Twenty-five
October 27th
Ellis bank balance: (￡36,137.07) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 36 Mark: 28
The plane landed at Southend airport, less than half an hour from his mother’s house. But Mark wasn’t going to Chalkwell.
He caught a taxi and watched the rain gushing down the windscreen, forcing the windshield wipers to whoosh back and forth frantically to clear the deluge before another torrent obliterated the view. The field to his right was lush green. Mark hadn’t seen rain or a patch of green ground outside the irrigated condominium homes for six months.
His mind was vacillating between his mother and his latest nightmare. Pedro reported that, in Portugal, dwellings had to be at least five metres from every boundary, and Mark was sure David had told him that Tommy was proposing to build on the Ellis fence line. But it was difficult to dwell on legal challenges this morning.
The taxi pulled up at Chartwell hospital. Mark walked in, trying to ignore the smell: fresh antiseptic with an undertone of artificial fragrance – for some reason, it reminded him how helpless he was, trapped by his own plans, unable to stay and get to the bottom of the real reason why he was here. Why had his mother fallen? He scanned a map searching for the name of the ward Deidre had given him, then thumped along the linoleum floors, gathering speed when he found what he was looking for. He pushed open the swing doors and his gaze fell on a tangle of grey hair above a familiar round face. He tiptoed towards the bed. His mother was lying on her back with her eyes shut; her skin looked floppy, sunken, and sallow. He swallowed the lump in his throat and picked up her hand. It was dry, like sandpaper, but felt limp. He stroked it for a few moments, grappling with his emotions, biting his lip to stop himself from crying.
Her eyes flickered open, and she grinned up at him. ‘What are you doing here boyo?’ she asked in a croaky voice.
He perched on the bed. She hefted herself into a sitting position and he leaned over, wrapping her in his arms, wanting to smell baking not the detergent of her hospital gown.
‘I’m going home today, love. Wish you’d waited. I can’t cook for you in here, can’t even offer you a cup of tea.’
‘How would you do either of those on crutches? You could’ve really hurt yourself falling over, you’ve been lucky this time. Have they given you a date for that hip operation?’
‘No, but I have got a date to see the specialist about that heart thingamabob – you know, the palptations.’
‘It’s palpitations, Mum. There’s an I in the word. When?’
Her face creased into a wide smile. ‘Well, I never. Palpitations,’ she said emphasizing the I. ‘End of March.’
‘But, Mum, that’s months away.’
‘It’s the backlog from the pandemic.’
Should he be worried, Mark wondered. It wasn’t long before the ferry would bring them home; weeks when the B the plan would work; he’d earn back her respect. It was the third time in as many weeks Mark had been rewarded with a kiss. The first had been after his acceptance of her suggestion that Fran house-sit, on the strict condition that the booze was locked away. The second was when he’d agreed to some renovation work. It was an investment in his marriage. Mark negotiated an acceptable price with Miguel, and the builders moved in the day the Ellises left. Other than Fran, no bills would need paying until January, and the Devon house would sell before then.
In London, Mark settled into his old office, Emily into her old routine, and, in mid-December, Alex arrived. On his first morning home, Alex rose shortly after nine. He walked into the kitchen. His mother was sitting at the breakfast bar with Svetlana, mugs of coffee in front of them.
‘You’re quite safe,’ said his mother. ‘Your father left for Essex an hour ago.’
Alex opened the fridge. ‘Actually, if I’d known that’s where he was going, I would’ve gone too.’ He missed his gran; he hadn’t been up to see her since the summer because he’d been too busy in Devon.
Svetlana placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘What you want? Eggs? Toast? Coffee?’ she suggested, nudging him aside and reaching into the fridge.
‘Nah-ah,’ he scolded. ‘I can cook my own.’
After breakfast, Alex and his mother went Christmas shopping. Listening to carols tinkling in the background, they traipsed up the stairs to the first floor of Fortnum Svetlana was the body, lifting vases and pushing tables aside; the two terriers were the tail, trotting after the women, rushing to keep up, their paws skittering across the floorboards. Cardboard boxes labelled “Fragile, Christmas” were dotted about on armchairs, and strings of fairy lights were draped over tables.
‘Svetlana, the hall table needs to move, then it’s just the sofa,’ said his mother, folding her list and sliding it into a back pocket.
Svetlana bustled past Alex, the dogs following.
His mother’s eyes rested on him. ‘Ah, Alex, good, we need your help.’
He yawned. ‘Could I grab a coffee first?’
‘No. Now, please. The tree is due any moment, and the men can’t wait, they’ll get a parking ticket.’
Puccini started playing and Alex swung into action. He knew his role, he’d been playing it long enough. The tree always sat in the corner of the drawing room. The snake moved in unison to the sofa.
‘Bend the knees and straight backs,’ ordered his mother.
He lifted one end, his mother and Svetlana the other. With his cheek pressed hard against the armrest, his arms straining under the weight, he took a step back, one eye on the stockings hanging from the mantelpiece. His mother had purchased them in Camden Passage when he was about eight years old. They were shaped like old fashioned boots – he liked to think of them as Georgian Dandy boots. They had triangular-shaped heels, velvet trimmings round the tops, and fancy ribboned bows and buckles on the instep. Alex suspected his father’s assistant had always been responsible for filling his mother’s stocking in previous years and wondered what would happen this year with his father on sabbatical.
‘One, two, three ... down,’ shouted his mother, then dashed past to let the tree in.
The door closed behind the delivery men, and his mother opened a bottle of champagne, as she had every year since Alex turned sixteen. The threesome made their traditional celebratory toast. Decoration started at the top of the tree; Alex balanced on a ladder, the two women chattering at the bottom, passing up the smallest trinkets, and suggesting where to place the larger ornaments. He heard the front door click shut. With one hand on the ladder, his mother passed up his glass of champagne. He took a gulp and set it down on the top step.
His father called out, ‘Hi. I’m back. Mum sends her love.’
From his vantage point at the top of the tree, Alex surveyed the scene below. Svetlana was shuffling her feet and his mother was chugging champagne like it was a can of Pepsi Max.
‘Darling, come and join us!’ said his mother.
‘Anything I can do to help?’ asked his father hesitantly.
Alex turned around. Svetlana was gazing uncomfortably into her glass as if someone had told her it was poisonous, while his mother offered out the dregs of her own. ‘Darling, you’ve missed the toast, but have mine. I’ll fetch another glass.’
‘What toast?’ asked Mark, looking bemused.
‘The toast to the tree, silly!’ said his mother.
Alex watched his father hover in the doorway, gripping his champagne glass as if he was holding it for someone else. He climbed down the ladder and scooted under the tree, plugged the lights into the socket, and crawled back out to check the effect, pulling, and pushing the twinkling bulbs into position. He moved a couple of ornaments around to a bare side of the tree. He couldn’t recall his father ever having joined in the tree decorating. It was always just the three of them. Alex would never make that mistake – Christmas was for families.
Holding an ornament in each hand, his father approached the tree. He looked just like one of the novice surfers Alex had taught over the summer, clutching a surfboard but unsure what to do with it. Didn’t his father ever help Granny Gwen decorate a tree? Didn’t he remember what to do?
In the evenings, Emily avoided Mary. During the day, she avoided the dining room where Mark’s phone was an extension to his right arm. A few days before Christmas she was wrapping his present in the kitchen – a new, slightly heavier tennis racket Tim had recommended – and planning her outfit for an evening drinks party. Svetlana walked in, dragging the Miele vacuum cleaner. ‘You’re wanted in the dining room,’ she said.
‘What for?’ mumbled Emily, tearing at the Sellotape with her teeth.
Svetlana stood the machine upright, tucking in the plug. ‘No idea, but he’s in a funny mood – he just told me to take tomorrow off.’
Emily peeled tabs of tape out of her mouth and secured her parcel. She pushed herself off the stool. ‘Good. You’ve earned it. Is he squatting in the dining room?’
‘He is,’ said the housekeeper, rolling the vacuum towards the utility room.
She found Mark, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. He wore the sort of satisfied expression she used to see regularly when he worked at the bank. ‘Done it,’ he said.
‘What?’
He got up, walked over, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. ‘Devon has completed, the bank account is flush, and we just exchanged contracts on this house. She’s effectively sold, with no tax to pay. We’re safe!’
She swallowed. Her home was sold.
‘We gambled and won and prevented effing Paul from wrecking our way of life.’ He kissed her again. ‘You and I are going to have the best Christmas ever. Call Miguel and tell him he can even order the bloody elephants!’
Emily’s eyes circled the room, trying to imagine another family eating meals in her dining room. She’d spent hours in this room with her London designer, plotting the right scheme, laughing at some of the plans they’d dismissed, poring over swatches of cloth and colour cards. She didn’t think of Portugal as home. This house had been her anchor for the last eight months. The little oasis she could dream of returning to like a thirsty traveller in a desert as she plodded through her peculiar existence in Portugal, a refuge from her precarious marriage.
Her eyes settled on her husband, standing proudly at the head of the table. For a few moments she fought to find the right words before she gave up and stumbled from the room in tears.
When she stopped crying, Emily stalked round to Mary’s house. Ringing the doorbell, Emily told herself she should’ve done this weeks ago. The door opened, framing Mary’s housekeeper.
‘Hi, Helen, is she in?’
‘Yes, madame. In the kitchen.’
She handed the housekeeper a Christmas card. ‘That’s for you. Please wait up here ... this may not be too pretty.’
Emily took the stairs two at a time, the sweet smell of mince pies and her anger growing stronger with each stride.
Mary was rolling out pastry and looked up smiling when Emily entered.
‘How long have we been friends?’ Emily asked.
‘Good afternoon to you too. I heard you were back. Where have you been hiding?’ asked Mary, lifting one side of the pastry and shifting it to the centre of the counter.
Emily’s heart hammered against her ribcage. Did Mary seriously not realize what she was doing to her? ‘That’s just it, isn’t it? By threatening to tell Alex and our entire social circle, you’ve backed me into a corner. What gives you the right to do that?’
‘What you’re doing is morally wrong,’ said Mary waving her rolling pin at Emily.
‘I didn’t do this on a whim, nor did I agree to keep schtum about it with a light heart. Do you think I like withholding this sort of information from my son?’
‘Then come clean,’ said Mary, thrusting her rolling pin back and forth vigorously. ‘You’ll feel better for it.’
Emily wrestled the rolling pin off her friend. ‘Don’t be such a sanctimonious little shit. You’ve never earned a penny in your life; you inherited all your wealth.’ Mary took a step backwards, her mouth now wide open, but Emily rushed on. ‘Charles works for the family firm, no one could possibly fire him. What’s morally right about that?’
The room fell silent. Emily was breathing heavily; she got herself under control and became aware of the gentle hum of the oven.
‘I hadn’t thought about it like that,’ admitted Mary softly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s your decision who you tell.’