‘I do live here,’ he said. ‘Temporarily. I’m looking for a place.’ He collected himself, as if he didn’t want to give too much away to her. ‘Anyway. Why the hell are you here?’
She couldn’t think of an adequate reply. ‘I didn’t realize you lived here. I was out with Francesca last night. Sorry …’
‘Fine.’ He looked out of the window, collected himself for a moment. ‘Francesca’s in the shower. Do you want some tea?’
‘Oh, yes, that’d be –’
‘Kettle’s just boiled,’ he said, and went back to the paper.
‘Thank – thanks,’ Kate said, and she went forward timidly to the kettle. Her head was pounding, and her heart was beating. Ghosts everywhere, she thought. Can’t escape them.
She looked up at the clock. It was eight o’clock. She’d told Mr Allan she’d be with him at nine.
‘Shit,’ she said.
Mac ignored her.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Kate said, retreating back up the stairs to the sitting room. ‘Something’s – I’m supposed to be somewhere.’
‘Sure you are,’ he said, looking up at her briefly. His tone was careless, almost conversational. ‘You’d better be off. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Running off.’
Kate felt something inside her release, with a ping.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ she said, turning towards him, all fear gone.
‘What?’ he said, surprised. His head jerked up and she noticed the grey hairs at the sides of his head, at his temples.
‘It wasn’t my fault, Mac.’ She was calm. ‘I mean, it was my fault, but – I’ve paid for it. I know you hate me. I know I screwed up.’ She cleared her throat.
‘What are you talking about?’ he said.
Kate stared at him, almost with exasperation. ‘Mac! You know what I’m –’
‘No, I don’t,’ he said, his voice almost vicious. ‘You see, Kate, you’ve screwed my life up not just once but – yeah, actually, a couple of times. In every way. So when you troop in here and say you’re oh so sorry, I’m not sure for which of the several ways you’ve managed to ruin things you’re apologizing.’
She tried to swallow, but she couldn’t. ‘Listen to me. I didn’t mean …’ she began, but he started laughing.
‘Oh, that’s a big consolation to me,’ said Mac, still holding onto the newspaper. His eyes were cold, cold green and unflinching. ‘You didn’t mean to. Wow. Is that supposed to make everything better? Look, Kate, just forget it. I don’t want to have this discussion with you. OK?’
‘It’s not OK,’ said Kate. ‘You – me – we … that … everything that happened.’ She pulled the paper swiftly out of his hands. It sliced one of his fingers, such was the speed with which she did it. Mac breathed in sharply, and stood up. He moved towards her, and Kate actually thought for one moment he was going to hit her. ‘Everything that happened,’ she said, leaning towards him. Fight it. Fight fear with fear, she told herself, dragging up some strength from she didn’t know where, suddenly conscious of her dressing gown, her shorts, her skimpy top. They stood, facing each other, the tension palpable.
‘I’m never going to not think it was your fault,’ he said simply. He pressed his finger to his other palm; she saw blood where she had cut him. ‘That’s all. It was you, Kate. After everything that happened, we could have made it better, you and me.’ For a brief second she saw tenderness in his eyes, and she knew he remembered it the way she did, and it hurt her so much more than she’d thought it could. ‘But you went and broke it all over again. And that’s why I’ll never, ever not think it was your fault.’
She hit the side of a cabinet, her bones smacking hard into the wood. She winced, and he fractionally winced with her.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about –’
Mac ignored her, carried on as if she hadn’t spoken.
‘You ran away again,’ he said, exasperation all over his lean, tired face. She thought how much older he was looking. ‘God. God –!’ He half-turned away. ‘You never even wrote.’
‘I did write, Mac, I did,’ she said, justifying herself, and it sounded so weak.
He waved it away, and turned to her, his eyes so full of pain she could hardly bear it. ‘My god! It’s like a nightmare. All of this is a nightmare, and it’s because of –’
Francesca appeared at the top of the stairs leading down to the kitchen. ‘Ah,’ she said, casually, doing up the buttons on her black city jacket. ‘Morning – Kate. I’m hideously late. Gosh, you look awful.’
‘Francesca –’ said Kate, but Francesca carried on,
‘Look at this nice surprise, eh? I meant to warn you who my –’
‘She’s going, anyway, don’t worry.’ Mac flicked his fingers dismissively at Kate. ‘She’s got things to do.’ He took a deep breath and winced, and then he turned back to his paper.
That was when Kate snapped, backing away from him, sudden tears sprouting and streaming down her face.
‘Why don’t you understand?’ she screamed. ‘Do you think it was easy for me? Mac, there was nothing else I could do!’
Running up the stairs, pushing past an astonished Francesca, she fell into the bedroom and pulled on last night’s clothes. Barely a minute later, she ran down the stairs again. Francesca was standing in the hallway.
‘What on earth’s going on?’ she said.
‘I’ve got to –’ Kate sobbed, her eyes puffy. She wiped her nose. ‘I’m going, please don’t – sorry, darling.’
‘You and Mac?’ said Francesca, her brow furrowed. ‘Wowsers. I always wondered. When did –?’
Mac appeared in the corridor, his bulk blocking the light from the kitchen. He touched Francesca lightly on the arm, his eyes never straying from Kate’s face.
‘Let her go,’ he said, bleakly. ‘Please, Francesca.’
‘Just wait, Kate, I’ll walk to the –’
‘No, no,’ said Kate, breathing in, and trying to smile like it was all OK. ‘I’m late, I really am, I have to go –’
And she ran out into the street, pulling the door shut in Francesca and Mac’s faces. It slammed loudly behind her. It was cold and grey outside, the sky a uniform blanket of cloud. Ghosts. The ghosts in London were everywhere.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kate blinked back fatigue and hangover. The Allans’ sitting room was hot and crowded, and the exertions of the morning – getting back from Clapham, running around trying to get everything ready by the time the mourners returned from the crematorium, chatting, pouring drinks, soothing, handing things round: she hadn’t stopped rushing and moving since she’d left Francesca’s, four hours before, and now she was ready to drop, heartsick, champagne-soaked and miserable. Especially now, when she’d seen darling Mr Allan enter the room, back from the crematorium, pulling his black trilby off his head, pushing his fluffy white hair back from his face, which was crumpled with grief. Pain, screaming, horrible pain was etched into every line, it filled his eyes, and he suddenly looked much, much older than Kate had ever realized him to be. He had smiled at her, just a little smile, and said,
‘Dear Kate. Ah. Here we are back again then.’
She’d poured him a glass of wine, as his family started streaming through the door, followed by the Allans’ friends, his old jazz buddies, creaky-looking musicians in checked shirts and cords, neighbours from the building – Kate realized with a start how few people she’d ever known here, how she and Sean had never really bothered to get to know anyone apart from the Allans.
Now, an hour later, the room was full, stuffy and throbbing slowly with the buzz of good conversation and emotion hanging over the assembled throng. Kate was feeling worse and worse. Why had she put on a woolly top? She swayed slightly, trying to focus on those around her, and turned to find a serious, rather elongated man staring at her. She blinked and looked again. She knew him – how did she know him?
‘Ow!’ Fred Michaels, singer with the Chappell Quartet, and Mr Allan’s oldest
mucker, was wailing in the kitchen. ‘Oh! Look, my finger’s burnt!’
‘Oh, Mr M, I’m sorry,’ Kate cried, squeezing past the throng and rushing into the kitchen. ‘You should use oven gloves,’ she said loudly to him.
‘I’m not bloody deaf,’ said Fred Michaels. ‘Keep your voice down. It’s a wake for the deceased, not an Iron Maiden concert,’ he added, as the old man next to him sniggered.
‘Good one, Fred,’ he said.
‘Thanks Frank,’ Fred replied. ‘Ho, ho.’
‘Leave her alone,’ said Mr Allan, coming into the kitchen. He put his arm around Kate. ‘She’s doing a brilliant job, absolutely brilliant.’
‘Er, thanks,’ said Kate. She tugged her straggly ponytail tighter, rather distractedly.
‘Where are the plastic cups?’ Mr Allan said.
Kate handed them to him. ‘Are you OK?’ she said.
‘No. But I will be,’ Mr Allan said. He blew air out of his cheeks, in a low, whistling sound. ‘Oh. My sister’s just asked me to go on holiday with her.’
‘She mentioned it to me,’ said Kate, nonchalantly flicking at the kitchen surface with a tea towel. ‘So – are you going to go, do you think?’
He waved his hand towards the window, where it was grey outside. ‘Think I might, you know. Just for a couple of weeks. The only question is,’ he said, his arm tightening around her, ‘Are you going to be OK without me?’
She could feel his comforting, bony arm around her, his fingers pressing into her shoulder, and the kindness of the gesture took her by surprise.
‘Well,’ Kate said, looking at the ground so he couldn’t see how close to tears she was, ‘if that’s your only question, then you should definitely go, don’t you think?’
‘Hm. Maybe.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ He nodded, and then poked Fred. ‘Are you ready to do some singing?’
Fred nodded, ‘Absolutely,’ as Frank said,
‘I’ll just go and get the sax.’
‘Ssh please,’ Fred said, five minutes later, and the crowd packed into the room was silent, and the only noise was the faint roar of traffic from outside, where the windows were still open.
‘This is for Eileen,’ he continued. ‘Gram, do you want to say anything?’
But Mr Allan simply shook his head.
‘I want to say,’ said Fred, and his voice was very quiet, Kate had to strain to hear, ‘I want to say that I was there when they met, I was there by their side when they got married, I was there to see them through years of happiness together and Gram –’ he turned to his friend, who had his head bowed, holding his trumpet tightly to his chest, ‘I’m glad we’re all here now with you. Here’s to Eileen. This is her favourite song. This was her favourite song.’
He nodded to the rest of the group. Kate leant against the kitchen door, her hands in the pockets of her apron, resting her tired head against the wooden frame, and he started to sing, in a husky voice, the old standard, ‘That’s All’.
When Kate went back downstairs at about six o’clock, her face was swollen and aching with the effort of not crying, of smiling kindly, of soothing, patting arms, clearing up. Suddenly her sitting room looked huge with just her in it, where his had been packed to the rafters with people, friends and ghosts, and memories. Here all was white and safe and clean and it was different, weird. She looked around the room, undoing her apron tiredly. She sniffed, loudly.
‘Hello?’ came a voice from close by, and Kate jumped. It was from the other side of her front door.
‘Hello?’ it said again. ‘Kate, are you in there?’
It was a woman’s voice. A woman’s voice she knew.
‘Hi. Kate?’ said the voice again.
‘Who is it?’ she said cautiously.
‘Kate, it’s Sue. Sue Jordan.’
Sue Jordan – of course. How could she have forgotten. Kate flung the door open as fast as she could.
Sue’s face broke into a smile at the sight of her but she didn’t move. She simply nodded.
‘Here’s the reason the circulation of my magazine’s a disaster.’
‘Why?’ Kate said, stepping forward and hugging her.
‘Went downhill after my star girl left, didn’t it?’ Sue said, squeezing her briefly.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Kate said.
‘For what?’
It really was Sue Jordan standing in front of her, like a package from the past. She hadn’t changed much since the day she’d interviewed Kate for the job, seven and a half years ago. She had a neat sandy bob, was dressed in a sensible grey suit, with a large, stiff black handbag over her shoulder. She had smile lines at the corners of her eyes, Kate had always noticed that, because Sue never smiled at work, well hardly ever. She used to think it must mean Sue smiled a lot at home.
Sue was smiling at Kate now. ‘You’d forgotten all about me, hadn’t you,’ she said.
‘No –’ said Kate. ‘Of course not, it’s just –’
‘The context. I know,’ said Sue. ‘Completely out of context. I knocked on your door on Monday after we’d been to see Graham, but there was no answer.’
‘I must have been with Dad,’ said Kate. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry, silly girl,’ said Sue, and she stepped forward, breaking an invisible wall of some kind, reached out and gave Kate a hug. Just a quick one, but a hug nonetheless, and the unexpected physical contact from her, from Sue, brought a lump to Kate’s throat. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t see you in there –’ Sue jabbed a finger upwards ‘– I was late, had to stay at the crematorium to sort a couple of things out. I could see you, talking to people, and handing that lovely food round, you are wonderful. But I kept missing you, and it was so crowded – I thought I’d do best to come down after it quietened down and catch you then.’
‘Come in, come in!’ Kate said.
‘I won’t, actually,’ said Sue. ‘Alec’s in the car with Graham, we’re taking him off for a meal in town. At the French House. It was his and Eileen’s favourite. His idea, you know.’
‘Aaah,’ Kate said. ‘Well – it was –’
‘Kate.’ Sue stepped back, and looked at her shrewdly. ‘You’re back now, aren’t you?’
‘What?’
‘For good, I mean. You are staying this time, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ Kate said, shaking her head. ‘Just a couple of weeks, till my father’s better, I’ve got to get back to New York after that.’
‘Hm,’ said Sue. ‘So you’re not interested in getting back into magazines, then.’
Kate looked up from paint-flicking, carelessly. ‘What?’
‘Well, you remember Sophie?’
‘Yes,’ said Kate. ‘Sophie, of course.’
‘Well, she was writing a column for Venus. “Girl About Town”. Intrepid girl struggling through the concrete jungle, kind of thing.’ Sophie was a hearty, walking-boots kind of person. ‘But she’s just announced she’s fallen in love with some bloody Moroccan geezer from Essaouira, and she’s moving there to live on the beach and sell sea shells, or something ridiculous.’
‘Sophie?’ said Kate, pleased. How unexpected people’s lives were, especially those you hadn’t thought about for so long.
‘Kate,’ said Sue. She cleared her throat and faced up to Kate. ‘Listen. Write me five hundred words. About what you love about London. Say you’ve just come back to live here.’ Her eyes shone. ‘That’s even better. Girl returns to the big smoke after two years living in New York. Her impressions, all that. What she likes about London. Yes. And come in for a chat with me about it. Tomorrow. No, not tomorrow. Um, let me think. Tuesday.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Look, I want you to do it.’
‘Her column?’ Kate was being slow; her brain, she realized, was dehydrated, exhausted. She could follow Sue’s ideas, but she was about a minute behind them; she’d forgotten how fast she thought.
‘Yes. Her column. Like I say –’ Sue repeated herself, slowly. ‘Write me five hundred words, email the
m over on Monday. It’s a sign, all of this –’ she waved her arms, briskly, and cleared her throat again. ‘I always thought you were the best. You are the best. I want you back, Kate.’
Kate swallowed; the lump in her throat was giving way to a feeling of tightness in her chest. ‘But I’ve got a job,’ she said, smiling at her old boss, politely. ‘Sue, that’s – wow, that’s amazing, but I’ve got a job.’
She hoped this would knock it on the head. But Sue fixed her gaze on her, and plunged her tongue into her cheek. There was silence between them.
‘No you haven’t,’ Sue said eventually. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing out there, but don’t call it a job.’
‘Actually, it’s –’
‘You’re the assistant, Kate.’
It had been a long day – a longer night and day. Kate hugged the doorframe, tapping the wood with her fingers. ‘What’s wrong with being an assistant, Sue! That’s a dreadful thing to say!’
A car horn sounded outside. Sue wrapped her scarf around her neck. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘You’re my girl. You’ve been my girl since you were that baby giraffe with long legs and big brown eyes looking terrified at your interview, what was it – eight years ago? Now, I know what happened to you was shit, it was awful, and it must be awful being back here. But you belong here, Kate. You just have to get used to it. Can’t you see that?’
‘I don’t belong here,’ Kate said. ‘And I certainly don’t belong in magazines.’
‘That is the biggest rubbish of all,’ said Sue. ‘Look at you, your life is straight out of a magazine! You’ve got enough material from your life to be still writing copy fifty years from now! Don’t you understand, Kate, every girl is basically like you. Every Venus reader, especially.’
Kate laughed. ‘I bloody well hope not, for their sakes.’
‘Not that,’ Sue shook her head, impatient that Kate didn’t get it. ‘They all think they’re useless, or they’ve screwed their life up, or their relationship with their parents is awful, when are they going to have children, they don’t know what they want to do with their lives. They should have married X. They let Y get away. They don’t have enough money for Z. We’re all the same, you know, it’s just different versions of being the same.’ She looked Kate up and down. ‘Except you’ve always been skinny. I kind of hate you for that.’ She buttoned up her coat. ‘Right. You’ll have a go at it, then?’
The Love of Her Life Page 17