‘George – dear, clever George.’
‘Oh right. Was George your husband?’
‘Young lady, do you have Alzheimer’s?’
‘Do I?’
‘Are you mentally subnormal? I’m talking about George Eliot!’
‘Sorry, my mind was drifting. You mentioned him before.’
‘Herrr!’ says Cecily with a roar.
Best just to humour the old bird. ‘That’s nice. Highgate Cemetery’s near me.’
‘I’m hoping to be there myself, in a week or two.’
‘Oh, on one of their cemetery tours?’
‘No. Dead. In the ground. Mortal coil: shuffled off.’
‘OK, then,’ says Kate, grabbing her handbag and swinging it onto her shoulder. ‘See you next week, Mrs Finn.’
‘Not if I’m dead,’ says Cecily.
‘If you are, I’ll swing by Highgate and pay my respects.’
‘Touché,’ says Cecily, and although Kate doesn’t turn around she could swear Cecily is smiling.
*
Kate is desperate to leave, but as she’s walking past Mrs Gaffney’s office she hears her name called. Kate prays she doesn’t still reek of alcohol, particularly after that whole interview misunderstanding.
‘How was your second session?’ says Mrs Gaffney, her nose wrinkling. ‘You look . . . tired?’
‘Late night . . .’
‘Oh. But you’re enjoying the volunteering?’
‘Enjoying?’ says Kate, before she can stop herself.
‘No?’
‘It’s a little more challenging than I was expecting, that’s all.’
‘If you’re thinking of letting us down, I’d ask you to honour your commitment till the end of September,’ says Mrs Gaffney sternly.
‘I wasn’t planning on quitting.’ Quitting has never been Kate’s style.
‘OK, then,’ says Mrs Gaffney, giving a small nod to indicate their conversation is over.
‘The thing is, Mrs Gaffney, one of the ladies is being a little . . . disruptive.’
‘Ah, a nemesis! And so soon. Presumably it’s Mrs Rappapot being horribly racist again?’
‘Maud? No, it’s the lady with dementia, Mrs Finn. I feel bad saying it, I know she can’t help it, but she can be quite . . . inappropriate.’
‘Mrs Finn? White hair, swirled to the side, big brown eyes, only ever smiles after she’s verbally skewered one of the other ladies?’
‘That’s the one. She’s been heckling me. Today she called me a quarter-wit. And, er, mentally subnormal. Last session she called me a fool. I’m not taking it personally, I saw a documentary – I know it’s the disease talking. Dementia makes people say things they don’t mean.’
‘Cecily hasn’t got dementia. She always says precisely what she means.’
‘Oh. But it sounds like random murmurings.’
‘Poetry probably. Or quotes. Cecily’s the sharpest resident here, that’s her problem. She’s extremely bored but she’s too proud to ask for help. She’d rather sit in her room doing nothing than acknowledge her dependency, so instead she busies herself being provocative.’
‘Are you sure she doesn’t get confused?’
‘She has a brain the size of a planet, and an extraordinary memory. She’s terrified of losing her faculties but she’s actually in great nick, apart from her eyes and some mild Parkinson’s.’
‘Oh. In which case, should I answer back or just ignore her?’
‘Entirely up to you. When she senses weakness she attacks, so whatever you do, don’t be timid.’
*
It only occurs to Kate as she’s walking home that of course she knows who George Eliot is: she studied Middlemarch for A-level. It’s not fair, Cecily had been talking completely out of context, and Kate was trying to focus on her toasties. What was it Cecily had said?
Kate googles and eventually finds the quote, from Adam Bede – ‘one morsel’s as good as another when your mouth’s out o’ taste’. Funny. That’s what Kate’s been feeling recently.
She googles ‘George Eliot grave’. Sure enough it is in Highgate – lucky guess, everyone’s buried there. Kate googles Eliot’s tombstone inscription:
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence.
Kate stops in her tracks: The dead who live again, in minds made better by their presence. That line reminds her of her father. He’s been dead twenty years now – more years than they had a chance to share. She’s learned to exist alongside the huge void his death opened up; what choice did she have? She’s found precious comfort in the parts of him that have survived. Today’s been a prime example: the best part of her, the part that made her go to Lauderdale rather than stay under the covers, comes from her father’s voice telling her to always be kind.
Perhaps Cecily might know a thing or two. Kate would never admit it but she’s almost looking forward to what Cecily will come out with next week.
Chapter Sixteen
NICK HAS BEEN TEXTING Kate frequently since Pete’s wedding. He’d offered to cook spaghetti Bolognese for her on Monday night, her favourite – and while she’d almost been hooked by the food bait she’d said no, Monday and Tuesday were reserved for soufflé practice. Besides, she’s needed more time to get her thoughts in place. She won’t go to his flat either – the prospect makes her anxious, the space haunted by too many ghosts of happiness past.
She’s counter-proposed neutral turf in the hope that a public place will magically prevent anything traumatic happening again, so they’re meeting at Aposta, a lovely café five minutes from Rita’s – the coffee’s great and the acoustics will provide the necessary background noise to drown out any screaming or wailing.
*
In the earliest days of their relationship Kate had once looked up something on Nick’s iPad, pressed the wrong tab and consequently seen a page on which was written one of the texts he’d sent her. It had been a cute, funny message asking if she’d like to go for Sunday lunch. Kate remembers feeling touched by his sweetness, the fact that he’d been so nervous he’d needed to draft a simple text message before sending it to her. Yet here she is, the night before they’re due to meet, pen and paper in hand desperately scribbling her thoughts as if she’s revising for her finals, writing lists of pros and cons, different approaches she could take to their ‘chat’.
The stakes are high. Kate must gain two things: clarity, and a return of power, or at least a shedding of the powerlessness she’s felt since France. Nick once claimed emotions were a waste of time, and of course he’s a maths geek from a super-repressed background, but, damn it, Kate will prise him open, if only a crack. She’s hungry for insight into his behaviour. Nick made her feel safe; if she totally misjudged him, then how can she trust herself in future?
Perhaps she could make all this easier for him? Hand him a biro and ask him to mark an x in the boxes which apply?
Nick Sullivan, are you:
A) deeply regretful of your wobble;
B) incapable of being unemployed and in a relationship at the same time;
C) a narcissistic sociopath lacking any empathy;
D) all of the above;
E) going to have therapy and become an emotionally open, articulate and all-round fantastic boyfriend;
F) going to continue being an un-self-aware emotional dirty bomb capable of exploding at inopportune moments and leaving me to deal with the painful debris?
G) I don’t understand the question.
Their meeting will either end in that dreaded but much-needed state of ‘closure’ – or it could open up a brighter, more intimate future.
She’s anxious and hopeful and angry and excited, and as much as Nick doesn’t like feeling emotions, turns out neither does Kate.
*
When she arrives at Aposta, she’s surprised to see Nick sitting at a table wearing a smart navy suit. He looks great – younger than he did a month ago, he’s lost weight, his skin is tann
ed and glowing. His eyes light up when he sees her, and she can’t help but beam back.
‘You’re looking lovely,’ he says, standing to greet her with a kiss she slightly steps back from – then into – causing an awkward little dance which ends with them both laughing nervously. He grabs her hand and gives it a little squeeze. The small gesture makes her heart throb with all the weeks of pent-up longing.
‘Have you just come from an interview?’ says Kate.
‘An induction, with my new team. I got my old job back.’
‘At Marshalls?’
‘At Allsom. I rang Ivan a couple of weeks ago, he said to come in for a chat.’
Kate had suggested months ago that he try to get his old-old job back. He’d loved that job, she’d never understood why he’d quit.
‘They’ve got a new database integrative role that’s my dream job.’
‘Ah, I’m really happy for you. That must be a relief.’
‘To be honest, yes,’ he says, nodding fervently. ‘I didn’t realise how hard it is being unemployed. You end up feeling a bit useless.’
‘Of course you do. So you must be feeling better? You look well.’
‘I’ve lost a bit of weight.’ He shrugs. ‘Been running, just 5k round the park every day.’
News of Nick’s job and his fitness regime bothers Kate. It would appear that during these long, long weeks she’s been carrying around an outdated version of Nick. In her constant thoughts he was on the sofa, despondent – but in fact she was the despondent one, merely going through life’s motions. Nick’s been taking immaculate care of himself while she’s been busy generating lorryloads of whatever the opposite of an endorphin is.
They sit staring at each other lovingly, but with confusion on their faces. Why are they even in this mess, when they both look like they want to reach across the table and kiss and make up?
Eventually, Kate breaks eye contact for a moment, trying to take control of herself. ‘Nick – I don’t understand what happened in France.’
‘I don’t understand it myself, Kate. I’ve missed you every day; you’re the person I’m closest to in the world.’
‘I know that, Nick, but what you did really hurt me.’
‘Kate, I’m clueless about all of this,’ he says, waving his hands in the air as if referring to the whole of human existence.
‘I know that too, but clueless does not mean harmless. In France it felt like I was run over by a driverless car. I know you’re not behind the wheel on this one, Nick, but you are still the bloody car.’
‘I was as surprised as you were about what I said,’ he replies, looking at her intently.
‘What does that even mean?’ she says, feeling irritation start to rise.
‘I didn’t plan to say it, I really didn’t.’
‘But you didn’t take it back either.’
‘Kate,’ he says, taking her hand, ‘whatever happens, I don’t want to hurt you again, but I don’t know how to do this.’
‘Nick, no one does, but love is an act of faith. Look, don’t you think that now might be a good time to deal with some of your issues? Your parents, with all due respect, have done a total number on you – lots of parents do – but you can get professional help.’
‘It’s just so difficult to talk about . . .’
‘I understand that but you are forty-four years old, not eight. You’re totally un-self-aware, you’re incapable of talking about your feelings. Sometimes I think you’re so repressed you don’t even feel your feelings – and it’s not good enough, Nick, it just isn’t.’
Nick looks utterly forlorn, and a little scared. Kate feels like she actually is beating up an eight-year-old. How has she suddenly become the bad guy?
Nick shifts in his chair, then perks up again. ‘I managed to get tickets for Radiohead at the Roundhouse!’
‘What?’
‘I queued for five hours – I know you love them.’
‘That is a massively unsubtle way of changing the subject,’ says Kate with incredulity.
‘No, I only just remembered – I wanted to tell you,’ he says, taking out his wallet and trying to hand her the tickets. She bats them away.
‘Nick – we were talking about us. You can’t just shut down in the middle of this conversation.’
‘But I don’t know what to do about us.’
‘Well, do you want us to have a chance together?’
‘Of course!’
‘Then go and see a therapist. As soon as possible.’
‘You’re right.’ He nods. ‘I’ll look into it. As soon as I’ve got my new work routine sorted.’
Kate shakes her head. ‘I know you. You’ll put it off and avoid it like you avoid everything else that’s uncomfortable.’
‘I will do it, Kate. I know I’ve messed up. I want to change, but the last thing I want to do is muck you about again.’
‘Then don’t muck me about again. Talk to a professional. Nick, I won’t nag you about this, but unless you sort yourself out I can’t have you in my life, we’re over. I’m going to go now.’
‘No, wait,’ he says, reaching for her arm.
‘What?’
‘Kate – you’re my favourite person. I’m sorry. Please, take the tickets at least,’ he says, trying again to put them in her hand. ‘The gig’s next month, we don’t have to go together, you can take Bailey or someone. I want you to have them. Please? I queued in the rain . . .’
Reluctantly, Kate takes them and puts them in her bag. She can’t bear to leave him here alone, suddenly looking so vulnerable. She wants to wrap her arms around him and tell him it’ll all be all right, but she stops herself, and instead walks out of the coffee shop. She feels his gaze following her as she heads down the street.
Before she’s even at Rita’s door he’s texted:
I’ve found three therapists near work. I will call them first thing tomorrow. I will do whatever it takes to sort myself out.
She enters Rita’s flat and collapses on the sofa with a sob of relief. He’s going to fix himself. It will all be all right in the end.
Chapter Seventeen
KATE HAS HAD TO ASK Mrs Gaffney for special permission from Bernadette, head of catering, to allow her to do the soufflé demo in the kitchens on Thursday night. Kate’s been staying later than normal at the office recently, trying to prove her dedication, and arrives feeling rushed and slightly too sweaty. She is met by Bernadette, a formidable woman of around fifty, with dyed black hair pinned in a tight bun. Bernadette’s kitchen is spotless stainless steel, and the warm air holds the not unpleasant aroma of freshly baked pastry and lemon cleaning product.
‘You’ll be wanting not to indulge Mrs Finn,’ says Bernadette as she bustles around, pulling sheets of aluminium foil over leftovers and placing them in the fridge. ‘I certainly don’t have time to whip up soufflés on demand. We plan our meals months in advance.’
‘It’s just a one-off,’ says Kate, arranging the dozen chairs from the dining room in a neat semicircle in front of the counter.
‘We serve extremely well-balanced, nutritious menus – everything is cooked fresh daily. The ladies always get their veggies, whether they like it or not. They had a fine gammon pie for tea tonight, summer fruit jelly with fresh cream for afters.’
‘It’s not your food Mrs Finn has a problem with, it’s mine.’
‘Mrs Finn enjoys complaining more than she enjoys eating. The Parkinson’s, it affects the taste buds, you know. Mrs Paisner also suffers but Mrs Paisner has the good grace not to complain every five minutes. I can’t begin to tell you how demanding some of those women are. This isn’t a five-star hotel,’ says Bernadette, though there’s warmth in her voice. ‘Right, I’m off to Zumba, so you’ll clear up after yourself. I’m not coming in to dirty dishes in the morning. And if Mrs Finn gives you a hard time, rise above it – like one of your fancy soufflés,’ she says, her face creasing with laughter at her own joke.
*
Kate d
idn’t think Cecily could be any ruder than she was on Sunday – but it turns out she can. Tonight, having specifically ordered the soufflé, she hasn’t even bothered to show up.
The entire time Kate’s been melting the chocolate and whisking the eggs, she’s been expecting Cecily to make a grand entrance with some new and exciting insult. Every time a nurse or carer has walked past, Kate’s hopes have risen, but now as she removes the soufflés from the oven and turns again to her audience, she feels the sting of being stood up.
‘These look delightful,’ says Bessie. ‘You’re such a clever girl.’
They do look perfect, puffed up gloriously into light, delicate crowns. Kate has dusted the tops with sprinklings of icing sugar, and the occasional cracks in the surface reveal rich, dark seams of gooey molten chocolate. If Kate knew which room was Cecily’s, she’d go there now and show off these triumphs.
Kate sits feeling increasingly deflated as the ladies eat. By the time they’ve finished it’s 8.40 p.m. Cecily had mentioned she was hoping to die imminently. Kate presumed from the set of Cecily’s jaw that she was in no danger of dying anytime soon and would probably outlive everyone here, including Kate.
Kate will do the washing-up later, but first she should probably check with Mrs Gaffney that everything is OK.
*
‘She did leave you a note,’ says Mrs Gaffney, shaking her head in apology. Then, seeing Kate’s crestfallen face, she adds, ‘Oh no, she’s fine, she’s in her room.’ She hands Kate a heavy cream envelope. ‘She’ll be awake if you pop by now. Room thirteen, at the end of the corridor.’
Inside the envelope is a short poem written in elegant, looped handwriting:
’Tis seldom or never the good and the clever
Hit it off quite as they should
The good are so harsh to the clever,
The clever so rude to the good!
Kate raises her eyebrows. Clearly she’s not the clever one, but she thinks Mrs Finn has the harsh base covered too.
*
Kate hesitates outside the door to room thirteen, then dashes back to the kitchen to retrieve a soufflé. It’s sunk in the middle, but at least she can prove she tried to please Mrs Finn, though she doubts Mrs Finn will feel remotely guilty.
The Woman Who Wanted More Page 8