I guess I must’ve looked a bit chastened, because he gave me a quick, impulsive hug.
“You’re the most generous and warm-hearted person I know and you practically give away everything you earn on things for other people. So if I can’t help you out now and then when you need help, what sort of brother would I be, eh? I love you, don’t you know that, you idiot?”
I could feel myself blushing, and the back of my throat seemed to be jamming up. Which was just as well, since I had no words to say just then.
“So, since you can’t wait, a cheese omelette and side salad okay with you?
Subdued, all I could do was nod.
Chapter 3
“Cuddles. Talk to me.”
“What?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me or aren’t listening behind that newspaper. I asked you how much longer she’s going to be here.”
The voice was demanding. More than that, it was accusatory.
“Ssh. Keep your voice down. She’ll hear you.”
This was meant to be pacifying, but obviously it didn’t help because the female voice only got louder.
“Good,” came the swift retort. “Maybe then she’ll get up. Maybe then I’ll be able to get into my lounge to air it a little and clean around the room. Don’t you understand? How can I go in there if she’s still sleeping?”
“Miranda, darling…”
“Don’t Miranda darling me. It’s gone eleven and it’s Sunday morning. I need to do a hundred and one things around the flat, and I’m not able to, because your sister’s in the way.” The voice rose shrilly. “I need to get into our lounge!”
“If you tiptoed in quietly…”
“…This is my home, Jonti. And I’ll thank you not to be telling me to tiptoe around it. Most people in her situation would be up and dressed and out of the way if they’re staying in someone else’s home as a guest. They’d show some respect.”
“She’s not ‘most people’, she’s my sister, and she’s not a guest, she’s family. I hate it when you talk like that, Miranda. As if you disliked her.”
“I don’t dislike Bailey. I’ve got guests coming over tonight for dinner. One of them being your boss and her husband who’s a culinary genius. Cuddles, I’m telling you frankly, I’m getting fed up of pussyfooting around your big sister! It’s about time she got on with the rest of her life.”
I’d been about to amble into the kitchen to help myself to some leisurely coffee and toast for a nice, late breakfast, but on hearing the voices I pressed myself back against the wall outside, a crimson flood flushing my cheeks and neck as I listened to my brother and his wife discussing my wrongdoings. It was mortifying hearing them talk about me, and it ran true that eavesdroppers seldom heard only good things said about themselves.
I heard my brother mutter something sharply, because a second later, she said: “You’re not angry with me, are you? You know I hate it when you get annoyed…”
Now it was Miranda who sounded plaintive.
“No, sweetness.” My brother’s tone sounded heavy and resigned. “I understand you’re feeling a little... anxious about things just now. It’s only natural, I suppose.”
There was a gathering silence in which I felt I couldn’t possibly move without being overheard or making my presence felt, so I stayed put, my back clamped to the wall like a leech.I could almost hear the purr in Miranda’s voice when she spoke again.
“So you’ll have a quiet word with her, Cuddles?”
I winced. I never could get used to hearing Jonti being called ‘Cuddles’.
“I’ll have a word with her.” He sounded so sombre. It made me feel wretched. As if he was being torn in two. And of course it was my fault.
“When?” Miranda persisted. “I’d like this sorted.”
“As soon as I’m able,” replied Jonti patiently. “When the time’s right. Try to be more understanding for just a little longer, Miranda. I can tell she’s still feeling very fragile.”
“Bailey’s feeling fragile! What do you think I’m feeling? I’ve lots more reason to feel fragile in my extremely delicate condition. And I have to think about finally selling this place and moving to St John’s Wood. That’s stress enough for anyone at any time, never mind a woman who’s pregnant. And on top of all that, I have to cook a four course meal tonight!”
“I’m sure three courses would be ample. And I could help you.”
“Jonti, you know how I feel about your helping in the kitchen. Look what happened last time I let you cook a meal. You simply ruined a perfectly lovely saucepan.”
“Sorry, sorry. What I meant to say was I’m sure Bailey’s aware she needs to move on. And I’m sure she’s also working on looking for a suitable place to move into. But give the poor woman credit, she’s tried to stay out of your way as much as possible, hasn’t she? She was out late last night. And the night before.”
“Yes, I know. I heard her come in. Very late. And fall over the table in the hall.”
I could imagine the disapproving sniff from my sister-in-law as she spoke.
“Look, don’t get me wrong,” she went on, “I’m not trying to be unreasonable or unkind. You know I’m fond of Bailey. And anyone will tell you I’m the most patient and reasonable person in the world. And I told you right at the very beginning that I honestly didn’t mind having your sister over to stay as a house guest, but for a short while, not on a permanent basis.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“Well it feels like she’s been here forever.”
She sounded so disgruntled I actually began to feel quite sorry for her.
“Calm down,” Jonti told her soothingly. “It’s not good for you or the baby if you get upset.”
“Then please don’t get me upset.”
I heard the clatter of cups and smelt coffee and fried bread, and my stomach rumbled.
Jonti spoke again. “Okay, I’ll talk to her later.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, but I’m not going to throw her out into the street, Miranda,” he warned.
“Of course not. I never said you should do that, did I? God, don’t make me out to be the guilty party here. I just want her to understand that she has to make a serious effort at finding herself some new lodgings.”
Jonti’s voice was low. “I’m not sure she can afford to rent anywhere decent, and she won’t borrow money from me. You know how proud she can be.”
“Don’t be silly. She works, doesn’t she? She’s still got a job, hasn’t she? Honestly, the way you talk, you make it sound as if she’s got nowhere else to go, Jonti.” There was a longish pause. I could picture the two of them in the kitchen. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Miranda’s face when she spoke again, sort of heavily, as if she wanted to emphasise what she was saying.
“And we all know where else she could go, don’t we?”
For a moment there was complete silence. I almost stopped breathing. Then Jonti spoke up.
“That was never an option for her, sweet cheeks. This would always have been her first port of call.”
“And as I said, we’ve done our bit. It’s time she went on to her second port of call, don’t you think? Honestly, Cuddles, it’s been almost four weeks!”
By now I’d overheard enough of their conversation to feel utterly ashamed of myself, and I don’t mean just for listening in. So swiftly and as silently as I was able I slid along the wall and backpedalled into the first open doorway I could reach without giving myself away, which happened to be the door to the bathroom.
Blocking out the sound of their discussion I gently closed the door, locked it, and perched on the loo to ponder.
Maybe I had outstayed my welcome.
What did I mean maybe? Of course I’d overdone it. Like I always did with everything else in my life, I’d assumed I’d be forever welcomed. I was wrong, and I’d been treating the place like a hotel. No wonder poor Miranda was at the end of her patience.
I looked down at myself
. I was still in the same old pair of pyjamas I’d slept in for a week and was wearing a pair of fluffy old slippers that’d seen better days, lent to me by Miranda. And I had on nothing else. I hadn’t even bothered to put on her borrowed dressing gown. This outfit was my customary choice of garb when relaxing around their home. Not very nice, I know. Not how a decent person should behave in someone else’s home. Not only was I treating their home like my own personal bedsit, but I was also turning into a selfish and lazy slob. And one too scared to take her life back into her own control. I’d been putting it off for weeks, but now it had to be faced.
Unfolding my legs, I treated myself to a quick check of my reflection in the mirror of the bathroom cabinet. A bloodshot and bleary eyed woman I didn’t know and scarcely recognised squinted back. I stuck my tongue out at her, and groaned when I saw the white coating furring it.
“Bloody hell,” I remonstrated out loud, running a hand through my recently cropped and dyed hair which was jutting out in all directions. “You’re one mucked up dehydrated mess! Don’t you know too much booze and too many late nights makes you hung-over? No wonder poor Miranda is fed up of having you around. Who can blame her for having a go? I’d turn on you myself, given half a chance.”
I sneered at myself once more for good effect, and felt all the better for having given the stranger in the mirror a good talking to. Then I brushed my teeth, smelt my armpits, and decided to take a quick shower.
Afterwards, with one of their large, fluffy bath sheets wrapped around me, I managed to slip out of the bathroom without being seen and quickly scurried back to the lounge, aka my bedroom, where I hastily grabbed up socks, a clean bra, pants, grey joggers and an elbow length white tee-shirt with the word ‘Spitfire’ across the bosom. Cheap and cheerful. What I could afford. All from Primark. Great store if the funds were low.
While I was dressing, I heard the front door bell chime, then the sound of voices in the hallway, but with the door closed I couldn’t hear clearly who was coming or going and, besides, I was too busy trying to tidy up the mess I’d left in the room to wonder or even care if we were having visitors.
After having deflated the blow up mattress that served as my makeshift bed, I pulled back the curtains to let in some light, and opened a couple of windows to let some air into the stale-smelling room. I parked empty crisp packets and cans of lager into the waste paper basket, folded my sheets and dumped them with the duvet and pillows behind the couch out of sight, then tucked all my dirty clothes into a plastic bag I kept solely for the purpose.
Surveying the room, I decided that it didn’t look too bad, although the floor looked as if it could do with a once over. I decided to offer Miranda to help clean the flat. I’d insist. I needed to make amends, and not give my sister-in-law any more reason to despise me any more than I despised myself just then.
I did have a plan of action brewing in some distant compartment at the back of my head. There were a couple of possibilities I reckoned I could pursue. Someone at work had kindly offered me a room to rent in their house, as apparently their previous tenant had recently left. It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t what I wanted, but it would do if my other option didn’t work out. I guess I’d never really imagined I might have to spend the rest of my life alone or having to fend for myself. Such a prospect was too bleak to imagine, even now, but millions of people did it and managed. I just had to get used to the idea that it was getting more and more likely in my case.
Meanwhile, I headed for the kitchen.
*
There were three people seated at the kitchen table as I entered. One was Jonti, the second was Miranda.
The third person was my mother. Who I hadn’t seen or spoken to for over a year.
I’m sure she registered the shock on my face, but there was no expression on her face at the sight of me beyond a slight tightening of her lips.
Miranda, being the good hostess she was, stood up immediately the moment I appeared, her chair scraping back on the floor tiles. The wattage in her smile lit up the whole kitchen.
“Good afternoon, sleepyhead. Nice to see you up and about at last.”
I ran a hand through my still damp hair and gave a wan greeting in acknowledgement. “Um...hi, yes, sorry I overslept,” I mumbled, sliding into the chair at the end of the wooden table. It was so obvious from the expressions on their faces that I had been the subject of their discussion. No surprise there then.
“Not a problem. May I get you some breakfast?” my sister in law continued, using the same cheerful tone of voice that some nurses are occasionally wont to use on their more obstreperous patients.
“No, really, Miranda, you don’t have to wait on me, I can manage,” I began, half rising from the chair, but she waved me down again and sort of snickered.
“Don’t be silly, Bailey. You stay right where you are, darling, and chat to Mother Lara. Isn’t it great she’s come to visit us? It’s been absolutely ages since we last saw her. Now, toast and coffee coming up. Am I right? Or do you want eggs too? Maybe some eggy fried bread? Jonti likes his that way, don’t you, Cuddles?”
While she blathered on, whirling around the kitchen, going from counter to stove, doing all the housewifely things expected of her, I could feel Jonti’s eyes swivelling guiltily between our mother and myself. I imagine my own eyes were somewhat fixed and dilated. But it was no good pretending she didn’t exist, or trying to ignore her, so I cleared my throat, though I’m pretty sure it still sounded gruff, and spoke to her finally.
“So, what brings you here?” I asked, meeting her eyes at last.
“Now there’s a warm welcome, to be sure,” she said by way of reproof, and picked up her cup, taking a sip of coffee and dabbing at her lips delicately with a cloth napkin as she replaced the cup neatly in the saucer. The imprint of her lipstick left a faint smudge on the edge of the napkin. “Hello to you, too, dear.”
I flushed at the implied rebuke. “Nobody told me you were coming.”
She tinkled a laugh. “Goodness. I hope I don’t stand on ceremony. Do I need an invitation to come and visit my children and pregnant daughter-in-law?” she replied, giving an indulgent smile in Miranda’s direction.
I glanced across the table at Jonti’s unhappy face. He was trying to avoid my gaze.
“She rang earlier,” he ventured, by way of explanation. “You were still in bed.”
I glowered at him. “And you told her I was staying here, of course.”
He shrugged. “She wheedled it out of me. And I couldn’t very well tell her not to come round, now could I?”
My mother’s brightly painted lips pursed, and her still lovely green eyes flickered between my brother and me in cool amusement.
“Bailey, Jonti. Darlings. Please don’t talk around me as if I wasn’t here or was so aged and decrepit that I am unable to understand a word of what you’re saying, although occasionally, I admit, conversation between you two can be difficult to comprehend to any outsider who may be listening. And if the mountain, as they say, won’t come to Mohammed...”
She was gazing at me now in some fascination, glossy brown head tilted to one side as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.We hadn’t seen each other for ages, not since our falling out six months ago, when she remarried and wouldn’t invite Freddie to her wedding.
But then she’d never liked Freddie, not even when I’d first started dating him, and she’d certainly made no secret of the fact that she didn’t approve of my choice of companion. She had her reasons, she’d said. He was too old for me, being in his late forties. He’d been divorced twice, both marriages to models, neither of which had lasted more than a year. He’d used drugs and was too fond of alcohol. He was a dilettante artist living off an inheritance from an uncle. He was this, he was that. Basically, he just wasn’t good enough for me.I guess I could agree with her about that now, but I would never admit it to her.
Back when Freddie and I had first met, it was just me and my mother living in the
house of my childhood. I’d dated but nothing serious. Jonti had already left home after graduating from University, and by then he was secure in his relationship with the lovely Miranda.
Our parents had divorced years ago, when I was about eight, and Jonti four. Mother had gone out to work afterwards, and we’d had a succession of nannies until we were old enough to be without adult supervision. Maybe that’s why Jonti and I had been so close as kids. We’d sort of relied on one another because our parents were so distant, if not in miles then in attitude. Growing up, we didn’t see much of our father at all once he’d left the family home. We received the occasional birthday and Christmas cards, the odd phone call. A few times he came to visit, but after a while the visits tapered off, and we hardly heard from him after that. If we hadn’t written our little letters to him, I do believe all contact would have been cut.
Lara, our mother, never discussed the divorce with either of us. She had always been very tight-lipped. I was always a little bit in awe of her, she was so lovely, and yet not quite real. My father had always been more solid to me, even when I was a very young child. I’d felt loved by him right up to the time he went.
I never blamed him as such, but somehow I got the impression that it was my dad’s fault that they’d split up, that he’d had affairs. I guess she’d been a neglected wife, as his job as an executive for a major oil company had taken him travelling away from home so often, but I never thought to ask her the reason at the time he left, I was too miserable that he’d gone. And later on, well, I didn’t really care or want to know. What’s done was done, and the reason why the marriage had broken up didn’t seem as important as the fact that it had happened and he had left us.
When I met Freddie Gillette I was twenty-seven, a secretary with a fairly good job in a bank, and in most other ways was fairly independent. It made me furious that I couldn’t invite my new boyfriend back to the house because of my mum’s dislike of him. It was ridiculous; it made me feel like I was still an adolescent. Trouble was, no matter what your age, if you’re still living under a parent’s roof, well, you’re bound by the rules of the house and taught to abide by them and respect them, aren’t you?
Deception Page 3