bump into someone from work while I’m at it?
* * *
Selfridges is rammed, full of tourists meandering around too slowly for the aggressive London pace and stressed workers on their lunch break, impeded by people like us with no stopwatch on them today. It’s years since I’ve been in here, despite working so close to it, and the sheer size of the place is intimidating. Helen is in her element though, she knows exactly where she’s going and takes us straight to the flowers.
It feels entirely inadequate to refer to what we’re looking at as a bouquet. There are literally dozens of stems, all expertly twisted and bound together, held in place with a heavy ribbon, the colour of which perfectly matches the sage green leaves within it. And the smell! I lower my head to it and it’s like I’ve face-planted into a bowl of sherbert. It’s so sweet and fills me with happy memories of after-school hours with Mum in the garden.
Helen introduces me to Philippa – impressive – and we get an impromptu lesson in seasonality and perfume combining. The three of us are going on a glorious journey together through our scent memories – mine all outdoorsy and earthy, Helen’s more refined and complex. It’s fascinating and before we know it, two hours have slipped by and we’re back out on Oxford Street and into another black cab.
‘Cross Street in Islington, please.’ Helen is on top of our itinerary and it’s just so wonderful to sit back and let someone else look after things. I’m not having to think about anything, she has it all under control. Proper mum behaviour.
‘Where are we going?’
Helen still hasn’t mentioned the specifics of our final destination.
‘Oh, just you wait and see!’ is all I can get out of her.
* * *
The façade of Tallulah’s is a bright, shocking purple. There’s going to be no slipping in here unnoticed, that’s for sure. But, oh my, once we are inside, it’s like stepping into the dressing-up box I’ve always dreamed of. The tiny boutique is filled with the sort of lingerie that just doesn’t exist in my practical knicker drawer. There is not an inch of wall space or a cabinet, table or rail that isn’t covered or draped with something so exquisite it could transform even the most prudish amongst us into a leg-spreading goddess. I can’t help but think of Marianne as my gaze falls on a leopard print ba
sque – exactly the sort of thing she’d wear to watch TV on a Tuesday night.
‘Isn’t this place just everything?’ sighs Helen. ‘I stock a few of their pieces in The White Gallery, but I’d have it all if I had the space for it.’ She is greeted by a tall elfin brunette wearing pale blue ripped jeans and a pink wrap top that gives us a hint of the something special she has on underneath. She pulls out a few new items for us to see and then leaves us to it. I take a moment to really absorb it all.
Hangers are covered in Japanese silks and there are frilly knickers framed and mounted on the walls. Every surface is covered in something I want to touch and take home with me. Not sure why exactly, there’s no one there to appreciate it, but still. Marabou feathers seem to waft out from everywhere, there are masks begging to be taken to a masquerade ball, multi-coloured tassels in all the colours of India and a cream leather vanity case, lined in deep rose-coloured silk with internal elasticated pouches that have all sorts of treasures tucked into them. I walk around the room, careful not to let my handbag knock anything over, especially the vintage jugs filled with fresh gypsophila. I bend to take a closer look in an antique glass-fronted cabinet, wondering about the kind of home it might once have lived in and what sort of woman may have stored her precious possessions inside it. It’s in such perfect condition, the key still balancing in the lock.
I’m absolutely determined not to let the thought of my own baggy pants and bras that lost their wires years ago destroy this experience. And I can see Helen is loving it just as much. She is burying herself in a rail of long negligees and kimonos – maybe something Nick might be on the receiving end of sometime soon? I lift a pair of cream lace knickers off a small glass table for a closer look and, oh, there’s a single row of pearls instead of a – I hate to use the word – gusset. Oh to live the sort of life where I might prance about my fabulous interior-designed home in just these all day, while some equally naked man tries – and fails – to keep his hands off me! The girls from work would have a field day in here, I must tell them about it.