‘I’ll read the note to you, Yeti,’ said Anna, groping for the pink notepaper in her bag. ‘Are you listening?’ Anna unfolded the wadded paper. The handwriting was wrong. She’d expected her own teenage careful loops. This handwriting was tiny, constipated. She read out the words to Yeti.
‘Do not contact us. You are nothing to do with this family now. You were a sin and a mistake, but I don’t blame you for that. I sincerely hope you have a happy life. I wish you the best, but we are going to forget you and I suggest you do the same for us. A. Piper.’
The handwriting was recognisably Alan Piper’s, as was the sentiment.
Anna was too stunned to react. She went numb all over, even her precious taut bump. It was difficult to believe, even with the evidence in her hand. Her own father had found her note, destroyed it, and substituted this cruel and sanctimonious message.
At some point, but not just yet, Anna would allow herself to imagine how an adopted child would feel when they read those words. She coughed, straightened her shoulders; Maeve mustn’t find her too changed when she emerged from the kitchen.
‘I’m popping out for a sec.’ Anna was on the street before Maeve could quibble. At the corner of the short, narrow street, she put her phone to her ear. She could hear her own pulse.
‘Hello.’ Luca was wary. Level. Giving nothing away until she revealed her motives.
‘Luca, hi, this is, um, this is strange, but, well, hello.’ She gathered herself. ‘I need some advice.’
‘About Josh? Listen, I don’t want to—’
‘Nope, About Carly.’
‘OK.’
He remembered. Of course he did. He was that sort of man. ‘We met up.’
‘How did that go?’
She told him.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Sounds like an ordeal.’
‘It was. But now there’s something else.’
Luca was shocked out of his therapeutic tone by the enormity of her father’s crime. ‘What a monster,’ he said, without thinking.
‘I want to ring him and tell him to go to Hell.’
‘Anna, don’t. You need to reflect on this. Your relationship with your father is pretty distant, and it suits you that way. Why start a war you can’t win? He won’t apologise. He’ll make you feel worse, if anything.’
Anna was melting with her need for Luca. His solidity. His wisdom. ‘I suppose,’ she said, like a petulant child.
‘As for Carly, be careful. She’s vulnerable. She’s been through the mill, emotionally.’
‘I want to apologise!’
‘Did she want to hear your apology last time?’
‘No, but that was different. This time I know where she’s coming from.’
‘This is such a tender subject for her. Possibly she’s the only other person in the world as damaged by it as you are. Give her some space.’
‘OK,’ said Anna reluctantly. She wanted it to be like the movies. All tied up neatly in an artfully lit final reel. ‘How have you been?’ she asked awkwardly.
‘Fine.’
The word cut into Anna’s skin. ‘Good, good.’
‘Busy, you know.’
‘About Josh, and that picture—’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Luca was curt.
‘No, it does. I jumped to conclusions.’
‘Just a bit.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She said the word gravely, underlining it. ‘I really am. I should have trusted you.’
‘Yeah, you should have.’
She was leaving him an opening. An open goal. All he had to do was crook his little finger . . . Anna held her breath.
‘Anyway, I’ve got to be somewhere. Nice to hear from you.’
She closed her eyes as he said ‘Goodbye’.
‘Crudités?’ Josh picked up a carrot baton. ‘Aren’t they carrots?’
‘Not if you cut them up all posh,’ said Maeve. ‘I made the hummus.’
‘I can tell,’ said Neil darkly, before adding, ‘It’s delicious, darling.’ He held Paloma casually, instead of flaunting her like a trophy. She was sleepy, cranky.
‘Congratulations, you two!’ Santi held up his glass at Sam and Isabel, who stood like Siamese twins.
‘Why?’ Maeve looked around at the others. ‘What did I miss?’
‘We moved in together,’ said Sam, beaming at Isabel, who beamed back.
It’s a good job I love them, thought Anna, because they can be sickening.
‘So much,’ said Neil, ‘for taking it slow, eh?’
Isabel caught Anna’s eye. She often did that now.
‘No Paul?’ asked Santi.
‘He’s joining us for dessert,’ said Maeve. ‘It’s his turn to have his boys today. They’re having a blowout at some café. I haven’t met them yet. Paul thinks they’re too young. It would confuse them. When they’re a bit older, I’ll get to know them. Gradually.’
‘Sensitive guy,’ said Josh approvingly.
‘Here comes my favourite nephew,’ said Anna, as Storm slouched into the room. ‘Come for a walk with me.’ She cut through his protests, propelling him in front of her. ‘Come on. I need some fresh air before lunch.’ And if I don’t do this now, I might lose my nerve.
Storm’s scowl was for show. He was chuffed, Anna could tell, at being singled out. ‘Where’d you want to go?’
‘The front?’
The narrow lanes of Maeve’s patch of Brighton gave way to the broad main road. Less charming, more brash, it carried them to the sea, which began as a grey stripe, growing as they walked downhill.
‘It’s so grey,’ said Storm. ‘Not like—’ He stopped.
‘Not like Boston.’ Anna took an envelope from her pocket. ‘Storm, use your young strong legs to run over to that postbox and post this for me.’
Anna watched him, her calves aching. The baby was making its presence felt that day. As Storm let go of the letter into the postbox’s mouth, she had a sudden failure of confidence. Too late!
Trudging back upwards with Storm – ‘Slower, matey, your auntie’s got a bowling ball in her tummy!’ – Anna refused to rethink her actions. Yes, it wasn’t Luca’s way of doing things, but Luca wasn’t here. She couldn’t let Carly go from day to day believing those callous words. Her father had misrepresented Anna, and done grievous damage to his granddaughter’s emotional welfare.
She’d scribbled, while Maeve faffed in the kitchen, on a found scrap of lined paper.
Dear Carly
Please bear with me. I know you don’t want to hear from me any more but this needs to be said.
The note that you kept all these years wasn’t from me. My father wrote it without my knowledge and swapped it for the one I’d composed. I remember every word and please allow me to reproduce it for you. This is what I was feeling the day I let you go from my arms. This is what I have felt every single day since.
If you would like to try again, I will meet you. Anywhere. Any time. If you choose not to get in touch, I’ll understand. But please do know that I love you. That can’t change.
Anna
She’d controlled herself. There’d been no begging. No flowery language.
Anna realised Storm was talking. Something about school. She nodded, laughed.
‘Oh look!’ She caught him by the arm outside a seafront ice cream parlour. Inside, amongst the fondant colours and retro styling, she saw a familiar face. ‘Isn’t that—’
‘Come on.’ Storm strode on, pulling her with him. ‘You said you were tired. Let’s get home.’
‘But . . .’ Anna realised that Storm knew best. Meekly, she followed him.
The ratatouille was intriguing.
Maeve didn’t like that compliment.
‘It’s intriguing like the occult is intriguing,’ elucidated Neil. ‘It draws you in, but becomes quite scary.’
‘Bastard,’ laughed Maeve.
Josh’s mood had changed. He avoided making eye contact with Anna. She didn’t blame him. She was anxious, too. Th
ey’d agreed that the Sunday Lunch Club was the perfect time to tell everybody his news, but now that the hour was almost upon them, it felt as if time had sped up, hurrying them towards dessert and Josh’s big moment.
The main course was cleared away. Slowly, bit by bit, as was Maeve’s way. She kept stopping to chat, or kiss Paloma, or ask Isabel where she got her hair done, with one hand on her hip and the other waving a dirty plate.
Anna winked at her little brother. Neil, who had the beady eye of a dowager duchess, intercepted the wink.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked in a comedy voice, like a supercilious policeman.
A mobile phone propped against the flowers in the middle of the table let out a beep. ‘That’ll be my Paul.’ Maeve snatched it up. ‘He’s on his way!’ she said, as if being on his way was a major achievement. ‘He treated the boys to an ice cream sundae at Del Monico’s.’
‘What a nice daddy,’ said Isabel, high on the hair compliment and the proximity of Sam.
‘Mum, we saw him,’ said Storm. He was loud, abrupt, as if he’d had to steel himself to say it. He turned to Anna. ‘Didn’t we?’
‘Y-e-s.’ Anna drew out the word as long as it would go. She locked eyes with Maeve. You know, she thought. ‘Maeve, I—’
‘You’re happy now, aren’t you?’ Maeve slammed down the plate. Everybody jumped. Paloma stopped mid-hiccup, shocked. ‘Yeah, Anna!’ she yelled, leaning forward, knuckles on the table. ‘You’re proved right yet again! Maeve’s a thicko! Maeve’s the fool of the family! Congratulations on being so right.’
Neil half stood. ‘Maeve, what the hell’s—’
‘Oh shut up, Neil!’ shrieked Maeve. She took the stairs two at a time. They all heard her stumble on the top one, curse, and stagger on. Her bedroom door slammed.
All eyes turned to Anna.
She felt the baby lurch. As she opened her mouth, the doorbell rang.
‘Go away!’ yelled Maeve from upstairs.
Santi stood up, but Anna said, ‘Let me get this.’ She lumbered out to the hallway, shutting the sitting room door carefully behind her.
Paul didn’t say hello. He said, ‘You saw us, didn’t you?’
‘I’m not sure what I saw. You were in Del Monico’s with a woman about your age. You had your arm around her. Her head was on your shoulder. You didn’t look divorced, Paul.’
‘Well, look, I can—’
‘And were they your sons?’
Paul’s nostrils flared. ‘Yes.’
The strapping young men opposite Paul were not too young to meet Dad’s new girlfriend. ‘Maeve’s upstairs. She’s in a bad way.’
Paul’s face fell. ‘I was hoping to get here before you said anything.’
‘I didn’t. Look, Paul . . .’ Anna spread her hands.
‘Can you listen? Give me a chance?’
Anna had asked Carly for exactly that. ‘Of course.’ She folded her arms all the same.
‘Right.’ Paul swallowed. ‘My wife, Pat, has chronic fatigue syndrome. Or CFS, as we call it.’
‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘Sometimes people say ME. It all means the same thing. Your life changes. Pat’s always tired. Exhausted. Her joints ache. Some days there are headaches. Other days she has problems concentrating. She had to give up work. Before all this she was a teacher. A good one.’
He sounds proud of her.
‘She rarely leaves the house. Actually, she rarely leaves her room. You might not have seen it, but today we took her out in a new wheelchair.’
‘Poor woman,’ said Anna.
‘She’s doing well.’ Paul was uneasy with the sympathy. ‘Pat’s a fighter. But . . .’
‘I thought I sensed a but hovering.’
‘We were rocky before this happened. Talking about separating. Then she fell ill. I couldn’t leave. She needed me.’ Paul’s eyes appealed for understanding. But still those arms were crossed. ‘We have help, but much of the time it’s just me. I bathe her. I dress her. I take care of her medication. She gets very depressed, which can be . . . difficult.’
Anna put her arms by her side. This wasn’t black and white. This was the smudged grey she was familiar with. Most of life is that colour.
Paul, sensing perhaps that she was open to listening, unclenched. ‘I need a life outside the sickroom. Something to cling to. That’s your sister. I love Maeve. I want to take care of her. She’s been dealt a poor hand.’
‘Not that poor.’ Anna didn’t enjoy hearing her sister stigmatised. Yes, Maeve made crummy choices, but she had family around her and a son who loved her and a roof over her head.
‘Maeve’s always known about the situation with Pat, and she accepts it. It’s not perfect, Anna, but is it wrong? Is it wrong to want love in my life again?’
‘Always known?’ Anna drilled down into that statement. ‘When did you tell her?’
Maeve stood at the top of the stairs, shoulders rounded, dry-eyed but wild-looking. ‘He told me the day of Sunday Lunch Club at Luca’s. I told him not to come with me, let me think about the situation.’ She took the steps one by one, plodding. ‘You were suspicious, Anna.’ Maeve half laughed. ‘But then, you always are.’
‘Maeve, please—’ Paul was on the back foot, beseeching, no longer suave. His crisp shirt looked out of place among Maeve’s mishmash of wall hangings and fairy lights and books.
‘We’d made love by then. That’s a contract, in a way, isn’t it? I thought you might be . . .’ Maeve looked tired, suddenly. Her bloom had fallen away. ‘I thought you might be the real deal, Paul. I thought you might rescue me.’ She turned, abruptly, and fled back upstairs.
‘Should I . . .?’ Paul dithered, distraught, one foot on the bottom step.
‘Give her a minute.’ Anna leaned on the bannister. Maeve hates my meddling but it’s in my job description. ‘My sister,’ she began, ‘is fearless, funny, forgiving.’ As Anna spoke she thought of more and more positive things to say about Maeve; things she rarely thought. ‘She lets people be themselves. She doesn’t judge. She thinks animals shouldn’t be eaten. She thinks everybody deserves to be happy and do what they want.’ Anna put up an imperative hand when Paul tried to interrupt. ‘You don’t get to talk right now. You get to listen.’
Paul shrank against the wall as if Anna’s words were actual weapons.
‘Yes, Maeve’s made mistakes. We all have.’ Anna paused, repeating herself, heartfelt. ‘We all have. You saw the chink in her armour. You saw that beneath the facade she was anxious about the future. That she was tired of keeping the show on the road all by herself. You knew, because she talks about it so freely, that the men in her life have been wasters. You wormed your way in by posing as a good guy. But if you were a good guy, Paul, you’d have told her straight away, before she gave herself to you, before she got in too deep. You played this very carefully.’ Anna took a step towards him. ‘I see right through you.’
Paul chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘Put yourself in my shoes for a minute,’ he said.
‘Why should I? I’m putting myself in my sister’s shoes. If you can only get something you want by lying and cheating, Paul, then don’t expect any sympathy when you’re rumbled.’ She thought of his wife, oblivious, in pain. ‘The truth is, you’re not good enough for my sister. She doesn’t just deserve presents.’ Anna said it contemptuously, suddenly disgusted by this nauseating man. ‘She deserves love. Honest and flawed and wonderful.’
‘Nice speech.’ Paul’s backbone had rebuilt itself. ‘I think it’s up to Maeve, don’t you?’
His confidence sickened Anna. ‘What example are you to your sons? Have they grown up watching you move women around like chess pieces?’
Maeve bobbed over the bannisters. She’d been listening. ‘Grown up? You showed me photographs, Paul. Two blond moppets,’ said Maeve. ‘You said they’d be devastated if Mummy and Daddy broke up.’
‘They would,’ said Paul.
‘How old are they? The truth, now.’
&nbs
p; Paul sighed, blowing out his cheeks, as if he was tired of being harried. ‘I don’t see how it matters, but they’re twenty-one and twenty-three.’
‘Out!’ yelled Maeve, thundering down the stairs.
Paul backed against the hall door. ‘Maeve, just because your family’s found out, we don’t have to—’
‘Out! Out!’ Maeve pushed at his chest. ‘Out!’ She was beyond words. Pummelling. Violent.
The sitting room door opened. The hall was suddenly full of bodies. Neil, shouldering to the front, was red in the face. ‘Time you left, Paul.’
Santi tenderly smothered Maeve with his long arms, drawing her away from Paul, who was scrabbling for the handle. ‘Come, querida, come away.’
‘You’ve got this all wrong.’ Paul made a last stand in the open doorway. ‘Tell them, Maeve. Tell them how we feel about each other!’
Maeve kicked the door shut.
‘Storm knew, didn’t you?’ Neil ruffled his hair as they all sat, shell-shocked, around the table.
‘He didn’t,’ said Maeve, then, reflectively, ‘Did you, Storm?’
‘I didn’t know about . . . all that.’ Storm fidgeted, uncomfortable that the adults were staring at him. ‘I only knew he was, like, horrible.’
Maeve rubbed her already red eyes. ‘I know what you’re all thinking, I should have—’
‘With respect,’ said Sam, laying a hand over hers. ‘You don’t know what we’re all thinking. For example, I’m thinking that you were played by a player who’s very good at the game. Somebody who lied to get close to you, and who only told you the truth when you’d come to rely on him.’
Maeve looked grateful enough to cry again. ‘It’s ironic,’ she said. ‘You know what I liked best about Paul when we met? The sincerity. The honesty.’ She looked at the ceiling. ‘Do you think he ever loved me? Even an incey-wincey bit?’
‘He’d be a fool not to,’ said Neil.
Anna’s eyes widened. ‘So this is what it takes to get a compliment out of you!’
Evening fell, creeping around the house. Nobody left. Maeve needed propping up, and ears to listen to her rambling confessions about what had really been going on. She’d consciously overlooked the fact that Paul had waited until they’d slept together to be frank with her. She’d batted away the suspicion that the gifts and the dinners were consolation prizes. ‘If I’d known that he was lying about his children . . .’
The Sunday Lunch Club Page 24