‘So what’s Caitlin’s background? Where did she grow up?’
‘All right, Inspector Morse. I’m getting to it … She’s an only child. Horrible divorce. When she was quite young, I think. Her dad buggered off with a friend of her mum’s – something like that. She still sees them both, but she was sent off to boarding school when she was eleven and got shunted between the two of them in the holidays. Not entirely happy in either place. They both remarried, she doesn’t especially get on with either step-parent. Her dad actually lives in Scotland, these days. That’s where he was originally from. He’s got a couple more kids, much younger than Caitlin.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Twenty-six. I think the kids are really young – ten – that sort of thing …’
‘Okay.’
‘It’s not like she refused to come and meet you or anything like that. Five months isn’t that long. We’ve both been busy. Not avoiding you, I promise. I just think she doesn’t, you know, get the whole family thing particularly.’
Gigi didn’t know how to respond to that. It wasn’t true. She spoke to him at least once a week, even if he didn’t come home for a few months at a time. He could have told her, and he’d chosen not to. She wasn’t sure why. But ‘the whole family thing’ was pretty much her life, and the thought of her son married to someone who didn’t quite ‘get’ it was just awful. She looked down at the tines of her fork.
‘I’m sure she’ll warm up a bit, once she gets to know you all …’
How will that ever happen, Gigi wondered.
It seemed so strange. That this girl was the girl. There’d been lots, over the years. Blonde, brunette, red-headed, thin as a rake, plump, bright, daft as a brushed head. All sorts of girls – some had made fleeting appearances and never been seen again; some had been around for a few months, come on summer holidays and weekend breaks to the Lakes. Once, not long after Olly had got back from the States, there was one – Angie – that Gigi had thought might be a keeper. He’d been with her for a year or so, and they’d practically been living together in a flat in Clerkenwell. He’d been with Angie when Gigi was ill, and she’d been great. Come home for the weekend and just cooked dinner for everyone, like it was no problem. Gigi remembered hearing the two of them laughing in the kitchen, washing up together, and wondering if she was the one. They’d broken up and Olly had never really talked about why, but he’d been dating again within a couple of months, so Gigi didn’t worry too much for the state of his heart. But there had been no one like this one.
‘She’s not your usual type, Olly.’
‘I have a type?’
‘You know you do.’
He smiled. ‘I know she’s not.’
Gigi let her unspoken question hang in the air.
‘You want to know why?’
‘I want to know that you know why. I’m not marrying her. You are, apparently.’
Olly shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘It’s time to grow up. Isn’t it?’
‘You’re almost twenty-nine, Olly.’
‘But I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants for years. It’s time to get serious.’
Caitlin was serious all right.
‘I’ve changed, Mum. At least, I’m trying to …’
You don’t need to change, Gigi thought. You don’t need to change a thing.
‘What came first, Caitlin or this change?’
He thought for a moment. ‘She asked me, you know?’
This was new and seismic information. Gigi tried and failed to remember how Olly had phrased his big announcement on Christmas Day.
‘How modern.’
Olly’s laugh boomed. ‘Don’t play the old-fashioned little woman. You’re with it. You’re a cool mum.’
‘I’m so not.’
‘You want that last courgette flower? I can always order some more …’
‘You have it.’ Gigi wasn’t as hungry as she’d thought.
Olly speared it and put the whole thing in his mouth at once. He looked seven years old.
She wouldn’t lose him. She wouldn’t say boo to a goose. If Caitlin was what he wanted, she might not understand it but she didn’t need to. It was his life. And she knew she’d do anything in her power to remain in it. She had given him the opportunity to make her understand, and he hadn’t managed to do so. But that was her problem, not his. It was what it was …
‘So … a new daughter-in-law. Do you have any idea when?’
Olly shook his head. If he was surprised that the interrogation was over, he didn’t let it show. ‘We haven’t got that far. We still have to get a ring. Haven’t even done that … No hurry, I don’t think?’
None whatsoever, Gigi thought.
‘And will it be quiet? You going to slope away and do it in secret somewhere?’
‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’
‘Promise.’
Olly squeezed her hand. ‘Absolutely. Not sure we’ll go for the full monty, like Chris did, but I promise you that you and Dad’ll be there. Of course.’
‘And am I allowed to get to know Caitlin?’ Or at least try, she thought.
‘I’m sure …’ It wasn’t the most emphatic of answers. Gigi let it go.
By mutual, unspoken agreement then, they drew an invisible line under that part of the conversation. They covered his work over ice cream, and Richard, James and Meg over coffee, with politics and film in between. Out on the pavement she showed him the latest pictures Emily had sent of Ava on her phone. He hugged her tight and kissed both cheeks.
‘Love you, Mum.’ He’d always said it, even when he was a teenager.
‘I love you, darling.’ He turned and walked away.
‘Olly?’
He turned back. Gigi took the three steps necessary to be close to him again. She put her hands on the lapels of his coat.
‘It’s the rest of your life, you know, sweetheart.’
‘Mum …’
‘You be sure. You be sure you’re going to get what you need …’ Her voice broke, and hot tears sprang to her eyes.
‘Mum?’
She sniffed sharply, patted him and stood back.
‘Go on. Off you go.’ And he was gone.
She watched his back until he turned left at the top of Catherine Street. Turning reluctantly away from him, she started back towards the tube. In her handbag, her mobile rang.
It was Olly.
‘Were we still talking about me, Mum, just then?’
She hesitated.
‘Because if we weren’t. You know, if we were talking about you, it’s okay. You can, you know. Talk about you. To me. I just wanted to say that …’
And then he hung up, which was just as well: Gigi realized she wouldn’t have been able to answer him.
Gigi didn’t bother to express her doubts to Richard when she got home. Time was, he’d have understood the nuance of what she was saying, but they’d been closer then. Too often now she found it frustrating trying to explain her thoughts to him. He’d brush off her concerns, full of platitudes about its being Olly’s life, Olly’s decision. He might even mock her – tease her that she had different rules for her favourite child. So she held her tongue and told him how delicious the burrata was, and talked about the V&A exhibition, although she’d barely noticed what she’d been looking at as she wandered around, distracted by her conversation with Olly.
She talked to her friend Kate about it, at work – confessed that she was confused by her son’s choice. Kate, who knew Olly, leant against the desk with her arms folded, nodding sagely.
‘It’ll be the sex. I bet she’s a wow in the sack. Men’ll do anything for amazing, mind-blowing sex. You said she was gorgeous. She’ll have cast her sexy sex spell, mark my words.’
‘Ew. This is my son we’re talking about.’
‘Don’t be all Victorian with me. You know what I’m talking about, I know you do …’
‘Sex doesn’t last.’
Kate laughed. ‘That’s
a profoundly depressing statement, if ever I heard one, from a still-married woman. I mean, I’ve been in the desert for years, but don’t tell me you are too …’
Gigi thought, but didn’t say, that just maybe not having sex with the man you are married to, who’s in the same bed as you, might be infinitely more depressing than lying there alone. She was too proud, too private, to admit it, even to Kate. It was such a failure. Out loud, she managed, ‘I just mean the novelty wears off. It’s not enough, is it?’
Kate shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’ She circled her hips suggestively. Gigi hit her gently with her clipboard and walked away, shaking her head, glad to bring the conversation to an end.
Emily was slightly more helpful. She drove down with Ava on Gigi’s day off, and they took her, bundled up against the cold so that just her eyes were visible, for a long walk. Emily put her in a sling on her chest, and Gigi tightened the straps. ‘She looks like a mummy.’
‘I’m paranoid about her being too hot, too cold …’
‘She’s fine. Snug as a bug.’
Ava fell immediately, obligingly, to sleep. The first part of the walk was steep, and they didn’t talk much.
‘Blimey. I’m out of shape.’ Emily stopped and arched her back, hands on her hips. ‘This is the bit where I pretend to admire the view so I can catch my breath.’
Gigi couldn’t have loved her more. They stood panting for a moment. When she could speak again, she said, ‘You’ve got twelve pounds extra strapped to your front. I’ve got thirty, all over. And they’re not detachable.’
‘True. Great lump.’ Emily kissed the top of Ava’s sleeping head. ‘This one, not you.’
Once they got to a flatter section, Gigi related her conversation with Olly. At least, the part about Caitlin. The part about her she would keep to herself. Emily just listened while she spoke.
‘So what do you think?’
‘You don’t think … maybe … no. Never mind.’
‘No. What were you going to say?’
‘Well, it sounded ridiculous, even just in my head, so I stopped.’
‘What, Em?’
‘You don’t think she’s interested in him because he’s … because he might be worth something … worth quite a lot?’
‘A gold digger?’
‘See. I told you it sounded stupid.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it.’
‘You said they met at work, that’s all …’
Gigi pondered this. Emily had nudged her into a new thought – not that Caitlin was a gold digger, per se. That seemed so old-fashioned, and so cynical. But maybe it wasn’t mad to think that she might be seeking some … some security. Safety. With the background Olly had described, it didn’t seem beyond the realms of possibility.
She didn’t express the thought to Emily. It wasn’t fully formed enough.
‘Let’s you and me take her out for lunch or something, shall we? I’ll leave Ava with my mum. Or – crazy thought, ha, ha – her father could have her … We’ll all go together. That’ll ease the pressure, right? Make it more like lunch and less like a job interview.’
‘Is that how it felt when you first met me?’
‘No. Course not.’ Emily put an arm around Gigi’s shoulder. ‘Love at first sight. She’s not much like me, though, is she?’
‘Not prima facie, no.’
‘Sounds like she had a bit of a rubbish childhood, from what Olly told you. That’s bound to make you wary, isn’t it? Of a close family …’
‘I’d have thought it might make you want to be a part of it.’
‘And it might, Pollyanna. Eventually. My guess is that the worst thing you can do is push. It’s early days.’
‘And isn’t that Olly’s fault? We’ve only just met her, and they’re planning their wedding already.’
‘Are they?’
‘Well, no. I don’t think they are just yet. But they’re engaged … Not that there’s a ring or anything. You know Olly. Never knowingly organized.’
‘You’re hurt.’
Gigi smiled ruefully. ‘I am, a bit.’
‘I get that.’ Emily rubbed her arm. ‘I do. Even I had a twinge. And I’m just the sister-in-law.’
Gigi leant her head on Emily’s arm, immensely grateful for the understanding.
‘You want to make everyone happy, G. You’re a classic pleaser. You want to love everyone. Just give it time. How could we not win her over in the end? We. Are. Delightful.’
On cue, Ava opened her eyes and gurgled contentedly.
Gigi nuzzled into what seemed likely, beneath all the wrapping, to be her granddaughter’s neck, full of love for this baby, and her wonderful mother.
Tess
Tess pulled off her cross-body bag, disentangling it from her long scarf, and slid heavily into the booth.
‘Sodding Northern Line. Sorry. Have you been waiting ages?’ She blew a kiss theatrically across the table.
‘Hours.’ Tess was ten minutes late at the most. Holly smiled broadly at her, totally forgiving, and lifted an almost empty glass of white wine. ‘You know I like to make the most of a rare night out … Want one?’
Tess had been ready for this. Thinking it through last night had made her realize that every single social interaction she had, had ever had, or could ever have with her oldest and best friend, would inevitably involve alcohol, with the brief exception of the first trimester with Holly’s own baby. After which she’d drunk pints of Guinness with righteousness. It had never struck her before. At any kind of meal, definitely. Maybe breakfast would have been safe, but Holly never had time for breakfast, and sliding it until 10 a.m. on a weekend totally legitimized a Bucks Fizz or a Bloody Mary. Even if they went to the cinema, Holly would wait until the lights went down and then produce mini-bottles of wine with plastic straws from the Mary Poppins-esque handbag that went everywhere with her. Holly didn’t have a drink problem, Tess knew. But there was always wine. She could have suggested a bracing walk, but that would have been so out of character Holly’s antennae would have been immediately alerted.
So she’d been ready. She was definitely going to tell her tonight. But this would be the first time she’d said it out loud to another human being apart from Sean, and Iris, and she realized now she didn’t have the words ready at all. This had to go better than either of those times. She nodded, and watched Holly pour a glass she knew she couldn’t drink, picked it up, clinked and sort of fake-sipped from it. She wouldn’t get away with that for long, but it bought her a few minutes at least.
‘How are you?’
‘Knackered. Jet lag was a bitch. Took us all out at the knees. They say it’s a day for every hour of time difference, which I can’t even quite work out, but going straight back to school and work … I reckon it’s still going on, to be honest.’ They’d talked for ages on the phone when Holly got back. Mostly about the trip. Tess hadn’t wanted to tell her other than face to face. She wanted to see her expression. There was so much to tell. It had been easy enough to distract her with a series of leading questions about the holiday. Holly had been brimming with it. Now she was here … ‘It’s been crazy this week. We’re deep in rehearsals for the play and I’ve got parents’ evening next week, and you know the damn parents are infinitely more trying than their kids.’
Tess did know, because it had been one of Holly’s recurring themes for years – almost as long as she’d been a teacher.
‘What’s the play?’ She wasn’t desperately interested, but it seemed a good diversionary tactic while the right words sorted themselves out in her head. Might have been better to blurt it out the second she’d walked in …
Holly grimaced. ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’
‘Christ.’
‘Christ indeed. Not my decision, obviously. Head of Drama’s been desperate to do it for ages. He’s got his Benedick and Beatrice in the Fifth Form now, so there was no reasoning with him. Twenty-five-odd cast members. Twenty-three of whom can’t seem to learn their lines, a
nd, even when they have done, don’t seem to be able to deliver them with the vaguest sense that they understand them.’
Tess laughed. ‘It can’t be that bad.’
‘It’s always that bad at this stage. More wooden than the stage upon which they tread. About as much humour as a cervical smear.’
‘Sounds awesome. You must get me tickets. I’ll bring friends!’
‘Oh, it’ll be all right. It’ll be better than all right, in the end. It’ll all come together after an appalling dress rehearsal and a bollocking from the Head of Department. Happens every sodding year. It’ll be all right on the night. I’ll need a month in a sanatorium, but the parents will love it. Well, some of the parents will love it. Some will complain about that too.’
‘More anecdotes for Surrey: A Novel.’ Holly rolled her eyes and gurned.
Surrey: A Novel was Holly’s imaginary magnum opus. A revenge work she’d been planning as long as she’d been teaching children, and raising one of her own, in the county: a collection of all the absurd, competitive, pushy-parent, passive-aggressive stories she’d gathered from her own, and her friends’, and colleagues’ experiences. It was their shorthand for ludicrous, laughable, heart-breaking stories from the frontline of Home Counties parenting (which was a good subtitle, in fact). After years of listening, open-mouthed, Tess had begun to doubt that it would ever find a publisher, even if Holly committed it to paper, on the grounds of utter implausibility, and also being totally litigious, probably. But since she’d met Sean’s sisters, she’d doubted that far less, and even wondered if Hampshire: A Novel might make a suitable sequel. There was probably enough for a whole series …
‘I’m channelling Joyce Grenfell for all I’m worth.’
Letters to Iris Page 11