Chapter 3
3
She had never really thought about how she would handle an existential crisis. Her father had been a drinker. He’d been that way before her mother died and only got worse afterwards. Her sister, after a messy relationship breakdown, had joined a sect who worshipped Mother Earth and the power of crystals, or some other such bollocks that Fiona avoided talking about whenever they saw each other. She, however, faced this trauma with her usual efficiency.
‘Please, don’t step on anything,’ she said, leading Holly into the house, past the antique elm rocking chair that had once lived in Joseph’s nursery but now stood in the middle of the hallway. ‘It looks a little messy but, trust me, it’s all organised.’
‘What the hell’s happened?’ Holly asked, walking on tiptoes as she moved through the detritus. ‘I’ve haven’t even been gone a day. Is the Antiques Roadshow doing an episode here that you forgot to tell me about? Cos, I’m going to be honest, their venues are usually way bigger than this. No offence to your home or anything.’
Ignoring the comment, Fiona picked a path through to the kitchen. ‘There’s still a long way to go, but I’m getting there.’
That Sunday morning, she had needed something to occupy her mind. Reading hadn’t worked; every other line, her mind would trip on a word and her thoughts would go spiralling into the past. The gym, while tempting, involved digging out sports clothes which were likely to be far tighter than she wanted to admit. And any thoughts she’d had about doing something work-related were quashed when she’d realised that everyone thought she was away on holiday for the week. Replying to emails – when she’d assured them she would be 100 per cent unplugged – would lead to questions she didn’t want to answer. And so, she had been through every area of the house, including the attic and garage, opening boxes, cupboards and drawers, pulling the wrapping off long-forgotten gifts and wiping layers of dust from neglected heirlooms and keepsakes.
Currently, a large number of items, including the famous Anna Weatherley dinner service, had been removed from their normal homes and stacked all over the kitchen worktops. With a cloud of dust motes swimming through the air and towers of boxes four feet high in some places, it undoubtedly looked a little chaotic. But she knew exactly where everything was. And, more importantly, she had left a clear path through to the coffee machine.
‘Latte?’ she asked.
‘Only if you’ve got a shot of something to go in it. What are you doing? Please don’t tell me you’re going to dump all this. Because if you are, I want first dibs on that candlestick thing over there.’ Holly pointed.
Fiona dropped a coffee pod into the machine, clicked the lever down and watched the sea of frothy foam fill the cup below.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not chucking anything out.’ She passed her friend a drink. ‘I’m doing the opposite.’
‘Breeding antiques?’ Holly questioned. ‘Because that’s what it looks like. Where has that painting come from? I swear I’ve never even seen it before.’
‘It’s a Tran Tuan.’ She stopped bustling about and gazed at the vivid colours. White brush strokes shimmered in the light. A streak of orange burst from the canvas. It really was an incredible piece.
‘A what?’
‘A Tran Tuan.’
‘I’ll pretend I know what that means.’
‘He’s a Vietnamese artist.’ She turned her attention back to her friend. ‘One of Stephen’s favourites. He’s had this painting tucked away in his study for years. Since we bought it, in fact. I thought it might be nice if it got a more prominent place, on display. Like in the hall. That way, he’d be able to see it more often.’
‘Who? Tintin?’
‘No, Stephen.’
‘Oh.’
‘And I was looking online. I thought I might be able to pick up another one for him too. Of course, he’d probably prefer us to go to an exhibition together and choose himself.’
She continued to gaze at the picture, trying to remember the last time she and Stephen had been to a show. A few of her clients ran art houses. Alongside weddings, running exhibition openings had always been one of her favourite commissions when she’d started up. On the day, all her time would be spent with the client, leaving Stephen to wander around on his own, more often than not on the phone himself, trying to solve an issue with cheese deliveries or some other riveting aspect of his work. As he moved higher up the corporate ladder at Alton Foods, he’d eventually stopped coming altogether. Still, there was time to make up for it, she thought. Once they’d gotten over this bump. An art gallery a month. That was doable.
‘So, have you spoken to him? Stephen, I mean, not this artist,’ Holly added for clarity.
She shook her head. ‘No, I’m giving him space. That’s what he needs, so that’s what I’m going to let him have.’ She felt even more assured than she had before. ‘He won’t go through with this. Believe me, I know him. It’s just a phase. Like the time he decided he wanted to take up the bass guitar. Or that course he went on, so he could start a home brewery. He does this from time to time, you know that. This is just one more example. And do you not remember that yachting kick? He’ll come back. He will. And when he does, I want him to be surrounded by things that make him happy.’
‘Like that Tintin painting?’
‘Tran Tuan,’ she corrected. ‘Exactly.’
From outside, the sound of traffic drifted through, as they each stood with their thoughts. They had been friends long before Stephen had arrived on the scene, and shared silences were something they understood. They could tell the difference between a tired silence, a judgmental silence, or one that was simply two people enjoying each other’s company, needing no conversation. A pissed-off silence sounded substantially more aggressive than one which meant give me a minute, I need to think about this . And then, of course, there was the overwhelming silence, when words were just too painful.
This one – which came with a repeated movement of the lips – meant Holly had something to say. Something awkward.
‘What?’ Fiona asked, conscious that she had a lot more sorting to do and procrastination of any kind wasn’t helpful.
‘What do you mean, what ?’
‘What do you want to say?’
Her friend’s lips twisted again.
‘For God’s sake, Holly, just spit it out.’
‘I just wondered if you’d spoken to Joseph?’ she asked eventually. ‘You know, if Stephen has told him stuff, he might be worried. You know how he gets.’
‘I know. Don’t worry. I spoke to him.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I mean, we didn’t say much; he was busy.’
‘But have you spoken to him about Stephen?’
Avoiding eye contact, she turned her attention to the coffee machine and began cleaning the water filter.
‘Fi-o-na?’ Holly stressed each syllable of her name.
‘What? I told you, I rang him, and he was busy but, yes, Stephen’s name did come up. We just didn’t have time to go into that much detail.’
Feeling as if she was undergoing an interrogation she didn’t deserve, she hit a button, which flooded the machine’s filters with steam.
‘Are you going to tell me what he said? You don’t have to but, you know, if you need to talk about it…’
‘Look,’ Fiona stumbled, ‘he’s fine. We’re all fine. Like I said, he was busy. Cooking if you must know.’
It had been nearly midday when she had finally plucked up the courage to ring her son for the first time since he’d left. She’d already felt guilty about her lack of communication – putting her own needs for solitude above his to hear from home – although she consoled herself with the fact that, if he’d needed to speak to her, he would surely have rung. As it was, he’d answered immediately.
‘Hey, Mum, I’m in the kitchen at the moment. I’m doing a Sunday roast for everyone. Can I ring you as soon as I’m done? Would that be okay? Maybe a couple of hours?’
‘Oh, you’re cooking. A roast. For people. Wow, that’s a good way to make yourself some friends.’ He had never been one for phone calls but, still, the abruptness had taken her aback.
‘That’s what I figured.’
She could see his grin at the other end of the line. Despite how much she and Stephen had shunned cooking, Joseph had developed a real love for the culinary art. They’d always joked that people would keep him as a friend, just for his roast potatoes.
‘I’m in the middle of these Yorkshires. I don’t want to stop, or the fat will cool down. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were going to ring. You didn’t message or anything.’
‘You’re right. I should have text first. Checked if you were free. We can catch up another time.’
‘I’ll be all done in an hour or two. Good thing about doing the cooking is, I don’t have to wash up.’
A pause had hung in the air between them, disturbed only by a half-hearted chuckle from Fiona.
‘I spoke to Dad,’ Joseph had said then, quietly. ‘He told me.’
Heat had risen to her cheeks. When they did finally sort themselves out, Stephen was going to have to do some serious explaining, treating their son like this, for crying out loud.
‘Things like this happen when people get older,’ she’d managed, unsure where the calm in her voice was coming from. ‘Midlife crisis. That’s all it is. I think we just need a little time apart to realise how much we need each other.’
‘Yeah, maybe…’
‘You don’t have to worry about us. You just sort yourself out there. Have you got your lecture timetable yet?’
‘No, it’s only Sunday, remember?’
‘Of course it is.’ Another awkward pause. ‘Off you go then. Sort out your dinner. You won’t impress anyone with flat Yorkshire puddings.’
‘Mum, you know?—’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too, but?—’
Before he could say anything else, she’d hung up the phone, her hands quivering and her heart drumming a tattoo against her ribs. Stephen had a lot to answer for.
True to his word, a little over an hour later, her phone had buzzed and Joseph’s name flashed up on the screen. He was obviously ready to pick up the conversation where they’d left it. But she hadn’t answered. She didn’t know what else she could say. Besides, eighteen-year-old boys who’ve just started university should be spending their first weekend getting drunk, she’d told herself. Not on the phone to their mothers.
‘How come the TV is on?’ Holly called now.
During Fiona’s moment of reflection, Holly had moved into the living room.
‘I thought you hated watching television.’
‘I do,’ she replied, shaking her head and relocating wine glasses from the kitchen draining board to the cupboard beneath the island worktop. ‘I find the voices so whiny, but there was a good programme earlier, on e-currency. I must have forgotten to turn it off.’
‘Sounds thrilling.’
‘It’s good to know about the markets we’re working in.’
When they’d managed to clear enough room to sit down, Fiona ordered takeaway.
‘He just needs time, that’s all,’ Fiona repeated, as she scooped another spoonful of Tabbouleh salad onto a fine china plate she hadn’t seen since the last move.
They’d talked about plenty of other things: Holly’s current employment situation – somehow she managed to hop from one job to the next, with better hours and better pay each time, yet she never appeared to do any work; how Joseph would cope once university lectures started; and Fiona’s big, society wedding coming up in the New Year. But it hadn’t taken long for the conversation to roll back around to Stephen.
‘He needs time to realise he misses me. You know how much I do for him. He’ll be back.’ She took a gulp of wine. ‘You don’t just walk out on someone like that after twenty years. Not when you’ve built a life together. Not when a child is involved. You don’t throw it all away.’
Topping up her plate, Holly hummed thoughtfully. ‘What are you doing for the rest of the week? You’re not going into work, are you?’
She shook her head. ‘I need to get this place sorted. I’ve still got all the upstairs rooms to do, and I don’t think I’ve even opened some of the boxes in the backroom since Mum died. I can’t believe how therapeutic this has been. I should take time off more often.’
‘I’m not sure that this counts as time off.’
‘It does to me.’
Her friend raised an eyebrow. ‘But you will get out, right? You won’t stay inside the whole time? I’ve got a yoga class Friday lunchtime; you could come too. Great male-to-female ratio!’
‘I’m married.’
‘ You are. I’m not.’
Fiona forced her face into what she hoped looked like a genuine smile.
‘Maybe,’ she offered.
An hour later and the pair stood in the hallway, the elm rocking chair now safely back in Joseph’s bedroom. ‘You’ll ring me if you need anything?’ Holly asked as she hugged her goodbye at the door. ‘Any time, day or night. I don’t mind.’
‘I know.’
‘And tell me if you hear from him?’
‘I will do.’
‘And yoga on Friday?’
‘I’ll think about it.’ She had no intention of thinking about it at all. ‘I’ll definitely think about it.’
Holly released the hug. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you, too. Now go , I need to sleep!’
The door clicked shut and sleep, she knew, was one thing she was unlikely to find.