Luca was in favour of catching a cab to Alva’s for Sunday lunch, but – tick! – Anna wanted to follow the Freedom Trail, a two-mile trek through the centre of Boston that visited all the American Revolution sites.
Cobbles were hard on Anna’s new shoes. Actors in eighteenth-century costume shouting ‘Hear ye! Hear ye!’ were hard on Luca’s nerves. A café table beckoned and they gave in, ordering iced water.
‘Have you called Dinkie today, Anna?’
‘Yup. She’s doing an exercise class. She was joking about wearing a sparkly leotard.’ Anna now called her grandmother daily.
‘Did she sound . . .?’
‘She sounded happy, merry, her usual self.’
‘Then, don’t worry.’ Luca reached out and pushed a strand of sweaty hair out of Anna’s eyes; the touch was tender and she held his wrist to keep his hand there a while, leaning into it.
‘I do worry, though.’
Dinkie had backed down. Anna had visited Sunville the day after their last Sunday Lunch Club to find Dinkie in her room, doing a crossword with the aid of a large magnifying glass. The eye turned on Anna through the glass was a childish blue, clear and canny and free of tears.
‘I’m turning the spare room into your room, Dinkie.’ Anna had waited until Sheba was out of the room; the carer hung around, straightening cushions, fussing at Dinkie, until Anna asked for a tray of tea. ‘You can move in right away.’ The baby would have to bunk with its mother. ‘We can repaint if you like.’ Anna had rehearsed and rehearsed until any hint of obligation had been rinsed from her voice.
‘Sure, now, lookit.’ Dinkie had been using this phrase since Anna could remember. ‘Don’t go taking me seriously, Anna, love. It was the heat. And the excitement. And the . . .’ Dinkie had cast around for something else to blame. ‘And me arthritis.’
‘We’ve made the arrangements now,’ smiled Anna.
‘Then you can unmake them.’
‘No, we’ve all decided—’
‘Have you now?’ Dinkie had looked wry. ‘Isn’t it my decision, Anna Catherine Theresa Piper?’
You’re pulling out my full name? Dinkie meant business. ‘But it was you who said you don’t want to live here.’ Anna glanced at the door, paranoid that Sheba might be listening at the keyhole. ‘Is there something going on, Dinkie? Is anybody being mean to you?’
‘No,’ said Dinkie shortly. ‘Haven’t I a mouth in me head to speak up if anybody tries taking liberties?’
Anna agreed, yes, Dinkie did have a mouth in her head, but added, ‘This is suspicious, Dinkie. One minute you’re in tears. The next everything’s hunky-dory.’
‘What I said,’ said Dinkie, ‘was I wanted to go home. But I’ve accepted that home is gone, me house is sold, and this is where I live now.’
‘I want you to have a home,’ whispered Anna. ‘With me.’
‘You have a life to live, darlin’. A baby on the way, a business to run. Not to mention that big slab of a man.’ Dinkie laughed. ‘Ah, would you look at her, blushing! My Anna, you have a heart the size of the sun, but I don’t need you to rescue me. I just let some sadness out, that’s all, and you’ll have to trust me when I tell you that things are fine at Sunville.’
In Boston now with Luca, savouring the freezing water, Anna said, ‘I don’t want Dinkie’s life to be fine. I want her to be happy.’
‘She does have the final say.’
‘You’re so bloody reasonable and calm and sane.’ Anna shoved him in the arm and Luca pretended to be mortally wounded. ‘The tables turn when the people you love grow old. You start to worry about them.’
‘Dinkie’s in her eighties, but that doesn’t mean you stop taking her seriously. If she says she wants to stay at Sunville, you have to honour that. Keep an eye on her, but respect her wishes. If we do discover that there’s some sort of abuse going on, then we steam in and helicopter her out of there. Until then . . .’
‘Yeah. Respect her wishes.’ Anna shook out her folded tourist map, registering Luca’s infinitesimal sigh as she did so. ‘You know what.’ She crammed the map back into her bag. ‘Sod the Freedom Trail. Let’s sit here a while and chill.’
Luca beamed at her. ‘If that’s what you want,’ he said, taking her hand under the table, ‘I’ll respect your wishes.’
‘This house,’ said Luca, as Alva brought them the coldest of cold drinks – how do Americans get their drinks so very cold? – ‘is out of this world.’
‘Thank you.’ Alva folded his arms, modestly happy with the compliment. He was tall; Anna had forgotten how he towered above her. His skin was a deep dark colour, with a shine to it, as if polished every morning. His bald head gleamed, and behind his glasses Alva’s eyes were a sultry coffee colour. His presence was reassuring; a man of few words, he thought before he spoke. ‘It’s a bit different to where we lived in Hove.’
‘That was gorgeous too,’ Anna reminded him. Alva had left the squat far behind. ‘But this . . . an actual veranda!’
It was the classic American Dream home, with gables and white-painted cladding. It shone in the Boston sunshine, its soundtrack one of gleeful shouts and splashing from the inevitable pool.
Storm had barely acknowledged them, too busy running from ‘his’ room down to the pool, in new dayglo trunks and with the family dog at his heels.
‘He’s fitting right in,’ mused Anna, rocking gently to and fro on the canopied swing seat she shared with Luca.
‘He’s like a different kid,’ said Alva. ‘He’s barely looked at his phone. Too busy in the pool or on his bike or going off to the beach.’
Everything was set up for Storm to slip smoothly into this new life. Monogrammed towels with a gold ‘S’ in his own shower room. A bike in the yard. A desk at the distinguished school.
Luca said, ‘It’s a big decision for a kid his age.’
‘We’re hoping,’ said Alva, ‘that the decision will make itself. That he’ll follow his gut.’
‘If he decides to go home,’ said Luca, ‘how will you feel?’ Typically, he cut to the heart of the matter.
Alva looked surprised by the question, and Anna realised that he fully expected Storm to stay, that all the sunny benefits of Boston must surely sway his son. ‘I’ll . . . I guess I’ll have to deal with it,’ he said.
‘This isn’t easy for any of you,’ said Anna.
‘How’s Maeve?’ Alva was wary, as if talking about something illegal. However he approached the mother of his oldest child, it always ended with an argument. ‘She thinks I’m selfish, right?’
Anna nodded. No need to pretend with Alva. ‘But she wants the best for Storm.’
‘Yeah.’ Alva didn’t seem convinced, but he moved away before Anna could comment, clapping his hands and saying, ‘Barbecue time! I’d better make a start.’
‘Is Maeve prepared for living on her own?’ asked Luca.
‘She says she’ll manage, but . . .’ Anna wished her sister would be frank. ‘It’s hard to get past the anger. She’s mad at Alva for some reason, when it was her who left him. He’s not one of those absentee dads who pay the bills, he’s a proper solid father to Strom, but she seems to resent that. As if Storm belongs to her, and nobody else.’
‘Nobody belongs to anybody,’ said Luca.
Anna wasn’t keen on that sentiment. ‘No, no,’ she shook her head. ‘We all belong to one another, my clever clogs therapist friend.’
Luca laughed. ‘I prefer your theory.’
A text announced itself on Anna’s phone. She squinted at the screen. ‘Sam,’ she said.
London calling! Where U file design specs for Amberley bag/matching purse?
Lamenting Sam’s half-hearted approach to TXTSPK, she replied:
Strangely enough, in the file marked ‘DESIGN SPECS’ under ‘AMBERLEY BAG/MATCHING PURSE’. What are you doing in the office on a Sunday?
Alternative is sitting at home thinking about Isabel.
Have you called her today?
NO. I told
U. I’m a good boy now.
Have you texted her?
Might have done.
Anna and Luca sighed in unison.
How many times?
Maybe 10.
How many?
OK. 14. Nothing heavy. Just telling her she’s the love of my life.
That’s as heavy as it gets, you idiot!
But I do love her.
Sam, please stop bombarding her. Give Isabel some space. Let her miss you.
Is this real advice, Anna?
???
Don’t U prefer it w/out Isabel? U never really welcomed her.
That’s not true.
She was scared of U. I told her U were my closest friend & she wanted to make big impression. U blew hot & cold. You know U did!!
Anna prevaricated for a long time over her response.
Anna, U still there?
Yes. I didn’t realise I made her uncomfortable.
Ur pants R on fire. U knew.
Anna tilted her shoulder so Luca couldn’t read the screen.
I wish I could make amends.
Bit late for that! But U R rite. No more txts declaring undying.
Alva’s family suited their house. His wife, Clare, was long-limbed in white shorts. Margot, only three, was both cute and smart, with knees so chubby they had dimples. Eight-year-old Damian followed his half-brother everywhere, aping his loping walk and the way his shoulders bowed.
‘We cycled to a cove this morning,’ said Alva, poking things on an enormous barbecue. ‘Did some surfing.’
‘Of course you did.’ Anna sat back, laughing. ‘You’re the most annoyingly healthy and wholesome family in the world.’
‘We’re not always goody-goody.’ Clare set down huge bowls of crispy lettuce and bursting ripe tomatoes. ‘We have wine with dinner.’
‘You devils.’
‘He lies in on a Saturday.’ Clare nodded at Alva. ‘The outdoors is so gorgeous here, the weather is so perfect, it’s a shame to waste it.’
Some mornings in London, Anna had to steel herself to make the journey from her back door to the shed. The luminous sky and the baby-breath air of Boston melted her bones.
‘So,’ said Clare, setting out napkins and glasses and all the paraphernalia of lunch. ‘This Luca. Hot!’
Anna hadn’t spent much time with Alva’s wife, but Clare talked as if they were besties. Anna liked such social chutzpah, and answered, ‘I know, I know.’ Both women watched him patiently lift little Margot onto the steps of the slide, then wait for her to zoom down in her ruffled swimsuit, and do it all over again.
‘Hot, and good with kids.’ Clare stuck a spoon in the coleslaw like a flag. ‘Hang on to him, babes.’ She waved a napkin in the general direction of Anna’s stomach. ‘He’s not . . . is he?’
‘No, the father is . . .’ How to describe her situation with Dylan? ‘He’s not going to be around.’
‘Luca’s father material.’
‘Perhaps. But to somebody else’s child?’ It was safer discussing this with a woman she saw a couple of times a year than broaching it with her closest kin. ‘That’s a big ask.’
‘Some men like a big ask.’ Clare smiled at the back of Alva’s domed bald head as he tried to get the better of the barbecue. ‘If Luca’s ready, this could be great timing for both of you.’
It was easy to agree with Clare’s optimism on a breezy warm day, surrounded by the accoutrements of the good life. Anna tried to see Luca in that light, to change the focus; maybe he would stick around after the birth?
Certainly, he was charmed by Margot, and the feeling was mutual. Anna was fluent in Luca’s body language, and could tell he was getting a kick out of the simple game with the giggly child.
What’s said can’t be unsaid, however: before Luca knew she was pregnant, before they were a ‘thing’, he’d said blithely that children annoyed him. He was a man of strong likes and dislikes; Anna luxuriated in his approval, but she knew the important little person inside her did not.
‘Have I told you about this school I’ve picked out for Storm?’ Alva turned with a gigantic sausage on a fork.
Alva’s fondness for such topics was one of the reasons Maeve kept away from him. He was earnest yin to her kooky yang.
‘It’s good for languages, you said.’
‘He gets such good grades in French and Spanish, I thought we should encourage him. There’s a state-of-the-art science lab at this place, plus it’s a shoo-in for Harvard. And—’
‘Babes.’ Clare broke in gently; obviously a skill she’d honed through marriage to Alva. ‘Perhaps we should eat now?’ She winked at Anna.
‘Sorry.’ Alva shouted, ‘Rea-dy!’ and feet came running from all over the plot to sit at the long table.
‘They’re shrimp?’ Anna had seen smaller cats.
‘You have to try Dad’s baby back ribs.’ Damian had that feverish look children get around food.
‘They’re not actual babies,’ whispered Margot, in case Anna was worried.
Dripping with sauce, the ribs were obscenely moreish. Luca licked his fingers, and blew Anna a sticky kiss. Gulls cackled. Out in the bay a horn sounded. Storm looked as if he’d finally undone a tight jacket.
Alva stood up. ‘I forgot. The Sunday Lunch Club hook-up.’
An arrangement had been made for Maeve to host lunch back in Brighton, and for them all to eat together via the white magic of Skype. With a laptop at the end of the table, keys were tapped, and a cheer went up when a toothy smile filled the screen.
‘Hiya!’ shrieked Maeve, waving so fast her hand was out of focus. ‘Cheers, loveys!’ She raised a can of something.
‘Move the lens so we can see everyone,’ said Alva, in that overloud voice everyone uses for Skype.
‘Well, first there’s me.’ Maeve pulled at her computer and her room swam before Yeti materialised. His tail was thumping and he was eating something directly off the sofa cushions.
‘Oh, it’s Yeti!’ said Anna involuntarily, and the dog stared at the screen. He began to whine.
‘He misses you,’ gushed Maeve.
‘Aw, Yeti . . .’ Anna felt a tug at her heart, despite the dog’s many bad habits.
‘Keep the camera panning. I want to say hi to Dinkie.’ Alva was another conquest for the old lady; he’d visited her at Sunville to say au revoir.
‘That’s it, I’m afraid.’ Maeve was cross-legged, still in her pyjamas. ‘I cancelled. Soz.’
‘Why?’ asked Storm, special sauce on his nose.
‘No reason. Not in the mood.’ Maeve pulled a silly face.
Alva looked to Anna, who frowned.
‘It’s raining here,’ said Maeve. The shadows under her eyes were visible despite the sketchy reception. Anna recognised the hunched posture of a hangover. ‘Couldn’t be arsed to cook, so . . .’
Anna moved her plate of ribs and Jurassic Park shrimp out of shot. She saw an overturned Pot Noodle on Maeve’s coffee table. ‘Isn’t Paul coming over?’
‘Nah.’
‘Everything OK in that department?’
‘What department?’ Maeve was sharp. ‘The Maeve’s Crap Boyfriends department? He has a terrible cold and he doesn’t want me to catch it. We’re cool. Stop jinxing us.’
‘I’m not, I—’ Anna felt Clare shift uncomfortably. This dirty laundry could be washed another time. ‘We miss you,’ she said, meaning it. Wishing she could sling an arm around her sister’s narrow shoulders. ‘Don’t we, Storm?’
‘Yeah,’ said Storm non-committally. He looked everywhere but at the screen. He’d stopped eating, Anna noticed. As if he didn’t want to show off his dad’s cornucopia of health and wealth to Maeve. ‘I’ve been kitesurfing, Mum.’
‘Call me Maeve, sweetheart,’ said Maeve, then, ‘Kitesurfing? Brilliant! God knows what it is, but brilliant.’
Over-cheerful, Alva said, ‘Storm’s already making friends in the neighbourhood.’
‘Really?’ Maeve’s surprise was understandable; Storm
took a while to warm up to strangers.
‘Good-looking boy like him,’ laughed Clare, tweaking Storm’s nose, ‘makes friends wherever he goes.’
There was a flicker in Maeve’s eyes as Clare touched Storm so affectionately, so unselfconsciously. Anna saw it; side-eyeing Luca, she could tell he saw it too. ‘But we’ll soon be home,’ she said brightly. ‘We’ll bring you back a lobster.’
‘Actually . . .’ Alva folded his napkin neurotically into a tiny square. ‘I’ve been thinking, Maeve. If Storm wants, he can stay on. You can send his stuff, and we can enrol him at school and he can join my gym and, you know, he could settle in right at the start of this school year.’
Maeve was so still, Anna thought the screen was frozen. But no, Yeti was biting his paw, so it was Maeve who was frozen. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Sure sure sure. I can pack up his room, ship it over. No problem.’
‘When are you coming over?’ asked Clare. ‘We have a guest cabin all ready for you.’
‘Oh, I’m busy, you know, with this and that.’
There was silence; possibly while everybody wondered what Maeve, who never rose before noon, could be busy with.
‘Mum,’ said Storm, his voice creaking in that way of teenage boys whose vocals lurch between little girl and elderly cabby. ‘It is nice here. You’d love it.’
‘You obviously do,’ said Maeve tenderly.
So tenderly that Anna felt as if she was eavesdropping.
‘Yeti,’ said Maeve, suddenly and unconvincingly bouncy. ‘Talk to your mummy!’ She grabbed the dog, who almost obscured her, and waved his paws at the screen.
‘Um, hello,’ said Anna, kicking Luca for laughing. ‘I hope you’re being good for your, er, Auntie Maeve.’ Anna’s shoulders went up to her ears; she’d never subscribed to the ‘furry babies’ school of thought. As she soldiered on – ‘Try not to wee on her bed!’ – the others peeled away from the table, lured by the promise of home-churned ice cream in the enormous air-conditioned kitchen.
When there was only Anna left, Maeve put Yeti down, her shoulders heaving.
‘I knew you were crying,’ whispered Anna. ‘Don’t, Maeve.’
‘Don’t say don’t!’ snapped Maeve. ‘Wouldn’t you cry? If your child was being taken away? He loves it there, Anna. He likes it better than here.’ Than me. Maeve didn’t have to say it for Anna to hear it.
The Sunday Lunch Club Page 14