by Jane Fallon
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Are you worried about her?’
He puts down the cloth he’s been wiping the surfaces with. ‘I think she’ll snap out of it. Between you and me, I think she’s going to find it harder than she imagines to pick up where she left off. A few more weeks of this and she’ll probably find that she’s up against a brick wall. It’s an unforgiving world. Do you know the awful thing? I hope that is what happens. She’s a nicer person when she’s not modelling.’
‘She was certainly a nicer person before she ever started,’ Abi says, and then she regrets it. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that.’
‘The whole job is about self-obsession. It comes with the territory. The industry expects the girls to think of nothing but themselves and how they look and then turns on them when that’s what they do.’
‘I suppose.’ She drains the last of her wine just as the sound of the front door indicates that Cleo is back from the gym.
‘Hey,’ she says, slinging her gym bag on a chair. She looks thin and tired. ‘Good day?’
‘Not bad,’ Abi says. ‘You?’
‘Oh, you know. More of the same. I’m going up to get changed.’
‘Jonty,’ Abi says when Cleo has gone. ‘Do you think she’s glad I’m here?’
‘Of course she is. You’re her sister.’
‘I don’t even know if you have siblings,’ Abi says, realizing that Jonty has been her brother-in-law for nearly twelve years but she knows precious little about who he was before that.
He nods. ‘Two brothers. Both younger.’
Abi smiles. ‘And you still think it’s that straightforward? I’m her sister so she must want me around?’
Jonty shrugs. ‘Why not?’
There is no point trying to explain. Clearly the MacMahon family come with less complications than the Attwoods. She gets up to go. ‘I promised Megan I’d go up before dinner to see how her new charity wardrobe was shaping up.’
‘Oh, and, Abigail,’ Jonty says as she goes. ‘Do me a favour and call me Jon. It’s only Cleo who calls me Jonty. It’s not even my name and I hate it, but she’s always thought Jon is too suburban. Not glamorous enough.’
Abi laughs. ‘OK, but only if you call me Abi. Only Cleo calls me Abigail. She once told me Abi sounded like someone off EastEnders.’
Jon raises his glass. ‘Deal.’
Upstairs Megan is dressed in some cut-off jeans that she has decorated with sparkly bits, over black tights, and a boat-neck top that she has made out of a man’s T-shirt belted in at the waist. She looks cute. Very 1980s.
‘God, what do you look like?’ Tara says when she comes in. ‘You need to lose some weight.’
‘You look cool,’ Abi says to Megan. ‘Actually, Tara, I think cut-off jeans are in, especially when you bling them up.’ She’s bluffing, obviously, although she thinks she vaguely remembers seeing a photo shoot in Red that featured customized denims.
‘I don’t think so,’ Tara says.
‘You wait,’ Abi says, leaving the room while she’s (just about) ahead. ‘It’s the next big thing. I read about it in Vogue.’
Tuesday comes round way too quickly. Abi actually has quite a nice weekend mainly because she sleeps most of Saturday morning and then she takes herself off to the National Gallery in the afternoon for some kind of Spanish old-master retrospective. Old masters aren’t really her thing, but it passes the time and allows her a few hours of culture righteousness. It’s like a workout. It might not be the most enjoyable thing at the time, but the feeling of self-satisfaction afterwards, the knowledge that you have done something worthy, something good for you, makes it all worthwhile. Not that Abi would ever dream of working out, she still gets out of breath climbing up to her attic room, but she imagines that’s how she might feel if she did.
Then in the evening Cleo and Jon take their two girls to the theatre to see some new musical or other. The show has been booked up for months and they bought their tickets back in April so there’s no chance Abi can go along with them, which she thinks is a bit of a relief because she really, really needs some more time on her own, and she slouches on the sofa in a way she never feels she can when Cleo and Jon are there, and watches bad TV and eats take-out Indian from the restaurant round the corner. She spends five minutes tidying the place and spraying away the mushroom balti smells with air freshener before the others get back. She’s still not that at home.
On Sunday there’s no Elena so Abi sneaks down and makes herself a big pot of coffee before anyone else is up, takes it back upstairs and sits reading in the stately Louis armchair in her room. The prospect of a whole long day with the five of them all together fills her with horror slightly, but in the end it’s a beautiful morning so they go for a long walk in Regent’s Park – Megan in her 80s get-up, Tara and Cleo both perfectly groomed and made-up, teetering on their heels and Abi slouching along in sweatpants and trainers.
They walk round in circles trying to find the rose garden that Abi has read about and which she cannot believe none of the family seem to know anything about despite the fact that they live only fifteen minutes’ walk away. In the event, it’s a bit of an anticlimax because most of the roses are past their best, so they walk to Marylebone High Street and sit down to a huge pub lunch (well, those of them who eat do; Cleo picks around her roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and in the end just nibbles on some carrots while Tara, eyes always on her mother, flirts with some lamb chops but never gets fully acquainted).
Abi feels much more relaxed around the brother-in-law formerly known as Jonty now, but when they get home she still claims she has things to do upstairs and sneaks off for a nap. She hadn’t realized how exhausted she is running around after two kids all day. It’s hard work. At home when she’s not at the library and Phoebe’s at school (was at school, she reminds herself. Those days are over) she spends her days pottering about, a bit of housework here, some laundry there, a quick fix of Loose Women. It’s hardly taxing. She ends up sleeping for nearly two hours. At this rate her job in the bookshop is starting to look like a holiday.
Monday: Tara to street-dance class, Megan to French tuition, pick up Tara, pick up Megan, lunch, Tara to a drama workshop, Megan to violin, pick up Tara, pick up Megan, home. In between engagements Abi drives around London getting lost and failing to find anywhere to park.
At five thirty when Jon sticks his head round the door and says, ‘Salmon en croute, want to help?’ she’s so exhausted she wants to say no, but she’s also keen for any more insights Jon might offer up into her sister, so she drags herself off the sofa and follows him into the kitchen. They chat about their days for a bit (latest suggestions for onehitcomparison.com: ‘get your life back with onehitcomparison.com’ from him and ‘lazy mothers swear by onehitcomparison.com’ from her) although Abi struggles to make hers sound like anything other than a day of drudgery.
‘So, new job tomorrow,’ he says as he’s rolling out the freshly defrosted pastry. ‘Looking forward to it?’
‘I am, actually. I’m a bit nervous too, which is stupid but, you know …’
‘It’ll be just like the library except people’ll be handing over cash instead of library cards.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘That’s the bit I’m worried about. That I’ll forget the taking-the-cash part. Someone’ll get done for shoplifting, but it’ll be my fault.’
He laughs. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll bring the girls in when I can and buy something so you can practise on us.’
‘And then tell the boss how brilliant I was. I was wondering … don’t the girls ever help you with this, by the way?’ Abi says, waving the knife she’s using to chop courgettes around the kitchen. ‘I mean … not that it’s any of my business.’ She has noticed that Tara and Megan are only too happy to be waited on. Neither of them has lifted a finger since she got here.
‘I’m ashamed to say my girls have no concept of housework. They take after their mother.’ Jon smiles ruefully.
; ‘She was always like that,’ Abi says, laughing. ‘Even before all the … you know. She had such a sense of entitlement even then that she used to lie around watching TV and Mum’d be running about getting her stuff. It’s mad now I think about it.’
‘Well, just substitute your mum for Elena. Or me. Nothing’s changed.’
It’s funny, Abi had forgotten about that. Queen Caroline, their dad used to call her because she just had the knack of getting other people to do everything for her. No one ever argued, no one ever said ‘get it yourself’. Not even Abigail. It was just sort of accepted that she wouldn’t.
‘That’s part of what this is too, if I’m being honest.’ Jon indicates the food. ‘When they were little, I was just too busy working to spend much time with them, and Cleo was still modelling, so they were brought up by nannies and housekeepers. They think it’s normal to have help. To just snap your fingers and have everything done for you because someone’s being paid to do it. So it’s not just a love of cooking that makes me leave work early every night – it’s guilt. I want them to get a bit more of a sense of how normal people live.’
‘Good for you. Although I’m not sure most normal people live in a house like this, but still …’
‘Or have a housekeeper who comes in every day, I know. But it’s better than nothing. Maybe not normal, but more normal. I’m not sure it’s working, though.’
‘I’m going to go and get them,’ Abi says, suddenly inspired by the idea of bringing her spoilt nieces back from the brink.
Jon laughs. ‘Good luck with that. Believe me, I’ve tried.’
Upstairs Megan and Tara are watching a High School Musical DVD in Tara’s palatial bedroom, which has its own en-suite bathroom and dressing room. Both the girls’ rooms do.
‘Who’s going to come and set the table?’ Abi says breezily.
Megan looks like she’s about to get up when Tara says, ‘You’re already helping. It doesn’t take three of us.’ Megan sits back down again, caught in the crossfire.
‘There are other things you can do. Your dad’s down there slaving away, wouldn’t it be nice to go and offer to help him?’
‘I’m watching a film,’ Tara says. ‘Sorry.’
Abi is momentarily stumped. She’s not used to children who flat out refuse to do what you tell them and, as these two aren’t her own, she doesn’t really feel she has much leverage. ‘Well, if you change your minds, you know where we are,’ she says, trying to pretend she couldn’t care less as she turns and leaves the room.
‘I see that went well,’ Jon says when she arrives back at the kitchen alone.
It’s amazing how many people go into a bookshop just to mooch around reading the books for free. It seems to Abi that it really is a lot like being in the library except that occasionally someone comes up to pay and there are no tramps asleep in the corners. Richard shows her how the till works and then gives her a box of books with which to restock the tables. It’s hardly rocket science, but that’s good because if it was then she’d be lost. As it is she feels at home almost straight away. Once they’ve topped up all the piles of books and opened a few boxes of new deliveries, Richard seems happy for her just to sit and read or chat so long as she springs into action when there’s a sniff of a customer.
He tells her that he’s divorced with two grown-up children. Abi tries to work out how old he is. She would probably put him in his mid-forties because he has a few lines round his eyes, but not yet deep valleys either side of his mouth. She can’t imagine that he would have been a teenage dad, so with a twenty- and a twenty-two-year-old she would put him at forty-five at the youngest. It’s hard to tell if his hair is greying because he has it cropped very short, presumably because it was thinning or receding. It suits him. The severe haircut forces people – women anyway – to concentrate on his eyes, which are an icy blue and which, against a background of tanned skin, remind Abi of a wolf’s. He’s definitely aware of the fact that he’s attractive and he plays his role as the local heartthrob to perfection. From about eleven o’clock onwards the shop is full of designer-clad Primrose Hill mothers with their designer-clad preschool offspring hanging on his every word. Their kids run riot in the tiny children’s section and it’s Abi’s job to keep an eye on them while he flirts away.
‘It’s good for custom,’ he says laughing when she accuses him of being a Lothario. And he’s right. Almost all of the mums buy something, as if that might fool anyone into thinking that the real reason they have come in is for the books. The place is a hotbed of seething hormones all day. It’s like living in a Jackie Collins novel. Abi is relieved that Richard doesn’t try his twinkle on her. Or at least that, when he does, he gets the message pretty quickly that she’s not up for playing.
‘I can’t believe you’re old enough to have a daughter who’s about to go off to university,’ he had said in the first hour they worked together.
Abi smiled. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.’
Richard acted affronted. ‘I mean it. You look great.’
‘Well, I’ll accept the compliment, but I should tell you I don’t respond well to flattery. I have a state-of-the-art bullshit detector built in.’
‘Oh, thank god,’ Richard said, laughing. ‘One less person to have to flirt with. It’s exhausting.’
She decides that he’s funny. After each of the blushing ladies leaves, convinced that his attentions are all hers, he gives Abi the lowdown on their life – most have rich absent husbands, many are trophy wives; all exterior and no substance. One is frustrated that her husband is rich but not famous, so while he can buy her whatever she wants he can’t get her into the pages of OK!. Another told Richard outright when her husband was going to be away and that she would leave the back door open for him after the children were in bed.
‘You didn’t!’ Abi asks, horrified.
‘I’ll never tell,’ he says archly, which makes her laugh. It’s fun and the day goes by before she’s even noticed what the time is. When she leaves him locking up for the night, she finds herself looking forward to Thursday.
Cleo is already home when Abi gets there, having apparently skipped the gym, and she’s sitting in the kitchen with Jon sipping a glass of what looks like champagne. She’s looking very pleased with herself. In fact, she looks better than Abi has seen her since she arrived. She looks happy, waving her glass around as she talks animatedly. The stress, always present in her face, seems to be gone.
‘Get a glass and then you can toast me,’ she says when Abi stops by on her way upstairs to change.
‘Why? What’s happened? Quick,’ Abi says. She can never wait to be told good news.
‘She’s got a new agent,’ Jon says.
‘That’s fantastic.’ Abi gives Cleo a hug, and Cleo’s in such a good mood that she hugs her back. Not the usual slightly stiff hug of someone you don’t really know very well, but a warmer, softer version. It feels nice. Her hair smells of coconut and mint. When she was young, it always smelt like bubblegum, as did Abi’s, courtesy of the Co-op’s own brand.
‘I’m back,’ she says, and they clink glasses. Abi smiles at Jon and he smiles back, although there’s a hint of it being forced. She knows he’s worried about Cleo entering that whole insane world again, and who can blame him? Still, it’s hard not to be happy for her when she’s so clearly elated. Whatever this new agent turns out to be like, for her this is a vindication that she was right to keep trying.
‘You’ll be fighting off the contracts in no time,’ Abi says.
Cleo smiles as if she knows this to be true. ‘We should go out and celebrate. How about Marcus Wareing?’
‘It’s a bit short notice,’ Jon says. ‘And I’ve already started dinner.’
‘If you tell them it’s for me, they’ll fit us in. Go on. Ring them.’
Jon sighs and picks up the phone. Abi jumps up with excitement. She has always wanted to go to a Marcus Wareing restaurant, let alone the exclusive eponymous Berkeley Square one, but s
he has to confess to feeling a bit bad about the organic chicken that’s already roasting away in the oven. It smells delicious. She mentally runs through her wardrobe. She has no idea what the dress code is.
‘You don’t mind keeping an eye on the girls, do you, Abigail?’
Ah. Of course. She’s the help.
She smiles weakly. ‘No, that’s fine. Have a great time.’
9
While Jon and Cleo celebrate at Marcus Wareing, Abi feeds the girls the chicken that she has somehow allowed to dry out, hassles them into their baths and bed and then sits wondering how she is going to entertain herself this evening. The truth is that she’s feeling lonely. She feels like she felt when she was a seventeen-year-old au pair living, for a summer, in Rome. Happy enough to be distracted by the needs of the children and the excitement of being in a strange city during the day, but adrift and alone in the evenings. Not quite part of the family. She thinks again about leaving, giving up and going home, turfing the Carvers out onto the street and insisting that she wants the flat now, that she can’t wait till the end of the summer, or going back to her old house and somehow managing to persuade the new owners that it was all a dream.
Of course she knows that neither of these options is a remote possibility; she’s not stupid. And she also knows that even if she could miraculously sort out the practicalities then that would be it. She would have officially given up on Cleo and there would be no going back. And she doesn’t really think she can allow that to happen while there’s still a glimmer of hope, however faint.
She hasn’t spoken to Phoebe in a few days and, even though she knows that by this time – eight thirty in the evening – Phoebe is bound to be out somewhere with her friends, enjoying herself, Abi can’t resist calling. She’s feeling down. This isn’t her usual state of mind. She’s happy enough being on her own, really she is. She just misses her daughter, that’s all.
‘Mum!’ Phoebe shouts when she answers. Abi can hear music and laughter in the background. She can practically feel the heat and smell the sea. She forgot, of course, when she dialled, that it’s more like half ten or even later wherever Phoebe is.