Chapter 15
Died?
‘Oh no! Oh God, that isn’t what I wanted to hear at all .’ Mortified, Lizzie said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK, you didn’t know. And I’m getting the hang of saying it without crying.’ Maeve exhaled, tested the slipperiness of the tiled floor with her hand and began the next round of scrubbing with detergent.
‘How long ago?’ Hastily Lizzie added, ‘Or would you rather change the subject? We can talk some more about cleaning if you’d prefer.’
Maeve shook her head. ‘It’s fine, I love talking about my mum. She was the best.’ Breaking into a smile, she pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Want to see my favourite photo of her?’
Lizzie nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, please.’
‘She’s my screen saver. I took this one on her birthday three years ago. The Prosecco had given her hiccups and we couldn’t stop laughing. It was one of our best days ever, even though we knew it would probably be her last birthday. And that’s the dress I made for her. Doesn’t she look gorgeous?’
‘She’s beautiful.’ Maeve had given the photo a quick kiss before passing the phone over, and Lizzie felt tears welling up in her eyes in response to the simple, loving gesture. Blinking them away, she studied the sunny, happy photo of Maeve’s mum lying on a sunlounger in her garden. Her short hair was as Scandinavian-blond as her daughter’s and they shared the same sparkling grey eyes and air of joie de vivre . Caught in mid laugh with her head thrown back, she was clutching the glass of fizzing Prosecco in one hand and a small green leather notebook in the other. Her face was thin, betraying the fact that she was unwell, but she was indeed still beautiful.
‘It was her last birthday,’ Maeve confirmed. ‘But we made sure it was a fantastic one. She died just over two years ago. We miss her.’
Sometimes understatement was more moving than dramatic, over-the-top declarations. ‘Of course you do. You always will. She looks like the kind of person you’d want to be friends with.’
‘She really was.’
‘And you look a lot like her.’
‘I know.’
For a moment, something about the photo felt distantly familiar. Lizzie searched her mind for a connection, but the idea was floating in the ether, out of reach and refusing to be pinned down. Taking another look at Maeve’s mother, she decided it had to be because she resembled a Canadian actress she’d once worked with several years ago, called Tess.
‘What was your mum’s name?’
‘Amanda.’
Lizzie dismissed the sensation of familiarity. ‘And you say you made that dress for her? Is there anything you can’t do?’ It was a pink-and-orange sundress with cap sleeves and a heart-shaped neckline, looking impressively as if it had been bought from a high-end shop.
‘Mum used to make loads of her own clothes. And mine too. She taught me how to use her sewing machine when I was twelve. I like carrying it on.’ Reaching for the phone and sliding it back into her jeans pocket, Maeve resumed her scrubbing. ‘Mind you, some people are more appreciative than others. I made my dad a shirt last Christmas and you should have seen his face. He pretended to love it, but he wasn’t happy.’
‘Oh no! Why not?’
‘It had dancing Santas all over it. I made him wear it to the Boxing Day karaoke party at the Angel, and it was like the beginning of Bridget Jones’s Diary when Bridget meets Mark Darcy for the first time.’ She grinned at the memory. ‘Poor old Dad.’
Lizzie laughed. ‘I can imagine. Some people enjoy dressing up for Christmas more than others. So do you have any brothers and sisters, or is it just you?’
‘Just me. They said I was enough.’
‘And how are things now? You’re both getting on OK?’
Maeve shrugged, then nodded. ‘We’re doing as well as can be expected. I deferred my place at Birmingham for a year because I didn’t want to leave Dad on his own, but he insisted I take it up this year. And it’s not so far away that I can’t come back at weekends if he wants me to. I can’t bear to think of him being lonely.’ She paused, then sprayed more cleaning liquid onto the tiles. ‘Then again, maybe he won’t be on his own.’
‘Oh sweetheart.’ It had to be so difficult for a teenager to accept that her widowed father was putting himself back out there again. Anyone would find it tricky, having to pretend to be OK about it.
Maeve seemed to read Lizzie’s mind. ‘I’m not against him meeting someone else. I know it’s probably going to happen sooner or later. I just want it to be someone nice when it does. Someone I like,’ she added with a wry smile, ‘if I’m being selfish. And someone who won’t end up hurting him, breaking his heart all over again. Except you never know if that’s what’s going to happen, do you? There aren’t any guarantees. I just know if it did happen, I couldn’t bear it and I don’t know what I might do. OK, now you’re thinking I’m a complete psychopath. I’m not, I promise. It’s something I can’t help worrying about, though. Mum did tell him she wanted him to find someone else and be happy again.’ She reached for the pink microfibre cloth and rubbed the final section of floor dry. ‘It’s just, how will we know it’s going to be right when it could all go so horribly wrong?’
‘Has there been anyone yet?’
Maeve checked the tiles again with the flat of her hand and this time seemed satisfied that the last remnants of oil had been removed. Gathering up the cloths and the two bottles of floor cleaner, she said, ‘I’ve suggested online dating apps, but he’s digging his heels in. The trouble is, he works from home and Starbourne isn’t exactly the big city, so there aren’t that many likely contenders. And anyone too pushy wouldn’t be his type at all.’
‘Awkward.’ Lizzie nodded sympathetically; over the years she’d had her share of being avidly pursued. If you knew in an instant they weren’t right for you, it was no fun.
‘Anyway, all done here.’ Maeve jumped to her feet and reached for the basket. ‘I’ll leave you in peace now.’
Lizzie’s heart sank; she didn’t want to be left in peace. After a while, she was discovering, peace could be quite dull. And sometimes when you met someone new, you just found them . . . captivating. Which was how she was feeling now, entranced by this young, cheerful and clearly super-intelligent teenager who appeared to be able to turn her hand to pretty much anything.
She blurted out, ‘Do you like omelettes?’
Maeve blinked. ‘Um . . . yes?’ She said it as if it might be a trick question.
‘And do you know how to make them?’
A glimmer of a smile. ‘Doesn’t everyone? OK, that was a joke. Would you like me to show you how to make an omelette?’
‘Yes, please. We’ve got plenty of eggs. And there’s cheese. And I promise not to go near the bottle of oil.’
Maeve was already sliding open the utensils drawer. Taking out a pair of kitchen scissors, she pointed at the wall behind her and said, ‘You could snip some chives.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That row of pots on the shelf? They’re herbs.’
‘Ah, right. I thought they were boring house plants without any flowers on them.’
‘The third one along is chives. Just cut some off then bring them back over here and snip them up.’
‘How small?’
‘Tiny. Just a couple of millimetres.’ Heroically, Maeve was managing to keep a straight face. Reaching for three eggs, she began juggling them.
‘Whoa,’ said Lizzie, ‘you really can do everything. Will you teach me how to juggle too?’
‘Ignore me, I’m just showing off. Let’s start with learning how to make an omelette.’
Step by step, Maeve explained what she was doing, and why. Lizzie followed every move, and this time, thankfully, chaos didn’t ensue. She even managed to grate some vintage Cheddar without losing a fingernail, which was a miracle.
Together they waited until the oil and butter was foaming in the pan before pouring in the beaten-egg mixture. Lizzie copied everything Maeve did. Predictably, her omelette still managed to end up like scrambled eggs, whereas Maeve’s was perfect.
‘Here, you have mine.’ Maeve swapped their plates as they sat on high stools at the kitchen island to eat. ‘They’ll both taste the same. And I prefer scrambled anyway.’
Although when she’d taken a mouthful and grimaced slightly, Lizzie reached over and tried a forkful only to discover that it contained fifty times too much salt.
‘Share mine,’ she insisted, cutting the immaculate omelette in half. ‘This is why, when I’m on my own at home, I stick to toast.’
‘You never cook?’
‘Never ever. I have food delivered. Or eat out.’
‘I know Nick told us not to pester you, but seeing as I’ve made you an omelette, can I ask a question?’
Lizzie nodded, her mouth full. It really was perfect. And she’d snipped the chives herself, which made her practically Nigella.
Maeve said, ‘What’s it like to be famous?’
Lizzie thought for a moment. It was something she’d been for almost thirty years. Living and working in Hollywood for so long meant she was used to being surrounded by other people like herself.
‘It’s weird,’ she said finally. ‘Kind of like being a toddler. There are always people around to look after you, taking care of anything that needs sorting out. Which probably sounds ridiculous, but I’ve been acting since I was fourteen, and after a while you get used to it, take it for granted.’ She took another forkful of the fluffy, creamy omelette, savoured the taste, then swallowed. ‘And it’s also like being really old and losing your faculties, because everyone knows your name but you don’t have any idea who they are.’
‘That must be cool, though.’
‘It can be, when people are nice to you. When they aren’t nice, not so much. And getting up at three in the morning to be ready on set by seven thirty isn’t the best. We do have to work long hours.’
‘That’s why you’re here, taking a break.’
‘Well, yes. Things got a bit on top of me. I was just desperate to escape for a while.’ It sounded self-indulgent; no one felt sorry for pampered movie stars. Keen to turn the conversation around, Lizzie said, ‘So who’s the most famous person you’ve ever met?’
‘Wow, I can’t think of anyone. Hang on, Mr Richardson!’
‘Who’s Mr Richardson?’
‘My old geography teacher. He was interviewed outside Westminster Abbey after the King’s coronation. We couldn’t believe it when we saw him on TV wearing a Union Jack suit and a matching bowler hat. Sorry, that probably doesn’t count as famous. But it was exciting to see him being asked questions on telly.’
Lizzie regarded the girl with amusement. ‘Maybe you’ll make an outstanding scientific discovery one day. Then you’ll be the most famous person you know.’
Maeve pulled a face. ‘I don’t think I’d want that. Wouldn’t mind making the scientific discovery, though. Oh . . .’ Her phone bleeped with a message and she hopped down from her stool, reaching for her cleaning basket. ‘Sorry, got to go. A small child at one of the other houses has just done a wee in the hot tub.’
‘Super-Maeve to the rescue.’ Lizzie wished she didn’t have to rush off.
‘Makes a change from fake tan contaminating the water.’ Already at the French doors, Maeve gave her a cheerful wave. ‘Bye, and thanks for the omelette.’
Feeling suddenly bereft, Lizzie said, ‘Thanks for making it!’