Around her, lights came on. The house was wired to react to the shifting moods of the day. The interior glowed, its white edges blurred. Clouds gathered beyond the glass. The garden was moody in comparison to the warm room.
The front door closed. She heard Neil say a hearty ‘Well, thank God they’re gone,’ which she knew was for her benefit. As Santi took Paloma up the winding blond wood stairway – he was back in charge – Neil scuttled over to his sister.
‘This is the point where we used to break out the brandy and have a good bitch about them all,’ he said. ‘But thanks to you,’ he bent to address her tum, ‘poor Mummy’s stone-cold sober.’
‘Where’s Luca?’ Anna looked around, as if she’d mislaid a glove.
‘Last seen heading for the powder room. Listen.’ Neil lowered his voice, moved nearer. ‘I want to say something.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for? Not the KFC? I told you—’
‘No, you daft cow. About Dinkie. About forcing you to have her. In theory.’
‘Oh, that. I was the obvious choice.’ Perhaps it was years of habit that made Anna let him off so lightly. Secretly she believed he’d been sexist.
‘I was sexist,’ said Neil, making her jump with his telepathy.
‘You explained. I understood.’ Now that Dinkie was content to stay on at Sunville, Anna could afford to be magnanimous. ‘You worried about Dinkie being uncomfortable living here. That she might be old-fashioned about gay marriage.’
‘That’s not really true. I’d say it’s the opposite of the truth.’
Somewhere in the cavernous house a loo flushed. Neil sped up. ‘I wasn’t protecting Dinkie from my lifestyle. I was protecting my lifestyle from Dinkie. I couldn’t cope if she tutted at me and Santi living together, bringing up Paloma.’
‘She wouldn’t, Neil!’
‘Oh wouldn’t she?’ Neil looked at his feet. ‘You don’t want to believe that she’s ignoring Paloma, Anna. But she is.’
‘She is not.’
Luca appeared, rubbing his hands together, making let’s go noises. This wasn’t the time to discuss Neil’s paranoia. She thanked him for lunch, for saying sorry, for being an idiot. He laughed, and she and Luca were out on the drive, alone again.
‘At last,’ said Luca.
‘Oh no, you were bored?’ Anna looked stricken.
‘No, I wanted you to myself.’ He put an arm around her. She snuggled into him. The arm seemed to be made of cosy titanium. ‘D’you want to come to my mum’s with me?’
‘Her house isn’t on the Thames, Luca, it’s in the Thames.’
The turreted, Edwardian mansion was on a suburban towpath, its windows reflecting the dark water of the ancient river. ‘Mama lives at the top.’ Luca pointed to wide flat expanses of glass. ‘In the converted attic. The views are incredible.’
‘Hang on.’ As they climbed the stairs towards Mama’s eyrie, Anna patted her hair and, for some reason, patted her blouse, as if that would achieve anything. If she’d had three wishes, number one would have been a comb. ‘Do you think she’ll like me?’
‘She’ll love you.’ Luca was blithe. ‘I like you, so . . .’
They both noticed the last-minute switcheroo of verb.
‘Luca!’ Mama was waiting at the top of the stairs, marching on the spot, egging him on. ‘Mi angelo!’ About the same age as Anna’s own mother, this lady had embraced her age with open arms. Her shapeless trousers and wider fit shoes were in stark contrast to the bikinis that featured heavily in Mama Piper’s Facebook updates. Whereas Anna’s mum was Canute, holding back the tide with stringent diets and artful haircuts, Luca’s mother was a typical Italian widow. Black clothes. White hair. Chubby be-ringed hands. A smile that split her face at the sight of her son running the last flight to throw his arms around her.
‘English, Mama,’ he said, as he kissed the top of her head. ‘We have a visitor.’
Mama looked around the bulk of her son. The smile remained. It didn’t have such conviction, however. ‘Welcome, welcome.’ She shot a look at Luca that Anna needed no knowledge of Italian to translate: You could have warned me, son!
Anna reminded herself she was forty not fourteen as she sat nervously on a sofa awaiting Mama’s return from the tiny kitchenette. She was alone in a knick-knack-filled sitting room, where photographs of dark-haired people who seemed to share a chin jostled on every surface. The furniture was ornate, old, cared for.
She wanted to make a good impression. She rearranged her collar. Checked her nails. Hated herself for being so obvious. Mothers didn’t get to vet their sons’ girlfriends when the said sons were adults. But he loves his mama . . . Ergo, Mama had to be impressed.
The sofa was opposite the large window. The flat itself was tiny, carved out of the servants’ quarters, but the view of the river was mind-expanding, the water stippled with the colours of dusk.
‘I hope you like cake.’ Mama set down plates and forks and napkins.
Luca set down a rather flat and modest yellow cake. There was nothing modest about the taste. The recipe was a family one.
‘I use polenta, not flour,’ explained Mama, hands in her lap, watching Anna eat. ‘The lemons are only English, but . . .’ She waggled her head as if to say that English lemons would do. ‘Call me Elena,’ she said, the accent on the first ‘e’. ‘I wish Luca had told me he was seeing somebody. Why,’ she said, turning to him, ‘would you keep a lovely girl like this secret?’
‘Because you’re nosy, Mama.’
Enjoying being thought of as a girl, Anna relaxed. She told Elena about Artem, about her house, her family, the information charmed out of her on a tide of cake and softly whipped cream.
‘When is he gonna get married?’ Elena asked suddenly, throwing up her napkin in despair. ‘Eh, Anna? Don’t you think it’s strange that a man his age has never married?’
‘Well . . .’ Anna didn’t dare catch Luca’s eye. She bit her lip. Went for it. ‘Yes, actually.’ She nodded earnestly. ‘He really should be settled down by now. All this enjoying himself – it’s not natural.’
Out of the corner of her vision, she saw Luca’s shoulders shake silently.
Elena took her at her word. ‘Exactly!’ she roared. ‘When is he gonna make me a grandmother, eh?’
‘Mama.’ Luca stopped laughing. ‘You go too far. Fai la brava ragazza!’
‘He tells me to be a good girl.’ Elena leaned towards Anna, colluding, two girls together. ‘If he is naughty, you tell me, yes? I bash him good for you.’
Before they went, Anna excused herself and slipped into the bathroom. It had all the expected elements – crocheted poodle toilet-roll cover, potpourri, tumble-twist rug. It was a reassuring room in a reassuring flat; Elena was having a good old age.
‘Allora,’ said Elena as Anna emerged. She was looking down at Anna’s body.
‘Whoops.’ Anna had bundled up her silky shirt, caught it on her waistband. Her stomach, proudly convex, was visible. Not only visible, it was hard to ignore.
‘A baby,’ whispered Elena, her hand to her mouth. She looked to Luca. ‘Why would you keep this from me?’
‘No, it’s . . .’ began Anna.
‘Mama, the . . .’ began Luca.
In unison, they ran out of steam.
‘I’m not the father of Anna’s child, Mama.’ Luca pushed out the words. It was the first time Anna had seen him truly uncomfortable since they’d met.
‘I don’t understand.’ Elena was twitchy. ‘Why are you together?’ She turned to Anna. ‘Where is this child’s father? Did he abandon you?’
‘Nothing as dramatic as that.’ Anna tried to keep it light.
‘Be careful, Luca,’ said Elena, her tone midnight-dark. A volley of Italian. A wagged finger.
‘Can we . . .’ Anna made for the door.
‘Yes. Let’s get out of here. Mama,’ said Luca, as Anna hurried ahead of him to the stairs. ‘That was rude.’
&nbs
p; ‘I’m sorry!’ called the elderly lady as Anna’s shoes clattered down through the house.
‘She was warning you,’ said Anna. A breeze from the river laid a clammy hand on her cheek.
‘Yes. You might trap me. That was the gist of it.’ Luca slumped. ‘I’m so sorry you had to—’
‘Shush.’ Anna had forgiven Elena already. ‘She’s traditional. I understand.’ She did. She understood perfectly. But it hurt. Elena had underlined Anna’s isolation. Her apartness from Luca. The baby didn’t unite them; the baby would divide them.
They were quiet on the drive back to Anna’s. Luca kept flicking his eyes towards Anna. She knew he was taking her emotional temperature, but lacked the energy to reassure him.
They stopped on her street. ‘Would you mind if we didn’t?’ she said.
‘If that’s what you want.’ Luca watched her get out, then leaned across to say out of the open door, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Is something up?’ He was treading carefully.
‘I’m tired.’ She read the question between the lines: Are we OK? ‘But that’s all. Everything’s fine.’ She laid a hand on his arm. Felt its strength. ‘Don’t give your lovely mama a hard time.’
The gate made its familiar chink as Luca drove away. Anna hoped she’d been telling the truth. Are we OK?
From the double-glazed porch on the house next door emerged an energetic middle-aged woman. ‘Glad I caught you!’
No, please, no, said Anna inwardly, as her mouth smiled and said, ‘Hi, Geraldine!’ Her neighbour was a mistress of minutiae, a woman who could spin a simple comment about the weather into an hour-long monologue. ‘In a bit of a hurry, so . . .’
‘I can’t talk. I’ve got a chicken on,’ said Geraldine. ‘But I said to Leonard, I said, I must pop out and catch lovely Anna from forty-three. He said, Oh yes, do, love. So here I am.’ She brandished an envelope. ‘This was put through our door by mistake.’
The third letter. The usual handwriting, but posted this time. Anna took it over the sickly privet. ‘Thank you,’ she said automatically.
‘What do you make of that new couple on the end?’ Geraldine narrowed her eyes. ‘Bit stuck-up, if you ask me.’
‘Geraldine,’ said Anna. ‘Your chicken?’
‘Ooh, the chicken! What am I like?’ Geraldine dashed indoors.
Yeti was throwing himself against Anna’s front door. She let him lick her face as she stared at the envelope.
‘Later, Yeti. Off, boy.’ Anna groped for her phone in her bag. ‘Luca? Could you come back? There’s something I need to tell you.’
Chapter Nine
Lunch at Anna’s
NIBBLY BITS
ROAST BEEF WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS/NUT ROAST
ICE CREAM, STRAWBERRIES
Dear Anna,
Me again, like a bad penny.
The pathetic note you wrote years ago holds no power over me. You have no right to tell me how to feel about you. I’m not just the evidence of a mistake you made, I’m a real person.
I EXIST!
Carly
The menu was the same as every other Sunday Lunch Club she hosted. It was expected of Anna. She hadn’t eaten much of the beef; after spending all morning tending to its needs she was sick of the sight of it. The kitchen was hot. Her forehead was hot. She reached into the fridge for a carton of cream and lingered there, grateful for the chill.
Yeti almost tripped her up. The sucky sound of the fridge door opening was the most enchanting noise in his universe, and he always raced to the scene, hopeful.
‘Shoo!’ Yeti hadn’t stopped growing. Perhaps he never will, thought Anna as she searched out a jug. He already looked like a man dressed up as a dog; he’d take up more space than the baby.
‘Oof.’ She’d heard her mother make that exact noise when pregnant with the younger ones. Now she knew it was an involuntary expression, one forced out of an expanding woman who still can’t quite believe what’s happening to her.
Anna had expanded since the last lunch, just seven days ago. Luca was entranced by the tautness of her bump, like a drum. With over three months still to go, she was slowing down. She found herself guarding her energy, much as she imagined Dinkie had to do.
She glanced at Dinkie, content to see her in her rightful place at the head of the table. Somehow that tiny woman had managed to fill the gap her parents had left. Dinkie had never admonished her son and her daughter-in-law; perhaps, like Anna, she sensed that they didn’t realise what they were doing.
At Dinkie’s right hand sat Sheba. Silent. Watchful. Giving nothing away. A thread was pulled tight between Sheba and Dinkie. Something covert, that made Dinkie twitch. There was no way to probe; Sheba stuck to Dinkie like Yeti did to Anna. I used to enjoy helping Dinkie make her stately progress upstairs to the loo. That was Sheba’s job, now.
As Anna set out the strawberries on the table – ‘Yes, Maeve, they’re imported, shut up’ – the baby began to rumba.
The Sunday Lunchers queued impatiently for a feel. I’m public property, thought Anna, amused.
Glued together, Maeve and Paul put out their hands in unison. Paul seemed moved, which in turn moved Anna.
Sam, his personal raincloud almost visible above his head, reached out and frowned. ‘Blimey,’ he said. It was the most he’d said all afternoon. Anna had caught him checking his phone, had wanted to scream, She’s not coming back!
Sheba declined, eyes down, expression inscrutable.
Neil, predictably, didn’t want to touch Anna’s tum. ‘God, no, it’s like that scene in Alien,’ he shuddered, and went back to sipping the dessert wine he’d brought and eyeballing Dinkie. Anna knew he was on the lookout for signs of anti-Paloma bias. She’d warned him that if he looked that hard, and with that much animosity, he would find evidence.
‘May we?’ Santi held out Paloma’s hand. ‘Gentle, gentle, Palomita,’ he murmured. ‘This is your new cousin.’
Everybody laughed when the baby, with admirable nine-month-old eloquence, shouted ‘Lub you!’ at Anna’s jumper. Paloma bobbed, revelling in the attention, and shouted again. ‘Lub you, Papi!’
‘Still not saying “Daddy”?’ queried Anna.
Santi closed her down with a look. Evidently that was a sore subject.
‘Let the poor girl sit down,’ said Dinkie.
‘I’m fine,’ said Anna. She had started to enjoy the fussing. Being public property had its upside. ‘Josh? Want to feel your niece or nephew kick?’
Long, poet’s fingers splayed over her stomach, Josh said, ‘Hello in there, whoever you are!’ His eyes met Anna’s. He understands, she thought. Josh saw the magic in the biology. She almost – almost – blurted out, ‘Bring Thea next time!’ She held back; Josh took things slowly. That was wise. He had no obligation to speed up, so Anna could relax about him. Furthermore, this Thea was just a woman. Anna couldn’t expect her to ‘fix’ Josh.
‘My go.’ Luca put both strong palms on her bump. He grinned; he and the bump had a great relationship; it always made him smile. ‘I think it’s a girl, Annie,’ he said, low and rumbling so only she could hear. ‘She’s like you.’
‘Poor sod,’ said Neil, who had heard.
‘Takes two to make a baby,’ said Maeve. She was looking at Paul provocatively, and Anna felt an Oh no! form in her mind.
‘True,’ she said, even though her baby felt like a miraculous conception. She’d called Dylan last night but he’d yawned throughout the conversation. Newly back from Ibiza, he explained. He’d gone overland, in a jeep, with ‘the gang’. When Anna put the phone down, she’d felt a hundred years old.
‘You can stop now,’ she smiled, and Luca removed his hands.
‘I like the kicks. They’re like Morse code,’ he said, holding out his arm as he sat so that she sank into it.
‘Probably saying, “Let me out!” ’ said Paul.
Maeve laughed very very hard.
Storm almost went inside out with dis
gust. ‘You don’t know what it’s saying.’
Anna said, ‘But I do.’ The baby and she spoke the same language. No words. Just love and dependency and expectation. It was a pagan dialect. Raw. Glorious.
Josh twinkled at her from across the table. He was fully engaged today, ‘getting’ the conversation instead of sitting back and letting it flow past.
It was Anna’s turn to sit back. To pop a strawberry into her mouth and draw a parallel between herself and her mother. She carried me inside her all those months. Anna knew now the intensity of the long, slow journey towards birth. She knew that each kick spilled open a new hidden casket of love. Yet Mum distanced herself from me. From all of them. Anna eyed her siblings around her table. They’d all grown up with good schools and new shoes and weekends on the boat, but their parents had been aloof. More committed to their marriage than their children.
Anna didn’t want to play the ‘Poor me’ card, but her mother had let her down more than the others. She pushed me into a mistake that could have been avoided, all because of a man. It didn’t make it any simpler that the man was Anna’s own father.
She pushed into Luca’s side. He reciprocated with a wiggle. They were in tune. This was good. He was a bonus; other men might have fled when she’d laid her ugly truth at their feet. But Luca had stayed.
They’d sat in the dark, only the moonlight saving the room from bleakness. Anna had pulled a cardigan around her as she talked. Luca had sat forward, head down, hands clasped between his knees. Listening. Listening with every cell of his body.
It had been a stop-start tale. Never aired before, Anna didn’t know where to begin with. With the third letter on her lap, and fresh tears on her face, she said, ‘This letter is from my daughter.’
He didn’t recoil.
The Sunday Lunch Club Page 17